Wave Me Goodbye

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Many peas and some sausages, but sausages, ham, is all from pig.’

  They laughed, drank the cocoa, washed up and crept upstairs to bed. In no time at all, they were both sound asleep.

  TWELVE

  Next day, Grace found herself assigned to very light work, weeding and watering the farm’s kitchen garden, and collecting various summer fruits.

  ‘We know all about the dreadful time you’ve gone through, Grace, and there’s been a report sent up to the local district nurse just so’s she’s aware of what happened. You know, my heart seems to stop beating every time I think of you on that train, so you’re not to strain yourself in any way and you’ll tell me if there’s anything, won’t you? You take things easy. Should be lovely picking raspberries and maybe I’ll show you how to make a gooseberry fool, if you find some nice ripe ones. They can be sour, can’t they?’

  Grace, who, as far as she could remember, had never eaten a gooseberry, agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs Fleming. It seemed the best thing to do.

  Onto her head she stuck the very floppy pre-war sunhat Mrs Fleming had unearthed and went out into the garden, followed by the farmer’s wife’s voice. ‘You be sure and keep that hat on, Grace. Doctor said as how you was concussed. Don’t like the sound of that word.’

  Me neither, thought Grace, but kept her opinions to herself. She decided to weed first as she felt that the taste of the picked fruits would be better if they stayed on their stalks as long as possible – but she did pop a raspberry or two into her mouth as she passed them. The flavour was incredible. How she pitied all the people in the world who had never eaten a raspberry straight off the bush.

  She forced herself to attend to the weeds. Standing was easier but, having decapitated two carrots, she decided to kneel down – less chance of damaging the plants.

  The sun rose higher in the sky as Grace worked on. At one point mid-morning, Mrs Fleming brought her out some tea.

  ‘Everything all right, Grace. You haven’t got a headache?’

  ‘No, Mrs Fleming; this is lovely tea.’

  ‘Others are all in the fields and have their sandwiches. I’ll give you a shout when Mr Fleming comes in for his dinner and you can eat with us.’

  ‘I’m all right out here.’

  ‘Not with a concussion.’

  That appeared to be the end of the argument and so Grace continued with the weeding. The postman cycled past, calling, ‘Given the boss the post. He’s in the old office.’

  The old office. Grace had never heard of a new office, let alone an old one but, after all, there were several buildings around the farm that seemed to have no use now. Possibly the great change that the demands the war was making on the running of this farm had made some buildings obsolete. Mrs Fleming had talked of converting one or two former barns into dormitories for city children to live in at harvest-time. Volunteering to spend a few weeks helping out on a farm during the summer holidays was a new government initiative.

  Jack and Sam insinuated themselves into Grace’s mind as she thought of the harvest. She had tried so hard to think of neither man. Jack had answered a few of her letters but there was no communication from Sam. She could see them now in her mind’s eye, tall blond Sam, even thinner now, for surely there would be little food in a prison camp, and the shorter, darker Jack, with his beautiful hands, hands that had made her sing. She shook her head and stamped her booted feet in the dusty soil to rid herself of the memory. Something caught in her throat and she felt tears stinging her eyes. Don’t remember. Don’t think.

  But the intense memory rose and she almost cried out. I am like Megan. I’ve been with Jack. No matter how hard she tried to push the thought away, it would not go. They call Megan a slut. Am I a slut? But it was different, wasn’t it? Jack was going off to war. I had to: it was the right thing to do.

  Standing there among the rows of raspberry bushes, she faced the truth. No, Grace, you wanted to.

  For some time, she picked furiously, filling basket after basket. At one point, Mrs Fleming stuck her head out of the open window of the scullery. ‘Slow down, Grace. You’ll overheat and you’re not taking enough care with them rasps.’

  ‘Sorry, lovely berries.’

