Wave Me Goodbye

by Ruby Jackson

  At long last, the train hissed its way into a station; they were in London and, if her luck held, there would be a train to Dartford soon.

  Seventeen minutes, time to find a cup of tea at a canteen. Mrs Brewer would have a nice tea ready for her, she always did, but since Grace had had nothing since her bowl of porridge at seven that morning, she was both hungry and thirsty.

  The canteen was packed with tired travellers and a dense fog of cigarette smoke hung over everything. To someone who spent hours each day alone or with only one or two people, the noise of so many voices calling orders or greetings to friends was deafening. Grace struggled towards the counter, hearing different accents and even different languages before she was finally able to say, ‘A mug of tea, please, no sugar.’

  The tea was hot and strong – and sweet. Had the overburdened woman on the other side of the counter not heard, or did railway tea always come complete with sugar?

  No matter. Grace drank it and was revived. She looked at her watch. This time tomorrow, she would have seen Sam Petrie for the first time since before the war.

  She was thrilled, of course, and so grateful that Lady Alice had changed her mind. One day, she was furious because Grace had asked for leave and, the next, or so it seemed, she was saying that Grace must go and see her friend’s brother. Really, sometimes it was simply impossible to read Lady Alice. Give her credit, decided Grace, she is so good to Katia and Eva and she’s impressed by Eva’s voice. ‘Waste of talent,’ she had said when she heard Eva singing. She had obviously felt much the same about Jack.

  Grace had a small dream herself, where Eva was concerned. Somewhere, there was £500 growing every year. Grace had never dreamed of having so much money, but Eva … Could £500 be of use to her? When she was brave enough, Grace thought she could talk to Lady Alice and possibly even the rather frightening solicitor.

  But, thanks to her ladyship, Grace was now in Dartford and going to see Sam.

  He was sitting at the window, reading a newspaper but he stood up when his mother said, ‘Sam, love, look who’s here. It’s Grace. You remember Grace, Daisy’s best friend?’

  Grace, her stomach churning with barely suppressed excitement, walked into the comfortable front room, which had been used so rarely before the war: Christmas and New Year’s Day, birthdays and when the vicar visited. Now, it appeared to be where Sam spent most of his days, as he tried to adjust to being a free man or, being on leave, as he preferred to call it.

  Grace’s first thought was, how changed he was and, yet, how much the same. She had read stories in which the heroine’s tongue had stuck to her teeth or the roof of her mouth, and never actually believed that a tongue could behave like that – until now. Her mouth was as dry as the topsoil of a field as it waited for rain. Had she made some terrible mistake by coming? Was Lady Alice correct in saying that the returned prisoner of war would want only his close family around him, and certainly not some old friend of his sisters?

  ‘Welcome home, Sam,’ she said. ‘It’s great to see you.’ She hoped that he could not see how her hands trembled, or sense her astonishment at the waves of emotion coursing through her veins.

  ‘You, an’ all,’ he answered, easily enough. ‘You’ve grown up. In the Land Army, they tell me. That must be hard work.’

  ‘That must be hard work?’ Did that remark sound like the old Sam? But he was not the old Sam. He was a war veteran who had fought in one of the bloodiest battles of this beastly war, who had been injured, captured and imprisoned. He had escaped; and would they ever know the whole story of how that was done? Somehow, he had made his way across Europe and found sanctuary in Italy, working with the partisans. She could not begin to think of how he had found his way back to England. She realised, of course, that he could not have returned to his family without a great deal of help.

  Grace believed that in that moment she felt her heart swell with pride and, yes, love. She refused to think about that love for, if she did, she would certainly weep, and no returning hero deserved to have to deal with that.

  Mrs Petrie, without realising it, helped Grace through the next few minutes. ‘Why don’t you two sit down in here and be comfy, while I fetch some tea?’

  ‘No, Mum, we can have it in the kitchen like we always do.’

  ‘Grace has come a long way, special to see you, Sam Petrie. The least we can do—’

  Grace interrupted, ‘I’m happy in the kitchen, Mrs Petrie, just like old times, old friends together.’ The last three words almost stuck in her throat.

