Time to Say Goodbye Read Free

hadn’t she kept in touch? She had done so at first, and Auntie had always replied, and though her letters had been brief at least it meant she knew what was going on. Then life had caught her by the throat: a proposal of marriage, a home to run, a job in a big city, responsibilities; a new life, in fact. She remembered with shame that she had not even invited Auntie to her wedding, telling herself that it could have been seen as asking for a present, but she knew that she had been attempting to draw a line beneath the old life and begin the new with a clean sheet. Nevertheless, she had always sent a Christmas card to the Canary and Linnet and got one in return, until Auntie wrote to say that she was selling the pub and moving to a cottage in the next village. It was only this year, when deciding to organise a reunion, that she had wondered, apprehensively, how the two women were. Auntie must be very old, but she was tough; Jill was only a few years older than she herself. She would send a letter, beg to be forgiven for her neglect . . .
    Then she had written to the other evacuees, only a few words, explaining how she longed to see them all again, naming this very date and saying she was trying to arrange some sort of reunion. The replies had been brief, but of course she understood: she had moved on, and so had Auntie and Jill and everyone else, presumably. But they had responded, which was a start.
    By the back door of the pub stood an ancient wooden bench, green with age. She sat down and leaned back, heedless of the rain on her face, and, closing her eyes, willed herself back to that golden October afternoon when the three little girls had first come to the Canary and Linnet.
    1939
    When the car driven by the local billeting officer stopped outside the village post office, the three small passengers in the back seat erupted from the vehicle and glared at the fat and motherly woman who had met them at the last station and brought them on what, she had assured them, was to be the final leg of their journey. But that had been almost two hours ago and she had still not found anyone to take them in, and now rebellion was like a pot coming to the boil. When Mrs Hainstock tried to order them back into the car, three heads were firmly shaken. Imogen’s shiny Dutch bob, Rita’s long fair plait and Debby’s untidy mop of dark brown curls were all shaken decidedly. ‘You promised,’ Imogen said reproachfully. ‘You said it wasn’t our fault that we missed the first evacuation, and you would do your best to find someone who could take all three of us . . .’
    ‘But that was hours ago,’ Debby said. ‘We got to the station at eight o’clock this morning and we’ve been travelling ever since.’ She cast a reproachful look at the billeting officer. ‘We’ve had nothing to eat and only water to drink, and I want to be excused.’
    There were murmurs of assent from Imogen and Rita, Rita adding, in an injured tone: ‘And if you don’t let us go to the toilet we’ll just die.’
    This was Mrs Hainstock’s third stop since picking up the girls; the first two villages she had visited were already as full of evacuees as they could hold. She had offered to split the children up but even so no one wanted them; they simply didn’t have room. But she did understand the girls’ present predicament and looked hopefully towards the post office. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Bailey if you can use her facilities,’ she began, but got no further. The girls were rushing towards the shop and she followed hastily, suspecting that the request for the use of the lavatory might be couched in less than polite terms, for desperate need pays little attention to the words it uses.
    ‘Right,’ she called after the three youngsters, ‘and whilst you’re in there I’ll see whether there’s any chance . . .’
    But they had gone; were gone so long that Mrs Hainstock had visited all the possible foster homes and not found one willing to take them in