  Harvest-time; such a beautiful time of the farming year. She found herself wondering if there were land girls and conscientious objectors helping farmers in the fields of France, or was fertile land now being destroyed by the pounding of bombs and the heavy boots of countless soldiers? Destroyed. The word hit an echo in her brain. Something she had heard a long time ago, at school. Sally … it was Sally in some play about wars and kings. Words came to her: ‘… fertile France … wasting ruin … ’ Try as she might, nothing else came. She would ask Sally sometime. Thinking of Sally reminded her of Sam. Did Sam know anything of farming? Did Jack? No, Jack would be driving his ambulance wherever it needed to be, for Jack had courage. Somehow she knew that he would not think twice about answering every plea for help. She was not used to praying but she heard a voice saying, ‘God keep them safe,’ and realised that the voice was hers.

  Another voice was calling. ‘Dinner’s on the table, Grace. Wash your hands and come now.’

  She hurried inside with her baskets, washed her hands in cold water in the scullery and then carried the baskets into the large kitchen. Mr Fleming was already seated and making inroads into a plate of food that seemed to be mainly mashed potatoes, peas and runner beans.

  Mrs Fleming saw her quick glance. ‘We’ll have some meat at tea-time when the others are back.’

  The farmer said nothing as he ate. He stood up when the plate was empty. ‘I’ve some work in the old office. I’ll be in for a cuppa about four.’ He took a handful of Grace’s raspberries, nodded and walked off.

  ‘Got a lot on his mind, not just the farm; they’re constantly bothering him, never-ending it is.’

  ‘Must be,’ said Grace, trying to sound sympathetic when she wanted to ask if there were any letters. Seeing none on the mantelpiece, she decided that if they had gone to the old office, they were still there.

  ‘Don’t work too long. Berries will keep another day and we want to make fools. These will do for dessert at tea-time, maybe some jam,’ Mrs Fleming added rather dubiously. ‘I think the stock of sugar I put in before the rationing is about gone, but maybe you could get one more basket. Raw rasps and straws don’t need sugar, do they?’

  ‘No,’ was the short answer as Grace went out.

  ‘And the gooseberries,’ Mrs Fleming called after her.

  With no one to talk to, Grace found her mind wandering as she picked. She thought of her aborted visit to the solicitor and wondered why she had not been told of the box when she had attended the funeral. She decided that it was unlikely that the shop had been searched and cleaned up for some weeks after the bombing. After all, the bodies had been found and removed and that was the important action. She decided to relax and wait.

  ‘Better not go down the High Street.’ Again she heard Mrs Brewer’s voice.

  Destruction. The shop had been destroyed, like the fields of France. Jack surely was in France. Where else were there battles? Was Sam a prisoner in France? If so, where might he be?

  Her mind roved as she strolled among the bushes. When Mrs Fleming called her in to help make a gooseberry fool and some raspberry jam, Grace was both hot and quite exhausted.

  ‘You’re no use to me at all, Grace. Away and lie down.’

  That evening, after they had eaten a delicious meal of mutton stew, followed by the refreshing gooseberry fool that Mrs Fleming had prepared – without Grace’s help – Grace asked if she could have a word with her.

  ‘Of course, Grace. I’ll help with any problem, if I can.’

  Grace looked at the round, work-marked face, at the smiling, although tired, eyes. Yes, she could trust Mrs Fleming. ‘It’s not exactly a problem. I wanted to ask if I could borrow an atlas.’ She did not expect the reaction she got to what she thought was a very simple question.
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  ‘An atlas?’ There was a complete change in the tone of voice. ‘What would a land girl on a farm in Scotland want with an atlas?’

  Grace found herself wishing that she had waited until she was able to cycle into the village to the small library, which would be certain to have at least one atlas. To refuse to answer would only lead to deeper suspicion. How quickly we have learned to distrust one another, thought Grace sadly. ‘To look at a map of Europe,’ she said in as normal a voice as possible.

  ‘Europe? Whatever for?’

  The question shot at her like a bullet from a gun. Grace was more than slightly surprised by the note of suspicion in her employer’s voice – and eyes. She tried to understand it in the light of the flood of warnings the Government was sending out these days. CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES appeared on many humorous posters.

  Propaganda posters sprang up like mushrooms. There was one with huge red letters: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON; and a serious of posters aimed specifically at women. JUST A GOOD AFTERNOON’S WORK posters wanted women up and down the land to know that even a few hours of war work each week would help to defeat the might of Germany.