  Flora looked at the young people and gave in. ‘Sit in here then, while I take a cup down to your dad. Tell Grace about your walk across Europe, Sam. The things he’s seen, Grace. You wouldn’t believe it. Grapes growing in fields, would you believe? Mountains covered in snow all year round. Tell Grace about the Alps, Sam.’

  Flora disappeared through the kitchen door and Grace and Sam were left looking at each other. Both were embarrassed. Sam spoke first.

  ‘Sorry, Grace, I didn’t mean … what I mean is … Grapes and Alps, poor Mum.’

  He stopped and the thoroughly nervous Grace took charge. This was Sam. Sam, her flesh-and-blood hero, who had protected her from bullies, made sure she had a turn at playing the cowboy in the white hat, instead of always being the bad guy in the black hat who invariably came to a bad end. She felt sick as she remembered that she had come to a bad end. She felt hysteria rising. He had not been there to save her and so she did, after all, deserve the black hat.

  She looked at him, really seeing him this time. He was bronzed by sun and wind, thinner perhaps, for the skin seemed stretched tightly across his nose and cheekbones, but harder and stronger. His blond Petrie hair was bleached almost white.

  ‘Does the sun always shine where you were, Sam?’

  He laughed naturally and she liked the sound; how long since she had heard it?

  ‘No, the summers were hot, hotter than anything I can remember here, but the winters? Seems like it was either snowing or raining; never seen such snow, and, yes, the sun sometimes was shining in the winter. Sunshine on snow, Grace: it’s like the earth is covered in millions of tiny sparkling stones, diamonds maybe. But tell me about you. Mum told me about your sister. I’m right sorry.’ The words were light but his tone was not. It was as if each word struggled to form itself.

  How she wished that she had arranged to stay with the Brewers. Sally’s mother would certainly take her in for the night and she could return to Whitefields immediately in the morning. What would Sam think of her if she were to say, ‘I feel very little difference, and certainly I am not unhappy or very sad,’ which was true but might sound unfeeling? She regretted the manner of Megan’s death but it was not as if she and Megan had ever loved or even really known each other.

  To her surprise, Sam sniffed, like a dog scenting the air. When they were children, he had made them all laugh by doing that.

  He smiled at her, as if he sensed her discomfort, and it was the old Sam again. ‘Smell them scones, Grace. Come and help me eat them; big as I am, I can’t keep up with Mum’s baking.’

  ‘She wants to make up for lost time, to cook you all the things you have missed.’

  Once again, he managed to smile at her, the way the before-the-war Sam – the Sam who was the eldest brother and who felt it was his responsibility to look after the others – used to smile. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but does it have to all be on the same day and on the same plate?’

  In the kitchen, Flora had finished piling hot buttered scones onto a large plate. Three cups and saucers – showing Grace that she had now become a guest rather than an old friend – were lined up on the floral waxed cloth. Or, lovely thought, perhaps the cups had been taken out to show Sam how special he was, how absolutely delighted his family was to have him home safe? In the middle of the table near the scones sat a round ceramic jar.

  Flora pointed at it with pride. ‘Saved for a special occasion. Guess what’s in there at two shillings and sixpence
the pound,’ she finished, awe in her voice at the enormity of the cost. Grace had been on farms in different parts of the country, from the south of England to the south of Scotland, and so had a fairly good idea of the nature of the treat, but she said, ‘Good heavens, don’t tell me you’ve gone and bought something at Fortnum’s, in London,’ simply to please Flora.

  ‘Fortnum and Mason? Not likely, although I do believe the teas we buy and sell are every bit as good as theirs.’

  ‘Course they are, Mum. Now tell us what you’ve got hidden in your jar.’ Sam pretended to think for a moment. ‘It’s never blackcurrant jam.’

  Flora, delighted with the reaction, shook her head. ‘Well, it’s not jam since you can’t see through. Right? And it’s never honey for the same reason. Isn’t that right, Grace?’ To Grace, it was obvious that Mrs Petrie was enjoying teasing her son. ‘Honey comes in clear jars, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely correct, Mrs Petrie, although one of the girls I work with told me she bought a tin of honey for her grandmother last Christmas in Fortnum and Mason’s – lovely shop, she said. I believe the honey came all the way from Canada.’

