Free Time to Say Goodbye by Katie Flynn Page A

long enough would make pork jelly. ‘My mother thought it a cure-all for just about every disease you can mention,’ she assured Jill who, accompanied by Rita, had slogged her way up the lane to the farm. ‘Let me know if there’s anything more I can do for the poor little dear.’
    Jill thanked her from the heart and promised not to hesitate if she needed anything more, but in fact now that they were organised she thought she and Auntie were managing pretty well. They had abandoned their own rooms to Debby and Rita and now slept in the attic, one on either side of Imogen’s bed, so that there was always someone handy. She was very weak and could not reach the chamber pot without help, and once she began to sweat, which the doctor assured them was a good sign, they changed her sheets whenever they became too damp for comfort.
    For the first couple of weeks Imogen was not herself, frequently talking as though she were still struggling out of the ditch, but gradually she began to improve and the last time the doctor visited her he was sufficiently pleased with her progress to say that she might come downstairs for an hour if she felt so inclined.
    Imogen thanked him, but her voice was lacklustre, and despite her efforts to be cheerful she was still apt either to fall asleep or to begin to weep bitterly, though when asked the reason for her tears she just muttered that she had bad dreams and that shame over her behaviour still haunted her.
    ‘You’ve had pneumonia,’ Rita told her, as she sat on the end of her friend’s bed, reading her a letter from her mother. Auntie and Jill had decided not to tell Mrs Clarke how very ill her daughter had been, so she thought Imogen had had a nasty cold and nothing more.
    ‘If my mam ever found out that I’d gone off by myself and got into trouble she’d be terribly cross,’ Imogen had admitted to Jill and Auntie as she gradually began to improve. ‘She’s very strict, my mam. I don’t think she’d take me back to the city because of the danger, but she would be very angry.’ She had looked from Jill to Auntie. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind . . .’
    Jill and Auntie had agreed to her request and Auntie thought they had done the right thing. Mrs Clarke, though no doubt an excellent official doing important war work, corresponded with her daughter rarely, and when she did write the letters were always short and mainly concerned with her work.
    Rita finished reading the letter and handed it over to her friend. ‘There you are! You know she’s well and busy; and now are you going to get out of that bed, you lazy little beast?’ She grinned at Imogen. ‘You’ve timed your recovery nicely; the snow’s all gone and the fellers from the airfield come over whenever they’re free. The couple who hauled you out of the ditch always ask after you; they’ll be right glad to see you up and about. I know Auntie and Jill keep them informed, but the blokes would like to see you for themselves.’
    Imogen heaved a sigh. ‘Since I’m only allowed to get up for an hour, I’ll come down for the midday meal, save one of you having to carry up a tray,’ she said wearily. ‘Oh, Rita, I’m still weak as a kitten! But I’ll come down if Auntie thinks I ought.’
    ‘Right,’ Rita said decisively, standing up and heading for the door. ‘And you’d better write to your mother, because if Auntie or Jill write again Mrs Clarke may get suspicious.’ She reached the doorway, then turned back. ‘Is there anything you want?’ she asked rather impatiently. ‘I hope not, lazybones, because I’m on duty to give an eye to you today, and I’m sick and tired of toiling up all these stairs.’
    Imogen gave a very small spurt of laughter. ‘I’m not the lazy one; I’ve been ill,’ she pointed out. ‘And now you and Debby are back in school it’s Auntie and Jill who have to keep toiling up and down with trays. Don’t go for a moment, Rita; just tell me what the weather’s like. I’d