Under the Apple Tree (29 page)

with a cup of tea. She put it on the table, sat down, stared at

it for a few moments, then leaned her head on her hands and

burst into tears.

Cissie moved swiftly round the table and took her in her

arms. ‘Oh you poor, poor love.’ She patted her daughter’s

shoulders helplessly, brushed her fair hair out of her eyes,

wiped her face with her hanky. ‘Oh, I know you can’t hear

me. If only I could help you. Oh my poor, poor love - what

are we going to do? What are we going to do?’

‘Sorry,’ Judy choked. ‘Sorry, Mum. Didn’t mean to start

again.’ She dragged in a long, sobbing breath, and leaned

her head wearily on one hand while she felt for her own

hanky with the other. ‘I’m so useless. No good to anyone. I

wanted to do so much.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ Cissie twisted her round so that she

could see her face. Even though her daughter couldn’t hear

her words, she went on, knowing that she could read the

expression on her face. ‘That’s silly and you know it! You’re

not useless!’ She exaggerated the words. ‘Not - useless. You

saved Polly’s life, and you’re alive too. That’s what matters.

And your hearing will come back. You’re not going to be

deaf for ever. The doctor said so.’ She held Judy by the

shoulders, looking intently into her grey eyes. Judy stared

back, almost frozen, and Cissie went on more quietly, ‘It’s

not just that, though, is it? It’s not just your ears. It’s Sean, isn’t it?’

‘Sean,’ Judy whispered, showing that she had understood,

and the wide grey eyes flooded with fresh tears. ‘Sean - oh, Sean.’ Once again, she bent her head and began to sob. ‘Oh Mum, he’s dead! Sean’s dead. He’s never coming back.

We’re never going to be married, or have babies, or anything. We never had any time together.’ She looked down at the ring, now back on her left hand, its tiny

diamond winking in the morning light, and twisted it round

so that the diamond was hidden and it looked like a wedding

band. ‘Oh, Mum.’

‘I know.’ Cissie cradled her head again. Her own eyes

were wet. She and Dick hadn’t been keen on the hasty

engagement, so soon after the young couple had met, but it

was obvious they were head over heels in love, and it was

wartime. And now it was over, so swiftly it was easy to

forget it had ever happened. But Judy had not forgotten.

‘You’ll get over it,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll get over it, in

time.’

But she knew that Judy could not hear her, and wouldn’t

believe her if she could.

The Lady Mayoress agreed that Judy must have some time

off to recover from the shock of the raid and give her

hearing a chance to return. ‘She needs some peace and quiet

away from these incessant raids.’ She gave a small, wry

smile and echoed Cissie’s words: ‘We all do, don’t we! But

Judy’s had a sad time lately. You say her fiance was lost at

sea?’

‘Yes. They hadn’t known each other long. They wanted

to get married before he went away, but there just wasn’t

time and my sister and her husband weren’t keen. Not that

they could have stopped her, of course, because she’s over

twenty-one, but Judy wouldn’t have wanted to go against

their wishes. Now she blames herself because she didn’t just

go ahead. She says she feels she let Sean down, and what

difference would it have made, as things turned out?’

‘Poor girl,’ the Mayoress said. ‘She must certainly have a

few days off, and I agree that it would be ideal for her to get away from Portsmouth for a while. You say you think your

own little girl’s foster parents might take her in?’

‘Yes, they might. And it would be nice for Sylvie to have

her there. I’ll write and ask them.’ Polly went back to

sorting clothes, feeling more optimistic. A week or two in

the country — it sounded like bliss and would surely be just

what Judy needed to set her back on her feet. She’s been

through too much too quickly, Polly thought. And just

because the rest of us have suffered, too, doesn’t mean she

shouldn’t be given the chance to get over it.

The main Clothing Store had been split into several

different sections, each situated in a different part of the city so that even if there were another major raid, at least some

of them should survive. Polly was working this morning in

the Children’s Swap Store, where mothers could come with

the clothes their own children had grown out of and

exchange them for larger sizes.

