Wave Me Goodbye

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Name’s Lawrence, love, but if you want me to be Sam, I’m happy to oblige.’

  Lawrence was nothing at all like Sam. Grace found herself blushing furiously and wishing that the ground would open and swallow her up. It did not. ‘How stupid,’ she said. ‘From the back … sorry, you just …’ She wanted to weep and could say no more.

  ‘Looked like Sam from the back,’ Lawrence finished for her, ‘and you hoped and hoped. Sorry. One of these days, he’ll come back. I would if you were waiting for me.’

  The train service saved her from further embarrassment. Above all the noise of a busy station, a voice patiently tried to alert passengers to the expected arrival of the very late London train. Grace apologised to the soldier again and walked swiftly down the platform, pushing her way through the crowds. She needed to get on the train and to be as far from Lawrence as it was possible to be.

  The train was crowded before it even got into the station: many people, hungry, tired and extremely disgruntled, had boarded at Edinburgh and almost six hours later found themselves approaching Newcastle when they might have expected to be very close to London. Grace, too small and too polite to push, found herself pressed between two large soldiers who argued with each other over her head. The men, however, were past masters at finding ways of being as comfortable as possible and, for part of the journey south, they allowed Grace to sit quite comfortably on their kitbags while they continued their argument above her head. At the first stop, where several people left the train, they innocently blocked the door to a carriage until Grace had managed to squeeze herself into a seat inside, and all this without a single word to her.

  Two hours later, the train stopped again. Since there was nothing on the platform to indicate the name of the station, the passengers had no idea where they were in relation to their final destination.

  ‘Where are we?’ the voices echoed.

  ‘Haven’t a clue, mate. York, Darlington, who knows? But I do believe we’re in merrie olde England.

  Not much help, but humorous.

  An hour or so later, Grace managed to persuade a poorly dressed elderly man to take her seat. His age and his unusual accent reminded her of the Petries’ customer, Mr Fischer. At Christmas, Rose had told her as much of Mr Fischer’s story as Daisy had confided in the family and, for a moment, Grace wondered if this old man might be a brilliant refugee who was travelling incognito, but she soon abandoned her theory. Surely, someone working for the Government should not smell quite so badly. She returned to the corridor, where she found that her knights in not-so-shining armour had given her place on the kitbags to two middle-aged women.

  ‘Rather have you sitting at my feet, love,’ said one, with a pleasant smile.

  Those were the last words he was ever to speak as, just at that moment, there was a massive explosion.

  Grace woke to screams and cries, the unbelievable noise of metal grating on metal, and smells, horrid smells of smoke and burning – and death. She was crushed beneath a heavy weight and yet her mouth, her eyes, her nose seemed plugged full of this sickening odour. She could feel that her face was wet but the source of the water, if water it was, was hidden from her. She tried pushing at what was holding her down but there was no room to push. Was it groaning, the weight? Was it not a suitcase or kitbag but a person?

  Oh, God, someone’s lying on me.

  The heaviest hailstones she had ever heard beat down along the length of what was left of the roof of the carriage. Snow in summer? No. The staccato sound accompanied more screams, groans and then silence. Enemy planes, their pilots determined to finish the job the bombers had begun, were strafing them.

  ‘Have you not done enough evil, you imps of Satan?’ an old voice screeched from somewhere beside her. ‘They’re dead, the soldiers,’ went on the voice. ‘They saved you, girl, threw themselves on you, but if help doesn’t come soon, we’ll die too and their sacrifice will have been for nothing.’

  That was when Grace realised that it was not water running down her face but blood, a brave soldier’s blood. ‘Speak to me,’ she whispered, ‘please speak to me, please be alive,’ but everything was silent.

  ‘Am I dead, too?’ Grace asked, and, although no one answered, she was surprised to find that the idea did not frighten her. It certainly was uncomfortable and so difficult to function with this weight upon her and her face pressed to the metal floor of the carriage, but the pain was bearable, and such air as was reasonably clear was certainly at floor level. Thick smoke hung over them and where there had been screams there was now deathly silence.

  Powerless. She was powerless, a feeling that she knew well. ‘Please, is someone still there?’ she asked. ‘Please, if you talked to me, please say something.’

