Time to Say Goodbye (15 page)

Rita had opened her mouth to reply and had suddenly noticed Debby, quietly slicing a loaf for sandwiches, and shrugged. ‘Oh well, it’s what my mother says,’ she muttered. She had turned from Auntie to Debby. ‘Do you want a hand with buttering those slices?’

But now they were taking their places round a large table and Auntie was ordering pie and chips for everyone, whilst Debby pointed out that Jill had still not arrived.

‘I think she and Laurie are making their own arrangements,’ Auntie said. She peered at the handwritten menu which the elderly waitress had given her. ‘I see there are puddings, despite wartime shortages. It seems you can choose between apple pie and custard or rhubarb crumble; which is it to be, girls?’

Despite Imogen’s invitation to visit the pub, Woody decided that this would have to wait for another day. Mrs Pilgrim, the least fussy of hostesses, laid down few rules, but one of the ones she took most seriously was mealtimes. What she described as high tea was served at half past five and anyone not putting in an appearance at the kitchen table, hands scrubbed and clothing neat, would have received a severe lecture, if nothing else. Mr Pilgrim, many years older than his wife, always backed her up, but he was, on the whole, easier on the boys than she was. So far as he was concerned five minutes either way was forgivable in boys who did not own wristwatches, but his wife thought this no excuse. ‘They got tongues in their heads, ha’n’t they?’ she had asked, the first time Josh and Woody turned up for high tea at twenty to six. She had turned to the boys. ‘Just this once I’ll let you off, so wash up, get them boots off and your slippers on and sit yourselves down . . . no, I don’t want to hear what you’ve been a-doin’ of; it’s stew and dumplings, so no talking till your plates are wiped clean.’

Woody explained this to Imogen as they hurried along the dusty summer lane, and she was in full agreement that he must most certainly not waste time popping into the Linnet, but should go straight to the farm. ‘Auntie’s not like that about mealtimes; we eat whenever the food’s ready, because of licensing hours and the pub,’ she explained. ‘The Linnet’s a free house, which means it’s not tied to a brewery, but even so Auntie isn’t supposed to let us into the bar when the pub’s open. We do go through it collecting empty glasses and sandwich plates, but we don’t serve the customers or anything like that. But you’d better get a move on, because it’s after five already.’

‘Oh, cripes! I’d better hurry,’ Woody said. ‘Cheerio, Imogen; been nice meeting you.’ He paused. ‘Any chance of getting together again?’

Imogen laughed. ‘We’re bound to bump into each other,’ she said, and turned eagerly towards the pub. As she crossed the lane and went into the yard she wondered about Woody. He was older than her and came from Southampton – a port, like Liverpool, her own home town – but she was not sure whether she was particularly keen to meet him again. He was no beauty, that was for sure, but then you didn’t judge friends on their looks. She thought him bossy, and wondered, with an inward smile, how he would get on with Rita. They both wanted to rule the roost, that was the trouble, and she found that she disliked the thought of two boys turning up at the willow hut and trying to take over. But then she supposed there were ploys which might be more fun with five than with three. For instance, there was the pond which the air force men had promised to dig out when they had time to spare, but as more and more aircraft appeared in the skies above the pub she had realised that it would be a good deal quicker if they dug the pond themselves. After all, we’re the ones who want to keep ducklings and encourage water birds to come to the Linnet, she told herself.

She actually had her hand on the back door knob when the cart rumbled into the yard behind her and Rita and Debby bounced down and began to lug out the sacks of meal and grain. Auntie got down rather more cautiously and grinned at her. ‘Have a good day, poppet?’ she enquired genially. ‘You missed a jolly good lunch, but Jill said she’d put you up all your favourite sandwiches . . .’ she delved in her large cracked leather handbag, ‘and I managed to find a sweetshop selling those fat striped humbugs you like.’ She produced a rustling paper bag which she thrust into Imogen’s hands. ‘There you are, a little treat; mind you don’t eat them all at once. And now we’ll allow these great strong girls to drag the sacks across to the barn whilst you and I start getting the tea.’

‘Where’s Jill?’ Imogen asked presently, as Auntie began to empty the contents of her shopping bag on to the scrubbed wooden table. ‘I thought she would be coming back with you.’

