The Girls They Left Behind

by Lilian Harry

Genres: World War II; Sagas

Synopsis

The second novel in the April Grove series, following the lives of working-class families during the Second World War. It is 1940, and the neighbours in April Grove are close knit, patriotic and proud - but the onset of the Blitz tests their loyalties and courage as never before. Betty Chapman meets a devastatingly attractive man in the Land Army, who upsets all her settled ideas; Olive Harker, just married, must now decide whether to risk motherhood; and Nancy Baxter offers comfort to lonely serviceman while her son runs wild... Their stories are played out against the backdrop of a great seaport at war: the horror of the air raid sirens, the naval dockyards buzzing with activity and the overwhelming desire to survive the city's darkest hour...

Release date: August 19, 2010

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 358

Sample

Olive and Derek Harker arrived for the latest possible train on that Sunday evening, but Portsmouth Town Station was as crowded as if it were morning. The carriages were filling with soldiers and airmen going back off leave, and the platform was crowded with the women and children who were bidding them goodbye. Some were smiling bravely, but most were already in tears and few would be dry-eyed as the train steamed out of the station.

‘I can’t bear it,’ Olive wept as Derek held her in his arms. ‘You don’t seem to have been here five minutes. It’s so cruel, taking you away like this. We’ve only just got married.’

‘I know.’ He stroked her hair. He was having difficulty with his own feelings. Men didn’t cry – especially men who were soldiers, going off to war – but he felt disturbingly as if he might. His throat ached in a way he couldn’t remember since he was twelve years old. He swallowed the ache and buried his face in Olive’s hair, and she turned her head so that their lips met. She clung to him, her body shaking with sobs, and he wondered how he was ever going to bring himself to break away.

‘Livvy, I’ve got to go,’ he whispered despairingly. ‘If I miss the train –’

‘I know. It’ll be jankers.’ She tried to smile and it nearly broke his heart. ‘It’s all right, Derek, I’m not going to make a fuss.’ The engine was pouring out steam and it billowed around them, enveloping them in a humid cloud. She stared at his face, her eyes dark and hungry, as if she were trying to memorise each tiny iota. She had made love with the same hunger last night, he remembered, and he had been caught up in her desperation, turning to her again and again as if every moment must be used for loving.

Suppose I didn’t go? he thought suddenly. Suppose I just walked away from the train, from the station, from the war itself and said to hell with it, it’s not my war, I’ve got a life to live with my wife and my family – if there is one. And what chance do we have to start one?

Suppose I just refused to go …

But he knew what would happen. He was a soldier. He couldn’t even plead the excuse of conscience. He’d be posted as a deserter. He’d be caught, court-martialled and imprisoned. Perhaps even shot.

He hadn’t been through Dunkirk to end up like that.

The guard blew his whistle. The engine blew its own shrill note. Doors began to slam and one by one the men broke away from their girls, from their sweethearts and wives, and climbed aboard. The women stood, their handkerchiefs at faces that streamed with tears, and watched helplessly. Some of them held children in their arms, children who looked bewildered and lost.

‘Derek …’

‘Livvy, I love you.’ He caught her hard against him and kissed her fiercely, then tore himself away and scrambled up into the train. The door slammed and he twisted to stare down at her. ‘I love you …’

‘Derek – Derek.’ She could not say the words she knew he longed to hear. She had said them in the night, over and over again, but now her throat closed against them and her lips could only form his name. She gazed up at him, her misery tightening about her like a straitjacket, and heard the slow thump of the pistons as the train began to move. He was going from her, slipping away, leaving, and she could say nothing, only stand mute, shaking her head and feeling the tears like rain upon her face.

‘Livvy …’

‘Derek – Derek –’ Suddenly her tongue was freed and she ran beside the train as it moved slowly along the platform. ‘I love you, Derek. I love you.’ He had heard, she knew he had heard. He was smiling, an odd, distorted smile, and there was rain on his cheeks too, but it wasn’t raining and she knew it must be his own tears. Derek, in tears? Her eyes flooded again, blurring her vision, but there was no stopping her now and she ran along the platform, blundering into other women, young girls, mothers with babies, giving them hardly a thought for all her thoughts were with the man who was going back to war and leaving her behind.

