Wave Me Goodbye

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘The family I stayed with when I went to my sister’s funeral – their son is a POW. I just thought he might be working on the harvest and I wondered where the countryside was. Stupid, really.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ began Sheila, who then uttered a loud ‘Shoosh’ as footsteps were heard on the stairs.

  ‘Time to be thinking about bed, girls,’ Mrs Fleming said as she entered the room. ‘How are you feeling now, Grace?’ The farmer’s wife, looking rather flustered, was peering down at the invalid.

  Grace was becoming rather tired of this question. ‘Ready and able, thank you.’

  ‘Good, Mr Fleming says you’re very welcome to look at his atlas.’ She still looked a little ill at ease. ‘We had to report the incident to Lady Alice, I’m afraid, and she will ring you here tomorrow when she’s done with the milk round.’

  When she had gone, all the girls, except Grace, started to laugh. ‘Who’s Lady Alice?’ asked Jane. “When she’s done with the milk round.” Is she the horse? That is so funny.’

  ‘It won’t be if she hears you,’ said Sheila. ‘Her father’s an earl and they own this farm, so better be on your best behaviour in case she decides to come and see our little spy for herself.’

  The excitement over, they separated and then got themselves into bed.

  ‘For such a harmless little person, you do get yourself into some scrapes, our Grace,’ said Jenny. ‘Now we’ll all be agog to hear what the aristocracy want with you.’

  ‘They’re going to chop off her head,’ said Sheila.

  ‘We’ll not let them,’ said Fiona. ‘But we’d better get to sleep, or am I the only person in this room who has to be up at the back of four?’

  There was a communal massive groan as everyone settled. Grace lay for some time wondering about the prospective telephone call and then she too fell asleep.

  Lady Alice rang while they were all at breakfast and Grace hurried to the tidy little room where she had received the call from Jack all those months ago.

  Lady Alice began by commiserating with her over the train disaster and asked her how she was.

  ‘I’m very well, Lady Alice. Thank you.’

  ‘Good, but I don’t think you can be too well with everything that’s happened to you. I do wish you had told me about this solicitor in Dartford. That should have been cleared up months ago. Now, tell me truthfully, are you happy there?’

  Grace thought for a moment before answering. ‘Yes, Lady Alice, there are nice girls here and we all get along; there are two Polish land girls – I’m learning a lot from them.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t tell Mrs F. She will certainly report that. Were you tracing Jack – in the atlas, that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Too abrupt, Grace, but I’ll put that aside. Does he write?’

  ‘I’ve had two letters but he doesn’t say much.’

  ‘That’s about all I’ve had. He’s doing a job, the one he wanted to do. You haven’t asked about Harry. He’s back here, asks about you. He’ll stay with us. Hazel keeps him busy but not stressed.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Lady Alice; I do worry about Harry.’

  ‘Eventually, he should make a full recovery. At least, we all hope so, but he’s old and we’re all he has. One more mouth to feed here won’t make much difference. By the way, finally heard that several new land girls are being assigned. Hazel, Esau and I wondered if you might not want to come and help us break them in. Think about it.’

  The line went dead. Grace listened for a second or two just in case it was a line fault and then hung up.

  Deep in thought, she remained beside the extremely tidy desk. To go back to Whitefields Court? Her first thought was of hot running water, her second; do I want to leave here? The farmhouse was fairly primitive but the farm itself was quite beautiful. The Flemings were all right; in fact, Mrs Fleming was probably easier to deal with than Mrs Love, but Mrs Love was a better cook and – at least in the time Grace had worked there – had better ingredients. On the plus side for Newriggs, the different girls were interesting and the few she was getting to know better were very pleasant. If she left, she would really miss Eva and Katia, Sheila, Jane – in fact, all of them.

  She left the office, still thinking. Is this what life is? Meeting people, loving them, leaving them or having them leave. If only there was a way to have all of them all the time. Is that, she wondered, what a real family is?

  ‘Going to stand there all day, Grace, while everyone else does your work for you?’

  She had not seen the farmer standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Sorry, Mr Fleming.’

