Wave Me Goodbye

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Nice girl, Sally.’ He still had hold of her hand, as if it was natural for them to walk like this, hand in hand.

  She looked up at him, looking into the eyes that she remembered as always smiling with kindness and sheer love of humanity. ‘Nice, Sam, is that all? I always thought you were in love with her; we all did. You even wrote a special message for her when we had the party. Surely you love her, you’ve always loved … ’

  He put his hands on her shoulders, as if to hold her down. ‘Love, Sally? I like her; she is my sisters’ friend, loads of talent and lots of fun. But love her? Don’t ever tell her, Grace, but wee Sally and her constant posing bored me witless. She was forever trying to impress and, sorry, but it had the opposite effect.’

  Grace closed her eyes and thought for a moment. Sally had bored Sam Petrie and yet she had been convinced that he loved her. Why? How foolish to realise that it was only because Sam had sent Sally good wishes because she got a place at the drama school, the first person any of them had ever known who was capable of going on to further education. Will I ever learn how to read people? she asked herself.

  She opened her eyes and smiled, totally unaware of how enticing was that look. ‘Bored? How could you? Sally’s going to be famous.’

  He laughed and what a happy sound that was. ‘If there was snow on the ground, I’d rub your cheeky face in it, Grace Paterson. I meant she bored me when I was about sixteen, all that prancing around being this actress or that actress. You girls have no idea the consternation you cause. Now, forget Sally and think about a birthday party.’ He bent down and kissed her again. ‘Sweetheart, I can’t face a big party, even for you. One day, the biggest party ever, but today, just you and the family, maybe Miss Partridge.’

  ‘Sweetheart.’ Was that the loveliest word in the English language?

  ‘A pot of tea and some of your mum’s scones will be more than enough, Sam.’

  Feeling contentment such as she had never known, Grace walked with him, and he shortened his stride so that she did not have to struggle to keep pace. They chattered on. Weren’t perceptions funny things? Wasn’t the seemingly prim and proper Miss Partridge the funniest, kindest and cleverest woman in Dartford? And who would ever have thought that the old German refugee they now knew as Dr Fischer was a very famous scientist, with a long line of letters after his name?

  ‘Courteous, Grace, that’s what he was. I think we learned a lot about dealing with other people by just being around him.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever spoke to him, Sam.’

  ‘Daisy says as he’ll come back to us when the war is over. You’ll like him; he’s a gentle man.’

  Long before she had boarded the train to London, the first stage of her journey back to Whitefields, Grace admitted to herself, though not to Sam, that she loved him. Surely she had never stopped loving him. Yet she had been with Jack, whom she did not love, and what would Sam say if or when she told him? Doubts assailed her, spoiling her bubbling happiness. What, after all, did she know of love? In her mind’s eye, she had always been able to see the tall, slim Sam Petrie dusting her down that first ghastly day at her new school. Had she fallen in love then? If so, it was the love of a child for an older boy. Had it grown into the love of a woman for a man? Did she want to experience with Sam what she had experienced with Jack? Yes, very much.

  And then, just a few hours later, she had seen Jack Williams waiting for the train that would take him, once again, out of her life, and her heart had seemed to turn over in her chest.

  What a quivering jelly I am, she decided. She had loved him, of course she had, dreaming of a very different life when this war was over, because, although taken by surprise, she had welcomed his loving and she could not have done so had she not loved him.

  And he would not even wave goodbye.

  Is it possible to love two men at the same time? If I’d had a mother, would I know the answer?

  Grace could have succumbed into pitying herself in her misery but, instead, she fought to pull herself together. I am in the Women’s Land Army. I will not sit and cry because I think I may have made a complete mess of my life. I need to think of Jack, too. Perhaps he didn’t see me. So much is going on in his mind and I must not rush to judge.

  Sam had taken her to the station to wait for the train. ‘I started a letter to you, Grace, and it’s not finished, but I’ll give it to you if you promise to read it when you get back to this grand place you’re living in and not before.’

  Of course she had promised and had kept the promise. Was she not good at avoiding reading letters?

