Under the Apple Tree (22 page)

looking forward to an evening spent playing cards or

listening to the wireless. The sirens wailed, cutting into

their comfortable plans, and once more they ran down their

gardens to huddle in their shelters, or went out to fight the

fires that tore through their homes and workplaces. Once

more, ambulances and fire engines raced through streets

blocked with rubble; once more, the Emergency Centres

were filled with homeless people while First-Aid Posts

tended the injured.

It was going to be another bad night. They knew it from

the incessant snarl of German aircraft overhead, from the

open roar of Allied planes, from the silvery net of

searchlights lighting up the sky, from the staccato rattle of

ack-ack. And, most of all, from the thunderous explosions

that shook the ground, rattling doors and windows, making

the very walls tremble. By dawn, there would be more

hundreds made homeless, more families bereaved, more

patients crowding in the city’s hospitals - and if the

hospitals themselves were hit, as each one had been in

previous raids, more desperation as to where they could be

taken.

Gladys Shaw was out with her ambulance, racing through

streets that were lit by incendiaries and fire. Peggy was at

her First-Aid Post. Annie Chapman and Judy were at the

Emergency Centre, making an endless supply of hot soup,

cocoa and tea for the people who straggled in, lost and

bewildered, often bleeding, their homes damaged or

destroyed, their lives shattered.

As usual, Judy was ready to help in any capacity manning

a canteen somewhere amidst all the bombs,

rushing off to set up an Enquiry Centre somewhere for

people to report to, or to start the hunt for missing relatives,

helping with First Aid for those who stumbled in, hurt, but

not seriously enough to be sent to hospital.

She was bandaging a cut head for an old woman who had

been sheltering under her stairs when she heard her name

spoken and glanced up. ‘Polly!’

‘Judy.’ Polly was looking anxious. ‘I came in to see if

there was anyone who could come on the van with me. The

Red Cross nurse never turned up. But it looks as if you’re

pretty busy here.’

‘I don’t know — there are a few more volunteers here

now.’ Judy glanced around and called to one that she knew:

‘Susan, could you take over here? My aunt needs someone

on her ambulance - I’ll go with her.’ She followed Polly into

the fire-raddled, bomb-torn night and they scurried out to

the old van that had been converted to an ambulance. Polly

had been out at night quite a lot by now, learning to see in

what little glow was allowed from the narrow slits of light

from her headlamps. It was almost a luxury, she thought,

having all this light from the fires and the incendiaries, but

not a luxury she welcomed. Every raddled glow meant

someone’s home or property on fire, every gleam of light a

broken heart.

There was no other light to be had. With the first stick of

bombs, the city’s electricity system had failed and the city

was plunged into darkness. Only those places, such as

hospitals, which possessed their own emergency generators,

still had light. For the rest, out came the hurricane lanterns, the candles, the torches with their precious, dwindling

batteries. None of these things would last for ever, and

nobody knew where the next candle, battery or half-pint of

paraffin would come from. If you could manage without

light, you did.

They were accustomed to the sirens going almost every

night, accustomed to nights when just a few bombs fell,

accustomed to nights when there was no bombing at all and

you just listened to planes going over on their way to raid

some other unfortunate city, and waited for the All Clear to sound. But tonight had a worse feeling about it. It was frighteningly similar to those other two nights when the bombing had been so severe it had been called a ‘Blitz’. The

aircraft filled the night sky with their roar, as if there were a huge cloud of them up there, blacking out the stars and the

moon — the ‘Bomber’s Moon’ - each one loaded with bombs

and letting them fall over Portsmouth. It was as if it didn’t

matter any more whether they fell on the Dockyard, on the ships in the harbour, on the Naval establishments and military barracks, or on simple two-up, two-down terraced

homes like those in April Grove. It was as if so long as

people were injured and killed, so long as buildings were

damaged and destroyed, the pilots could go home satisfied at

having done their job.

Gladys Shaw was out in her ambulance as well. Polly and

Judy had seen it as they set off — a battered old van in even

worse condition than theirs - and Gladys had given them a

murderous look as she swung the crank-handle. ‘I’m fed up

with this!’ she’d yelled. ‘Bloody fed up! I was going out with

Graham tonight, and, now flaming Hitler’s messed it all up

again. I’m sick of him - bloody sick of him!’

She’d swung the van out into the road and Polly and Judy

gave each other a grimace. ‘We’re all fed up,’ Polly said,

starting her own van. ‘We’ve had nearly enough of this,

Judy. But we’ve got to carry on, all the same.’

‘She doesn’t mean she’s giving in,’ Judy said, scrambling

into the seat beside her. ‘She just means she’d like to wring

his neck.’ So would I, she thought, thinking regretfully of

her own date with Chris and wondering if he had been the

first to spot and identify the new wave of attacking aircraft.

‘Who’s Graham, anyway?’

Polly put her foot cautiously on the accelerator. The van

was liable to pretend it wasn’t going to move, then suddenly

leap forward, to the danger of anyone who happened to be

standing near. ‘I think it’s Graham Philpotts, that young

matelot Betty Chapman knocked about with for a while. His

family used to live round here when I was still at home,

before they moved over to Gosport. Where are we supposed

to be going, Judy?’

‘Maddens. It’s on fire.’ Maddens was a big hotel on the

corner of the Guildhall Square. If that had been hit, there

were bound to be casualties, unless they’d all got into the

shelter before the bombing started. Whether the ambulance

would ever get there or not was another question: they were

sure to pass other emergencies on their way to the city

centre, and you couldn’t just drive past people desperate to

get some injured friend to a First-Aid Post or hospital.

