Under the Apple Tree (10 page)

brightly, ‘You’ve seen my boys in the street, I expect, before

they went away?’

‘The whole school went to Bridge End, did they?’ Polly

asked, trying to get the picture straight in her head.

. ‘That’s right. The teachers are there, too - Miss Langrish

and the others. They’re happy enough there. Well, mostly,’

she added, remembering the children like Martin Baker and

the little Atkinsons who had not been at all happy. ‘They didn’t all get good billets, I’m afraid. But the girls would be all right at the vicarage.’

‘What about the father? Do they have any other relatives?’

Jess frowned, trying to remember. ‘Well, Mr Simmons is

in the Merchant Navy, he doesn’t get home very often, of

course. As for other relatives - well, I got the impression

there weren’t many. They’re not Pompey people anyway.

Kathy told me once they both came from Basingstoke. Her

parents died when she was a kiddy and she was brought up

by her gran, but the old lady’s over ninety now. And I think she said her hubby’s mother was in a home - doesn’t really know what’s going on.’

‘It doesn’t look as if they’re going to be much help,’ Polly

said. She looked down at her notebook. ‘They’re staying

with you at the moment, is that right? But I expect you’d

rather they were evacuated.’

‘I don’t mind having them at all, but I think they ought to

be somewhere safe. The poor little mites have been bombed

out twice and they’re terrified every time we hear a plane go

over. We’ve had to go down the shelter quite a few times

already since the big raid, and you can see they’re almost out

of their minds with fear, especially Muriel, the younger one.

And Stella’s like a little old woman - you’d think she was

carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. They

need to be somewhere they can feel safe and start to be

children again.’

Polly nodded. ‘We can certainly contact the vicar and see

if he’d be willing to take them. What’s his name?’

‘Mr Beckett. But I think I ought to talk to their father

first - he’s hoping to be able to get back and see them soon.

His ship comes back to Pompey, you see, for supplies. I

wouldn’t like him to come and find them not here, not when

he’s lost his wife and baby boy as well.’

‘Well, we’ll wait a little while,’ Polly agreed, ‘but we can’t

leave it too long. As you say, they ought to be somewhere

safe.’ She put her notebook away and stood up. ‘Thanks, Mrs Budd. It’s been nice to talk to you.’ She glanced around

the small room. ‘You’ve got a lovely place here.’

‘We do our best to keep it nice,’ Jess said modestly.

‘Frank does a lot of work on it - woodwork and decorating,

and that - at least, he did when you could still get the

materials. It’s not rented, you see, like most of the houses

round here. Frank wanted his own place - likes his

independence, and likes to be able to do what he wants with

his home. A lot of his mates said he was daft, taking on a

mortgage, said it’d be a millstone round his neck, but we’ve

never regretted it. He always says he’d sooner put the

money into his own bricks and mortar than pay rent for the

rest of his life.’ She looked round proudly. ‘It’s been a real

struggle at times, but this house will be ours one day, with

no more to pay - well, that’s if the Germans let it!’

Polly nodded. Before Johnny was killed, they’d rented

two rooms, and even Dick and Cissie’s house had been

rented. Her mother Alice had been lucky to be able to stay

in the house at the other end of the street, where Polly and

Cissie had grown up, after her husband had died in the ‘flu

epidemic after the Great War, but she was still paying rent.

Frank and Jess Budd had been sensible, she thought, as well

as brave to take on such a commitment.

‘Well, let’s hope they do,’ she said, referring to the

Germans. ‘It’s no picnic, being bombed out, I can tell you.’

Jess’s face softened in sympathy. ‘Yes, I heard about your

trouble. It must have been a terrible shock, coming out of

the shelter to find everything gone. Thank goodness you

were all down there, though. I’ve heard of people who just

popped indoors to make a cup of cocoa … well, look at

Kathy, killed in just those few minutes. It doesn’t bear

thinking of.’