‘I love you, Derek.’ She stood at the end of the platform, waving. The train was pulling away fast and he had gone, but his face was still visible, a pale blur as the train receded, and she could see his hand waving back. And although she knew that he could not possibly hear her now, she called to him one last time, her throat aching with the pain and the tears and the effort of trying to make him understand.

‘I love you …’

In the train, Derek caught the whisper of her love, not through his ears but through some deeper part of him, a part where only Olive dwelt and only Olive could reach him. And the tears ran unchecked down his cheeks as he stood at the window and watched the familiar streets of Portsmouth pass him by.

Soldiers didn’t cry. But Derek Harker was crying, and he wasn’t going to apologise to any man for that.

Olive went back to work the next morning just as if she hadn’t got married on Saturday morning and had a thirty-six hour honeymoon. There didn’t seem to be much point in doing anything else, despite her father’s disapproval.

Ted Chapman had been stubbornly opposed to his daughter continuing to work at all, even though she was employed by Derek’s father in the office of his builder’s yard.

‘Your mother’s never gone out to work and I don’t like the idea of my girls doing it, once they’re wed,’ he said for the dozenth time as Olive came down to breakfast. ‘Married women ought to stop at home and look after their men.’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ Olive retorted, feeling the tears dangerously close again. ‘How can I look after Derek when he’s living in a Nissen hut down in Devon? And we haven’t even got a home. What am I supposed to do all day if I haven’t got a job?’

‘You could give your mum a hand.’ But Ted knew his argument was unconvincing. Annie had the housework well under control, and both Olive and Betty did their share. And Annie herself had something to say about that.

‘More and more women are having to work these days, what with all the young men being called up for the Forces. If she wasn’t doing that, she’d be doing something else. At least Harker’s is only a few streets away.’ She refilled the big teacup the girls had given him for Christmas a few years ago. ‘Anyway, you can’t tell her what to do now, she’s a married woman.’

It was hard enough to believe that, all the same, and Annie had to keep reminding herself by thinking of Olive and Derek’s wedding day only the day before yesterday, with Olive in the white dress she’d borrowed from a friend and her chestnut hair glowing in the sun.

‘She’s still living under our roof,’ Ted muttered, and Annie clicked her tongue in exasperation.

‘Honestly, Ted! Anyone would think our Olive was out on the razzle every night and bringing back sailors, like Nancy Baxter. All she’s doing is getting married, and it’s not her fault she can’t start with her own home and her man coming home at nights like a couple should. She’s a good girl and you know it, and Derek’s a decent chap. You were keen enough for them to get married when you came back from Dunkirk.’

‘I never said anything against them getting married. It’s her working I don’t like. But I suppose you’re right. Nothing’s the same any more, and you can’t tell young people what to do.’

He finished his tea and got up, going out into the back porch to find his bicycle clips. Olive and Betty made a face at each other and Annie sighed.

‘I don’t know about your dad, I’m sure. He’s all on edge these days. He’s never properly settled down since he came back from Dunkirk. It upset him a lot, that did.’

‘It upset a lot of people,’ Olive said, thinking of the things Derek had told her. Young soldiers, no more than kids really, shivering and crying all the way home from Dover in the trains, their uniforms still soaked from having to stand in the water, many of them wounded by the bombing and strafing they’d suffered on the beaches. Her dad had been brave, she knew, taking his ferryboat over to help get them away, but he hadn’t had to suffer like they had. And he didn’t have to go back. She thought of Derek again, going off on the train with all those others, knowing what they might be going back to.

It was queer to think she was a married woman now. It didn’t seem right that her life hadn’t changed. Apart from that one day and night with Derek, everything was the same. She got up each morning, helped her mum get breakfast ready, went off to the office and spent the day typing out letters and invoices. A lot of building had stopped because of the war, and business was slack, but John Harker wasn’t worried about that. ‘It’ll pick up soon enough, once the bombing starts,’ he said grimly. ‘There’ll be plenty needs doing then.’

On Thursday evenings Olive usually finished a few minutes early and went to the pictures with Betty. There didn’t seem to be any point in changing that, just because she was now a married woman. The men had already gone home and she was shuffling together her papers when her father-in-law came in.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You go off and enjoy yourself. A couple of hours at the Odeon’ll do you good.’

