We've Come to Take You Home (18 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

T
HE GRAVESTONES LINING THE
path, leading up to the church, were so old and covered in moss that it was impossible to tell who they were remembering. But at least they were being remembered. Her brother had been buried in an unmarked grave. And the vicar had told her, in the letter Jess had received after her mother's death, that she too had been buried in the same churchyard, also in an unmarked grave. The poor got a hole in the ground but nothing else. Her mother had been lucky, given she had taken her own life, to get even that.

She tried the door, it was locked, but the night was dry and the porch would be a safe enough place to leave a baby until one of the wardens came up from the village to open the church. She sank down on to the stone floor and unbuttoned her dress. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and go to sleep but she couldn't. She had to finish feeding the baby then walk back up the river to Lewes to catch the first train into London.

She laid her daughter, wrapped in the blanket, down on the stone floor of the porch. She stood, buttoned up her dress, buttoned up her coat and then walked out into the churchyard – and kept on walking. If she hesitated for one single second, she wouldn't be able to do what she had to do. She hesitated. She took one step, then another and stopped. It was impossible.

She walked back up the path, past the rows of gravestones, to the porch. She picked up the bundle of blanket. She couldn't leave her daughter here. With food and coal so expensive and
in such short supply, no one with a family of their own would want to take in an abandoned child. She would be sent off, to die, in the nearest orphanage.

Out of the churchyard, back through the village and down the lane towards the river; if her mother could do it, then she could too. She climbed up the steps. On her left, the river tumbled down a weir. To her right it flowed, slow and smooth, towards the sea. All she had to do was jump. The end would be fast – and painless.

Her own mother had starved herself so that Jess and her baby brother could have food. When she sent Jess off to London, she had believed that she would be saving her, making her safe, so that one day, like her mother before her, Jess would fall in love, get married and start her own family.

Jess could see her climbing up the steps onto the bridge, dressed in her black dress, her head covered in a shawl, the wind and the rain gusting around her. She closed her eyes and raised her arms. The wind whipped the shawl away from her body but her mother didn't move. She stood there, whispering a prayer, as the rain streamed down her face and over her shoulders. And then she dropped like a stone, her arms still outstretched, over the wooden railing, down into the river below.

And now she could see her father. He was one in a line of hundreds of soldiers, gas masks on, bayonets at the ready, walking up a hill. The man to her father's right staggered and fell. Blood fountained out of his skull. Directly ahead, at the top of the hill, stretching to the left and to the right, unbroken, was a solid wall of barbed wire. The dead and the dying, trapped and unable to escape, hung from it. And still her father walked on, straight, never hesitating, towards the wire. Bullets ripped through his chest, one step, two steps, on he continued. More machine-gun fire. One last step and then he collapsed, down, onto the ground.

He had not given up, even when he was walking to his own death. He did not turn and run away. He'd stayed, marching on, side by side, with his colleagues. For her father it had been the right thing, the only thing, to do.

And, standing alone together, up there on the Downs, he'd asked her to make him a promise – that however bad things were she would never give up. If she threw herself off the bridge, her daughter in her arms, she would be breaking that promise. Her father hadn't had a choice.

She did. There was still a chance, however small, that Tom was still alive and that, one day, he would come home. Killing herself, killing her baby, destroying his and his daughter's chance of happiness, would be mocking the sacrifices both her mother and father had made. She had to protect the future.

Jess walked back along the bridge, down the steps, across the meadow and up the lane to the church. A light was flickering in the ground floor of a house. In London a light burning out into the darkness, even just a candle breaking the blackout, would have immediately attracted the attention of the police. But out here, in the country, far away from the raids, nobody would bother or care. But, even so, it was strange. Someone had either got up very early or had never gone to sleep.

A woman dressed in a grey dress, a black mourning band on her right arm, was sitting at a table in the bay window. She was staring at a single candle, her right hand turning, and turning again, the gold wedding band on the fourth finger of her left hand. She was whispering what could only be a prayer. The woman hesitated. She looked out of the window. Jess shrank back behind a tree. The woman returned to her prayers.

Jess opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. She placed her daughter down on the step. She unfastened the locket from around her own neck. She knelt down and slipped the locket round her daughter's.

It was almost exactly a year ago that Jess and her mother had buried her baby brother in the village churchyard. Her mother had thrown a bunch of primroses onto the tiny, white coffin lying there in its waterlogged grave. And now Jess was a mother and she, too, was saying goodbye to her child. She picked a single primrose from a bunch growing by the front door and slipped the flower underneath the blanket next to her daughter's heart.

‘Goodbye, my love. Live well.'

Jess knocked on the front door. The woman paused but then went back to her prayers. Jess knocked again. The prayers stopped. The woman stood up. Jess ducked down behind a bush.

The door opened. The woman stood there, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, searching the darkness for the person who had knocked so loud and so long in the middle of the night. For a moment their eyes caught. There was whimper. The women looked down. The bundle of blanket sitting at her feet wriggled and squirmed.

