Time to Say Goodbye (40 page)

She rose as she spoke and together the two made their way to the hotel dining room, where their table was already laid for them in the corner and they could exchange conversation without being overheard. As they sat down, Rita repeated her question. ‘What do you think?’ she said insistently. ‘If you were me . . .’

Phyllis smiled, but the glance she gave Rita was shrewd. ‘I’d go like a shot. You say you’ve not thought about those girls and that old pub for ages, but you talk about them quite often, you know. Auntie sounds a wonderful person, taking in three kids who might have been real little rogues, and that Jill must have been grand too. And don’t pretend you never think of them, because the Christmas cards which come from the people you knew during the war are the ones you always put in a little cluster on the counter top in the Elms. And that’s your favourite hotel, the one you spend the most time in, as well as having your little flat on the fourth floor. So you do think of your pals from the Canary and Linnet days, and with affection, what’s more.’

As she spoke, she slid a large slice of steak pie on to her plate and reached for the dish of mashed potatoes whilst Rita helped herself to salad; lucky Phyllis ate like a horse and remained as slim as a wand, whilst Rita herself had to watch every mouthful.

‘And you could do with some time off,’ Phyllis said through mashed potato. ‘You know I’ll hold the fort, and so will Madge and Val and Suzie . . .’

‘Oh, I know you’re all very capable . . .’ Rita began, but was interrupted.

‘You want to go, you know you do,’ Phyllis said placidly. ‘It’s writ’ all over your perishin’ face! Why not admit it and start makin’ plans?’ She grinned cheekily at her employer. ‘You want them to know what a success you’ve made of the business, don’t you? Aw, c’mon, admit you’re only human!’

‘Why should I care whether they know or not?’ Rita said loftily, then spoiled it with a giggle. ‘I can’t go to a reunion carrying a banner saying I’m a big success, and they probably wouldn’t care anyway.’ She sniffed. ‘But I bet fat little Debby won’t have stopped the world in its tracks! I know she lives in France now, so probably she and her feller couldn’t make a go of whatever they were doing in Britain and thought life would be easier over there. I think Auntie said in her last letter that they had some sort of farm, but I can’t say I’m very keen to see her again. She was a real little cry-baby, always running away from something . . .’

Phyllis cut a large piece of her pie and pushed it into her mouth. Rita made a mental note to tell her that when she ate in the dining room she really must make an effort to improve her table manners. Some people would take the huff at such criticism but Phyllis, Rita knew, would be grateful for the advice and might even, in future, take a smaller mouthful of pie. ‘I gather you didn’t like Debby, but since she lives in France I should think we can safely assume that she won’t attend this ’ere reunion,’ Phyllis said thickly. ‘But Auntie still lives in the next village, don’t she? Am I right in thinking Jill lives next door?’

Rita stared at Phyllis, her eyes rounding with astonishment. ‘How do you know so much about my old pals?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Do I talk in my sleep? Have you been hovering outside my bedroom door, hoping to hear what I really think of you?’

Phyllis giggled. ‘I always read the Christmas cards, ’cos there’s nothing private about them, and when one of them contains a letter I might give it the once over, just to see whether you want it filed or not. After all, the cards and the letters inside ’em are stuck on the counter for anyone to see. If I’d thought they were private I wouldn’t of read ’em, o’ course. It’s apple cake an’ custard for afters. D’you want some?’

‘To answer your questions in order, yes, Jill moved in next door to Auntie after Auntie had another slight stroke,’ Rita said rather coldly. ‘And I’ll have some pud, as a treat.’

Millie, who was waiting on, delivered their desserts, promised a tray of coffee in the staff room, and whisked out of sight. For a moment the two young women ate in silence, which was broken by Rita. ‘Thank you, dear Phyllis, for your much prized advice,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You have quite made up my mind for me. As the Yanks say, I’ll take a rain check on this one. So you needn’t start planning your takeover just yet; I won’t be going to Norfolk.’