Polly walked back up the icy street towards her mother’s

house. No it didn’t bear thinking of, but you had to think

about it when it happened to you. There were a lot of things

these days that didn’t bear thinking of, but you had to do so all the same. Things like her Johnny, drowning or blown up

at sea — she would never know just what had happened to

him. And their little daughter Sylvie, out in the country

near Romsey, living with strangers. They were kind enough

to her, Polly knew that, but it wasn’t right, a kiddy of seven

living with people she didn’t know. And how long was it

going to be before she could come home and be with her

mummy again? Nobody knew.

‘You’re Mrs Thomas’s girl, Polly!’ a cracked voice

exclaimed, making her jump. ‘I knowed you when you was a

little ‘un. Come back to stop with your ma then, I hear.’

‘Mrs Kinch!’ Polly said, stopping. ‘Yes, we were bombed

out of “our house, so me and Cissie and her husband, and

their Judy, have all come back to April Grove. It seems

funny, being back where I was born,’ she added, glancing

along the street where she had played so often as a child.

‘Ah, I remember you two, skipping and playing two-ball

up against the walls.’ The old woman looked just the same

as always, Polly thought, her thin grey hair wound tightly

into metal curlers and covered with a brown net. ‘My Nancy

often talks about you - she’ll be pleased you’re back. You

can come in and have a cuppa tea with us one of these days,

have a bit of a chinwag about old times.’ She peered at

Polly’s green uniform. ‘You joined up then, have you?

Which Service is that?’

‘It’s not one of the Armed Services. It’s the WVS - die

Women’s Voluntary Service. Anyone can volunteer,’ Polly

said proudly. ‘We do all sorts of things - help people who’ve

been bombed out, run tea-stalls down by the docks, take

children to be evacuated, collect scrap - anything that needs

doing. Nancy could join if she wanted to,’ she added a little

doubtfully.

Granny Kinch cackled. ‘My Nancy’s already doing her

bit towards the war effort,’ she said, confirming Alice’s

remarks about Nancy Baxter. ‘But you carry on, young

Polly, there’s plenty of other comforts our boys need these

days. Anyway, I can’t stand here nattering all day, I got our

Micky’s dinner to get. He does a bit of work down Charlotte

Street market; brought home a nice string of pork sausages

last night, he did, and he’ll expect ‘em on the table when he

comes in.’ She grinned toothlessly at Polly and went

indoors.

Polly opened the door of number nine and went inside,

smiling. Her brother-in-law was in his armchair, a piece of

canvas spread over his knees as he hooked bits of coloured

material into it. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘what’s tickled you?’

‘Granny Kinch. Just said she couldn’t stand nattering at

the front door all day. I thought that was all she ever did!

You know, she doesn’t look a scrap different from how she

looked when I was a little girl - I think she must have been

born toothless and with curlers in her hair.’

Dick grinned. ‘I don’t know about the curlers but I

expect she was born toothless. Look, what d’you think of

my rug? Bit of all right, isn’t it? I’m getting proper nifty

with this hook.’

‘You are,’ Polly said, admiring it. ‘Some family’s going to

be pleased with that to put in front of their fire.’ She sighed and sat down in the other armchair. ‘It’s awful, though,

Dick, when you think of it. I’ve just been down to see Mrs

Budd about those two little Simmons girls. There must be

hundreds of kiddies like them, lost their homes and parents.

It’s so tragic’

‘You weren’t much older when you lost your own dad,’ Dick said, ‘so you can understand what it’s like for them.

And it’s the same for your Sylvie. D’you reckon you’ll be

able to get out to see her soon?’

‘I hope so. It’s just that with everything so upside down

all over the city, and now we’ve got all this snow, there’s

hardly any trains or buses running and they’re needed for

getting people evacuated.’ She looked into the fire, thinking

of her daughter. ‘I’m glad I had her home for Christmas. At

least we all had a few days together then for Terry’s bit of leave, but I’m even more glad I made her go back. I felt

awful when she begged me to let her stay, but it was the

right thing to do.’

