Fleur nodded. ‘I’m glad you know. It wasn’t my place to tell you but I hated having a secret from you. You do understand that, don’t you, Robbie?’
‘Of course.’ He ran his hand distractedly through his hair as if, at this precise moment, that was the least of his worries. ‘But ever since then, she’s just sat there. She’s not even been to bed for two nights. She’s not eating or even drinking. I’m at my wits’ end . . .’
‘Let me see her.’ Fleur pushed past him and almost ran through the front room and into the back part of the house.
Just as Robbie had said, Meg was sitting by the fire, her hands lying limply in her lap She was just staring into space, oblivious to everything around her. Across the hearth, the old man sat huddled in his chair, staring helplessly at his daughter. He didn’t speak, merely nodded at Fleur and then wiped away a tear running down his wrinkled cheek.
Fleur knelt in front of Meg and touched her hand. It felt cold, almost lifeless. ‘Mrs Rodwell,’ she began gently, ‘I’ve come to ask you a big favour.’
There was no response from the woman. She seemed unaware of Fleur’s presence.
‘See?’ Robbie said as he limped into the room. ‘I told you. I can’t get her to do anything. She won’t even speak to me. I can’t get through to her.’
Taking both Meg’s hands in hers, she said firmly, ‘Mrs Rodwell, listen to me. My dad needs you. Jake needs you.’
Meg blinked and seemed to be trying to focus her eyes on Fleur. It was the name ‘Jake’ that had prompted a tiny response. Fleur latched on to it. ‘Jake wants to see you. He’s asking for you. Please, will you come and see him? Come and see Jake.’
Meg’s lips moved stiffly and her voice was husky. ‘Jake?’
‘Yes – Jake. He’s in hospital. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness. I can’t reach him. I’ve tried. I’ve been there all morning and he won’t wake up. Not for me. And the only name the nurses have heard him say is “Meg”. Oh, please.’ She gripped the woman’s hand even tighter and her voice was full of tears. ‘Oh, please, say you’ll come.’
Meg stirred as if she was awaking from a trance. ‘Me? He . . . he’s asking for me?’
‘Yes.’
But Meg was shaking her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why ever not?’ Fleur cried passionately. ‘Don’t you want to help him? Surely – whatever happened in the past – you can put it aside to . . . to save his life, can’t you?’
‘You don’t understand. It’s not me who doesn’t want to see him . . .’ Her voice trailed away and tears trembled on her eyelashes.
‘But he’s asking for you.’
Meg shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He must be delirious. He – he won’t want to see me. Besides, it wouldn’t be right. With poor Betsy only just – only just . . .’
‘It can’t hurt my mother now,’ Fleur insisted. ‘She’s gone. If she was still alive, then I wouldn’t be asking you, but she isn’t. Dad is and he needs you.’
‘What will people say . . . ?’ Meg asked. ‘Folks have long memories.’
‘Look,’ Fleur cried passionately, ‘I don’t give a damn about what anyone might say. I don’t care about what happened years ago. I don’t even care that my mother hated the very sound of your name . . .’ She saw Meg flinch and was sorry she had been so blunt, but she pressed on now. ‘I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is my dad and trying to keep him alive. I – I can’t bear to lose him.’ The final words ended on a sob and she buried her face in Meg’s lap.
She felt the older woman’s gentle touch on her hair and heard her say, ‘Neither can I, Fleur. Oh, neither can I.’
The ward was quiet and peaceful in the middle of the afternoon. The morning flurry of doctors’ visits had passed and the daily routine of work finished.
‘It’s not really visiting time,’ the sister greeted them, ‘but you, I take it, are Meg?’
Meg, still looking anxious as if she didn’t feel she had the right to be there, nodded.
The sister turned to Fleur. ‘There’s no change, I’m afraid, since this morning. But maybe now . . .’ She did not finish her sentence, but glanced hopefully back at Meg. ‘Come this way.’
They followed the sister and, as she led them towards Jake’s bed, Fleur heard Meg pull in a sharp breath at the sight of him, but she controlled her feelings and sat down in the chair beside him.
