Time to Say Goodbye (6 page)

Of course she realised she should go back to the parlour to get Jill’s permission for the expedition, but she was pretty sure that Jill would say she was not to attempt it so late in the afternoon. However, it would be an adventure, something to write about in her Mass Observation diary. At the thought she felt a little smile begin. She could buy a notebook from Mrs Bailey – the post office would keep such things – and start her diary properly at last. Jacky had been a brick and so had Jill, for both had visited the village in order to buy supplies, but when the girls had mentioned sweets Auntie had said regretfully that she had not ordered any. ‘I ask for necessities, not luxuries,’ she had explained, looking at the girls over the top of her little gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘But I put sugar and margarine on the latest list because if she’s got enough I’ll teach you how to make your own toffee.’ When the order had come, however, there had been no extra sugar and only a very tiny square of margarine, so making their own toffee was just a dream which could not be realised until the snow allowed the delivery lorries to reach the village once more.

Imogen crossed the yard and hovered for a moment, unsure of what she should do. She knew both Jill and Auntie, if asked, would forbid her to go off on her own, but this was the first day they had seen the sun for what felt like a lifetime, and she thought that the very blood within her was bubbling with excitement at the promise of spring to come. She told herself that two miles when the weather was sunny would not take her more than forty minutes at the most. She could arrive back at the Linnet with pockets full of sweets and a notebook for her diary even sooner than the others, for Jill would not leave until the milking was finished and probably not even then. Like Auntie, Mrs Pilgrim was a notable housewife and would no doubt insist that her helpers be regaled with her delicious cottage cheese spread on hollow biscuits, to go with the cup of tea she would brew. Possibly there would even be a slice of cake.

The thought of the missed treat tempted Imogen to turn back and for a moment she hesitated, but then she climbed the bank and looked around her. Herbert and Jacky had come this way because it was easier with the laden sledge, and she was soon able to pick out the marks of the sledge’s runners and the prints of the old men’s boots. If she followed their footprints she would be in the village in no time. She cast one last look around her at the red sun turning the snowy scene to theatrical beauty, then slid down the far side of the bank and began to walk along the path the old men and their sledge had marked. For a moment she contemplated following the cleared path as far as the Canary and Linnet, then shook her head at herself. With her luck Auntie would pop out of the kitchen just as she was making her way past. No, better to take to the fields, follow where the old boys had led and arrive at the village well before closing time.

I don’t suppose Jill will worry; she’ll think I’ve gone home, Imogen told herself. And anyway, she shouldn’t have laughed when Rita told her about the scrumpled newspaper in the boots. And with that thought she continued on her way.

Looking around her as she walked she realised for the first time how snow changes a landscape and decided that instead of following the old men’s trail she must stick to within a few feet of the lane, for otherwise she might stray into unknown territory. The trouble was that she was a city girl, knowing only the dirty slush of snow found in a big city, and this was country snow, so beautiful that instead of watching her feet she found herself gazing to right and left, wondering at the beauty of it. The trees were heavily laden still and the wind had sculpted the drifts into the strangest shapes. Castles and palaces, huge waves which reared several feet above her head, mountains and valleys; all caught her eye as she slogged along. Every now and then she thought she saw what must be the lane, but she could not be certain.

After half an hour or so, however, she began to worry. She had not dawdled but neither had she realised that she would have to deviate from the line she planned to take in order to bypass the enormous drifts, and presently she actually found herself wishing that she had been sensible and stayed with Jill and the others. She imagined them in Mrs Pilgrim’s lovely warm kitchen, sipping hot tea and crowding close to the blazing fire, and caught her breath on a little sob. She had seen no sign of any human habitation, was sure she must have bypassed the Canary and Linnet without realising it, and began to understand how very foolish she had been. She glanced behind her and was a little reassured. This way had not been trodden since the last snowfall and there were her footprints sunk deep into the soft snow. If I follow them back I’ll arrive at Pilgrim Farm, she told herself. I think perhaps I’d better do that because the sun is almost out of sight and in a very few minutes it will be dusk. Yes, I’ll turn back.