‘We'd always wanted children…'

The woman picked up the baby. She cradled it in her arms.

‘Having a little boy, a little girl, a child of our own, would have been something to remember my husband by…'

There was no point in hiding. The woman knew she was there. Jess stepped out from behind the bush.

‘You will look after her for me?'

The woman smiled.

‘You're the girl from the market…'

The woman had seen Jess stealing her bread. She could have called out. The crowd would have heard and Jess would have been caught and handed over to the police. And tried as a thief.

‘And you were in the churchyard, with your mother. You were there when I was visiting my husband's grave…'

The woman had recognised her, Jess had been certain of it, but she'd said nothing.

‘We were burying my brother.'

The woman nodded.

‘Your mother, is she–'

‘She's dead.'

The woman nodded.

‘I remember. There was talk of it in the village. And what about you… I'm sorry, I don't remember your name…'

A blackbird was singing its first song of the day.

‘My name's Jess.'

She was running out of time.

‘I'm a maid in London. I've got to get back…'

She ran out of the gate onto the track. The woman called after her.

‘Does your daughter have a name?'

She'd worked so hard and so long to keep the baby a secret that she'd never thought about a name. It had seemed too much of a luxury.

‘She's called…'

The scent, the tiny blue flowers, the needle-like leaves, the bush she'd been hiding behind was identical to one growing in her mother's garden. Her parents had planted it there, as a good omen for their marriage, on their wedding day.

‘Her name's Rosemary. And you?'

‘Martha. Martha Pearce.'

Jess ran down the track across the moonlit meadow. She ran over the bridge and then turned left to follow the riverside path back to the station and the first train into London.

FORTY-EIGHT

S
AM OPENED HER EYES
. The windowless, low-ceilinged intensive care unit, on the top floor of the hospital, had been replaced by a high-ceilinged, glass-walled, shiny-floored building which stretched on, up and down, in front and behind, to the left and right of her. The lights were on, the escalators whirring, the shops and restaurants bustling; she was in an air terminal and it was busy.

Soldiers, in dust-covered combat kit, huge rucksacks piled at their feet, stood together, talking, at one of the bars. Standing next to them, staring down into his beer, was a man dressed in head-to-toe black leather carrying a biker's helmet. An old lady, immaculately dressed in a pale pink suit, and carrying a white poodle, wandered past humming happily to herself. A group of women, dressed in black ankle-length robes, their heads covered, their children tagging along behind, eyes wide with curiosity, were being escorted through the terminal by two smartly dressed ground staff wearing blue trousers and matching blue jackets with a lapel badge featuring a pair of golden wings.

A couple, one very tall, the other very short, both with rucksacks on their backs and both wearing walking clothes and boots, stood staring up at the departure board. It had the usual flight departure times and flight numbers but instead of destinations, Paris, New York, Sydney, Milan, it listed the names of people. Against each name was a gate number. Some weren't yet open, some were delayed, others were boarding
and some, George Thomas, Carol Maringa, Sai Thakar and Jennifer Robins, had already departed.

Her father's name was sixth on the list. His departure time was 1800 hours, his gate number was seventy-seven, and he was boarding. Sam checked her watch. It was 1750. “Flight Boarding” flicked to “Last Moments”.

Behind and below the departure board was a large circular area. Leading off it were four corridors, each one clearly signposted. The first led to gates one to twenty, the second to gates twenty-one to forty, the third to gates forty-one to sixty and the fourth to gates sixty-one to eighty.

‘Excuse me…'

An elderly man, bent low over a walking stick, was shuffling towards her. She didn't recognise the voice, she couldn't because she'd never heard it before, but she did recognise the grey face with the stubble and the staring eyes. It was Terry.

‘Perhaps you'll be able to help me…'

He clamped a hand onto her arm.

‘The lady told me I have to go to gate sixty-five. I'm sure that's what she said, I heard her quite clearly, gate sixty-five. But I can't find it anywhere. I've been going round and round for hours…'

She'd run away once. She couldn't do it again.

‘Sixty-five's over there. It's on the way to where I'm going. I'll take you there.'

The old man's face lit up.

‘Will you? How kind. Now where did I leave my bag? It's black and it's got my front door keys in it. I'll need them for when I get home, to let myself in. The place the social girl has put me in is lovely, they do all the cooking, all the washing, all the cleaning, just like a hotel, but it's just not the same. Not like being in your own home…'

There was no bag. And she couldn't remember seeing one beside the bed, in the old man's cubicle in the intensive care unit at the hospital.

The clock flipped to 1752.

‘I think we should go to the gate. You don't want to miss your plane…'

She tugged him towards the corridor.

‘My bag, I must have my bag. If don't have my bag, I won't have my keys and I won't be able to get in…'

‘We'll ask at the gate…'

The old man stopped.

‘I need to go to the toilet…'

1753.

‘And when I have to go, I have to go, I can't hold on like I used to…'

‘There'll be one on the plane…'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes. We're nearly there now. Just a couple of minutes…'

He shuffled forward.