  ‘A tin? Imagine. But it can’t be as good as ours, Grace, not coming all the way from Canada and in a tin. Has to be in a jar, honey does.’

  Sam looked over at Grace, with the look that said ‘we’re conspirators’ warming her. ‘Come on, Mum, we can’t stand the suspense. If that’s English honey you’re hiding in that jar I, for one, would like to taste it. Just to compare it, mind, with the honey we had in Tuscany; honey from flower-filled meadows that stretch for miles.’

  ‘Miles of flowers, our Sam? You’re joking.’

  ‘Miles, Mum, and every colour under the sun.’

  Sam had been to Tuscany. Grace tried hard to remember if she had ever heard of the place. The girls had told her that he’d been in Italy and so this Tuscany with all the flowers must be there. How much there was to learn about his experiences. Grace tried not to feel frustrated. He had had experiences that were bound to have changed him. Or had they? She remembered Jack’s last letter with something approaching horror. He too had seen things and experienced things that had changed him. And so Sam, this tall, strong man, could not possibly be the same Sam who had marched so boldly away. I’m not the same as I was when Sam and I last met, and he has suffered as I have not.

  ‘Sam, were you frightened?’ Where had those words come from? ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, what a stupid thing to say, to ask. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m so sorry, Sam.’

  Sam rose to his feet. ‘Grace, don’t worry. Of course I was frightened; we all were. It’s the noise really. I can’t think when there’s noise.’

  But Flora too had jumped to her feet, her face suffused with anger. For a fraction of a second, Grace thought Sam’s mother might hit her, but she did not. She turned away from her towards her son. ‘Sam Petrie, you’ve never been afraid of anything in your life. What were you thinking of to ask a question like that, Grace?’

  Grace was angry with herself, and embarrassed. She had spoiled the treat that Sam’s mother had prepared for him and, by doing so, had hurt Mrs Petrie. Mrs Petrie, who, with five children of her own, had always opened her door to a neglected child from who knows where, had knitted cardigans for her, fed her when Megan had left nothing for her to eat, always made sure that there was a birthday present and a Christmas present. Oh, how could she have been so crass? She swallowed the tears that threatened – and Sam was there as he had been so often in her childhood.

  ‘Poor little girl.’ He smiled. ‘Think that’s what I said to you all those years ago at school. It’s all right, Grace, don’t upset yourself. Haven’t there been enough tears in this family already?’

  She was in his arms, held against his chest; she could feel his heart beating. ‘I feel stupid,’ she said, pulling herself away.

  ‘Nothing to feel stupid about; old friends like you and me. Now, are you going to show us what’s in that fancy jar, Mum, before your lovely scones get too cold.’

  Mrs Petrie stood back, frozen, her feelings and instincts warring with one another, and then she, too, put her arms around Grace. ‘Sorry, Grace. You’ll have to forgive me for snapping. I’m that relieved to have him back in one piece, I can’t think straight – even when there’s no noise; so there, our Sam. Now, I’ll just put these scones in a tin and fetch warm ones from the oven.’

  Sam waited till his mother had turned her back on them and then he winked at Grace, showing her that they were united in appreciating his mother’s loving nature. ‘Didn’t I tell you she’s baking for Montgomery’s army?’

  Somehow, Flora managed to laugh. ‘I’m baking for my family, Sam, never mind General Montgomery; although I dare say the poor man would like my scones. Come on, Grace, dear – aren’t you one of this family?–you can open the jar.’

  They were too good. Grace could not understand why they cared for her the way they did. Her sister had not cared. As far as Grace was aware, Megan had never questioned Grace’s sudden disappearance, never worried, never felt the slightest guilt. She had kept the box and the connections to Grace’s history that lay inside. What had she hoped to gain? If Megan had cared anything at all for her, Grace would have given her the beautiful gold watch, the money, anything. She looked now at the Petries. ‘You’re the loveliest people in the whole world,’ she said and, feeling herself forgiven for any error, picked up the ceramic jar and tried to open it. The top defeated her and Sam took it from her and opened it easily. Inside, the summer’s honey gleamed like liquid gold.

