Wave Me Goodbye

by Ruby Jackson

  Grace was, once again, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the kindnesses she was receiving. She thanked them but reminded her friends that she had a perfectly respectable dark green skirt to wear with the cardigan, and no more was said on the subject.

  In the evening, almost like old times, Grace, Sally and Rose went to the cinema. When the film – 49th Parallel – was over, they went up to the projectionist’s booth and helped Sally’s father to close up.

  ‘Be still, my beating heart.’ Sally pretended to swoon. ‘Honestly, Daddy, if I can’t marry Leslie Howard, I will never marry.’

  ‘What happened to Jimmy Stewart?’ teased Rose.

  Sally pretended to glare at her. ‘Why is life so difficult?’

  ‘What about a man who isn’t just a pretty face?’ Grace felt that she should join in the fun.

  ‘Just? Just?’ Sally and Rose were stunned.

  ‘Fourteen again, are you, ladies?’ teased Mr Brewer. ‘Come on, we’d best walk Rose home.’

  Rose argued with him but he was adamant. ‘Don’t know who’s out and about in this blackout, and, besides, what if you was to trip over something?’

  To that there was no reasonable answer.

  Back at the Brewers, Grace took out the envelope into which she had put some of the letters, and went into the kitchen where Sally’s mum was making cocoa, to ask if she could sit there for a while and study them.

  ‘Of course, love, but don’t stay up too late,’ said Mrs Brewer, as she poured the cocoa, before shooing Sally off to bed. ‘Don’t worry about waking our Sally; she’s slept through bombings.’

  Once she was alone, Grace opened the envelope, took out another letter, and began to read. The writing was so strange in comparison with that in modern letters and whole words had faded or disappeared altogether through age. At first, she felt strange and somewhat guilty for reading another person’s private past. She realised, however, that it was likely that, the letter writer, this Aunt Fran – as well as the recipient, Megan – was dead.

  She apologised silently for reading the letter, which had been written in 1916.

  Dear Megs,

  Thank you for … birthday card. What a sweet little girl you are. It’s your dad’s … not seeing you. God knows where he is … maybe even in the army. Uncle Fred says they’re so … for soldiers they’ll take anybody, even a good-for-nothing like your pa. Even prisoners. There’s a thought. If your dad was banged up he coulda joined up. That means your mum’s entitled to a few bob a week from the government. Haven’t a clue how she’d find out but tell her I’ll take the bus in Sunday to see her. That’ll be nice.

  See you about dinner time,

  Aunty Fran

  Megan had been ‘a sweet little girl’ when the letter was written. Grace thought about her sister. She would have been about eleven years old and was obviously unhappy because she did not know where her father was.

  From the content, she had guessed at the missing words and hoped she was correct.

  He doesn’t sound like a very nice person, she decided, and nothing at all like the sort of man a lovely girl like Margaret Hardy would have married. It’s as if there were two men called John Paterson.

  She snatched up the letter, which she wished she had never read, and stuffed it into the envelope. She decided that she would never read another one. But she did.

  Instead of slipping into the bedroom she was sharing with Sally, Grace stayed in the kitchen at the table. In order to save electricity, she lit a candle and, by its light, read the letter at the bottom of the few she had brought. Because it made clearer a little of her life story, she was pleased that she had seen it, but its information still left huge gaping holes in her history; holes, she felt, that would never properly be filled in.

  The letter, beautifully written in black ink, was dated 19 August 1927, and the writer was the matron of an orphanage in a town near Glasgow. It became painfully obvious that she and Megan had communicated before.

  Dear Miss Paterson,

  We are delighted that you agreed so readily to give your orphaned half-sister a home. Living with a loving relative is always better for a child than the best institution.

  I have enclosed the valuable watch your late stepmother was wearing when she was hospitalised. Grace is, at present, much too young to be entrusted with it but I am sure you will guard it safely for her until she is old enough to wear it. The monies left to her through her maternal grandmother’s will are, of course, safely invested, and when Grace attains her twenty-fifth birthday – as is stipulated in Mrs Abigail Hardy’s will – a tidy sum should have accumulated to ease her future.

