Under the Apple Tree (14 page)

navy-blue woollen gloves over the rail on the front of the

stove before holding one of his hands out to Polly and

smiling at the girls. ‘I was expecting Mrs Tupper.’

‘She couldn’t come. She’s got ‘flu. My name’s Polly

Dunn, I brought the girls from Portsmouth.’

‘How kind of you. How very kind.’ The vicar beamed at

her, then turned to the girls and dropped to one knee so as

to be able to look into their faces. He was like a spider, Polly thought, or one of those stick insects they’d once had in the

classroom at school - all long, thin arms and legs that looked

as if they ought to have at least two elbows or knees each.

But his smile was as wide, as joyous and as unforced as a

baby’s, as if - like Mrs Mudge - he was really pleased and

happy to see them.

‘How very good to see you both,’ he said, taking one of the girls’ hands in each of his. ‘How very, very good to have

you here with us. I hope you’ll be very happy here.’

They stared back at him without expression. Then Stella

said bluntly, ‘Our mummy’s dead. She was killed by a

bomb. And our baby, too.’

There was a brief, appalled silence. Polly put a hand to

her burning face. It was a clear reproach, as if to say ‘How do you expect us to be happy, here or anywhere else?’ But Mr

Beckett didn’t seem at all put out by it. He nodded gravely,

his smile put away for the moment, and drew them a little

closer. ‘

‘I know, my dears, and I’m very, very sorry. You must

miss her so much. I lost my own mother when I was just the

same age as you.’

They looked at him uncertainly. ‘Did you?’ Stella asked

at last.

‘Yes, I did. She was riding a horse and it jumped a fence

that was too high. She fell off and her back was broken. She

never woke up again.’ There was a moment of quiet, then he

said, ‘I was very unhappy about it for a long time. I’m still unhappy about it. But do you know what happened? After a while, I found I could still be happy about other things. And

that will happen to you too, as time goes on. So I hope

you’ll be very happy here with us — even though I know

you’ll never stop being unhappy about your mother, and

you’ll always miss her.’

There was another moment of quiet. Polly was aware of

Tim and Keith standing in the doorway, their eyes fixed on

the vicar’s thin, stooping back. She was struck by the

expression in their eyes. It’s the sort of look boys only give

to someone they really think a lot of, she thought - an older

boy or a teacher, or a father — and a sense of warmth stole

across her heart.

Muriel took a deep breath. She nodded matter-of-factly

at the vicar, then let go of his hand and looked up at Mrs Mudge.

‘I’m hungry,’ she said in her small, clear voice. ‘Can we

have our dinner now?’

The rabbit stew was, Polly thought, the best meal she had

eaten for months. It was followed by a rice pudding and

then Mrs Mudge made a large pot of tea and set it on the

middle of the table.

‘You children can go and play now,’ she said. ‘Put your

Wellingtons on, and your coats and scarves. Have both you

girls got gloves?’

‘Mittens,’ Stella said, holding them up. ‘Auntie Jess

knitted them. She was teaching me,’ she added proudly.

‘Well, that’s good. I’ll go on teaching you, then. We can

do with some more knitters around here to make things for

soldiers and sailors.’ Mrs Mudge buttoned Muriel into her

coat. ‘Tim and Keith will take you out and show you their

snowman, won’t you, boys? And you can go for a walk

round the village. The boys know most of the people here

now, so you don’t need to worry about anything. You look

after them, now, boys.’

Tim, who had been talking about a snowball fight that

had been arranged between the evacuees and the village

children, looked somewhat disgruntled by this instruction,

but the vicar gave him a firm look and he went without

argument. In any case, Stella, who had recovered her normal

assertiveness, was already taking charge. ‘We’ll look at the

snowman first,’ she was saying as they went out through the

back door, ‘and then you can take us to look at that pond.

There were some boys sliding near it…’

The door closed behind them and Mr Beckett smiled. ‘I

foresee a few battles there. Tim won’t like being bossed

about by a girl, and that’s the boys’ slide.’