Olive smiled at him. It already seemed an eternity since Derek had gone away and she missed him more each day. Funny to think that this time last week they hadn’t even been married …

The air was split by the sudden wail of a siren. Its sound rose and fell like the howl of a banshee. For a full minute it maintained its unearthly shrieking, and then it died slowly away. In the silence left behind, it was as if the whole world held its breath.

Olive stopped what she was doing, a bundle of papers slipping from fingers that had suddenly frozen, and stared at John Harker. For a brief moment, the man and girl stood riveted, their eyes locked. Then John reached out and grabbed Olive’s arm.

‘The shelter! Quick – leave that.’

‘But the invoices –’

‘Leave them! This is it, Olive. I can hear the planes already.’

‘Maybe it’s another false alarm –’

‘There’ve been German planes around all day. They’ve been all along the coast. They’ve tried twice already – I heard it on the news. But this lot’s got through. Drop the papers, Livvy, and get over to the shelter quick. I’ll fetch Florrie.’

He pulled her through the door and they ran across the yard. The Anderson was in the garden, through a tall gate set in the wall that separated the Harkers’ home from the business. John Harker put his hand between Olive’s shoulder blades and gave her a shove that sent her staggering through the gate and halfway down the garden path. Then he turned and ran into the house.

He and Florrie Harker scrambled down into the dim, musty shelter only seconds before the first explosion.

Olive’s cousins, Tim and Keith Budd, were involved in a game of cowboys and Indians. Each armed with a toy pistol, they had scurried out as soon as tea was over to join the children who were, for one reason or another, still at home in Portsmouth, and not evacuated to the country. Some had been evacuated and returned after a few weeks, homesick or even badly treated, some had come to the conclusion that there was, after all, no danger from bombing or gas, and some had never left Portsmouth at all, despite the entreaties of the authorities.

Micky Baxter was one of these. Always the wild boy of April Grove, he had exulted in the sudden freedom of no school and formed a small gang of boys who had nothing to do and all day to do it in. Together, they had roamed the streets, looking for mischief and having no trouble in finding it. Their exploits had come to a head when they had held up an assistant in a jewellery shop with a pistol left over from the 1914–18 war. Micky was still on probation for that, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

Jess Budd didn’t like her boys playing with Micky Baxter, but although they were half afraid of his scapegrace nature, they were also fascinated by it. And although a lot of children had come back, their own special friends were still out at Bridge End, where they’d been evacuated.

They gathered at the end of April Grove, near the Budds’ house. Tim and Keith were both cowboys, like Micky, and the Indians were Martin Baker, who had come back from evacuation with appendicitis, Jimmy Cross and Cyril Nash, who had a pale, angelic face with large brown eyes and spent most of his time trying to undo the impression that his name and appearance invariably created.

Only those who possessed pistols were allowed to be cowboys, and Micky was undisputed leader because his was reputed to be real. Tim and Keith, who had heard the story of the jeweller’s shop, glanced at it with respect, and kept their distance, thankful that they weren’t Indians. Suppose it was still loaded? But Jimmy Cross scoffed at them.

‘Course it ain’t that one. They took it off him, didn’t they? Anyway, me and Cyril’s got real catapults, better’n any old toy guns, they are.’

He displayed the weapons, made of forked sticks and a wide strip of rubber. Tim watched enviously as he bent, picked up a stone from the road, and sent it zinging down the street. Mrs Seddon, who kept the corner shop, came out of her side gate just as the stone whistled past her and she looked up sharply. The boys skittered hastily into a nearby alley.

I hope she doesn’t tell Mum, Tim thought anxiously, but the game was starting now and the three Indians were fleeing up the alley looking for places to hide.

The cowboys turned their backs, as the rules of the game demanded, and scuffed their toes in the dust.

‘I s’pose you’ll be goin’ back to the country soon,’ Micky observed. ‘Runnin’ away from the bombs.’

‘We’re not running away.’ Tim protested, uncomfortably aware that they were. ‘We only came back to see our Olive get married. Anyway, it’s good in the country. There’s all sorts of things to do.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Micky sneered. ‘Pickin’ flowers? Countin’ sheep? That’s girls’ stuff.’

‘There’s plenty of things besides that. Good trees to climb. Birds’ nests. And we help on the farm, too. We can milk cows.’