But a couple of days later Rita sent the boot boy, one of the few males in her kingdom, down to the station to purchase a first-class ticket. Then Rita went off by herself on a shopping expedition and bought the most expensive clothes she had ever possessed: a slim skirt with a back pleat and a wide-lapelled jacket in deep blue, the jacket cinched in at the waist with a wide blue belt. Underneath the jacket she wore a roll-necked pink jumper, and on her short, curly blonde hair a perky little candy pink beret, tilted at just the right angle. The sales lady persuaded her to add a pair of incredibly high, pin-heeled court shoes, a clutch bag and matching gloves, which completed the ensemble, and when she looked at herself in the long mirror she beheld a beautiful stranger. Left to herself, she would have chosen something less arresting, but admitted when she walked into the foyer of the Elms Hotel and saw the glances which followed her that she had done the right thing.

‘Don’t walk, stalk,’ Phyllis advised, as Rita approached the reception desk. ‘Imagine you’re a model on a catwalk – it’s bound to impress them because, dear Rita, you look a million dollars! And don’t try to pretend you aren’t off to your reunion in a couple of days, because I wouldn’t believe you. Only don’t, for goodness’ sake, wear those lovely clothes until the day itself arrives. Your old mac and your comfortable flatties will do for the journey, since I’m sure you’ll drive the MG with the roof down, letting all the dust in. You can borrow my weekend case, the one I bought to attend that course on hotel management.’

‘Thanks,’ Rita said briefly, and afterwards realised, as she got into her bright red MG, that that one word had been her only acknowledgement that she really did intend to undertake the tedious journey and join in the reunion.

Imogen did not know she was asleep until something woke her – a small noise perhaps – and then she looked round her wildly, wondering where on earth she was and what had roused her. She had slumped back in the chair as she slept and now she sat upright, heart hammering, then slowing to a more normal pace as she remembered. This was the kitchen of the Canary and Linnet, not as it had been but as it now was, and what had woken her, she realised with an inward smile, was the tortoiseshell cat. It had squeezed through an incredibly tiny gap between the window and the wall and jumped lightly to the ground, where it stood, tail erect, ears pricked, gazing up into her face. ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my kitchen?’ it seemed to enquire, fixing her with its big yellow eyes, innocent yet knowing, like the eyes of all the cats Imogen had ever known.

Imogen patted her knee and the cat jumped up at once, emitting a purr so deep and loud that it seemed as though it could not possibly be coming from such a small creature. She tickled it under its pointed little chin and wondered, aloud, whether it was related to the farm cat which used to come into the pub for whatever it could get when the girls were living here. That one had been a proper little thief, though Auntie had treated it as she treated all children and animals, and refused to let it be punished for its thefts. ‘It’s nature, and the Pilgrims don’t feed their cats,’ she told the children. ‘It doesn’t hurt me to put down a saucer of milk and a few scraps from time to time.’

Now, Imogen glanced at her wristwatch, convinced that she must have slept for hours and missed the arrival – and departure – of those she had come here to meet, and might as well go home. But her watch, amazingly, seemed to show that she had only slept for about ten minutes and that there was still some time before the next train – assuming the others came by train – arrived.

Yet the dream had seemed to last a lot longer than a mere ten minutes. She had dreamed herself back into the past, not the past she had shared with Rita and Debby, but the one she had lived with the man she had married, her dear Will Carpenter; married and then fought with, repudiated, and finally run from. She had blamed him, castigated him, tried to make him take all the responsibility for something which, she had known even at the time, he could not have prevented . . . ah, but she had been a fool, breaking into a thousand pieces something which had been good, reducing their loving relationship to rubble.

The cat settled itself more comfortably on her knee, and Imogen leaned back, gently caressing the smooth, velvety back. Now she remembered another cat, a cat which had unwittingly caused so much trouble. So far as she could remember, that had been a black cat.

Imogen moved to stand up, but the cat gave a squeak of protest and began to make bread on her lap; an old trick. Imogen laughed but bent her head to look through the kitchen window and saw, without surprise, that it was raining again; raining heavily, what was more.

Sighing, she settled back in her chair and began to stroke the cat again, reflecting that for a long time she had been unable to look at a cat, particularly a black one, without a shudder of revulsion. She had known it was foolish, known that her aversion would pass because not even she, in the depths of the depression which had assailed her, could continue to dislike a whole species.

The cat stopped kneading her lap and Imogen began to drowse once more. The patter of rain on the windowpanes was soporific and she felt herself sliding into sleep. At first she fought it, but another glance at her watch convinced her that no one was likely to arrive quite yet. And sleep did not only help to pass the time but also conserved energy. Imogen slept . . .

