Wave Me Goodbye

by Ruby Jackson

  She laid it carefully aside and took out the next document, a birth certificate. That told her that a girl, Margaret Hardy, had been born to Abigail and Alexander Hardy in September 1898.

  Deeply distressed, Grace pushed the box aside and stood up. ‘There must be some mistake, Lady Alice. These names mean nothing; I’ve never heard of these people. They can’t be important to me.’

  ‘Sit down again, Grace, and listen to me.’ Lady Alice waited until, grudgingly, Grace had obeyed her. ‘I took it upon myself to be there when the box was opened. You were sent to me as a land girl and I feel responsible – am responsible – for your welfare. My father rang the solicitors, explaining the difficulties you were experiencing and they allowed me, with Mrs Petrie, who really is a very caring human being, and Mr Tiverton, to oversee the opening of your sister’s box.’

  Grace was still rather angry; she had told the solicitor that Mrs Petrie would represent her. They had no need of Lady Alice. But then she thought for a moment and realised that the world being what it was, having a titled lady in her corner could only be positive.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘Mrs Petrie has always been kind to me.’

  It was obvious that Lady Alice understood all the thoughts that were flying around in her head. ‘Mrs Petrie, Mr Tiverton and I sat down over a very good cup of tea – Mrs Petrie knows her teas – in fact, she has persuaded, Thomas, Crawford, Shortcross and Thomas to become a customer of Petrie’s fine teas. Quite frankly, they were delighted. Superb service and cheaper than London.’

  Grace smiled at the idea of Mrs Petrie soliciting custom. She had to admit that she probably had told the posh solicitors that their tea was of inferior quality. Well done, Mrs Petrie, she said to herself.

  ‘She did say she wanted to write to you. Have you heard from her?’

  ‘No, she’s too busy. Probably about this box.’

  ‘Of course, but perhaps you should look at the will, Grace. Indirectly, it refers to you.’

  ‘Me? Lady Alice, these people are from long before I was born.’

  ‘The second marriage licence should help.’

  Grace looked at the papers in the box and closed her eyes for a moment against the enormity of all that was happening. She had wanted to see the papers and now that they were in her hands she was afraid of what they might tell her.

  ‘Grace, Mrs Petrie, Mr Tiverton and I took it upon ourselves to study the birth certificate, the marriage licences and the will, so that, if it was necessary, we could help you deal with their contents. There are surprises for you here, and most of them are pleasant. We have not looked at the letters or photographs; they are there for you to read when and if you want to read them. The legal documents are important. May I?’ Lady Alice did not wait for the small nod from Grace but reached in and withdrew a second aged paper, then handed it to her.

  As if it was made of the finest, most delicate substance, Grace took the paper and opened it with great care.

  It was the will of Abigail Smythe Hardy and was very simple. Abigail left her gold half-hunter and the sum of five hundred pounds to her daughter, Margaret Hardy, or to any heir of the body of the said Margaret Hardy or Paterson.

  ‘I don’t know what it means, Lady Alice.’

  Lady Alice picked up the small box, opened it, and showed Grace the contents. This is called a half-hunter, Grace. It’s a watch and this one is rather lovely – gold, of course, and, if you turn it over … see, beautifully engraved initials. A. S.: Abigail Smythe, your grandmother.’

  ‘My grandmother?’ Tentatively, Grace reached out and, with the tip of her index finger, touched the gold watch, which lay on the inside cushion.

  ‘It’s yours, Grace; pick it up, or perhaps you’d prefer to read the second marriage certificate. Here, read it, and believe it.’

  The second marriage licence announced to the world the marriage of Margaret Hardy and John Paterson on 26 June 1919.

  Grace, her face glowing with hope, looked up. ‘Do you mean … is this, are these …?’

  ‘Your parents, Grace, yes.’

  ‘I think I was born in 1921.’ Grace thought she might weep with happiness, but she closed her eyes tightly for a moment and, feeling again in control, smiled happily at her employer.