  Now Grace stood in the comfortable farmhouse kitchen and answered truthfully: ‘When you very kindly arranged for me to attend my sister’s funeral, I learned that my friend Daisy’s brother, an army sergeant, is a prisoner of war. All they really know is that Sam’s somewhere in Europe, wherever the Germans have their camps. If they make prisoners work just like we do, I wondered what kind of countryside, crops and things he might see; just a sort of interest, Mrs Fleming. I haven’t looked at a map since I was about fourteen.’

  Mrs Fleming stood, her arms folded across her waist, just under her less-than-generous bosom. ‘I’ll need to ask Mr Fleming. There’s things we’re not encouraged to do; keeping in mind we have foreigners here. If he says it’s not a problem then I’ll look it out for you.’

  Grace thanked her and left, wondering why she had even bothered. Mrs Fleming obviously saw spies everywhere.

  ‘Stupid to share anything private,’ Grace muttered to herself. That was a lesson she had learned a long time ago. If no one knew your secrets then they were safe. On her next time off, she would cycle or walk into the village library.

  She climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the large attic that she shared with three others. Jenny and Fiona were writing letters and Sheila – judging by the lurid cover – was deep in a torrid tale of intrigue and romance. Grace went to the window, sat down in the comfortable elderly chair and looked out across the farm. A few years before, horses, cattle and sheep would have grazed there. Because of the desperate need for a commodity as basic as bread, wheat, oats and barley now waved in the light late summer breeze.

  Perhaps Sam was working on a French or German farm at this very moment, and, who knows, perhaps he was shooing inquisitive animals out of his way, or had large farm animals been slaughtered to save food? So much she did not know. When Sam came home and she talked to him … No, she would never talk to Sam again. She was grown up and did not need a champion. Besides, how could she speak to Sam after being so intimate with Jack? In all the months since, there had been only two letters from Jack and neither satisfactory. Even in those most wonderful moments in the car, he had never used the word ‘love’. Of course he’s bound to think me no better than Megan. Grace felt worse when the thought came to her that, no doubt, Sam would think the same.

  Still, she tried to remain positive and to repeat over and over that Europe was one large field of battle and letters were bound to get lost, but how tired she was. She leaned her feverish head against the glass. I am no better than Megan, no better.

  The other girls jumped from their beds as, without a sound, Grace slid down the window onto the floor.

  ‘They let her out of the hospital too early and we’ve had her working out in the hot sun and she’s not fit.’ Mrs Fleming, fetched by Sheila, was almost ringing her hands in desperation.

  ‘Let’s get her up and into her bed; it’s probably just shock from the bombing of her train, not to mention waking up to find a dead soldier bleeding all over her.’

  ‘That’s enough, Sheila. You’re no’ very sympathetic, are you?’

  ‘I’m realistic, Mrs Fleming, and I’ve read about shock coming even weeks after something nasty has happened.’

  Jane, who had heard the commotion and come to see if she could help, was more positive. As she bent down to help lift Grace, she saw the girl’s eyelashes fluttering. ‘There, see, she fainted, working in the hot sun all day.’

  ‘We have all worked in hot sun all day,’ Fiona pointed out.

  ‘But none of us survived being bombed by a German plane, kept in hospital overnight and then sent hundreds of miles squeezed into a military transport vehicle.’

  Sheila laughed. ‘Some girls have all the luck. Well, you are a sucker for punishment, Grace.’

  ‘You can’t send her home, Mrs Fleming: she’s another one who doesn’t have one,’ said Jane boldly. ‘We’ll take care of her, won’t we, girls?’

  ‘We will help, too, I and Eva,’ said Katia, who had also come in after hearing the raised voices.

  ‘I’ll have to talk to Lady Alice. I need to mention something else to her anyway. Katia, come downstairs and make Grace some tea. Put some honey in it.’ Mrs Fleming walked to the door and then turned and looked back at Grace’s slight figure on the bed. ‘You’re not in any pain, are you, Grace?’

  Grace tried to sit up but was pushed back by Jane and Katia. ‘I’m perfectly well, Mrs Fleming. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.’