  Once back in the large room at Whitefields, listening to the soft sounds made by her friends – yes, how lovely, by her friends – as they slept, she read the unfinished letter.

  Dear Grace,

  Seems a bit daft writing to you after all the years you spent running in and out of our place. It was grand seeing you, made life a bit normal because you were just you and let me be just me, not some freak. Wee Grace Paterson, sitting there like she used to when she were a little lass.

  Can’t get my head around losing our Ron. Did you know Mum is making over his clothes for George? Dad is well pleased; she’s stopped sleeping on Ron’s bed at last. Mothers of the world has a harsh deal, Grace.

  Anyway, it were grand to see you and I were delighted to hear all the good news about family and all.

  Grace, I hope as there’s a future for us but I have to tell you I want, I need, to return to my regiment. My wounds is long healed, thanks to French nuns and Italian farmers. Those poor sods is on the wrong side now, Grace, but I owe them, decent folk.

  The letter finished there but Grace held the words ‘a future for us’ in her heart.

  A few weeks after her short visit to Dartford, Grace and Eva were walking back to Whitefields Court, enjoying the pleasant air, when they heard an aircraft approaching from the south. This was not a common event in the area but, as Grace and Eva listened, they assured each other that it was a friendly plane. Grace was determined to be certain that the sound they heard was that made by a Merlin engine and therefore they were in no danger.

  ‘I’m quite sure it’s a Spitfire, Eva, and therefore British. I grew up in Dartford and, believe you me, everyone soon learned the different sounds the various engines make.’

  This was not exactly true, as Grace had joined the Women’s Land Army early in 1940 and had, in fact, never been in her home town during one of its many major air raids. She wanted, however, to reassure her Polish friend, who had already experienced more than her fair share of warfare.

  ‘Look,’ she yelled in excitement, ‘it’s a Spitfire, trust me.’

  Happy now and excited, both girls waved enthusiastically as the low-flying plane seemed to hover like a hawk in the sky directly above them. Later, they were unable to remember if they had heard anything. If they had heard a noise, the memory did not register, for the plane simply disappeared. One moment it had been there and the next the blue sky was filled with black debris that drifted down, spiralling, floating, like a nightmare of autumn leaves.

  Eva had begun to shake. She looked at Grace for help. ‘What is happen?’

  ‘I don’t know, Eva,’ Grace began, but then she started shouting. ‘See, Eva, look, a parachute, the pilot has escaped.’

  The two land girls stood transfixed by the sight of a parachute drifting down slowly, pieces of what they thought had to be the Spitfire plunging earthwards in the air around him. Soon he was gone, carried by air currents or the spring breeze, across the fields and over a small rise in the seemingly endless flat land of this area of England.

  Grace thought quickly. ‘Eva, run to the house for help. Tell anyone you see and bring them: Hazel, Walter, the other men, Lady Alice. He’s probably hurt. I’ll run …’

  Grace had no idea how she could help. She had a vague and not particularly happy memory of attending one or two first-aid classes with her friend Daisy Petrie at the beginning of the war. Had she learned anything
? I have no idea, she thought, but I can run to him and I can shout.

  She stopped and watched Eva, who had obviously understood, racing back towards the house. Perhaps Eva would find several of the farm workers. Grace hoped so, and, as she ran in the opposite direction, she could not help but remember that scarcely a year before, Jack, who could certainly have been of help to the downed man, would have been there.

  There was a stitch in her side – she had never been much of an athlete – but she kept going, worrying in case the falling pilot would land with a horrid thump, perhaps causing further injury or even becoming tangled in the branches of one of the trees. It depended on the wind. She thought she could hear voices in the distance but could not be sure. Please, please, let there be other people in the fields who can help him.

  The pain in her side was excruciating and, for a moment, she stopped, bent over in an attempt to ease it. She started off again immediately, happier that as she had stood easing her breathing she had distinctly heard shouting. Rescue was at hand.

  Ahead was a steepish incline. Grace persevered and climbed to the top. Shouts and yells were coming from below. She could see dark smoke and flames shooting into the air from various patches of the field spread out before her. But it was, however, the sounds of the shouts that frightened her, for the voices were not filled with concern but with angry venom.