  ‘Mr Crawford is perfectly willing to represent you in this, Grace. I suppose five hundred pounds is not a fortune, but we need to discover where it is. If, for instance, and highly unlikely, your grandmamma kept it in a box under her bed, then no doubt it is still worth five hundred pounds … probably less, but, if the money is in a bank or has been invested, then who knows how much it has accumulated by? All depends on when Mrs Hardy died.’

  Grace could not even begin to think of what the possession of hundreds of pounds might mean. To her, ten pounds was a magnificent sum. She could not take in the thought of owning five hundred. Her thoughts were firmly focused on her mother and her grandmother. ‘Margaret. Abigail,’ she said and smiled. At last. Her family, her very own family.

  ‘But, Lady Alice, she is my grandmother, a relative, someone apart from Megan who might …’ She could not continue. Lady Alice could not possibly understand what it had been like to grow up unloved by any family. ‘If she’s still alive, even if she’s old, maybe she would still want to see me, or know about me.’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain that she would have wanted to know you, Grace, but, unfortunately, the presence of this lovely watch tells us that she is dead. I am sorry, but somehow Megan got her hands on the watch – which you say you have never seen – and that tells us it stayed, for whatever reason, in this box. She did not wear it where it might be recognised. Solicitors don’t hand over legacies willy-nilly, you know, but they do hand them over to the person named in the will and that person is your mother, Margaret Hardy Paterson. If she too was dead at the time of Mrs Abigail Hardy’s death then—’

  ‘They gave it to Megan.’

  ‘She was your half-sister, was she not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she is not an heir of Margaret Hardy Paterson’s body, Grace. You are. Now, I think I’ve left you with enough to do for the next few weeks and I must get back to Edinburgh in the hope that I will find a train south tomorrow at the latest. Cows don’t milk themselves, unfortunately.’

  ‘What should I do now, Lady Alice?’

  ‘Read the letters, look at the photographs, be happy. I hope you will meet some lovely relatives, and enjoy Granny Abigail’s watch. I’ll ring you if I learn anything more. Come along, your dinner is still waiting.’

  The kitchen was empty except for Mrs Fleming, who was plucking a hen, rather an old one if it were one of those that pecked around the farmhouse.

  ‘There’s sausages, mashed potatoes, peas, carrots and early turnip on the stove, keeping warm. Hope it’s not too dry. I’m sorry I read your letter from Jack, Grace, but it’s my job and it’s your own fault for asking about maps.’ The words shattered the warm air like a thunderclap.

  ‘Our postman in Dartford said it was against the law to interfere with the Royal Mail. You had no right to read someone else’s post, and I have every right to look at an atlas. The library has several.’

  ‘But we’re in the Observers; it’s our job; we have even signed papers about it. What do they want from us? As if the farm wasn’t enough. Mr Fleming read it and was worried about all the foreign-language stuff and so I read it and gave it to her ladyship, and she said not to worry about it; nothing that really needed reporting.’

  ‘Then why did you report it and why did you read it in the first place?’ Grace was furiously angry.

  ‘I told you, it’s our duty. We worried about you when you got sent up here. What had you done to get turfed out of Whitefields Court? Interest in maps is frowned on, speaking foreign languages is bad, too. There have been spies so good at speaking like us that we didn’t know they were spies.’

  Grace’s mind was a jumble of fury and excitement, hope and despair. She knew that she coul
d not sit down in the room with this woman and eat anything, not right now, anyway. ‘As it happens, I never had time to look at a map. I’m going out to pick currants. First, I shall take this box upstairs, and I really would prefer that you not look in it. Since Lady Alice already has, you don’t need to, do you?’

  She moved to run past Mrs Fleming but was stopped.

  ‘Grace, no one is going to say anything about personal stuff; we read it because we was worried.’

  Grace hurried upstairs and put the precious box in her drawer. She would have to tell the other girls about its contents and was happy knowing that they would be pleased. The watch was beautiful, five hundred pounds was an absolute fortune, but knowing for the first time in years that her mother’s name was Margaret – such a lovely name – and her father’s was John – a manly name – was quite wonderful. Mrs Petrie? Would she have told the twins and the Brewers? Grace decided that she had better write to everyone with all the exciting news. Somehow she felt more like a real person. She had parents, Margaret and John, and a grandmother, Abigail – another lovely name – and a grandfather, Alexander, surely a name fit for a hero.