  No one spoke but, a few moments later, she heard metal screeching as if it were being ripped apart and the place she was in filled with light and voices.

  ‘Utter carnage, no one survived this,’ said an authoritative voice from high above Grace’s head.

  Grace summoned up all her energy. ‘Help,’ she called.

  It was a feeble noise but someone heard it. ‘Careful, lads, there’s someone under all this.’

  Grace lay listening to voices, to noises, none of which she could recognise, and then, at last, some words she understood. ‘This poor lad’s the last one, I think. Lift him carefully, God rest his soul. I did think I heard a woman’s voice a moment ago. One, two, three, gently now, gently.’

  The crushing weight was gone.

  ‘Damnation, there be a land girl here. Careful, careful, must be her as I heard.’

  The next few hours passed in a complete blur. Grace was lifted onto a stretcher and carried to an ambulance, where she was examined by the oldest doctor she had ever seen. He smiled at her. ‘Do I look more like Father Christmas than your friendly physician? Still compos mentis, I assure you, my dear, and skilled enough to tell you that you’re a very lucky young lady. Some bad scratches, one of which I’ve sewn up, and you’re bruised from head to toe. A night in hospital, where we can keep an eye on you – observation, just to make sure – and you can continue. The soldier who fell on you saved your life, you know. Amazing luck.’

  The tears began then; at first, trickling down her blood-streaked face and then gushing as she sobbed as if she would never stop. ‘It wasn’t luck,’ she managed at last. ‘He threw himself on me deliberately. I’d been sitting on his kitbag earlier.’ She tried to sit up, to look around. ‘Where’s his friend? He was with another soldier.’

  ‘God and modern medicine willing, the other chap will make it. He’s on his way to surgery. Nurse,’ he called, ‘can we get this young lady a blanket and a cup of tea with sugar?’

  Grace tried to say that she was all right and that she needed to get to London, but if anyone listened – and perhaps they were all far too busy dealing with real casualties to listen – no one paid the slightest attention.

  Aware and grateful that she was not a priority, Grace sat quietly, enjoying the warmth of the tea provided by the ladies of the Women’s Voluntary Service, and the comfort of the blanket. She began to recover from the shock and offered to help but was rejected.

  ‘You are aware that the enemy took great pleasure in blowing up your train, and most of its passengers, to bits, girl? We want you in the hospital overnight, recuperating, not working. The WVS will talk to you, to see if they can contact your family or your unit, and so do your best to enjoy the rest; harvest-time everywhere, isn’t it? You’ll want to conserve your strength for that.’

  A lady from the WVS did not speak to Grace until much later that evening, some hours after she had arrived at the hospital. To Grace’s acute embarrassment, she had been washed and put into a hospital nightgown.

  ‘You should have tried the soup, my dear,’ the immaculately dressed woman said as she looked at the unfinished meal on Grace’s bedside table. ‘Your poor system received a dreadful shock and a nice bowl of soup would have done wonders for it.’ She smiled,
as if to say, ‘And now we’ll move on.’ She pointed to Grace’s Land Army-issue handbag. ‘Apparently, you were still holding that when they found you. We had to look inside to find your name and address, Grace, but the people who live in that house in Dartford say they have no idea who you are.’

  Everything came flooding back: the ghastly little house, Megan’s death, the letter from the estate agent’s allowing her a few days to bury her sister, searching in Megan’s untidy drawers for anything, any clue as to her family, for a family must have existed. ‘My older sister was the tenant; she was killed in a raid before Christmas … at her place of work.’

  ‘Beastly, I’m so sorry. Are there no other relatives – a parent, an aunt, anyone?’

  ‘I had an appointment tomorrow morning with a solicitor. I had hoped he would know more than I do and I planned to stay with friends. You’ll find a letter from the solicitor in my bag and the address of my friends.’

  ‘Thank you, Grace. And the farm where you work?’

  ‘Fleming, Newriggs Farm, East Lothian. The full address is in my notebook.’

  The WVS woman got to her feet and pushed her chair to the wall. ‘You’re not going to make that appointment, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, I’ll get a message both to the solicitor and to your friends.’