  ‘Her ladyship want anything in particular?’

  ‘Talked about the people I knew at Whitefields and my health, just this and that.’ She hoped she was not lying. Lady Alice hadn’t exactly asked her to go back, had she?

  ‘Well, there’s berries needs picking. Wear the wife’s hat, take water and come in at twelve for your dinner. Got a watch?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fleming.’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  Another reason for going back to Whitefields. Hazel was much nicer than Mr Fleming. Grace’s honesty rallied again and reminded her that the farmer had driven to a military base in the middle of the night to pick her up.

  She resolved to put everything but her work out of her head and went to collect the hat and some water.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Grace. With everything that’s gone on lately, I’ve forgotten the post. You had two letters and they’re on the kitchen window-sill.’

  Two letters. How exciting. Grace thanked Mrs Fleming and hurried through to pick up the letters. She took them with her out into the raspberry field, anxious to rip them open and read them. One was from the solicitor and the other … at long last, from Jack.

  She stood between two long rows of laden bushes, the scents of dry earth leaves and ripe and overripe berries filling the still air around her head. Left hand, right hand? What Jack has to say? What the solicitor has to say?

  Dear Miss Paterson,

  On the morning of the twentieth past, in the presence of Lady Alice Whitefields, Mrs Flora Petrie, the Reverend K. L. Tiverton and Mr Garrick Thomas, partner in the firm of Thomas, Crawford, Shortcross and Thomas, and myself, Mr Leslie Crawford, senior partner in the same firm, a metal box found in the ruins of 11a High Street, Dartford, and belonging to the late Miss Megan Paterson, formerly manageress of the said property, was opened and the contents examined.

  I am delighted to inform you that no object belonging to the owners of 11a High Street, Dartford, was found in the box and therefore the contents of the box, consisting of one gold half-hunter, beautifully engraved, several personal letters (which we hope will be of interest), a quantity of photographs, one birth certificate, two marriage licences, and one notarised will, now belong to you and will be couriered to you at your present address as soon as possible.

  We would also like to assure you of our willingness to help you deal further with this matter.

  With kindest regards,

  It was signed with a flourish, ‘Leslie Crawford’.

  Grace read it several times. Her first thoughts were, how did Lady Alice get there? What has this to do with her? But realising that she was hardly likely to learn the answer unless Lady Alice told her, she turned over the letter to look at the back, although she was perfectly aware that there was nothing written there. She looked into the opened envelope, for what she did not know, but there was nothing there.

  Photographs. How wonderful, but were they pictures of Megan and her friends or – she felt her heart leap as she thought of it – could at least one be of her parents?

  Megan had kept letters. Please, please could just one say something about me?

  Birth certificate. Her own or Megan’s, surely.

  A will. She had always known her family were poor. Megan had really enjoyed telling her how she had arrived in Dartford with the clothes on her back and a nightgown. Therefore, the
will in the metal box could be of no real value; historical perhaps, and that would be interesting and might tell her about yet another member of her family. So exciting. How she wished there was someone with whom she could share this. Mrs Petrie knew. She would write to her, but, first, she would tell Daisy and Rose, and Sally and Sally’s parents.

  As for a half-hunter – she had no idea what that was. Lady Alice spoke of hunters but they were horses, and a horse, whether gold or flesh and blood, could not get into a small box. She was laughing now, giddy with surprise and delight.

  ‘You’ve not moved much, Grace. Are you ill?’ a voice called.

  Oh, heavens, Mr Fleming was in the same field. ‘No, I’m all right, Mr Fleming, getting to it right now,’ she called. ‘Beautiful fruit.’

  She worked diligently for almost two hours without a break, sipping, every so often, from her jar of water, her mind busy with the contents of the solicitor’s letter. She had folded up the slim letter from Jack and thrust it into the breast pocket of her land girl-issue blouse, and was startlingly aware of how close to her heart it lay. What of Sam? Had she forgotten him again so easily? Sam, who had only ever been kind to her? She ached to read the letter. Perhaps the contents of Jack’s letter would help her to think straight.