‘My Johnny’s right out of these flannel shorts and he can

hardly get into this jacket. He’s growing so fast these days.’

‘Have you got a pretty party frock for my Joan? It’s her

twelfth birthday next week and I want to give her a nice

party, with jelly and everything.’

‘Look, I got this skirt and jumper here last week for my

Dottie and it’s all holes already. I’d have thought you’d have

better quality than this, what with it being the Lady

Mayoress’s pigeon and all.’

Polly was constantly amazed by the requests, and even

more so by the quality of some of the clothes brought for

‘swapping’. ‘This pullover looks as if it’s been in a cupboard

for years,’ she said indignantly to one woman who had

tipped a pillowcase full of clothes on to the long trestle table.

‘And a damp cupboard, at that. Look, that’s green mould,

that is.’

‘So what?’ the woman demanded belligerently. She was a

big woman, with a bosom like a shelf and a dark, mannish

face. ‘It’s clothes, innit? You got a notice outside saying

you’ll swap clothes, aincher? Well, I brought some clothes to

swap.’

‘Yes, but,’ Polly hesitated. ‘They’re supposed to be

swapped for children. I mean,’ she corrected herself, aware

of a tittering amongst the queue, ‘for children’s clothes.

This is a man’s pullover. You can’t just come with old

clothes that nobody’s used for years and take away better

ones. How old are your children?’

The woman looked at her and Polly knew at once that she had no children but had simply cleared out a cupboard.

Probably she would sell the clothes and then boast about

having ‘done the Council’. A little worm of anger stirred in

Polly’s stomach.

‘I got six,’ the woman declared. ‘Six, from a six-month

old baby up to a boy of twelve, and they all needs clothes.’

She waved a muscular arm to indicate the festering heap of

rags on the table. ‘You can see what they’ve had to put up

with ever since this bloody war started. Running about in

rags, they are, running about in rags.’

‘I’m surprised they’re still in Portsmouth,’ Polly said

boldly, determined to call the woman’s bluff. ‘Haven’t they

been evacuated?’

The woman hesitated. ‘No. Yes. Well, they was — but

they come back, see, when there wasn’t no raids. Anyway,

the baby couldn’t go without me, now could she, and what

with my hubby being away at sea since the war broke out I

got lonely on me own, and—’

‘Didn’t stay lonely for long then, did you?’ someone in

the queue butted in. ‘Not if the baby’s only six months old!

Come on, Madge Perkins, you know you never got no kids,

so why don’t you take your rubbish and get out? Runs a ragand-bone shop down Rudmore, she does,’ the speaker

continued indignantly, as the woman turned with a fearsome

expression on her face and bunched a massive fist. ‘And her

hubby died years ago - it was the only way he could get

away from her. And you needn’t wave your fists at me,

neither,’ she added, squaring up as the queue joined in with

resentful muttering. ‘I can fight me corner as well as

anyone.’

‘Not in here though, please,’ Polly intervened hastily. She

scooped the rags back into the pillowcase and thrust it at

Madge Perkins. ‘Take this with you and go, please. If you

have clothes to donate - decent clothes, in reasonable

condition - one of the other Clothing Stores will be pleased to receive them.’

‘And give me nothing for ‘em!’ The big woman snatched

up the bag and glared at her. ‘I can’t afford to go giving stuff away. I’m not rolling in money. Call this a charity? You

Council people, you’re all the same, take it all off us in rates and then wants the clothes off our backs as well. I tell you,

I’m doing good work with my trade, work for the war effort.

And as for you, Jean Barstow,’ she turned on the woman

who had challenged her, ‘I’ll have something to say to your

Billy next time he comes round wanting to sell me rags and

bones. I give him too much for the last lot, out of the

goodness of me heart, and look how you repays me!’

She stalked out furiously and the queue made way for

her, glowering and muttering. Mrs Barstow poked her

tongue out at her departing back and then turned to Polly.