‘Milk cows? I’d sooner get it out of a bottle. Catch me goin’ to the country. I’d rather stay here – no school or nothing, do what you like. It’s good.’

‘There are schools,’ Keith said. ‘Our school’s open, I heard Mum say so when she and Dad were talking about us stopping here. But Dad says there’s going to be bad bombing soon and he wants us out of it.’

‘I ’ope there is,’ Micky said. ‘I want the bombs to come. I ain’t scared of’em. Smash! Crash! Just like Saturday morning pictures, it’ll be.’

‘But suppose Germans come?’ Keith asked, speaking the name in a whisper. ‘S’pose they invade? That means they’ll come and live in our houses, they’ll take away everything. What’ll you do then?’

‘I’ll fight ’em, that’s what I’ll do.’ Micky lifted his arm and bent it, clenching his fist to make the biceps stand out. ‘Tell you what, they’re goin’ to come in parachutes. I’ll catch one of them, tie him up in his own parachute and take him down the police station.’ He frowned, thinking of his last visit to that establishment. ‘No, I won’t, I’ll take him up Hilsea Barracks, let the soldiers have him. They won’t get our house.’

‘You’re daft,’ Tim said. ‘There’s going to be hundreds of them – thousands. They’ll have guns and bayonets and everything. You’ll have to hide and keep out of their way. And I tell you what, it’ll be better out in the country then. The people out there, they’ve taken all the signposts down – the Germans won’t be able to find their way anywhere, they’ll be lost. We’ll know where we are, but they won’t.’

‘They won’t want to go out there anyway.’ Micky glanced over his shoulder. The alleyway was deserted, the Indians long vanished from sight. ‘I reckon they’ve had long enough to find hideouts now. Anyway, I bet I know where they’ve gone. They’ll be round Carlisle Crescent. Just because Jimmy Cross lives near there, he thinks it’s the only place to hide.’

The three boys cocked their pistols and ran up the alley, keeping an eye open as they passed open gateways in case the Indians were skulking in someone’s garden. There was no sign of them as they passed along the back of September Street and came to the railway line and level crossing. Carlisle Crescent was on the other side of the track, and Tim and Keith hesitated.

The railway line formed a natural boundary to their normal territory. Although they were allowed to go out to play in the streets, they were not supposed to go beyond certain limits without first letting their mother know. April Grove, March and October Streets, with their maze of alleyways created a small, tight neighbourhood where all the children and adults were known to each other. Cars seldom appeared there, especially in the evenings, and only tradesmen’s carts and wagons made regular appearances during the day. Ball games, skipping, hopscotch and marbles could be played unhindered, and although some of the less tolerant residents might object to the constant thud of a ball against the wall of their house, and even forbid the chalking of cricket stumps or goal posts on the bricks, they did little more than make occasional testy appearances, chasing away the offending children. Usually, the children returned after a few days, chalked up their goal posts again and resumed their games.

Children from other streets were less welcome. They were looked upon with suspicion and told to ‘Go and play in your own street’. And by the same unwritten rule, if you went to someone else’s street you were likely to be sent off with a flea in your ear.

But Jimmy Cross lived in Carlisle Crescent, or near enough, Tim reasoned. So it ought to be all right to go there. And as for letting Mum know, she couldn’t expect him to break off from a game of cowboys and Indians to run home and tell her they might be going over the railway. Specially after what Micky Baxter had been saying about them running away from the bombs.

Anyway, they’d be back long before she came out to call them in for bed, so she’d never know. And as long as they didn’t run into Dad, walking home from work, they’d be safe.

The crossing gates were closed and a train approached along the track. The boys scampered up the steps of the bridge and the engine chugged beneath, its roar filling their ears. Steam and smoke billowed around them and they capered about in the cloud, delighted, flapping their hands in front of their faces and grinning at each other through the swirling mist before scuttering down the steps on the other side and into Carlisle Crescent.

The houses here were posher than in April Grove. They weren’t in a terrace but were separate, some in twos and some on their own. They were all slightly different and some were bungalows. They had front gardens, big enough for a bit of lawn, and in a few there were bushes and even a tree or two. A couple had greenhouses with tomato plants growing in them. It was almost as good as the country, Tim thought, wishing he could live in such a house. Fancy having grass in your garden, just like a real field!