Polly grinned back. ‘Not now Stella’s here. I haven’t

known her long, but I can tell you this - anything a boy can

do, Stella can do better! I don’t think you’ll have any problems getting her to settle, Mr Beckett. I’m not so sure

about Muriel, though. Stella mothers her a lot, but she’s a

sensitive little girl and she’s been through so much in this

past year. She may need some extra care.’

‘Well, she’s come to the right place for that,’ Mr Beckett

said, warming his long, thin hands round his cup of tea.

‘Mrs Mudge and I have had quite a lot of experience in

looking after children now, haven’t we, Mrs Mudge? I think

both those little girls will settle in very well. They can be

safe and happy, and forget about war now. They can be

children again, as God intended them to be.’

Polly glanced at the housekeeper and was surprised to

catch the expression on her face. She was looking at the

vicar in just the same way as Tim and Keith had looked at

him when he was talking to the little girls. As if she thought

the world of him. And there was an added tenderness in her

face that reminded Polly of Jess Budd, when she looked at

the photograph of her two sons.

Tenderness, and indulgence for boys and their ways. But

Mr Beckett wasn’t a boy. He was an elderly man.

Polly finished her tea and thanked them both before

gathering together her coat and gloves and getting ready to

walk back to the station for the return journey to Portsmouth.

As they went outside, she saw the four children

careering madly round the big garden, hurling snowballs at

each other. One caught Mr Beckett on the shoulder and as

Polly gasped in dismay he chuckled and bent to gather up a

handful of snow.

‘I’ll show you!’ he yelled, flinging a huge snowball that

caught Tim full in the chest. ‘I’ll show the lot of you!’

Polly and Mrs Mudge looked at each other, and the

housekeeper raised her eyes to heaven and spread out her

hands.

‘Boys!’ she said. ‘They never grow up …’

When Polly reached the station the aged porter told her that

there wouldn’t be a Portsmouth train for another two hours.

‘That’s if it comes at all,’ he added, with some

satisfaction. ‘Never know where you are with the times these

days.’

‘Two hours!’ Polly looked at the station clock and

wondered what to do. She didn’t like to go back to the

vicarage, even though she was sure Mrs Mudge would be

kindness itself, and it was too cold to stand on the icy

platform all that time. I suppose I’ll just have to go for a

walk, she thought. But it’ll be getting dark in an hour or

so …

As she stood there, gazing at the unhelpful face of the

porter, she heard the whistle of an approaching train and

turned quickly. To her disappointment, it was heading away

from Portsmouth, towards Salisbury. A sudden idea struck

her.

‘Does that train stop at Ashwood? The little halt just

before Romsey?’

‘It do,’ he admitted unwillingly.

‘Then I’ll get on that and catch the Portsmouth train back

from there,’ she said. ‘I can go and see my daughter.’

‘You’ll need a ticket.’

‘Well, you can sell me one, can’t you? A return ticket?

Then I can come back here and use my Portsmouth return

for the rest of the journey. Hurry up,’ she urged him as the

train drew up at the platform. The guard got out and she

waved to him. ‘Don’t go yet, please! I’m just buying a

ticket!’ The porter, evidently unable to think of any reason

why not, was shuffling reluctantly towards his little office

and she ran after him. ‘Oh, please hurry!’

Begrudgingly, he made out the ticket and Polly handed

him the money and ran out on to the platform again. The

guard was holding a door open and she leaped aboard and

threw herself down into a seat. For once, the train wasn’t

crowded and there was only one other person in the

compartment - a man with wavy, iron-grey hair brushed

back from a broad forehead, wearing a shabby greatcoat and

khaki woollen gloves. He grinned at her as she flung herself

down, and said, ‘You only just made it, love.’

Polly looked at him. His voice was deep and warm, with a

London accent, and he had a good-natured face, with three

corrugated lines on his forehead that somehow added to the

twinkle in his dark brown eyes. She smiled back.