There was the added problem of finding your way through

streets that had been bombed already and were blocked with

fallen masonry, or full of other ambulances as well as fire

engines with hoses tangled like snakes all over the road — and all this in pitch darkness lit only by jagged flames or roaring infernos that warned you to reverse swiftly out of

their heat. It took hours to get anywhere, and more than

once Polly stopped while Judy tried to find out exactly

where they were. ‘I thought I knew this place,’ she said

despairingly, ‘but we could be in the middle of Liverpool for

all I can recognise now.’

At last they reached their destination, only to find that the

casualties had already been removed. A fireman, his

reddened eyes staring out of a face streaked with soot, yelled

at them to get out of the way, Polly slammed the van into

reverse once more to get out of range of the flames, then

jerked to a stop and leaped out as a man jumped out in front

of the van, waving his arms. ‘What is it? Someone hurt?’

‘It’s me mum,’ he shouted. His voice was drowned by the

roar of the planes and the thunder of the bombs, but she

could read the message in his lips and see the terror in his

eyes. ‘She’s got caught under something — oh my God, it’s

awful. Come and help, miss, please, you gotta help!’ He

had hold of Polly’s arm, dragging her across the road. Judy

snatched up the First-Aid haversack and scurried after

them, her heart thumping. They ran down a narrow alley

and found themselves in a huddle of old houses, hidden

behind the Theatre Royal and the small shops and offices that occupied the buildings along the main road. I never even knew all this existed, Judy thought, her old fear of confined spaces returning as she stared up at the high walls

that surrounded them, but there was no time for panic. The

man was tugging her towards a tall building, one of several

around a tiny, dank courtyard that probably never saw the

light of day. The building was half-collapsed, its front wall

sagging dangerously over the paving stones, and the lower

floor was in ruins.

‘She’s in-there?’ Polly asked, stopping, and Judy, close

behind her, stared in dismay at the wreckage. ‘Your

mother’s in there?’

He jerked her arm impatiently. ‘That’s what I said, innit?

She’s got a coupla rooms there - there’s no shelter or

nothing, and she wouldn’t go down the public, says there’s

rats. For Gawd’s sake, can’t you do nothing? She’s trapped,

there’s summat over her leg, I can’t get her out and she’s

crying and moaning something awful.’ He stared at the two

women, his face working with fear. ‘I arst a fireman but

they’re all too busy with Maddens and all round there. The

station’s bin hit, and the Post Office and McIlroy’s - it’s

bloody chaos - and the ARP ain’t no good, too bloody busy

going round telling people to put lights out. Lights!’ He cast

a bitter glance at the raddled glow of the sky. ‘There ain’t no bloody lights to put out, they done in the electric again, and

my poor old mum …’ Once again, he jerked Polly’s arm.

‘Can’t you do nothing?’

Polly shook herself and hurried forward. The wall of the

house sloped out perilously above her; she gave it one glance

and decided not to look again. The man urged her through

the doorway of the building and she crouched to scramble

under the leaning architrave. The door was stuck half-open

and she had to wriggle past it, praying all the time that the

building was not about to collapse on top of her. Behind her,

she could feel Judy following, and a moment later the room

was lit by the thin beam of the torch.

‘Oh, my God,’ Polly breathed, and heard Judy draw in

her breath.

The room was small and you could see that even before

the bomb had fallen it had been no more than a slum. The

walls had old cracks as well as new - cracks that were thick

with black dirt and mould. The one wall that was left

undamaged was encrusted with a huge patch of damp,

riddled with fungus. Half the ceiling had come down in a

muddle of laths and plaster. The fireplace was filled with

soot and rubble from the chimney, and didn’t look as if

there had been a fire in it for months, despite the bitter

weather. The only furniture was an old table, now

smothered with dust and rubble, a broken armchair and a

chamber pot.

In one corner was a heap of what looked like old blankets

and possibly a mattress, and on this lay an old woman. She

was crumpled like a broken toy, her face creased with fear

and pain, and across the lower part of her body lay a large

beam of wood which had fallen in from the wall. There was

more rubble all around her, and it was a miracle that her

upper body had not been crushed as well.

Polly and Judy scrambled across the room and knelt

beside her. Polly touched the withered cheek.

‘My name’s Polly Dunn. I’ve come to help you. Tell me

where it hurts.’

‘Every bleedin’ where,’ the woman muttered. Her voice

sounded like a creaking gate and every word came with

difficulty. ‘Bleedin’ Jerries.’

Polly cast a swift glance over the woman’s chest and

shoulders. There was no blood and she ran gentle fingers

over her. Apart from a few swear words, the woman made

no response. There didn’t appear to be anything broken

there, and Polly heaved a sigh of relief.

The pelvis and legs were a different matter. From the

waist down, the old woman was pinned beneath the beam

and a mound of bricks and mortar. There were probably

dreadful injuries there, and even moving the weight from

her body could cause more harm. Polly stared at the sight,

biting her lips and wondering what to do. She glanced

uncertainly at Judy and as she did so the woman groaned

and began to vomit.

‘She’s bleeding, look,’ Judy whispered, pointing at the

rubble, and Polly saw a stream of blood trickling between

the bricks and soaking the dust and plaster. ‘If we don’t

manage to-stop it—’

Polly nodded sharply. The woman would bleed to death.

‘We’ve got to get the stuff off her. But carefully. Where’s

the son?’

‘I’m here.’ The man came forward, staring fearfully at the

mess. ‘Is she going to be all right? Ma?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll do our best, but it’s dangerous - we

don’t know what the injuries are. We’ve got to stop the

bleeding, so the first thing to do is get some of this rubble