The three cowboys entered the crescent cautiously, their pistols still held at the ready as they searched for signs of Indians. One of the gardens had a low wall running along beside it and they ran across to it, half-crouching, and peered cautiously over the top, as cowboys did at the cinema.

Tim’s hero was Roy Rogers, who had a marvellous horse called Trigger. He modelled himself on Roy Rogers now, imagining himself in cowboy gear, with chaps on his trousers and a holster slung at his waist. He noticed that Keith was limping slightly. Keith’s favourite was Hopalong Cassidy.

Zing! A stone whistled past their ears and bounced off the wall beside them. The cowboys jumped, startled, and Tim remembered the catapults. He waved his pistol, regretting the lack of caps. At least he could have made a noise. As it was, he felt helpless.

Another stone whizzed past, almost grazing his cheek, and he was suddenly angry. His mum and dad had always laid down very strict rules about throwing stones. You only threw them into the sea, and even then only when there were no swimmers about. And you never, never threw them at people.

‘They’re cheating,’ he hissed. ‘Stones are dangerous. They could hit us in the eye.’

Micky too was feeling disgruntled. The catapults had put the Indians at an advantage, and that was against the rules. The cowboys were supposed to win. He debated introducing a new rule, that only cowboys could have catapults, but knew that the Indians would claim that they were nearer to bows and arrows and should therefore be theirs. Perhaps it would be better if catapults weren’t allowed at all. But that would mean he couldn’t have one either, and he’d already made up his mind to get himself the best in the street.

If only he hadn’t had to give up the old Army pistol. It hadn’t actually been his, but he’d been the only one with the nerve to carry it. If he still had that – and could get some ammunition for it – well, there wouldn’t be any dispute then. He’d win every time.

He thought of the German parachutist he meant to catch. He’d be armed. Perhaps Micky could get his pistol off him – and some bullets as well. He wouldn’t even have to worry about swearing the man to secrecy, since he wouldn’t be able to talk English.

Feeling suddenly cheerful, he brought his mind back to the game in hand and nodded.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Stones aren’t allowed.’ He stood up, braving the hail of stones now flying at them from the alleyway across the street, and shouted, ‘The game’s over. You’re cheating, so we’ve won. Come out or we’ll come over and take you prisoner.’

For answer, the biggest stone of all came flying towards him. He ducked, and two things happened very quickly.

From immediately behind him came the sound of splintering glass as the stone smashed into a greenhouse. And from above, from all around, vibrating in the very ground beneath their feet, came the howl of the air-raid siren.

It swelled through the air, filling the sky, spreading over their heads, shrieking its way through the streets, between the houses, along the alleyways and into every narrow passage. It forced its way into houses and woke babies in their cots; it startled old men and women dozing in chairs. It transfixed lovers in quiet corners, and froze women standing at stoves as they cooked their families’ suppers. It shrieked at people on the way home from work, leaving them stunned as the unearthly wail rose and fell about them. And as the droning sound died away at last, everyone turned their eyes to the sky to see the approaching aircraft.

There was a moment’s silence and then the street erupted into action. Families poured from houses into their gardens, making for the shelters. Firewatchers hurried out, dragging heavy stirrup-pumps and still fastening on tin helmets. An air-raid warden cycled past, intent on reaching his post, never noticing the children. There was a tumult of shouting, of panic, of orders yelled and frightened screams. And then, again, silence as the shelters were reached and closed.

The boys huddled together by the wall. They could hear the faint throb of the planes as they neared the coast. They looked at each other, their faces pale, eyes wide.

‘What shall we do?’ Tim muttered. ‘We ought to be in shelters too.’ They all knew what they should be doing. They had rehearsed it often enough. But their rehearsals had always been on the assumption that they would be close to a shelter – either their own, at home, or in their own street or at school. Here, they were on alien territory, in a street where they were not supposed to be playing, and they would as soon have thought of going into someone else’s shelter as they would have thought of walking uninvited into the house.

He noticed that somehow the Indians had come across the road and joined them. The catapults dangled from their hands. It didn’t seem to matter now that they’d been cheating. Martin Baker was looking white and scared but Cyril Nash’s eyes were bright. And Jimmy, although within a hundred yards of his own home, was making no effort to run for shelter.