  She had picked carefully, slightly overripe fruit in one basket and raspberries at the peak of perfection in the other. The Flemings hoped to sell all the perfect berries to local shops; they were proud of their reputation: no underripe or overripe fruit in a Fleming basket. Grace glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that it was already noon and she was at least ten minutes from the farmhouse.

  ‘You’re on your own, Grace. Mr Fleming’s at the corn. We want to harvest just before it’s fully ripe and it will ripen and dry beautifully in the fields if this weather lasts.’ Mrs Fleming, a turban wrapped around her head, was on her way out. ‘There’s a salad for you on the cold shelf in the pantry. When you’ve had a rest, go back to the berries and pick some strawberries if you’re feeling up to it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Fleming, but I’m sure I’m all right. Don’t you need me at the corn?’

  ‘With Lady Alice maybe coming in and that Mrs Drummond-Hay snooping in the area, you’re better among the bushes; there’s some shelter. Don’t rush your salad. In fact, peel a pot of potatoes for me – that’ll keep you safe indoors for a while.’

  Lady Alice? Mrs Drummond-Hay? Were they interested in her, in her need for an atlas, or what?

  Grace practically stamped her way to the larder to pick up her salad. How inviting it looked: fresh lettuce leaves from the garden, fresh peas, spring onions, thin slices of fresh white turnip, a not overly generous slice of tinned Spam – for which she was delighted – and a sliced boiled egg with the yoke just perfect, not hard and crumbly and not too soft. It was dressed with some kind of vinegar, a little oil and some fresh herbs from the garden. ‘And all the others are out in the fields with sandwiches.’ She looked again at her plate. Yes, not even the tiniest sliver of beetroot.

  She picked up an egg slice with the fork, raised it to her mouth and was hit by a terrible thought. Was this salad prepared for her or might such a lovely salad have been prepared for Lady Alice? Grace practically ran to the larder. No, no other plate was on the cold shelf. Relieved, she returned to the kitchen, where she ate every bite, a slice of farm bread with a scraping of butter, and three strawberries from a bowl beside the sink.

  Food, together with solitude and privacy, had made her forget her letter. Grace gasped. What did such forgetfulness tell her about herself? Grace took the pitifully thin and wrinkled letter from the pocket over her heart and began to read.

  Dear Grace,

  Only my father’s letters are getting through to me but seldom. We have a code, and each letter, since I left for the front, has been numbered and so if ten arrives before I have seen number six, then I have some idea of time. I number mine to Father in the same way and he tells me that once four letters, and all out of order, fell on the mat at the front door on the very same day.

  I have to confess that I did not write to either of you for some weeks: sometimes I am too tired to hold a pencil. The work is never-ending and we stop only to sleep a little and to eat when we can. I will not tell you what I see or what I hear but the noise is continuous, sometimes all day and on into the night. And, at other times, a silence falls, a silence so profound that, once, I thought the world, and not just the war, had ended and then it started louder than ever and, oh, my dear Grace, noise is so exhausting.

  My first letter to you was not one of which I am proud. You gave me everything, Grace, or I took it and when I thought about it, I was terrified. Not for me, you must believe that. My father would be angry but he would never reject me, and, as I hope you understood, neither would he reject you. No, I did not tell him that a lovely young woman might arrive at his door, because I was ashamed, not of you, but of myself. We did not have time to fall properly in love, but, if you do not hate me, perhaps we can, as we planned, walk out when this insanity is passed. I would like to walk with you up the pathway through the lilacs to the door of my father’s house. I superimpose that picture on the sights I see here, and thus keep my sanity.

  I think about you in the fields and hope you do not have to work too hard. I remember Harry and worry about him, but I’m sure the Whitefields will look after him. He has, I think, one of the sweetest natures of any man I have ever met. And Hazel and Esau and the others, splendid fellows. Are you learning Polish? I think I would try if I were in that company. I could learn German here and also improve the French I learned at school. One hears these languages constantly.