  For a moment, the smoke cleared and she saw the dazed pilot standing, burning wreckage spread around him and littered in all directions as far as the eye could see. The Spitfire must have disintegrated. But men were racing towards him and Grace screamed in horror as the man who was wielding a hoe brought it down heavily on the head of the already stunned survivor, who crumpled in a heap on top of pieces of his wrecked plane.

  ‘Stop,’ she yelled as loudly as the men below and, propelled both by anger and gravity, she sped down the incline, praying that she would retain a foothold, until she reached the bottom, where she almost fell into one of the smoking piles of debris. She became aware of strong, acrid, even pungent smells of leaked fuel, of smoke, of scorched metal, which made her eyes sting.

  She had landed right beside the pilot and was astonished to see him struggling to his feet and holding out his hand to help her up while, at the same time, with his other hand, which appeared to be bloodied, he seemed to be desperately trying to open his flying suit and to get out of his harness.

  ‘Jestem Polskim pilotem R A F,’ he said several times.

  ‘He’s a bloody German,’ shouted one of the young men. ‘Can’t even talk proper, doesn’t understand a bloody word we say. We’ve had too many bloody Jerries dropping their bloody bombs on us – we’re going to lynch him, aren’t we lads?’

  ‘Shut up,’ yelled Grace. ‘Do you understand a word he says?’ She held the downed airman’s arm tightly. ‘Polskim?’ she attempted to copy his words. ‘Polish?’

  He nodded his head but he was swaying as he still fought with the fastenings of his suit.

  ‘Someone give me a hand,’ said Grace, as she tried to encourage the injured man to sit down before he fell down. ‘I think his arm is broken and he needs to get rid of this harness. Lean on me,’ she said hoping that he understood her meaning if not the actual words. ‘Sit down and I’ll help.’ Why had she not learned some Polish from Eva and Katia? She pointed to herself and again said, ‘I’ll help.’

  He understood the tone and, with Grace’s help, sank slowly back down onto the ground, wincing with pain as he did so. She pulled out her handkerchief, glad that it was reasonably clean, and began, as gently as possible, to wipe the blood and accumulated dirt from his face. She was sure that the blood was from the blow rather than from the accident as there were signs of dried blood in his hair. ‘I intend to tell everyone exactly what happened to this man.’

  ‘Shove her out of the way, lads: it’s that no-good slut as was with the bloody conchie; I’ll get her too this time.’

  Grace felt sick as she recognised the voice; it was the farm worker who had injured Harry. Here he was, out of gaol and preparing to hurt another man and threatening her. Without thinking, she slapped him as hard as she could. ‘Stop it, all of you,’ she said, thankful that it was already obvious that the others wanted nothing to do with their friend or his plan. ‘I’ve sent for Lady Alice and Mr Hazel –,’ again she stretched the truth a little – ‘and no one is lynching anyone while I’m here.’

  Another of the local farm workers approached her and was obviously both embarrassed and ashamed. ‘I’ll help.’ He faced the pilot, an open knife now in his hand. For a second, wariness looked out of the airman’s eyes and then he relaxed. ‘I’ll have to cut you out of this,’ the farm worker continued. ‘Quite a weight to drag behind you.’

  Again, the pilot winced with pain as he was finally freed from both the harness and the flying suit. He spoke again. ‘Mam na imie, Mateusz Jackowski. Jestem Polskim pilotem.’

  Grace had listened to Eva and Katia chattering often enough to know that, even without his saying so, the language was not German.

  ‘Bloody foreigner.’ The belligerent farm worker was determined to cause trouble.

  ‘He’s Polish, you fool,’ said Grace.

  ‘For the love of God, shut up, Arnold. You’re making a damned fool of yourself. Look at him. He’s on our side.’ The other workers were now both annoyed and embarrassed by their colleague, especially since it was now quite obvious that the downed and injured pilot was wearing an RAF uniform with Polish insignia on the shoulder.