She did so and found herself almost immediately sliding helplessly downwards, realising as she fought to remain upright that she had been walking along the bank which flanked the ditch; she could see the top of a hawthorn hedge and gave a shriek as she crashed through snow and ice and plummeted feet first into the ice-cold water of the ditch. She grabbed at the branches of the hedge, trying to claw her way back to the bank, but she was wet to the waist and there was no feeling in the hands that tried to grasp the brittle reeds or the hedge itself. Dimly, she thought she heard shouts echoing off the snow. She tried to scream, to call for help, though she knew screaming was useless even as the water crept higher. She caught one last glimpse of a large crow peering down at her from a branch overhead, saw the dying sun slip further down the sky, and then found a boulder beneath her feet which enabled her to struggle half out of the water. Then her feet slipped, and the last thing she heard was the crow’s call as her hands lost their grip and blackness enveloped her.

The Mess was crowded, every table taken when Laurie and Dave came out of the icy afternoon into the hot fug of cigarette smoke and male sweat. There wasn’t a chair free, and though several of the young men greeted the newcomers, they hesitated in the doorway. Someone shouted at them to close the door as though the iced wine of the air offended them, and the shorter of the two jerked the sleeve of the taller. ‘Didn’t you say you knew a pub within walking distance of the station, Laurie?’ he asked, raising his voice above the hubbub. ‘We’ve been cooped up for days and days. I reckon this is the first time we’ve seen clear skies for ages, so why don’t we take a walk and get ourselves a beer at the end of it?’

‘Good idea,’ Laurie said. He had been longing for an excuse to visit the Canary and Linnet again, but the opportunity had not occurred; it would have been madness to attempt the walk across the fields in the blizzards which seemed to coincide with their time off. He grinned down at Dave. ‘It’s not all that far off, a couple of miles maybe, and the landlady’s a fantastic cook. She makes a meat and potato pie that puts my mother’s to shame. Best get boots and torches, though, because we can’t reach it by road. We’ll have to walk over the fields.’ He made no mention of the chief attraction – for him at any rate – of the pub in the woods. That girl – Jill, wasn’t it? – who had smiled at him as she poured beer into a pint tankard. They had exchanged a couple of sentences and then she had moved on to serve someone else whilst he had gazed thoughtfully at her across the old-fashioned wooden bar counter. She had straight fawn-coloured hair, tied back from her face in a ponytail, large brown eyes – he thought they were brown, but they might have been dark blue – clear skin and a small, determined chin. But later, as he returned to the airfield, he realised that it was her voice which had caught his attention. It had made him want to see her again, and now Dave had handed him the opportunity on a plate. He looked narrowly at the other man. ‘Are you sure you’re up for it though? In all this snow it’ll likely take us an hour in both directions, and it’s beginning to get dark already.’ As he spoke the two of them left the Mess and headed for their hut, feeling the full force of the cold now that the sun was dipping below the horizon.

Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m game,’ he said briefly. ‘I’m that fed up with being stuck indoors . . .’

The two young men disappeared into their hut and presently emerged in their bad weather gear of greatcoats, scarves and wellington boots. They headed for the gates, waved cheerfully to the guards and set off in the direction of the Canary and Linnet.

For the first half-hour or so Laurie and Dave strode out, but when he could still see no sign of human habitation ahead Dave jerked Laurie’s arm. ‘Hey, hang on a minute, Laurie. You said this perishing pub was only a mile or two from the station, and I’m bloody sure we’ve already walked a good deal further than that. Are you sure we’re going in the right direction? What say we turn round and go back to the Mess?’

His companion snorted. ‘Of course I’m sure! You give up easily. Last time I came this way I was with Jigger Jones and I took his advice and made a note of landmarks. It’s difficult in the snow, but if you’ve got eyes in your head you can spot various markers. See the top of that fencepost? That means we’re well over halfway, and though there isn’t a definite path you can see other people have been along here.’ He pointed ahead of him, ‘See that tree? I snapped a branch off when I came with Jigger. When we get to it, it means that in less than fifteen minutes we’ll be in the bar of the Canary and Linnet warming ourselves at a log fire and drinking real beer, better than the stuff we get in the Mess.’

Dave sighed and jerked a thumb at the faint glow in the western sky which was all that was left of the daylight. ‘Oh, all right, but even with our torches getting back is going to be no picnic,’ he observed.