  She ran back downstairs and through the kitchen and out into the garden without stopping or looking around. She picked up baskets and ran to the currants.

  ‘Stop running in the hot sun, Grace. You’ll make yourself ill.’ Jane’s voice – or was it Sheila’s? – flew across to her from a strawberry field.

  She waved in acknowledgment and slowed down to walk quite sedately, as surely befitted a young lady who owned a watch of pure shining gold.

  The redcurrants hung on their slender stalks like glamorous earrings or bright red jewels. Grace ate one or two but their taste did not match their beauty and she laughed. Sorrow and disillusionment had been forced out of the way by sheer joy. ‘My mother’s name was Margaret Hardy,’ she carried on a make-believe conversation. ‘Grandfather Hardy called her Maggie but my grandmother, Abigail, spinster of this parish, would not allow it. And neither will I.’

  Her silliness burned off and she was sad again. When did my mother die? Where? Did she love me? Did my father, John? Oh, how she ached to be free to return to the box, to the letters and photographs.

  The basket was full of redcurrants. Carrying the full basket in one hand and the empty one in the other, she moved to long rows of tall blackcurrant bushes. She regretted her grand gesture of refusing to eat her dinner. Apart from two or three redcurrants, she had had nothing but a bowl of porridge since four thirty that morning and her empty stomach groaned and complained.

  She heard rustling. Someone else was among the currants, or perhaps a farm dog or cat was looking for an edible snack. Grace looked along the row where she stood and then was surprised when Mrs Fleming pushed her way between two bushes. ‘Would serve you right if I let you cut off your nose to spite your face. Sit down there on the warm ground and eat some cheese, and here’s a bottle of tea. Now, don’t tell the others, for running after you lot is not what I’m supposed to be doing.’

  She gave Grace no time to thank her but pushed her little basket into Grace’s hands, picked up the full basket of plump redcurrants and walked off down the row of bushes.

  ‘To spite my face!’ Grace laughed. ‘I suppose I know what that means and she’s right, of course.’ She was hungry and opened the box, her second metal box of the day. Pieces of cheese, radishes, a pickled onion and a large buttered oatcake. A feast.

  Dungarees were perfect for sitting down almost anywhere, and so Grace sat down, leaning her back against one of the stakes that carried the wires for the bushes, ate a radish – obviously freshly pulled – a piece of cheese and part of the oatcake. Then she drank some of the tea, which was very refreshing, and carried on until there was only a crumb of oatcake lying on the bottom of the tin. Grace wet her index finger and scooped up that final delicious crumb. She finished the tea and remained for a few minutes, enjoying being warm, surprisingly comfortable and well fed.

  By the time one or two of the others called to her as they made their way back to the farmhouse, she had filled the basket. A good feeling. Work well done.

  ‘Tell us all.’ Sheila was the first to speak. ‘You are the long-lost daughter of an Italian prince; he longs to take you home to your castle but wants you to stay here until the war is over because he thinks you’re safer here. He is planning a party and we are all welcome.’

  ‘If you already knew, Sheila, why did you ask?’ Grace teased her friend, thinking that Sally Brewer would probably have reacted in the same way.

  ‘You are rich now, Grace, and will leave us.’

  ‘No, Sheila was being silly. I think that’s a film she saw. I have found out a little about my family and the best bit is I did have parents.’

  ‘Big deal. Wasps have parents,’ said Jane, wildly swinging at one that persisted in buzzing around her head.

  Even Eva and Katia laughed and Grace promised to tell them everything she had discovered after tea. With that they had to be content.

  For the more romantic of the land girls, the hours until tea was finished and they were free to go to their rooms crawled slowly past. For Grace, the time flashed past. Her mind seemed to be spinning with all she had learned and all she still had to find out.