‘Oh, she met that young air force officer,’ Auntie said absently. ‘I did say she mustn’t forget that the cart would be leaving town at around five o’clock, but she said she and what’s-his-name – Laurie – would most likely make their own way back.’ She smiled at Imogen. ‘You know what people are; they’ll probably go to a flick, as you call the cinema, and come back on the last bus, or if he’s feeling generous I suppose he might get a taxi.’

Imogen filled the kettle at the sink, glad to keep her back to Auntie for a few moments. Of course she knew that Jill and Laurie liked each other, but it still hurt whenever she saw them together. If only I’d been born ten years earlier, she thought mournfully, carrying the heavy kettle across to the Primus stove, for Auntie did not light the Aga in hot weather. Or even five years earlier . . . but then he never notices me; why should he? Jill’s the nicest person in the world, and just because he saved my life . . . well, no use to even think about it. I won’t even be eleven for a few more weeks, and by the time I’m old enough to have a boyfriend not only will Laurie be as old as old, but he’ll probably be married to Jill and have several babies of their own.

At the thought, two large tears welled up in her eyes and she had to hook out the hanky she kept up the leg of her knickers and pretend to blow her nose whilst dabbing crossly at the unwanted tears. You, Imogen Clarke, are a fool, she told herself. He’ll never look at you, not just because you’re too young but because Jill is the prettiest girl in the world, as well as the nicest. So stop mooning over him and get on with your life.

As she turned from the Primus stove she became aware that Auntie was talking to her and hastily returned her attention to the matters in hand. ‘. . . we’ve all had a good cooked lunch, but I bought a couple of Cornish pasties – they’re probably more potato than meat but they always go down well – and one each of those little fancy cakes, the ones the baker sells off at the end of each day’s trading. Do you think that’ll do?’

‘I know the ones you mean; they used to be called French fancies before the war, because they were topped with icing sugar, but now they’re just plain,’ Imogen said. ‘You’re quite right, everyone likes them. I’ll lay the table, shall I?’

As she spoke the back door burst open and Debby and Rita erupted into the room. ‘Hiya, Immy,’ Rita said, her voice rather higher than usual. ‘We had a great day, didn’t we, Deb? We went all round the market and looked in the windows of all the shops and had a wizard lunch.’ She gave a small crow of laughter. ‘Bet you wish you’d come with us when I tell you Auntie bought us pie and chips and rhubarb crumble. And we met a boy from Hemblington Hall . . .’

Imogen’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did you,’ she said. ‘Well, what a coincidence! I met a boy from Hemblington Hall as well. His name is Woody and his pal is called—’

‘Josh,’ Debby and Rita shouted in chorus, whilst Imogen exclaimed: ‘Well I never did,’ and Debby said in a voice too low for Rita to catch: ‘Trust Rita to make it look as though she was in on everything.’ She raised her voice. ‘Not that it matters, of course, because I don’t suppose we’ll meet the boys again. That Josh is very nice – you’d like him, Immy – but no matter what he may pretend he won’t want to go about with girls, particularly girls younger than he is.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Imogen said rather regretfully. She had not been particularly keen to get to know Woody, but she had been fascinated by his lookout and knew she would never dare to climb that mighty beech if he were not present. But she had already decided that she would persuade Debby and Rita to go to the airfield the next time they set out on one of their expeditions, though she knew, really, that if the Germans did invade she would be far too afraid to carry on the sort of guerrilla warfare against them that Woody had in mind, even if he truly could acquire guns and ammunition.

But nevertheless, she was disappointed when Sunday came and went without her seeing hide or hair of the boys from Hemblington Hall. As the girls walked back from church, neat in their best dresses, their panama hats set very straight upon their shining, newly washed hair, she voiced the thought aloud to Debby, being careful to do so when Rita and Jill, talking earnestly, had got some way ahead of them. Debby’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ she enquired. ‘I thought I said; they go to the church in the next village.’

Imogen thought this over. ‘But the boys you and I met are living at the farm, not at the Hall,’ she pointed out. ‘Surely they’d go to our church, even if the other boys didn’t.’

‘Well, they don’t,’ Debby said rather impatiently, and it occurred to Imogen that her little friend had begun to come out of her shell. But she did not comment, merely waiting for Debby to continue. ‘Josh said they go to church and have their midday dinner with the rest of the school, and are only free from around half past two. But we’re busy then, writing letters, helping Auntie and so on.’

‘Oh, now I understand,’ Imogen said. ‘Poor things! Well, in that case, I imagine we’re not likely to see much of them.’ She looked curiously at Debby. ‘You liked that boy Josh, didn’t you?’

