Time to Say Goodbye (36 page)

Mrs Caldecott hesitated, saying undecidedly that she thought Rita should probably return to her mother, but the police driver, clearly anxious to get the whole matter settled, nodded approvingly at Woody. ‘You’ve got a head on your shoulders, young man,’ he said. ‘The kids can go to this Mrs Pilgrim for tonight at least – we can’t possibly take the runaway all the way to Liverpool now; not enough petrol for one thing – and we’ll let tomorrow take care of itself.’

As Woody had clearly expected, Mrs Pilgrim agreed at once to take Auntie’s evacuees for one night. However, she scorned Woody’s suggestion that she might make the boys shakedowns on the parlour carpet in order that the girls might have their beds, though this would have meant Imogen and Debby top-to-toeing it.

‘The girls can have my boys’ room; there’s a couple of single beds all made up for when they come home on leave, and a camp bed for when they bring a friend along. As for Rufus, he can sleep with our dogs in the barn,’ Mrs Pilgrim said. She smiled kindly at the five of them. ‘Now, I know you lads haven’t had a bite since breakfast, so I made up a plate of sandwiches, and there’s a big jug of hot milk on the back of the stove.’ She looked shrewdly at Rita’s strained white face, and patted her cheek. ‘That’s all right, my woman, they can’t kill you for it,’ she said bracingly. ‘You’ll feel better with some grub inside o’ you. And tomorrow, once I’ve done my chores, I’ll get the car out and run you girls down to the hospital. You lads can give a hand with the harvest, ’cos there’s no room in my little ol’ car for the lot of us.’

Having eaten the sandwiches and drunk the hot milk the girls were led up to their temporary accommodation and prepared for bed, saying very little. Without any discussion, it was Rita who climbed into the little camp bed. Imogen and Debby mumbled good night, and were soon sleeping soundly, but tired though she was Rita found it impossible to fall asleep. She lay in the dark listening to the ticking of the alarm clock which their hostess had set for nine o’clock since she wanted them, she said, to get a good night’s sleep. And it was not until shortly after two a.m. that Rita was able to relax sufficiently to drift off.

But then, of course, the nightmares started. She and Auntie were together in a tiny boat, afloat on a choppy sea. She had seized the oars, telling Auntie to sit still and say nothing, because she, Rita Jeffries, could row far better than the older woman. Despite Auntie’s objections, the dream Rita took the oars and began to pull towards the shore, but even as she did so a huge octopus rose out of the depths and wound itself round the right hand oar, dragging it out of Rita’s grasp and crunching it to matchwood with its strong and slippery tentacles.

Rita was annoyed, but not despondent. She stood up in the stern of the boat, pushed the remaining oar into the water and began to waggle it as though it was a rudder. The boat began to move forward once more, though the sea grew wilder. They were going well, and Rita was thinking they would easily make the shore, when a gigantic fish, a shark no less, seized the dangling oar and crunched it as though it were made of paper.

The dream Rita gave an angry sob. ‘It’s your fault!’ she exclaimed, even whilst tears poured down her cheeks. ‘You must have called up the octopus and the shark just to show me that I couldn’t row our little boat to the shore. It’s all your fault, Auntie!’

Auntie got up from her seat in the bows and leaned over the side. ‘It was
my
fault, it’s always my fault,’ she wailed. And then, quite simply, she flopped into the water and was pulled down into the cold grey depths by a long purplish tentacle.

Rita screamed and awoke. Daylight was filtering into the room round the edges of the blackout blind, but though the time on the alarm clock was only six a.m. she was far too frightened to let herself fall asleep again. Instead, she tried to decide on her best course of action, for the previous night Mrs Caldecott had made it plain that she thought Rita should return to her mother. Stupid woman, Rita said to herself. If I’d wanted to go home I could at least have set off in that direction, and how dare she think I ran away because Auntie was unkind! Why, she’s the kindest person I’ve ever known, much kinder than my mother. I won’t go home, I simply won’t. If they make me, I’ll run back to Auntie. And I’ve already proved that I can earn my own living, and lots of girls not much older than me work in factories. If only I can live with Auntie at the Canary and Linnet, if only the girls will forgive me, then as soon as I’m fourteen I shouldn’t mind leaving school in the least, and getting a job of some sort. If the forces won’t have me perhaps I can be a Land Girl; I’d really like to be a Land Girl. The Pilgrims have two and could do with two more. If Imogen leaves school too we might both join the Land Army. Then she and I could be best friends . . . oh, whatever am I thinking! I’ve been mean enough to Debby already without taking her pal away. And I do like Debby, only I don’t think she’d care for the land, much. I remember her saying when we were talking about our futures that she would like to go to university and I’m sure she could. She’s really clever, though she hates showing it. Much cleverer than Imogen or me, so if she went off to university that would just leave Immy and myself . . . there I go again! But oh, how I just wish I wasn’t the odd one out.