  ‘Don’t let Mrs Petrie worry, please.’

  ‘I won’t. Sleep well, Grace. You’re a very brave girl.’

  Next morning, Grace was quite sure that she hadn’t slept at all. Even people who are trying to move quietly often make a great deal of noise. Her soup bowl was gone and she had not been aware of anyone removing it.

  ‘Feeling better?’ said a voice, as a cool hand grasped her wrist and took her pulse. ‘Well, we are doing better this morning. A nice bowl of porridge and a cup of tea, and then we’ll see what Doctor has to say.’

  ‘How far are we from London, Nurse?’

  The nurse, who had turned to go off to her next patient, stopped. ‘Not the slightest idea, love. Has to be at least a hundred miles, maybe more. Does it matter?’

  ‘I need to get there and back to Scotland by tonight.’

  ‘Not going to happen, pet. Just say prayers of gratitude to be alive. If the doctor lets you leave and if, and it’s a very big if, there’s a train, you might get back tonight, but Jerry really made a picnic of the line. Fixing it’ll be a priority but there’s priorities all over the shop. Now eat your porridge when it comes – give you a better chance of getting out.’

  Grace struggled to sit up. The very thought of porridge made her feel ill but she had to get out of the hospital immediately. So many questions chased one another around in her agitated mind? Had the solicitor been notified, and Mrs Petrie, and the Flemings, and how, from a hospital bed, could she find out if it was possible to get back to Newriggs Farm before her forty-eight hours were up?

  The trolley arrived with bowls of the most unappetising porridge she had ever seen, but she took one, determined to swallow every morsel, somehow. ‘I’ll be back in a jiff with tea. Would you like a nice piece of toast? Nurse said you’d be hungry, since you had nothing yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’

  And it was. Even better was the arrival of a second WVS volunteer. ‘Miss Paterson? You may not have a family, my dear, but you certainly have friends: a Mrs Petrie, a Mrs Brewer, a Miss Partridge and a vicar, a Mr Tiverton.’

  Grace had no idea how to answer. She had met Mr Tiverton occasionally but had never attended his church. She would have to think. ‘The lady managed to get a message to Mrs Petrie?’

  ‘Indeed. Via Miss Partridge from Dartford, who joined the Women’s Voluntary Service six months ago. She is invaluable. Mrs Petrie and Mrs Brewer asked us to remind you that you will always have a home with them. Mr Tiverton, dear man, will accompany Mrs Petrie to your solicitor’s office when a new appointment has been arranged. Your priority right now is getting well and returning to front-line duty, for that’s what your work is, Grace, front line.’

  ‘Can I get up now?’

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry. Doctor has to check you over and we’re trying to rustle up some transport.’

  ‘A Spitfire?’ Grace said it with a wry grin. Where was Daisy? What fun it would be if Daisy could hide her in a plane and fly her back to Scotland.

  The WVS lady was not amused. ‘Just rest for the moment. God knows when you’ll next get a chance.’

  ‘A lorry?’ Grace, passed for duty by the doctor, and now washed and dressed in her uniform, had been sitting in the front hall of the hospital for nearly three hours, waiting for news of a possible train.

  ‘Best they can do. Come on, love, buck up. There’s nurses in this hospital would give their eyeteeth to travel a few hundred miles with thirty-eight soldiers, all of them healthy and in one piece.’

  The orderly picked up Grace’s bag and escorted her outside, where an enormous military vehicle was parked. Cheery faces of all ages and sizes peered out from the canvas covers at the back.

  ‘What a reward for bein’ a good boy,’ yelled one of the soldiers as he leaped down lightly from the lorry. ‘Here we are, love, all ready to take you home.’

  ‘I think not, Private Adams,’ said a more authoritative voice. ‘All of you stop gawping and get back inside.’ The boy – for to Grace he looked extremely young – turned to her. ‘Miss Paterson, Lieutenant Gilroy,’ said the older man. Grace almost expected him to salute but he merely nodded. ‘We are your escort back to Scotland and I do think you’ll be more comfortable up front with us: the driver, Sergeant Ives, and myself. There isn’t a great deal of room but it’s marginally more comfortable than in the back. If I may take your bag?’