She was watching her friend’s face as she spoke and saw she had coloured slightly. Debby made no reply for a moment but then she heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, in a way I did,’ she admitted. ‘He’s not like the boys I met when I was living with my grandparents in Liverpool, or the village boys. They don’t think much of girls, but Josh . . . well, if I say he was like another girl you’ll think he’s a pansy, which he’s not. Oh, dear, I can’t explain . . .’

‘Did Rita like him?’ Imogen said, when the silence stretched and it seemed as though Debby was not going to expand on her last remark. ‘Come to think of it, she’s not said much about him, so perhaps they didn’t get on.’

Debby gave a muffled giggle and lowered her voice, though there was no possibility of their being overheard by the couple ahead. ‘She didn’t meet him. In fact, from what she said, she must have caught a glimpse of Josh and me looking at the animals and then lost sight of us. She pretended she chose not to join us – two’s company three’s a crowd you know – but I can’t imagine our Rita letting that put her off, can you?’

Imogen laughed. ‘Rita holding back from being an unwanted third? Pigs might fly!’ she said gaily. ‘Oh well, from what you say we’re unlikely to come across either of those two chaps by chance. Unless we meet in our willow hut.’

‘Don’t you think we might see them if we go to the lookout in the beech tree?’ Debby said tentatively, confirming Imogen’s feeling that her shy little friend really was coming out of her shell if she was prepared to actually look for the boy Josh.

However, she had to shake her head, though she did so reluctantly. ‘I found it by chance, and I don’t know whether I could find it again,’ she admitted. ‘All I can really say is that Rufus and I crossed the wooden bridge and then turned right and wandered along by the river until we turned off into the wood. And coming home it never occurred to me that I might be lost because Rufus and I were with Woody and he led us straight to the rickety bridge.’

Debby gave a delighted chuckle. ‘
Hippity hop, clippity clop, over the rickety bridge
,’ she quoted. ‘Was there a troll guarding the way? Or was he only after the three billy goats gruff?’

Imogen was about to reply that the bridge wasn’t
that
rickety when Rita, no doubt attracted by their laughter, joined them. ‘No sign of your boyfriends,’ she said jeeringly. ‘The only boys in church were from the village, so I suppose your new pals don’t believe in God. I’m surprised Mrs Pilgrim didn’t drag them out by their ears.’

‘Oh, Rita, of course she didn’t,’ Debby said impatiently. ‘The Hemblington Hall boys go to a different church, that’s all.’

‘That’s stupid,’ Rita snapped. ‘The fellers you met live with Mrs Pilgrim.’

‘You’re the stupid one,’ Debby said, highly daring, and Imogen, watching with amusement, saw Rita’s cheeks begin to glow; how the other girl hated to be in the wrong! But Debby continued to speak quite calmly. ‘Josh told us – oh, but I forgot, you weren’t there – that the school goes to the next village for Sunday worship.’

‘Oh,’ Rita said. ‘Oh yes, that makes sense. There must be an awful lot of them. They ought to open up the plague church, the one Auntie told us about. Then they could have the place all to themselves.’

By this time they had reached the Canary and Linnet and were looking forward to Sunday lunch, which was always delicious. Before anyone could speak again, Auntie was unlocking the door and ushering them into the kitchen.

As soon as lunch was finished and the washing up done the girls knew that they would gather round the table to write letters home. And today, Imogen thought gleefully, she really would have something interesting to tell her mother. She had made a new friend and seen with her own eyes, albeit from a distance, the airfield from which so many of the Canary and Linnet customers came.

For two whole weeks there was no sign of the boys from Hemblington Hall, and Imogen decided somewhat regretfully that their chance meeting was probably going to be the only one. She felt sorry, but thought that for the sake of peace it was probably a good thing. She and Debby could scarcely mention Josh and Woody in Rita’s presence without the other girl beginning to bridle and make pointed, often spiteful, remarks.

At the end of the second week Imogen, Debby and Rita set off for the willow hut, with three packed lunches and three bottles of Auntie’s homemade ginger beer to keep the wolf from the door until teatime, when Auntie had promised to serve a meat and potato pie along with the peas whose pods were full to bursting in the kitchen garden. They had just settled into the hut and were discussing what they should do next when they heard voices. Imogen frowned. ‘No one ever comes this way but us,’ she said. ‘I wonder if . . .’