  When they were finally in the larger of the two rooms and everyone washed and in their nightclothes, she took the box from the drawer, telling them everything that Lady Alice had discovered and passing the gold watch among them, beseeching them to take care.

  ‘Is wonderful, Grace,’ said Katia. ‘Is most beautiful watch I have see ever. Please this lady person will find your much money.’

  Grace wanted the ‘much money’ to be found, too, but, more than that, she wanted desperately to read the letters and look at the photographs. ‘There are old photographs and some letters here, girls. But I need to read them to see if there’s any information. I promise that if there’s anything about me or if there’s a photograph of my mother or father, I’ll show you.’

  With that, they went off to their separate beds. Grace sat up in hers and took out the envelope that contained the photographs. Megan outside the shop, Megan and two people Grace did not know on the pier at Brighton. Megan, Megan, Megan. But just when Grace was about to give up for the night, there was a picture of two fashionably dressed women standing near a lake on which two swans were swimming. The dresses and the hairstyles were very old-fashioned, rather like pictures in the history books at school, and then, her breath almost stopping in excitement, Grace looked more closely at the bodice of the older woman’s satin gown. The watch. Pinned to the older lady’s bodice was the gold half-hunter. Grace turned over the picture. ‘Abby with Mags near the Serpentine.’

  For a moment, her breath actually seemed to stop. Abby had to be Abigail and Mags was surely, Margaret. She had the almost overwhelming desire to put the photograph on her heart. ‘My mother,’ she said, ‘and my grandmother.’ For the first time that she could remember there were two people – besides Megan – who were part of her life. Totally overcome, Grace lay down and closed her eyes.

  She heard someone else stirring and quickly pulled herself together.

  ‘Can I help you, Grace?’ It was Jane.

  Quickly, Grace rubbed her face with the sheet. ‘No, Jane, thanks. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. It’s … it’s just that I’ve found a picture of my mother; first time I’ve ever seen a likeness; it made me so happy. Tomorrow, I’ll show it to everyone.’

  Jane patted her shoulder and went back to her own bed but it was a long time before Grace fell asleep.

  Grace’s papers and photographs were of vital importance – to her. For Farmer Fleming nothing was more important than getting in the harvest while the good weather lasted. Night after night for weeks, the land girls at Newriggs Farm fell into exhausted sleep. Grace’s precious box remained unopened in the drawer, although, at times, she felt as if the box was calling her, teasing her with all the information about her family that
it contained, but she was too busy and much too tired. Occasionally, she tried, took the box out, found a letter and sat at the window to read it, if possible by natural light. She would begin but, before she had read a few lines, her head was nodding and the words were swimming around, unrecognised, on the page. Accepting defeat, she would slip off the window-seat and creep into her bed.

  For weeks, harvesting went on long into the night. ‘What did I tell you?’ laughed Sheila. ‘Government initiative: Plough by Night. Bet this is an official secret.’

  Although conscious of the possibility of an air raid, lamps were lit and hung in the hedges to guide the harvesters as they worked tirelessly. No time to look up at the beautiful moon to remember nights of wandering hand in hand with someone very special under just such a moon. After stumbling home over the stubble, the land girls – pleased as always that they had done it and would do it again tomorrow and the next day until the nation’s food bins were full – could barely find the strength to remove their clothes, struggle into nightwear and fall into bed. Many mornings found them fast asleep on top of the rough army-issue blankets. Even had she been awake enough to look at a letter, experience told Grace that she would make no sense of it. Her family would have to wait. She had her mother’s picture: for Grace, at that moment, it was enough.

  The poster announcing a dance in the village hall, price two shillings and sixpence to include live music, the ubiquitous stovies, and beer – heavily watered down and adulterated with potato instead of barley – was looked at once with longing and then ignored.

  ‘I think I have forget what man looks like,’ complained Katia. ‘And what is living music. This, Eva and I are not understanding.’

  ‘Just means there’ll be living musicians there, not records, and, oh, joy, just think, if they’ve got the band from the air base, they’ll all be men,’ said Fiona, adding meaningfully, ‘real ones,’ when Mr Fleming passed.