Laurie nodded his agreement, looking ruefully down at his blue serge uniform trousers. Although both men were wearing wellington boots and had been careful to try to steer clear of the soft snow, they had not been altogether successful. Laurie could feel snow water trickling down inside his boots, and despite gloves, scarf and his long forces issue overcoat his hands and feet were still cold. However, the thought of returning to the Mess and having to admit they had not reached their destination was a spur to continuing to fight their way onward.

Presently they reached the tree Laurie had mentioned and stopped for a moment while Laurie pointed to a branch half snapped off, dangling above the snow. ‘See that? It’s the marker I told you about. It means if we keep walking at our present pace we’ll be in the pub in another ten minutes.’ They saw another tree ahead and when they reached it Laurie grinned at the sight of a large crow perched in the branches. It seemed to be examining a pile of old clothes or meal sacks lying half in and half out of the ditch, and suddenly Laurie grabbed Dave’s arm. ‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘I heard something; was it that crow?’

‘I guess so,’ Dave said. He dug his companion in the ribs. ‘Come on, it’s not much further . . . you were right, Laurie. I can see chimneys, so we’re not far off now, and since it’s all downhill we can be toasting our toes in five minutes. Come
on
, will you?’ He started to plough his way through the soft snow heading for a well-trodden path, but his companion did not follow.

‘Hang on a minute, Dave,’ Laurie said urgently. ‘I did hear something, honest to God I did. It sounded like a kitten, a sort of mew. It came from over there, from the pile of stuff on the edge of the ditch, the pile the crow is staring at.’

Dave sighed, but when Laurie headed for the ditch he followed him. ‘Country folk can be pretty hard-boiled,’ he admitted. ‘They’ll drown a clutch of kittens without a second thought if they’ve got more cats than they need. And if it is very young kittens, the kindest thing would be to let them die quick. We can’t give ’em a home.’

But Laurie was ignoring him, ploughing ahead, pointing, and presently he broke into an ungainly run. ‘Something moved,’ he said urgently, ‘something bigger than a kitten. See those clothes, or whatever it is? I do believe someone’s slipped into the ditch and can’t get out.’ He reached the ditch almost before the words were out of his mouth, and began to pull at the sodden heap. ‘Give us a hand, old feller,’ he panted. ‘It’s not clothing or kittens, it’s a kid!’

Auntie and Jill had left Jacky in charge of the bar and were just struggling into their outdoor clothing to go in search of their missing evacuee when the back door burst open and two young men erupted into the kitchen. The taller of the two was carrying Imogen, wrapped in his greatcoat.

The women both exclaimed, and then Jill began to fill the big old tin bath with hot water whilst Auntie stripped Imogen of her soaked and freezing clothing. ‘What the devil’s been happening?’ she asked. ‘Where did you find her?’ She tested the heat of the water and then dumped the child in the bath. ‘Aren’t you a lucky girl to have been rescued by these young men? Can you tell us what happened? My, you are in a state!’

Imogen looked up at Auntie. ‘I fell . . . I fell . . .’ she said, and then sighed deeply. ‘I can’t – I can’t remember . . .’

Her rescuer interrupted. ‘We think she slipped on the ice and fell into the ditch, but we didn’t want to worry her with a lot of questions,’ he said. He grinned at Auntie. ‘I guess you’re going to give her a good telling off, but she’s had a horrible experience, so I doubt she’ll do anything this foolish again.’

‘You’re right, of course; now go into the small parlour across the corridor and take off your wet things,’ Auntie said briskly. ‘You two will have to make do with a good wash; we’ll dry your clothes out and you can borrow a dressing gown each. After that will be the time to express our heartfelt thanks, because judging by the filthy state of Imogen’s clothes she’s lucky to be alive.’ She turned to Debby and Rita, sitting frozen with horror at the kitchen table. ‘Run upstairs, dears, and fetch dressing gowns for . . .’ She clapped a hand to her brow and addressed the two young men. ‘My goodness, I’m so sorry, I haven’t even asked you your names. I’m Auntie, this is my niece, Jill; you already know Imogen. Rita is the blonde and Debby the brunette, and you are . . .?’