  ‘You first, Grace, love. Ladies before gentlemen in this house. Right, Sam?’

  ‘You’re right, Mum. It looks great. I suppose it’s from the Humbles up at the farm.’

  Flora unwound her floral wraparound apron, folded it and hung it over her chair before sitting down with them. ‘The Humbles’ honey is lovely but it’s not theirs. I’ll save them some. What do you think, Grace?’

  ‘It’s the cost, Mrs Petrie. I never saw honey as cost two bob plus sixpence for one pound and that jar’s bigger than a pound.’

  Flora was beginning to enjoy herself and to relax. ‘So?’

  ‘I was wrong. I think you’re having us on and this honey has to be Fortnum’s, definitely. I never saw anything from Fortnum’s before, but they do say as everything is packaged lovely and that jar is beautiful. Am I right?’

  Flora was almost dancing. ‘You’re right, Grace. When it’s empty, I’ll put roses in it – if we ever get roses again. Don’t you think it’ll look ever so lovely on the shop counter, cheer customers up on a rainy day?’

  ‘It’ll take more than that to cheer me up if I don’t get to taste it,’ teased Sam, and the difficult moments were over as each took some of the honey on a teaspoon, tasted it, and swore that they would never again accept honey – home – produced or Canadian – from any other outlet.

  Grace slept that first night in the room that the Petrie twins had shared until Daisy had joined the WAAF. The evening meal had waited until daughter Rose, who worked in the local Vickers munitions factory, arrived home. The family never knew when to expect her as all munitions factories worked extra hours and even weekends. Rose was exhausted, and felt and looked dirty from all the dust that flew around her during her working hours.

  She had been thrilled to see Grace again so soon after the last visit. ‘I won’t hug you, Grace, for then there’d be two of us dirty. Give me fifteen minutes to let the dirt soak off and I’ll be back. Good day, Sam?’

  ‘Great,’ he answered. ‘First there’s the return of Grace Paterson, and, after that, scones with honey from a posh ceramic jar. We know how to live in Dartford.’

  The bath revived Rose long enough for her to pick at the meal over which her mother had taken so much trouble. Mr Petrie, with George in tow, came up from the shop long enough to welcome Grace with a big hug, change into his uniform, and pick up the packed supper Flora had prepared for him.

  ‘Dad’s
on fire watch tonight, Grace: Jerry’s up to his old tricks again.’

  ‘Air raids? I don’t think I could handle any more air raids.’

  ‘Don’t fret, pet,’ said Mr Petrie. ‘Everything will be all right. I’m afraid I’ll have to off and leave you; duty before pleasure. I’m glad you’re here and I’ll have time to catch up tomorrow. What do you think of our George? Grown a foot since Christmas, he has. Haven’t you, you rascal?’ After ruffling George’s hair affectionately, Fred went off to his fire-watching duties.

  Grace had met young George Preston at Christmas, when he had moved between the Petries and Miss Partridge. Now, besides working for the Petries, on Sundays, George was working at Manor Farm for Alf Humble.

  ‘Mum’s sure she’ll lose George one of these days,’ Rose said. ‘Oh, he’ll come home often to see us and Miss Partridge, of course – he’s right fond of her – but he does love farm life. You two should have a lot in common. Just tell him all about something fun like rat-catching. Seriously, though, I pray this war’s over afore he’s old enough to go but, if not, happens farming is a reserved occupation and he’ll stay here safe.’

  Grace looked at the boy, whom the Petries wanted to keep safe, and saw the way he looked at Sam. The boy was obviously developing hero worship for the returned soldier.

  Doubt entered Grace’s mind again. Am I like George? she wondered. Did I follow Sam’s every movement, think everything he said or did absolutely wonderful? Is that all this is, hero worship?

  ‘At least our George doesn’t disappear and get up to mischief these days. Do you, George, love? A reformed character, Grace, and we really don’t know what we’d have done without him this past year,’ said Mrs Petrie, smiling lovingly as George’s face turned fiery red at the praise. ‘Our Sam’s going to teach him to drive soon as he feels like going out. Aren’t you, Sam?’

  ‘Right now, I’m going to clobber him at snakes and ladders. You lot are welcome to join us.’