Whilst half her mind grappled with her own problems, the other half was taking in every detail of the strange room. Posters on the walls, photographs everywhere, an old wardrobe with the door swinging back to reveal stained working clothes in one half and a couple of smart shirts and two dark suits in the other, all, presumably, the property of the Pilgrim boys. There was a dressing table with a big mirror, and a chest of drawers, each drawer labelled with an initial . . .

‘You awake, Immy?’ Rita, who had sat up on one elbow the better to look about the room, hastily withdrew into her bedclothes like a snail into its shell. She had no desire, as yet, to face even Immy, far less Debby. She lay very still, therefore, and strained her ears to hear every word.

‘Debby?’ That was Imogen’s voice, pitched so low that Rita could scarcely hear it. ‘Have you been awake for long? And is
she
awake?’

There was a slight rustle of bedclothes; Debby, presumably, turning to glance across at the camp bed, then more rustling as she turned back. ‘No, she’s asleep. Why?’

‘Well, I thought we ought to talk about what we’ll say to Auntie when we go to the hospital. I know she’s had a stroke, and strokes can be dangerous, but she’s ever so strong is Auntie. Dr Vaughan thinks she’ll pull through, only . . . well, will they let us go back to the Linnet? Or will they say Auntie’s not a suitable person, because of the stroke?’

‘I don’t know.’ Debby must have turned cautiously, for once again the bedclothes rustled. ‘But I do know one thing, Immy. Nothing, but nothing, will ever be the same again.’

Imogen frowned, Rita thought, though she could barely see her face in the dim light. ‘I don’t see why not,’ she said slowly. ‘After all, it’s not as though Rita was unhappy, or tried to run home, so what makes you think we can’t just go back to how we were before?’

Debby shrugged. ‘It’s as though, by running away, Rita broke the pattern,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s – it’s a bit like when you throw a pebble into a really still pond which is reflecting the sky and the reeds and everything. Your pebble makes ripples and the ripples go wider and wider . . .’ She broke off. ‘I’m not very good at explaining; you’ll just have to wait and see. I don’t want to be right, I don’t want things to change, but I’m pretty sure they will.’

When the alarm went off Imogen was first out of bed, closely followed by Rita. Imogen dived for the washstand, sloshing water from the ewer into the basin, whilst Rita tore off her borrowed nightgown – one of Mrs Pilgrim’s, so large that the previous evening Debby had remarked with a giggle that it could have contained all three of them – and began to scramble into her clothes.

‘We’ve got to talk,’ Rita said as Imogen finished her washing and gestured to Rita to take her place. ‘Did you hear what Mrs Caldecott said last night, about my being sent home? Well, I won’t go; if they try to make me I’ll run away again. I’ll – I’ll . . .’ Her voice faded into silence and she turned hopefully to Imogen. ‘You’d back me up, wouldn’t you, Immy? You won’t let them send me home. I’ve been silly, but not wicked, and I can’t wait to tell Auntie how sorry I am.’

Imogen sighed deeply. Every time she had woken in the night – and she had woken often – she had wondered how best to make the authorities and Auntie see that Rita was truly sorry, had acted without thought, and would never be so foolish again. But Debby’s words still reverberated in her head. What her friend was saying, in effect, was that the future cannot wipe out the past. Rita would have to abide by whatever decision was made, though Imogen could not believe that Auntie would ever reject any of her foster children. The authorities, however, were a different matter.

So she grinned at Rita and gave her a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘Let’s wait and see what happens,’ she said diplomatically, and left the room.

Mrs Caldecott called for the three girls at ten o’clock and drove them straight to the hospital, but only Rita was allowed on the ward.

‘I know you’re anxious to see Miss Marcy,’ she told Imogen and Debby. ‘But the ward sister said only Rita might visit on this occasion. She understands Rita wants to apologise for the way she’s behaved, so they’ll allow her ten minutes. If you two sit on the bench by the little round lawn, Rita will join you quite soon.’