  Grace managed to mumble a thank-you while she wondered how she was to get into the front. She was delighted to be wearing breeches when she saw what an enormous step-up she would have to take.

  Lieutenant Gilroy stowed her bag behind the seat and then jumped in beside her. He introduced her to a much older man in uniform, who merely smiled at her, and then they were off.

  The great green lorry trundled its heavy way north and Grace and the young officer managed to carry on a conversation most of the way, Sergeant Ives interrupting every now and again with a pertinent observation. The soldiers were ‘going into the field’ and Grace understood at once that all the friendly young men sitting cramped in the back of the lorry and the two in front were going into action. She thought of Sam; Sam who had once more become so real to her.

  ‘I have an old friend in Europe,’ she said during a break in the conversation. ‘He was captured at Dunkirk.’

  ‘POW? Hear from him much?’

  ‘His parents hear. It’s difficult. The Red Cross in Geneva …’ She stopped. What was she doing? Careless talk.

  She saw the soldiers smile at each other. ‘We know all about the Red Cross, Miss Paterson. We are on your side.’

  Grace felt very foolish.

  ‘They do have a good track record; letters do seem to turn up eventually. I hope you hear from him soon.’

  Grace felt herself blushing, but, if Lieutenant Gilroy noticed he said nothing.

  They were quiet for a while as the sergeant concentrated on his driving. ‘The depot, sir?’ he said, after they had been quiet for some time.

  ‘Jolly good, Sergeant. We’re going to stop for refuelling of men and machine, Miss Paterson. In this instance, men means ladies too. There’s an officers’ mess where you’ll be welcome to freshen up.’

  Grace, who had been concerned about the long hours of travel, relaxed. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Are there women in the army?’

  ‘Good Lord, yes: drivers, nurses, secretarial staff, observers, cooks and cleaners – can’t think how many positions. It’s a brave new world.’

  ‘Another friend is hoping to join the Auxiliary Transport Service. She hopes to drive Mr Churchill.’

  ‘If that’s what she wants then bully for her. I’d be scared to death myself. What about you, Sergeant?
’

  The sergeant knew his lieutenant well enough not to answer.

  They pulled in at what seemed to be a remote army camp and, less than an hour later were, on their way again. Grace found her head nodding – after all, she had been awake most of the night – and she was soon fast asleep.

  ‘I think that’s your Farmer Fleming waiting over there,’ was the next thing she heard.

  Her first thought on hearing the lieutenant’s pleasant young voice was, please don’t let my mouth have been hanging open. She shook her head. ‘I am so sorry, that was rude.’ She hoped she had not been snoring? Did she snore? No one had so far told her of it.

  ‘Delighted you felt safe enough to rest, Miss Paterson. Grown men have been known to weep when they hear old Ives here is driving.’

  Lieutenant Gilroy opened the door, jumped down and reached up a hand to help Grace down.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘An absolute pleasure,’ said Lieutenant Gilroy, and the sergeant smiled and nodded.

  Bob Fleming was there, a large dark mass among many dark masses. ‘What a time you’ve had, Grace, but the army to the rescue. You’ll have to tell us all about it the morning.’

  Eva was in the kitchen when they arrived at the farm. ‘Poor Grace, you have fearful time. How we are pleased to see you.’

  ‘I’ll away to my bed, if you can manage things, Eva. The missus needs to get her sleep, Grace; the cows don’t care that you near got killed. They still needs milking.’

  ‘I have heat up some soup and make cocoa, Grace. You must be with much hungry?’

  Grace wasn’t sure if she was with hungry or not. She felt utterly exhausted and longed to go to bed but Eva had obviously stayed up to look after her. ‘You go off to bed, Eva. I’ll drink the cocoa and come right up.’

  ‘Is good. We are having sleep till six and half.’

  Grace looked at the wag-at-the-wall clock. It said ‘two and a half’.

  ‘Very nice, Eva,’ she said, and together they sat quietly at the table while Grace discovered that she did have an appetite and finished the soup. ‘Pea and ham, lovely.’