‘This is so exciting, such a surprise, I've never been in a plane before…'

They passed a businessman shouting at two airline staff.

‘What do you mean there's no signal? I'm not getting on that plane until I've made the deal. Everything depends on it, everything…'

‘I missed breakfast. Do they give you something to eat? A nice cup of tea and one of those French pastries, the flaky ones stuffed with chocolate…'

She put her hand underneath the old man's elbow, guiding him left round the refreshment stand.

‘It depends on the length of the flight…'

At last they were at gate sixty-five.

‘Will there be somebody there to meet me? My money's in my bag, I won't be able to pay for a taxi…'

‘Please, Terry…'

He stopped. She tugged at his arm and then tugged again. The old man refused to move.

‘Why does everyone keep calling me Terry? It makes me so angry. That sort of carelessness is so unnecessary. My name's…'

The clock flipped to 1754.

‘My name's…'

The old man stamped his walking stick impatiently.

‘My name's…'

They were standing at the top of a walkway that sloped down to the plane. Written on the side, to the left of the open door, was a name.

‘Trevor, Trevor Jones. That's your name. Isn't it?'

‘Yes, that's it, my dear. Of course it is. Trevor Jones. That's my name, how silly of me.'

A woman, dressed in blue trousers and jacket, stepped out of the plane. She was smiling. She was also carrying a black bag.

Sam turned and ran up the walkway and out into the main corridor. It was 1755. She had just five minutes until her father's departure time. She ran past gates sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight and sixty-nine. The clock flipped to 1756. The corridor narrowed, turned sharp left and stopped at a lift.

She pushed the call button and pushed again. There were no stairs, no escalator; the lift was the only way down. The doors creaked open. She stepped inside. The doors creaked closed. She punched the down button. The lift jolted, shuddered and then began to move. It jerked to a stop. The doors creaked open.

The clock flipped to 1757. And there was gate seventy-seven, just ahead. She pushed herself forward.

1758.

She ran down the ramp towards the plane. A name was written underneath the cockpit window. Sitting inside, talking to traffic control, was Michael Foster – her father. His plane was about to take off.

‘Wait, please, wait. Open the door…'

She would never hear his voice.

‘I must speak to him…'

She would never see his smile.

‘Please let me speak to him.'

Never feel the warmth of his arms around her.

‘Please help me.'

She hammered on the side of the plane with her fists.

‘Let me in…'

And hammered again.

‘Please let me in…'

The door remained shut. She collapsed down onto her knees.

‘Please help me… whoever you are… if you're out there… please help me. Please help me save my father…'

There was silence and then a scrape of metal on metal. The door of the plane slid back. Long coat, lace-up boots, brown hair tied back in a ribbon, it was the girl Sam had followed to Tudor Close, the same girl who had been standing underneath the street lamp, on the opposite side of the road, outside the house.

She pulled Sam onto the plane.

‘No questions, you've got one minute, that's all, before this plane goes…'

The cockpit door was immediately to her left. It was locked – ready for take-off.

‘Dad, it's me, Sam.'

Nothing. She knocked again and, again, nothing; the metal door was too heavily reinforced.

‘He can't hear me.'

Now she had only seconds. The girl was standing beside her.

‘You've been on a plane, you've watched, you know what to do…'

The girl was right. She had flown many times and, if her father was one of the pilots, Sam and her mother were usually upgraded to first or business class. They would sit, in the front, hoping to get a quick wave from her father whenever someone went in or out of the cockpit. And on a long flight, when the cabin crew needed to open the door, to take her father and his first officer a meal, what did they do? The keypad, there it was, on the wall to the right of the door.

‘There's a code, I need the code…'

‘The only person who knows the code is you, Sam…'

‘But I don't–'

‘Think, Sam, think hard. In thirty seconds this door will close, this plane will push back and you won't be on it. They'll drag you off…'

The keyboard was made up of letters, not numbers, so the code could be either a sequence, without any particular order, or a word with some meaning: a name, a place or a thing. She punched in “DAD”. The door remained bolted.

There were people outside, she could hear their voices. One of them was talking on a radio.

‘What do you want most, Sam, for you and your father, right now?'

Try to be calm. Try to think.

‘For him to be alive and well… to be safe?'

The girl smiled.

‘Try it, Sam, punch it in.'

“SAFE”. Nothing.

The plane juddered. Her father had told her about the gate agents and the dispatchers, the people responsible for getting the plane off on time.

‘I don't know it…'

‘You do, Sam, you do…'

She punched in “LOVE” because that's what she'd tell
him, when he opened the door, and she walked into the cockpit. That she loved him. Nothing.

A man, wearing a bright yellow plastic jerkin and carrying a clipboard, was walking towards her.

‘Time's up.'

He took her arm.

‘This plane's got to go.'

She reached out and with the tip of one finger punched in “HOME”. Because that was what she wanted, most, right now; to be at home, the three of them together, a happy family in the house on the hill overlooking the sea.