  We are very lucky to find that a Sister Anthony from the local Nazareth House is travelling to London on 1 September. Permission has been given for her to accompany Grace to London and also to take her from London to Dartford. There, she will hand the little one into your loving sisterly care. I cannot tell you how I wish all our little ones had the same good fortune.

  It was signed, ‘Mhairi McPhail, Matron’.

  Grace picked up her letters and, taking the candle with her, crept into Sally’s bedroom. There, she undressed quickly, pulled her nightgown over her head, slid into the little bed Mr Brewer had set up for her, and blew out the candle. There was a muffled grunting sound from Sally. Grace held her breath for a moment, afraid that she had disturbed her friend’s sleep. But all was well: Sally slept on.

  It was Grace who lay awake, trying to digest everything that she had read. Her mother had been in a hospital where – sadly – it was obvious that she had died. The question of how Megan came to have the gold watch in her possession had been answered so simply and she, Grace, had once been with a nun, this Sister Anthony. Her dream of a nun had, in fact, been a memory.

  Grace curled up into as tight a little ball as she could manage. No more, she thought. I don’t think I can bear to know any more. My mother died and it looks as if she had me with her when she went into a hospital in Glasgow. But what was she doing there? I need to know everything I can about her but, oh, how I hate having to read the rest of the letters. I’d love to set fire to them.

  Finally, she fell asleep, thinking of questions she did want answered.

  Of course, she had had no intention of burning the letters. She took the photograph of her mother and grandmother on the beach and slipped it into her wallet. That accomplished, she set herself to enjoying a Christmas holiday with her oldest and dearest friends.

  Christmas Day itself, even with home-grown, home-cooked ham to eat, presents – including a cleverly, and rather speedily altered mustard skirt for Grace – for everyone in both families, was almost an anti-climax, so exciting had Christmas Eve been. Flora and Fred Petrie had been delighted to receive a letter from their sailor son, Phil, a few days before Christmas. Phil’s letters were as rare as letters from Sam and the family tried hard to be patient; after all, how easy could it be to post a letter on a ship? They discussed the problem often but had never really discovered how a letter from a ship, possibly in the middle of one of the world’s great oceans, arrived safely to a house thousands of miles away. They accepted it as they accepted many of the new wonders of medicine and science. They waited nervously for Daisy to come home and to hear all about the friend with whom she was having dinner in a Dartford Hotel. Flora wanted desperately to meet this man who meant so much to her daughter for, not only was he older than Daisy, he was also a foreigner. Flora was angry with herself because she had not readily held out a welcoming hand to either the dashing young aristocrat, Adair Maxwell, whom Daisy had loved and lost, or to this Czechoslovakian pilot, Tomas Sapenak, with whom her daughter was now sharing Christmas Eve. She wanted to make him welcome but had so little experience of dealing with people outside her own little world. Daisy’s sister and their friends, on the other hand, were disappointed that Daisy was keeping her friend to herself.

  They had forgiven her, though, and went to meet her as they all made their way to the midnight service.
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br />   ‘Here,’ Sally Brewer called as she held out a lovely red cashmere beret to Grace. ‘You can’t wear that ugly WLA hat on Christmas Eve. Come on, Grace, I’ll feel really warm and happy seeing that bright red hat on your little head.’

  Grace smiled and took the beret that did indeed look very pretty on her dark hair and, yes, it was warm. Two years earlier, she would have argued and refused, and Sally would have said, crossly, ‘Come on, Grace, don’t be so stupid,’ but now she was gentler.

  We have all changed in two years, Grace realised as, arm in arm, the girls walked through the dark streets to the little church. No bells were ringing, golden light did not stream from ancient windows, and almost everyone spoke in whispers as they made their way to the service. How wonderful it would be when the bells rang out again and light and glorious music streamed from the church.

  An excited shout broke the wartime-induced silence. ‘Grace, oh, Grace, how wonderful to see you.’ It was Daisy, not changed at all, even though she was now a proud member of the Air Transport Auxiliary.