‘I didn’t think the man was going to let me have a ticket.

He doesn’t seem to like passengers.’

‘I ‘spect he thinks they make the station look untidy,’ the

man said. ‘You can’t see what it’s like now, with all the snow

and ice, but in spring and summer it’s a real picture. He

wins prizes for the Best Station Garden — I reckon he thinks

trains and passengers are a bit of a nuisance. They get in the

way of his garden!’

Polly laughed. ‘Well, you’d think he’d have been glad to

get rid of me, then. I just think he wanted to be awkward.’

There was a slight pause and then the man said, ‘You

don’t live at Bridge End, then?’

Polly shook her head. ‘No, I’m from Portsmouth. I’ve

just been taking two little girls to an evacuation billet.’

He looked concerned. ‘But this train ain’t going to

Portsmouth - it’s just come from there. You’re going the

wrong way, love.’

‘No, I’m going on to Ashwood to see my own little girl.

There isn’t a train back to Portsmouth for two hours, so I

thought I’d take the chance. It’s only a short journey - I’ll

just have time to see her before I have to go back. I haven’t

seen her since Christmas,’ she added wistfully, ‘and a lot’s

happened since then.’

‘You’re telling me.’ The corrugated lines on his forehead

deepened a little. ‘Had a big raid in Pompey last month,

didn’t you? Were you there through that?’

Polly nodded. ‘We were bombed out.’ She stopped

suddenly, wondering if she had said too much, then decided

that even if spies or Fifth Columnists were listening there

wasn’t much worth reporting back to Hitler about the fact

that the Taylors and Polly Dunn had been bombed out, or

that little Stella and Muriel Simmons had been sent to

Bridge End. All the same, you never knew who you might

be talking to and she resolved to watch her words.

Portsmouth was an important city and almost any snippet of

information might be of use to the enemy.

‘Bombed out?’ he echoed. ‘Here, that’s rough. Were you

inside the house, or did you manage to get to a shelter?’

‘Oh yes, we always went down there. We lost everything,

but at least we were all right. We’re lucky too, because we

could go and stay with my mother. And Sylvie - my little

girl - was already out in the country so she wasn’t there.’

He shook his head. ‘Bloody awful, all the same, if you’ll

pardon my French.’ He glanced at her uniform. ”I see you’re

in the WVS.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Polly said, pleased that he had recognised it.

‘You know about the WVS, then?’

The man laughed. ‘I ought to! My sister works at the

Headquarters in London - 41 Tothill Street. She never

stops telling me about all the good work they do - if I wasn’t

a man she’d have recruited me long ago. Mind you, she’s

right - they do wonderful work. All the things nobody else

will do.’

‘Well, we’re not dogsbodies,’ Polly said, ‘but I suppose

it’s true that there just doesn’t seem to be anyone else to do

a lot of the jobs we take on. But that’s because in wartime

there are a lot of new jobs to do, like taking children out to the country — it just doesn’t happen in peacetime.’

”S right. And we’re lucky there are women like you ready

to do them.’ He grinned at her. ‘Tell you what, I reckon this

war’ll be won by you women. Not by fighting, I don’t mean

that, but ‘cause you’re always there on the spot, ready to do

whatever’s needed to keep the country running. Look at all

the young girls who’re joining up now, so that the men can

go and fight - and all the others like the WVS and that,

doing all sorts of work, driving buses and ambulances,

farming, you name it - and still managing to keep homes

going for their menfolk and kiddies.’ He nodded. ‘Without

them, I reckon the war would’ve been lost from the very

start.’

Polly gazed at him. ‘You really mean that?’

‘I do. I really do.’ Their eyes met and Polly felt a thrill of

warmth touch her heart. The man looked out of the

window. ‘Here, look, we’re just coming into Ashwood now.

Well, it’s been a real pleasure to meet you, love.’ He smiled