  Luckily, it was his left arm that was injured, as each of the other farm workers shook hands vigorously with the rescued pilot and, speaking very slowly, loudly and distinctly, tried to tell him how sorry they were and how delightful it was to welcome a brave ally.

  At that very moment, a rather battered car, driven by Lady Alice, hiccuped to a halt beside them. Out spilled Hazel, Esau, Walter and Eva. They were closely followed by Lady Alice, who took charge immediately. Under her direction, and with a great deal of help from a truly excited Eva, the Whitefields men tried to assess the rescued pilot’s condition.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Eva, haven’t you learned any English at all?’ an exasperated Lady Alice asked as Eva chattered on.

  ‘He speaks no English, Lady Alice, but he does look happier talking to Eva.’ Grace hoped she was right to intervene.

  Lady Alice grabbed Eva’s arm in order to get her attention. ‘Listen, Eva, we do not have time to find Katia and so you will have to come with us – God help us all – to translate. Do you understand?’

  Eva replied in fluent Polish.

  ‘Try to calm her down, Grace.’

  Grace stared fixedly at Eva. ‘Please stop talking.’ To everyone’s surprise, both Eva and her compatriot stopped talking immediately.

  Eva remained silent while Hazel and Walter manoeuvred the injured man, as gently as they could, into the back seat of the old car.

  ‘Pilot is from Poland, very fine, very brave,’ she informed them when he was successfully seated. ‘He is having hurt in arm and hurt in ears.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ muttered Lady Alice.

  Eva managed, ‘He is think from much noise.’

  Lady Alice started the engine and called to Eva to get in beside her. She started to drive off and then rolled down the window. ‘Hazel, I see an old friend is with us.’ Her tone was full of sarcasm. ‘Please talk to all the men from the village and get their stories. Grace, I’ll hope to talk to you this evening, but did you see the crash?’

  ‘No, but I think the plane exploded in the air.’

  ‘Thanks. Much noise,’ said Lady Alice, and drove off.

  Back at the farmhouse there was a great deal of excitement. Some of the workers had seen both the plane and the parachuting pilot, others one or the other. Those who had seen nothing at all wanted to hear every detail.

  ‘You can’t mean it, Grace. Our Eva is translating for her ladyship, the doctors and the pilot?’ said Connie, who, thankfully, was losing
some of her aggression and being much friendlier with the other girls.

  Even Katia smiled at the thought. ‘This is large hospital, yes? There will be, maybe, a Polish person, a doctor even, but Eva will be good; she will work hard to make easy for them.’

  ‘Should you not cycle down there, Katia?’ Mrs Love had finished peeling a pile of the estate’s own potatoes and had joined the group.

  ‘No, I am not think so. This is good for Eva and language is not necessary for doctors. They look at injured pilot and say he has broken head. Is very simple, yes?’

  ‘I hope he hasn’t. Got a broken head, I mean,’ said Grace. ‘He was hit hard on the head by one of the men, though, and possibly he was injured as he fell out or whatever it is they do.’

  There was a stunned silence. Then the girls began to talk at once.

  Mrs Love got their undivided attention by banging two heavy iron pots together. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’

  ‘None of us can hear anything, Mrs Love, after that clang. My poor ear drums.’ Liz held her head between her hands and rocked her head up and down. ‘The pilot tries to fall or jump out, Grace, but, for goodness’ sake, don’t ask me how. Someone told me once that they try to turn the plane over, release their harnesses and fall out, but if his plane exploded, possibly he was thrown out. Seems an absolute miracle.’

  Again, Mrs Love took over. ‘Grace was there and can tell us the whole story. First one to interrupt can do without pudding tonight.’

  Connie raised her hand but said nothing.

  ‘No questions, Connie, and you’ve interrupted.’

  ‘Then I’ll ask my question. Was he gorgeous, Grace?’

  Everyone, including Grace, laughed. ‘I don’t know; poor chap was covered in dirt and mostly dried blood. Nicely tall, a real gentleman, quite slender. Apart from the knock on the head, I think one arm is broken because he had the dickens of a job pulling off his flying suit.’