  Across the bottom corner of the page was his name, ‘Jack’. The letter had quite filled both sides of the page. It was the longest letter Grace had ever had from anyone. Had Mrs Fleming read this letter? If she had, she would know exactly what had happened when Jack took Grace to see the film. But she had said nothing.

  THIRTEEN

  All seven land girls saw Grace’s box arrive, although none of them knew that the rather splendid car that drove up to the farmhouse door carried it. Grace alone recognised Lady Alice.

  ‘What a lovely frock,’ said Jane as she eyed the slim figure approaching the gate.

  ‘All right for some.’ Sheila too thought that the charming cotton frock with its light brown background splashed with exuberant yellow daisies was definitely the last word, but she was only too well aware that she was not one of the ‘some’.

  ‘And her shoes and gloves,’ breathed Katia, who then expressed her admiration more volubly in Polish.

  ‘Why is she not with bag? Is possible new land girl with smart car?’ Eva looked and sounded very doubtful.

  ‘It’s Lady Alice,’ said Grace.

  The girls stood, some admiring the vision of summer perfection, the others wondering what had brought the vision north. They were not left long in ignorance.

  ‘Come along, girls, don’t dawdle. Grace, bring the girls into the kitchen before they get sunstroke.’

  In the farmhouse kitchen, Mrs Fleming was on the point of serving the Sunday midday meal, usually the only time the girls ate their ‘dinner’ together with their employers. Despite having been pre-warned of Lady Alice’s visit, she was startled. ‘Lady Alice, how very nice to see you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb lunch, Mrs Fleming, but I’m afraid I need to talk to Grace – the office will do. Send one of the others along with some tea and I’ll be out of your way as quickly as possible. Save Grace’s meal.’ She nodded to the other girls, who were still admiring her clothes, said, ‘Come along, Grace,’ and left the kitchen, not through the door that led to the dark corridor where the office was, but out through the garden door.

  ‘Your box, such as it is, is in my bag, and I thoughtlessly left that in the car, which, incidentally belongs to friends in Edinburgh who are sacrificing their petrol for you; you can assure the others that I came up by train and will return in the same
uncomfortable manner.’ She reached into the little car and brought out a white leather handbag with a gold clasp and gold piping around the handle. ‘Let’s go in and sit down; there really is rather a lot I have to tell you. I suppose what right I had to stick my nose into your affairs is really the first thing you want to know.’

  Speechlessly, Grace followed her back into the kitchen, where Lady Alice called out, ‘Excuse us,’ as they passed the table. Grace smiled as she saw the envious glances directed towards the elegant bag. She knew she would have several questions to answer about it later. Her heart, which had calmed a little, began to race as they walked down the corridor.

  ‘Electricity will do wonders for this house, Grace; shouldn’t be long before it’s on the National Grid.’

  In the office, Lady Alice sat down on a chair that badly needed new upholstery and directed Grace to the leather chair at the desk. ‘Perhaps you’ll need to lay things out on the desk, Grace. Startlingly tidy, isn’t it? I do wonder if it’s ever used.’

  It was obvious that she was not awaiting a comment, as she lifted a badly dented metal box out of the beautiful bag. ‘Got rather a bashing in the bombing; funny things, bombs. It blew the shop apart but didn’t open the box.’

  The box, unopened, sat in front of Grace, who felt as if somehow her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Photographs, letters. How badly she wanted to see them.

  ‘Would you prefer that I left?’ asked Lady Alice quietly, as a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the tea.

  Grace had somehow lost the gift of speech and she shook her head as Lady Alice poured tea, put in milk and sugar, and placed a cup and saucer beside Grace’s right hand.

  The box lay open, its contents visible. First, was a small leather box, which Grace removed and put on the table; whatever it was, it was not a letter and she would look at it later. Next, was an old, rather brittle official document. With hands that shook, Grace lifted it from the box. It was a marriage certificate stating that a marriage had taken place on 6 April 1895 between one Alexander Hardy, gentleman, and Abigail Smythe, spinster of this parish. She was confused. She had never heard either of these names before and what, if anything, did they have to do with her?