‘They’re coming,’ he breathed, his voice wobbly with excitement. ‘I can hear ’em now. Listen. Look!’

The boys craned their necks. Away to the south, where Southsea Common met the sea, they could see a black cloud of aircraft, like starlings gathering for their evening roost. They approached steadily, their engines snarling, and as they came over the city itself, Tim saw the first of the bombs begin to fall.

They dropped like black eggs from the belly of the aircraft and tumbled slowly towards the earth. He stared at them, fascinated. His eyes watched as they descended, falling through the network of balloons that floated above the city, falling towards the ships in the harbour, falling towards the Dockyard where his father worked, falling, falling, falling …

The explosion shook the ground under his feet and thundered through the air in great waves of brutal sound that battered against his ears and tore at his body. Almost before it hit him, he flung himself to the ground, and the six boys huddled together on the pavement while the first air-raid of the war stormed over Portsmouth.

Jess Budd stood at the front door of number 14, April Grove, holding her baby daughter Maureen in her arms, and watched her sons scamper along the street. She looked up at the blue sky and shivered. For a moment, she was almost inclined to call them back, but before she could raise her voice Peggy Shaw opened her front door and came out to stand beside her.

‘Making the most of the fine evenings,’ she remarked. ‘What’re you going to do about your kids, Jess? Are they going back to the country?’

‘Oh, yes. We only had them home for the wedding. Rose wanted to be bridesmaid, and we had to give our Olive a day to remember – she’s got precious little else. But Frank says there’s going to be bad raids soon and the children have got to be out of it.’

‘And are you going too?’

Jess shook her head firmly. ‘I’m stopping here. I had enough of being away all through the winter. And Frank needs his wife to look after him.’ She looked down at Maureen, who was wriggling in an effort to get down, and set her down to toddle on the pavement. ‘I know it means keeping the baby at home too, but there’s nothing we can do about that.’

‘Well, I won’t say I shan’t be glad to have you back next door,’ Peggy commented. ‘It felt really queer all those months, without you about. And the street’s like a morgue without Tim and Keith and the other kids playing out there. I’ll be sorry to see them go. Mind, I wouldn’t moan if it was Micky Baxter. The mischief that boy gets up to, you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Maybe when the raids start Nancy’ll change her mind and send him off after all.’ Jess looked up again at the evening sky. It was still blue, with only a faint flush of apricot to show that the sun was beginning to go down. It was good that the weather had been fine these past few weeks, so that Frank could get over to the allotment and work in the fresh air. It blew all the dust of the Dockyard boiler-shop out of his lungs and he always looked a bit happier when he came home with a basket full of gooseberries or blackcurrants or vegetables that he’d grown himself. ‘You just can’t believe there’s people out there killing each other,’ she said. ‘Bits of boys like your Bob and our Colin, climbing into aeroplanes and coming over to drop bombs on people they’ve never ever seen. And our lads –’

Her words were drowned by the shriek of the siren. Maureen began to scream in panic and Jess bent and scooped her up in her arms, holding her close. She looked at Peggy Shaw, her face white.

‘Is it another false alarm?’

‘I don’t know.’ Peggy stared at her. ‘We ought to go down the shelter, just in case …’

‘But the boys – Tim and Keith. They’re out playing somewhere. And Rose – she went up to the Brunners –’

‘She’ll go in their shelter then.’

Jess bit her lip in a torment of indecision. ‘I’ll have to go out and find the boys. Can you take the baby for me, Peg?’

People were coming out into the street, looking fearfully at the sky, asking each other if it was real. They heard the throb of aeroplanes.

‘That’s not our lads!’ They had grown used to the sound of British aircraft, but this was different. There was a snarl in the sound, a menace as if a vicious dog was growling deep in its throat. Jess caught her breath.

‘That’s it! They’re here. Oh, Peg –’

‘Down the air-raid shelter, quick,’ Peggy said. ‘There’s no time to waste. I can hear the guns. Quick, Jess.’

‘But the boys – Rose – Frank … they’re out there somewhere – I can’t just –’

‘You can’t go looking for ’em, either.’ Peggy’s hand was on her arm, pulling her back through the door. ‘Jess, you can’t go out in the streets, you’ll just have to hope they’ve got the sense to make for shelter. They know what to do, we’ve all practised it enough, goodne