‘You don’t want to take no notice of Madge Perkins,

missus. She’d try it on with anyone. She’ll be round all the

stores with that lot, trying to get something for it, and it’s all stuff that other people have chucked out. Trying to get

summat better and then sell it on, that’s what she was doing.

Talk about working for the war effort!’

‘That’s right,’ someone else chimed in. ‘Trying to make

money out of the war. Unpatriotic, I call it.’

The queue murmured in agreement and Polly inspected

the clothes that Mrs Barstow had brought in. There were

two pairs of boys’ flannel shorts, a jacket and a girl’s skirt

and cardigan, both home made. They had all seen better

days and she wasn’t at all sure that she’d be able to pass

them on to anyone else, but she was grateful to the woman

for sending Mrs Perkins packing and wanted to help her.

‘How many children d’you have?’

‘Boy and girl, both ten. They’re twins,’ she added

unnecessarily. ‘They’re not identical though, see, ‘cause

they’re a boy and girl.’

‘Well, I can let you have one pair of shorts and a jacket

for the boy, and there are some skirts over there that might

suit your little girl, and some jumpers and cardigans. I’m

afraid you can only have one of each garment,’ she added

apologetically. ‘Not everything we get brought in is suitable

to be passed on.’

‘Not as bad as Madge’s stuff, though,’ Mrs Barstow said

cheerfully. ‘OK, missus, I’ll have a look through and pick

summat out. The boy’s things’ll be easy enough, but my

Susie’s getting a bit fussy about what she wears now. I tell

her there’s a war on and she’ll have to be grateful for what

she can get, but you know what kiddies are, they don’t really

understand, do they?’ She moved along the table, turning

over the neatly folded garments while Polly turned her

attention to the next customer.

As soon as she had finished, she went home to write to

Mrs Sutton to ask if she could put Judy up for a few days. I

know it’s asking a lot, she wrote, but my niece really does need some peace and quiet, and I don’t know where else to try. We’d

pay for her keep of course, and I know she’d give a hand

wherever she could. She chewed the end of her pen,

wondering how to end the letter. Whatever else she thought

of sounded as if she were trying to make it difficult for Mrs

Sutton to refuse, and she didn’t want to do that. In the end,

she just wrote, Yours sincerely, P.M. Dunn and left it at that.

The reply came two days later. It was waiting for Polly

when she came home from the hairdresser’s, where she was

now working for just two or three hours each day after her

stint at the Clothing Store. Worn out with standing all day,

she dropped into a chair and opened the letter while Cissie

brought her a cup of tea.

‘Well, isn’t that lovely!’ She raised a smiling face as Cissie

came in from the scullery. ‘Mrs Sutton says Judy will be

welcome to go and stay with them, so long as she doesn’t

mind sleeping in the same room as the two girls. She won’t

mind that, will she?’

‘I’m sure she won’t,’ Cissie was beginning, when Judy herself interrupted them. Her face was flushed and angry.

‘You’re talking about me - I know you are! What are you

saying? What’s that letter about?’ She jumped up from her

chair, trembling. ‘You’re sending me away. You think I’m

mental as well as deaf, and you’re sending me away! Aren’t

you? Aren’t you?’

‘Judy, no!’ Polly and Cissie spoke together, gazing at her

in distress. ‘It’s not that at all,’ Cissie went on, speaking far too quickly for Judy to follow, but Polly brushed her aside

and held out the letter. ‘Here, read it for yourself. It’s from Mrs Sutton,’ she said, speaking slowly and clearly so that

Judy could read her lips. ‘Mrs Sutton. Where Sylvie is.

Read it, Judy.’

Judy took the letter, still gazing at her face, a slight,

puzzled frown creasing her forehead. She looked down at

the sheet of paper and then sat down slowly. Polly heaved a

sigh of relief and sank back into her own chair, taking the

cup of tea Cissie was still holding out.

‘Mrs Sutton,’ Judy said in her odd, painful voice. ‘Mrs

Sutton - she says I can go and stay there?’ She looked at

Polly. ‘You wrote to her.’