  The two girls flew into each other’s arms like homing pigeons, and hugged and cried and drew back to look at each other and then hugged again.

  ‘Well, Sally,’ said Rose, pretending to be hurt, ‘we might as well go off by ourselves, since we’re not wanted here.’

  And then, of course, came more hugs, chattering and yet another excited showing of the photograph of Grace’s mother and grandmother.

  Daisy handed it back to Grace. ‘They’re beautiful, Grace, and you are the absolute spitting image of your nan.’

  Grace hugged Daisy again, looked quickly at the photograph, looking for similarities, before teasing Daisy that, since they were said to be more like twins than the real twins, Daisy too must look like the lovely Abigail.

  Next, she joined her friends in their questioning of Daisy.

  ‘Did you have a fab dinner?’

  ‘Where is Tomas spending Christmas? I suppose he’s Catholic and won’t attend a Church of England service?’

  ‘When do we get to see him?’

  ‘I already have. I ambushed the poor man last Christmas,’ confessed Rose. ‘He’s tall, very distinguished-looking and has the most gorgeous accent, doesn’t he, Daisy?’

  Daisy refused to be drawn on anything other than the matter of where Tomas had gone. She explained that he was spending Christmas with their local farmer friends, the Humbles, and, since Alf and Nancy would be awake very early, he did not want to disturb them late at night.

  In a tight line of four, the old friends walked into the ancient church, smelling the incense, the candles, the freshly cut fir and holly branches. The church was by no means as well lit as it used to be but, for a moment, the girls stood in the candle-lit vestibule and looked at one another. Then, tears of happiness in their eyes, they entered the church and prepared to share in the Christmas service.

  Grace and Sally did not return with the Brewer parents to their home after the service. Instead, they joined Daisy and Rose Petrie at their large flat above the family’s small shop, Petrie’s Groceries and Fine Teas. Before the war, the flat had always been crowded with young people, friends of the family, for the twins had had three older brothers. Now, Ron was dead, Phil, according to his letter, was ‘somewhere at sea’ and Sam, an escaped POW, was – who knew where? The girls stood for a moment in the doorway as the apparent emptiness seemed to strike each one.

  ‘I never realised how big this living room is,’ said Sally, and then coloured with embarrassment.

  Daisy hurried to her aid. ‘I know exactly what you mean, Sally. The boys certainly filled the chairs, didn’t they?’

  ‘And they were never alone. Seems we couldn’t walk across this floor without falling over a long pair of legs.’ Rose, almost as tall as her brothers, smiled at her friends and took a Christmas card from the mantel above the empty fireplace – another difference the war had made. ‘Ta-ra. Look at this, girls. A priest – yes, a real priest – a Father Petrungero, an Italian who works in Dartford, brought it this morning, and how Mum managed to keep both quiet and still breathing is a Christmas miracle.’

  Sally read the card and squealed with excitement. ‘I don’t believe it. How wonderful. Grace, look, it’s from Sam.’

  Grace, her face almost white in the firelight, took the card with a hand that trembled. ‘See you soon.’ It was Sam’s handwriting. She had seen it before – the last time on a note to his mother. He had sent good wishes to Sally in that note. ‘Thank God,’ she said with simple sincerity. ‘It’s fabulous. Sam is coming home, safe at last. What wonderful news to get at Christmas. I suppose you have no idea when.’

  ‘Not a word. We’re just so …’ Rose Petrie’s eyes filled with tears but she managed to control herself. ‘Girls, let’s make paper chains, the way we used to. Dad’s got some of that silvered paper that lines tea chests.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Daisy with a smile, ‘they’ll smell of tea.’

  ‘When has this flat ever smelled of anything else? Come on, Daisy, scissors, the glue pot. Grace, make us all cocoa. Sally, help me get all this breakfast stuff off the table.’

  They were fourteen again.