Imogen came out of the surgery, crossed the road and headed for the seat upon which Will sat. It was a burning hot summer’s day and she was wearing her loosest, coolest summer dress and sandals. The little park where they had agreed to meet was suffering from the drought, the grass turning brown and the roses drooping heavy heads. Beads of sweat formed on Imogen’s brow, but it would have needed a positive inferno to spoil her pleasure in the news she was about to impart.

Will had been too nervous, he said, to go to the surgery with her for the result of the test, but now he jumped to his feet, apparently knowing by osmosis that his wife was near, for Imogen had stolen along, soft-footed, wanting to surprise him.

There were children everywhere. A tiny tot in a pink dress, with a matching bow in her curls, staggered from the grass to the path, then sat down abruptly on a well-padded behind. Imogen smiled at the child but saw that Will had eyes only for her. ‘Well, what did they tell you?’ he said. ‘Not that I need to ask, because it’s written all over your face.’ He took her hands and squeezed them, then drew her towards him and, despite the fact that they were surrounded by people, kissed her lingeringly. ‘We’re going to be Mummy and Daddy Carpenter, isn’t that right? Oh, my darling, who’s a clever girl then?’

He gave her an exuberant squeeze and Imogen wagged a reproving finger. ‘Everyone’s looking!’ she hissed. ‘Behave yourself, Mr C. You can’t go round kissing strange women in city parks.’

‘And what a strange woman you are,’ Will said affectionately. ‘I hope you told the doctor that he had hit the nail on the head when he said that we were too anxious. We thought one only had to stop using birth control to get pregnant and of course the more we longed to start a family, the more anxious we became . . .’

‘Five years of wondering whether we’d ever have a baby,’ Imogen said reminiscently. ‘Five years of looking at other women with babies in pink, or blue, or lemon or white . . . oh, Will, the doctor even got out a sort of calendar and told me our little one should arrive in January. Gosh, however shall we wait so long?’

Will linked his arm with hers and they strolled towards the park gates. ‘Let’s go back to the flat and open that bottle of champagne which has been lurking on the bottom shelf of the fridge for longer than I care to admit. I think we ought to celebrate, don’t you?’

They reached the flat and Imogen bent to retrieve the envelopes which were scattered over the doormat. ‘Post! Only by the look of it it’s all estate agents’ prospectuses. I say, darling, wouldn’t it be just wonderful if one of these . . .’ she flourished a handful of house details, ‘was the very thing we’re looking for: a cheap cottage in a nice little village, so we could bring our child up in the country.’

Will laughed. ‘Fairy tales might come true,’ he said. ‘Go and sit on the sofa whilst I pour us both a drink. Then we’ll look through them and see what’s what.’

He left the room and presently returned with two slim glasses full of golden liquid. He settled himself beside his wife and was about to hand her her champagne when she gave a squeak. ‘Oh, Will, do you remember that empty cottage we saw in Cornerstowe? You said wouldn’t it be nice if it was on the market and within our means.’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘And there it is, the very same, Farthing Cottage! I’ll pack up a picnic and you can put some petrol in the Rover’s greedy old tank and we’ll go down tomorrow and take a closer look.’

She felt that their luck had changed at last, what with her pregnancy being confirmed and the details of the cottage dropping on to their mat, all in one day. Even the village was absolutely ideal: a small place, almost a hamlet, but just within commuting distance for Will’s London job.

Everything went according to plan. To their great delight, Farthing Cottage did not only have a large garden, it also had an acre of what was described as ‘useful pasture’, though Will intended to plough the land and plant it just as soon as they could move in. The cottage itself was dilapidated but Will was a practical man – he had done all the work on their tiny flat – and he was certain that, given time, they could turn it into a delightful and desirable residence.

That first visit to the cottage was one of many and the more they saw it, the more they loved it. A friend of Imogen’s surveyed the place for free and said that the roof was sound, though in the two little bedrooms cramped up under the thatch rain had come in through broken windows and a good many floorboards would need replacing. And the chimney was full of birds’ nests and quite unusable, though a sweep would see to that, whilst the pump – the only water supply – had to be primed before every use. It had been many years since anyone had painted or whitewashed, a great deal of the woodwork was wormy and would have to be replaced, and several of the stones in the paved kitchen floor were cracked and uneven.