Imogen and Debby sat on the bench, suddenly so nervous that they found it impossible to talk but sat hand in hand, staring at the revolving doors with frightened eyes. Imogen was the first to spot Rita and Mrs Caldecott’s large, commanding figure, and knew at once that something was wrong by Rita’s drooping head, and when she got near, by the tear tracks on her pale cheeks. She and Debby both jumped off the bench and went towards the couple. ‘How is Auntie?’ Imogen asked.

‘Miss Marcy is still very weak,’ Mrs Caldecott answered. ‘I’ll leave Rita to tell you what she said. I’ll go and sit in the car, but you mustn’t be more than five minutes.’ She gave them a thin smile, but Imogen suddenly saw that she was not a bad person, and was doing her best to help them to cope with what was to come. ‘Is that clear?’ she continued. ‘Five minutes, no more.’

As soon as she was out of hearing, Debby and Imogen turned to Rita. Neither said anything, for there was no need: one look at Rita’s swollen eyes and trembling mouth told their own story.

But it had to be put into words, of course. ‘I said I was sorry, I said it over and over, I begged her not to send me away,’ Rita said in a tear-thickened voice. ‘But she just said “No” and shook her head. They wouldn’t let me see her alone, but the nurse was quite nice. I’m to leave today; Mrs Caldecott’s already arranged for my mother to come for me. I asked her if Auntie was going to keep you and Debby, because if so it really isn’t fair, but she said she had no idea.’

Imogen was just thinking how typical it was of Rita to be interested only in her own future when Mrs Caldecott beckoned from the distant car park. They ran towards her and piled into the car, Imogen and Debby in the back seat and Rita in the front passenger one. As soon as the car had left the hospital and was heading for the village, Imogen leaned forward. ‘Is Auntie better? When will we be able to visit?’ she asked. ‘Did you tell her we were waiting outside, Mrs Caldecott? Only I’d hate her to think that we didn’t care. She’s terribly kind; we’ve been so happy . . .’

Mrs Caldecott hooted at a man in a small van drawing out ahead of her. ‘Yes, I told her. She wants to see you, and the staff assure me she’s making a good recovery, but they say it’s a bit soon yet for anyone but relatives. Her niece is coming down from Lincoln, so she’ll be Miss Marcy’s first proper visitor.’ She shot a quick look at Imogen over her shoulder. ‘She knows you’ll be anxious, but I told her we’d arranged for the cellar man and his wife to move into the Canary and Linnet to run the pub until she’s better, and in the meantime Mrs Pilgrim has agreed to take you, Debby and the dog. You will have to go down to the Canary and Linnet every day to care for the livestock and give the Wellbeloveds a hand . . .’

‘Who are the Wellbeloveds?’ Debby chipped in. ‘What a wizard name . . . but who are they?’

For the first time since picking them up that morning, Mrs Caldecott chuckled. ‘You know them better as Jacky and Mrs Jacky,’ she explained. ‘But really they are Mr Jack and Mrs Doris Wellbeloved. I’m taking you back to the Canary and Linnet now and you must all pack up your belongings and prepare to move out.’

‘But we’re only going as far as Pilgrim’s, aren’t we?’ Debby said anxiously. ‘Imogen and I haven’t done anything. Surely, if Auntie’s really getting better, we shall only be at the farm for a week or so?’

Mrs Caldecott slowed to let a bus pull out from its stop, and when she spoke again her voice was vague. ‘My dear child, I don’t know everything. Now, I gather that Farmer Pilgrim is harvesting at present, so if you and Imogen go up to the farm as soon as you’ve packed your stuff I’m sure they’ll be glad of your help, and I dare say it might keep you out of mischief for a few hours.’

‘Can I go too?’ Rita asked eagerly. ‘Just till my mother arrives, I mean.’

Mrs Caldecott glanced sideways at her passenger and Imogen thought she saw sympathy in her small brown eyes. ‘No, my dear, I’m taking you straight to the station when you’ve packed your belongings, because your mother wants to get home again as soon as possible. She’s had to arrange for a neighbour to look after the boarding house . . .’

Imogen cut in, seeing the look of sheer misery on Rita’s face. ‘Debby and I don’t want to go up to the farm if Rita can’t come too,’ she said quickly. ‘Can we come to the station with you, Mrs Caldecott, and see her on her way? It’s horrid to leave somewhere where you’ve been happy without folk to wave you off.’

Mrs Caldecott looked doubtful and seemed about to refuse Imogen’s request, but then she relented. ‘You can come to the station with us by all means,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to go back to the village by bus and walk to the farm from there. Petrol is a precious commodity and I have other people to visit who live on the far side of the city. I can give you money for your bus fares.’