Dick rolled up his work and got up. He went out to the

scullery and filled the kettle. The gas was back on now, as

well as the electricity, and soon the kettle was whistling and

he made the tea and brought in two cups.

‘Here. You look a bit done up. It’s upset you, talking to

Jess Budd.’

‘I think it has, a bit.’ Polly stirred a saccharin tablet into

her tea and sipped it. ‘I want to help, Dick, and I’m glad I

joined the WVS, but it does bring it home to you what

terrible things are happening. Not that we need it bringing

home to us - I think we’ve had our share already. But it

seems worse, somehow, when it’s other people. You can see

that some of them just can’t cope with it. It’s in their eyes they look sort of lost and bewildered. They’re like little

children.’

‘It’s shock,’ Dick said. ‘I’ve seen plenty of it, Polly.

They’ll be all right after a bit - at least, they would be if

they had a chance of some peace and quiet. But that’s just

what we don’t get, isn’t it?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s as if the Germans are just

banging away at us all the time. They knock us down and

then hit us again, just as we’re getting up. Nobody gets a

chance to recover from one blow before the next one knocks

them for six. You just don’t know what’s going to happen

next.’ She glanced up at the mantelpiece. ‘Is that a letter for our Judy?’

Dick nodded. ‘Came by second post. Got an Irish stamp

on it. I dare say it’s young Sean’s mother - she writes now

and then, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes, she does. Perhaps she’s got some news from Sean. I

know Judy’s been a bit worried, not hearing from him just

lately.’ Polly looked round as the front door opened and

closed again. ‘I expect that’s her now. There’s a letter here

for you, Judy,’ she called.

Judy burst into the room, her face alight. ‘A letter? From

Sean?’ She held out her hand for the envelope Polly was

taking down from the mantelpiece, and as she caught sight

of the stamp, the colour drained from her face. In the same

instant, Polly remembered her remark a few days earlier.

‘They wouldn’t let me know, would they - not straight away.

They’d send any telegram to his mum, over in Ireland. I’d have

to wait for her to write to me.’

‘Oh Judy,’ she said, getting up quickly. ‘Oh, Judy …’

Only Polly could give Judy any comfort during the dark

days that followed.

The Southampton, a cruiser, had been sunk on 11 January

- the day after the Blitz on Portsmouth. Perhaps, Judy

thought, Sean had been dying at the very moment she and

the family had crawled out of their Anderson and stared in

horror at the wreckage of their home. Or, if not then, it

must have been at some other moment during that dreadful

day - as they walked into the Emergency Centre, perhaps,

or while she was struggling to reach the Guildhall, or when

she came into the square and saw the great building going

up in flames, the copper melting in green streaks of fire

down its scorching walls … At some time during that day,

Sean, the merry Irish sailor she’d met and fallen in love with

at a South Parade Pier dance - the laughing young seaman

who had swept her off her feet, begged her to marry him

and given her the tiny diamond she was wearing on her

finger now - had died in the sea he had loved and which had

become his killer. Had he been thinking of her as he died?

Had he called her name, regretted that he would never see

her again? Or had he forgotten everything else in his

desperate struggle to stay alive?

‘It’s no good torturing yourself over it,’ Polly told her as

they huddled together on the single bed in Alice’s back

bedroom. ‘You’ve just got to do your grieving and then

come to terms with it. It’s hard - no one knows that better

than me - but you’ve got to do it.’

‘I can’t,’ Judy sobbed. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him,

Poll. What was it like? If only I knew, if only I could imagine it, I could feel I was sharing it with him then. I could feel that perhaps it wasn’t so lonely. I know that’s stupid, it can’t make any difference to him now - it couldn’t ever make any

difference to him. But it might help me to understand.’

‘I know. I know just what you mean.’ Polly stroked her