  ‘Aye, well, we’ll see just how much of a nuisance you have been.’

  ‘What on earth did she mean by that?’ Sheila remained standing, looking questioningly at the door that had shut behind Mrs Fleming and Katia.

  ‘She thinks I’m a spy,’ said Grace, so softly that they had to bend down to hear.

  ‘Good Lord, why?’ The girls were now perched on the edge of Grace’s bed.

  ‘I asked her if I could see an atlas.’

  ‘And why would that make her think you were a spy?’

  ‘Because they look for spies everywhere,’ Sheila interjected. ‘Haven’t you noticed the times he disappears? “I’m away to my office.” There’s a radio in one of the unused sheds. I saw it when I was rat-catching and he was absolutely furious that I was in there.’

  ‘What is problem about radio? He like to listen when he works; this is not strange.’ Eva had joined them, having heard Mrs Fleming and Katia walking downstairs.

  ‘It’s not a wireless, Eva; it’s a radio for sending messages. Check if Mrs F is downstairs before I tell you.’

  Eva left the room, was gone for a few minutes and returned. ‘This is with excite. Tell.’

  ‘Believe it or not, there is a government organisation that’s a sort of civil defence. It’s called “Something” Observer Corps – possibly Royal, I can’t remember. The people as join have to sign, wait for it, the Official Secrets Act. They’re asked, “Can you kill a man in cold blood?”’

  ‘That’s dreadful. And you think the Flemings are in it?’

  ‘Absolutely. Once, when I was in the telephone room, I saw this little booklet, and it had a Special Duties Section about sabotaging and killing and stuff.’

  ‘Oh, Sheila, you’re exaggerating.’ Grace could not believe what she was hearing.

  ‘I haven’t seen the booklet since, so there. People as can’t join the services because of their work or even illness of some kinds, they join it to observe everything around them. Farmers are their favourites because they’re out in the country, and isn’t that where a plane might drop a spy? Farmers and fishermen, out and about, seeing everything that goes on, and usually covering miles every time they leave their own front door. They can see; they can hear. They watch for enemy planes; it’s actually quite hard because some of them are ancient and yet they stay out all night looking for planes or spies on boats. A woman at my last place s
aid someone even went out lighting fires as decoys. Not sure how that works but, seemingly, Jerry thinks he’s hitting something important and he’s wiped out a couple of old haystacks. These observers see something a little bit strange or someone says something in the pub and so they radio their …’ Sheila wasn’t quite sure who ‘they’ would radio.

  ‘Their supervisor,’ suggested Jane.

  ‘That’s a good enough title, but who would be the tiniest bit interested in Newriggs Farm?’

  ‘Hitler. And it’s not the farm, it’s all the miles of open country round it for hiding in. Think about it. The Scottish capital isn’t very far away and there’s docks there, and just over that hill –’ she pointed somewhat vaguely towards the window – ‘is RAF East Fortune. Katia says she’s heard from friends that there’s rumours about upcoming Polish manoeuvres down here. The Poles are wonderful; many qualified pilots who managed to escape from Poland are flying with our air force and they certainly want to have an army, or at least some Polish companies, to do their bit for Britain and for Poland, too. Lots of European men are here and wanting to help the war effort. Maybe they couldn’t get back home when war was declared – students at universities, for instance. This county is a perfect place for training. You could hide a tank in the gully near the orchard. Now, what if a German spy came in on a small boat, maybe a fishing boat, and he’s disguised as a fisherman but he pinches an old bike and cycles around here, or he gets dropped on the next raid over Edinburgh, sees some manoeuvres and radios his controller to send bombers? Terrible. But our defence is this network of supposedly simple folk who go about their business but see and hear everything.’

  ‘And Bob Fleming is one of them, the saviour of his nation?’

  ‘Why not? Mrs F, too. Grace asked for the atlas. That shrieks “spy”.’

  ‘Doesn’t shriek. It very quietly says, Grace P wants to look at a map of Europe. I should imagine Mr Hitler might be worried – but Mr Churchill? No. If she suddenly became interested in a map of England, its ports, railway lines, sea defences, et cetera, then someone might worry. Why do you want to see the map, by the way, Grace?’