  Rose and Sally, the tallest, spread the paper over the table and began to cut it into long strips. When all the strips were made, Rose handed a large handful to each of them with her instructions. ‘Right, cut them into three-inch pieces, and then glue them into links and a long chain. Pity they’ll all be silver.’

  ‘No, Rose, silver’s ever so elegant. I bet everyone in Bloomsbury has silver chains. Shoosh,’ she said suddenly, ‘this is your mum’s favourite.’

  They stopped working and listened as a programme of songs and Christmas carols, chosen by serving men and women was playing. ‘Listen, “We’ll Meet Again”.Oh, I love this one, too,’ said Sally, singing along with Vera Lynn.

  The pasting and chaining went on, carols in the background, and, in the foreground, repeated cries of, ‘Oh, do you remember …?’ Before the girls stopped for the night, an enormous chain of silvered links covered every available surface.

  It was one of the happiest evenings they had ever spent together but, at last, Sally and Grace crept quietly down the stairs and returned to the Brewers.’

  Sally was asleep at once but Grace lay for some time, unable to sleep, thinking about the precious gift of friendship, of the things she was learning about her family, but, on this special night, wondering where Sam was, and how he really was, and whether or not he ever thought of her.

  Oh, to have been born into the Petrie family. She contrasted how the Petrie parents spoke to their children with how Megan had spoken to her. There had been sharp words occasionally in that cosy flat above the shop, but they were immediate. ‘Don’t tease your sisters,’ and the scolding was over. Words of comfort came next. ‘That’s a good boy; big boys must look out for little girls, and for smaller boys. That’s how little boys become good men.’

  Grace tried to remember one tender word from Megan but all she remembered was unkindness.

  ‘Why did I have to put up with you? No use to anyone, you are, and not a soul wanted you. Where was your ma’s family when you needed a home? Nowhere. They begged your pa’s legal daughter to take you in.’

  And then, one cold, winter night, just after Grace had started work in the factory, Megan had added, ‘If it wasn’t for that nun talking about money coming, I’d have drowned you long ago.’

  Not for a moment, at twenty-one years old, did Grace believe her sister would have drowned her, but as an eight-year-old, she had believed every word.

  FIFTEEN

  March 1942

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this, Grace.’ Lady Alice was angry and Grace felt slightly queasy; she hated disappointing her employer, who had been, she knew, incredibly kind to her. ‘I don’t want to add up all the favourable treatment you have received in this house – but I will. Christmas leave for your sister’s funeral, Christmas leave last year … Shall I go on
?’

  ‘I know I’ve been treated very well, Lady Alice, and I’m grateful, but all I’m asking for is one day, even just a twelve-hour pass. I could get to Dartford and back if—’

  ‘There was a prevailing wind and no German raids,’ broke in Lady Alice. ‘What is so important that you find yourself brave enough to ask for leave months before you are due any?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  Lady Alice smiled. ‘Oh, Grace, don’t you know I’m perfectly well aware how hard it was for you to ask. Something very special has happened. Tell me.’

  Grace was aware that Lady Alice knew she found it difficult to ask favours. She certainly was a good employer. ‘Sam,’ she said. ‘Daisy wrote to me. Sorry, my friend Daisy Petrie wrote to tell me that her brother has just turned up.’

  Lady Alice sat down at her desk and sighed. ‘Take your time and start at the beginning, and do try to make sense.’

  Grace took a deep breath. ‘Sam Petrie was a prisoner of war in Germany,’ she began her explanation. ‘He escaped last year and managed to get to the north of Italy where he worked – on a farm, as it happens – but now the partisans, or whatever they call them in Italy, have got him into France. A British plane picked him up – with some others – and flew them home.’

  ‘And why should you be given special leave to go to see him? You have an understanding, a relationship with this Sam?’

  How could she possibly explain Sam? ‘No, Lady Alice.’

  ‘Then do go back to work, Grace. You’re ploughing today, are you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, we’ll see you at lunchtime.’ She waited until Grace reached the door. ‘From my limited experience, Grace,’ she said, and her tone was gentle, ‘your Sam won’t want to see anyone at this point, no one. Trust me, he needs time.’