His hands and arms were bandaged and most of his face was covered with dressings. There was nothing she could touch. She couldn’t hold his hand, couldn’t kiss his face. All she could do was say, ‘Jake, it’s me. It’s Meg. I’m here.’
Fleur and Robbie stood at the end of the bed, their arms around one another. They all saw Jake’s eyes flicker open and he tried to turn his head towards the sound of her voice. Meg stood up and leant over him.
His eyes focused slowly and he saw her face as he remembered her. Her red flying hair, her smooth skin, her smile. Oh, her smile! That heartbreaking smile of hers. To him she was still the young girl he had met all those years ago. The girl whose strong spirit had lifted him out of the workhouse. The girl he’d loved and lost and who, despite his contented life with Betsy and his children, he’d never been able to forget.
‘Meg, oh, Meggie. You came.’ The words were faint and slightly slurred but understandable.
At the end of the bed, Fleur buried her face into Robbie’s jacket and wept tears of thankfulness. He was going to be all right. Her dad was going to be all right.
‘Yes, Jake,’ Meg was saying simply. ‘I came. I’m here to stay and I shan’t leave you. Not unless you tell me to.’
He tried to lift his hand to touch her face, but winced with the pain. ‘I won’t do that, Meggie. Not ever.’
‘Then just rest, Jake, and get well. I’ll be right here. Always . . .’
If the past was not entirely forgotten, at least now it was all forgiven.
Wish Me Luck
Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.
Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy. Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands the stories included not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham. The Workhouse Museum at Southwell in Nottinghamshire inspired Without Sin, and the beautiful countryside of Derbyshire and the fascinating town of Macclesfield in Cheshire formed the backdrop for the story of Pauper’s Gold. For Wish Me Luck, Margaret returns once more to her native Lincolnshire – known in the Second World War as Bomber County.
www.margaret-dickinson.co.uk
ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
Plough the Furrow
Sow the Seed
Reap the Harvest
The Miller’s Daughter
Chaff upon the Wind
The Fisher Lass
The Tulip Girl
The River Folk
Tangled Threads
Twisted Strands
Red Sky in the Morning
Without Sin
Pauper’s Gold
This book is a work of fiction and is entirely a product of the author’s imagination. All the characters are fictitious and any similarity to real persons is purely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many people have helped me in my research for this novel. I am especially grateful to Mick Richardson for his generosity in lending me the private papers and flying log book of his father, Sergeant W. J. Proffitt, the wireless operator of a Lancaster bomber, who was killed whilst on a bombing mission in March 1944.
My thanks also for his help to my brother-in-law Peter Harrison, who flew thirty missions as a wireless operator dur
ing the Second World War; to Mrs Lillian Streets and Mrs Barbara Brooke-Taylor for sharing with me their memories of their time in the WAAF; to Mike Smith, Curator of the Newark Air Museum, for answering my questions; to Fred and Harold Panton at the Lincolnshire Aviation Heritage Centre at East Kirkby for all the marvellous displays and wealth of information that have helped me so much, and to Michael Simpson, head of exhibitions at the Imperial War Museum North, Trafford Park, Manchester, for his advice and help.
I have also consulted numerous books in the course of my research, but special mention should be made of A WAAF in Bomber Command by Pip Beck (Goodall, 1989) and Square-Bashing by the Sea (RAF Skegness, 1941–1944) by Jack Loveday (J. Loveday, 2003).
Very special thanks to the members of my family who read and commented on the script: Robena and Fred Hill, and David and Alan Dickinson. As always, my love and thanks to all my family and friends whose support and encouragement means more than I can say. And not forgetting Darley and his Angels at the Darley Anderson Literary Agency and Imogen Taylor, my editor at Macmillan. To all of you – you’re always there when I need you – thank you!
First published 2007 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2010 by Pan Books
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ISBN 978-0-330-52686-9 PDF
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Copyright © Margaret Dickinson 2007
The right of Margaret Dickinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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