Under the Apple Tree (33 page)

her.

She thought of his kiss.

With an angry shrug, she pushed the memory away and

stared into the field where lambs were playing tag around

their mothers’ stolid bodies. One jumped up on top of its

mother’s back, and stood there for all the world as if it were

laughing at its playmates. Half a dozen raced off to a grassy

knoll and began to skip up to the top and then down again.

Another little gang began running races from one side of the

field to the other, and soon all had joined in, breaking off

after a few minutes to rush back to their mothers for a drink.

Judy watched them and laughed suddenly. I can’t hear

them but I can still see them, she thought. There’s still

plenty of joy to be had, and it doesn’t help Sean or anyone

else to pretend it isn’t there. And, with sudden energy, I don’t have to be sorry for myself - I can still do things to help. I’m fit and strong, and I shouldn’t be drifting about as

if I’m on holiday. The WVS works even out here in the

country, and I ought to be doing something too. I’ll find out

who’s in charge.

She waved goodbye to the lambs and began to walk

rapidly down the lane back to the village. Mrs Sutton would

know, she thought, and went back to the farmhouse. The

farmer’s wife was busy making bread, and looked up with a

smile.

‘Had a nice walk?’ She had learned quickly to shape the

words so that Judy could read them, and Judy nodded and

sat down at the table, watching her hostess’s hands knead

the floury dough.

‘I want to do something to help.’

Mrs Sutton shook her head. ‘No, love, you go out and

enjoy the sunshine. You’ve done all the jobs that need doing

here. You go and get some roses in your cheeks.’

‘No, I mean I want to do something more. In Portsmouth, I was in the WVS. I helped in the raids. I want to do

something like that here.’

‘But we don’t have the raids here, love. Only the odd

bomb dropped by mistake, and that usually goes into a field.

Old Walter Hart had a couple of cows killed a while back,

but that’s all.’

‘But there must be something,’ Judy persisted. ‘I thought

of offering to help on the farm, but I really ought to see the

local WVS organiser. Do you know who she is?’

The floury hands paused. ‘Well now, who would that be?

It was a Mrs Tupper who brought the evacuee children out

at the beginning of the war. She was WVS, or I suppose she

was, so she’d know. But I don’t know where she lives, so

that’s not much use to you.’ She gazed at Judy, her forehead

creased, and then her expression cleared. ‘I know who could

help you! The vicar - he’d be bound to know. Come to

think of it, I do believe Mrs Hazelwood herself’s in the

WVS. There now!’ She beamed. ‘That’s the answer. She’s

bound to be high up. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll

just set this bread to rise and we’ll go round to the vicarage

straight away.’ She repeated her last words slowly and then

began to pound the dough again with vigour.

‘No, I’ll go by myself Judy stood up. ‘I’ve got to start

being more independent - I won’t be any use if I can’t do

things for myself. And you’re busy, anyway.’ She touched

Mrs Sutton’s arm. ‘Thank you. I’ll be back at dinnertime.’

The vicarage was a large Victorian house close to the

church. Its garden had been given over entirely to the

cultivation of vegetables, of which there were neat rows

already beginning to flourish. A large man, dressed in rough

working clothes, was working with a hoe, and as Judy

approached he straightened up and turned round. He was

well over six feet tall with a large, black, bushy beard and

moustache and to her surprise, she saw that he was wearing

a dog-collar.

Judy looked at him and her heart sank. I can’t even see his lips, she thought, let alone read them. But his eyes looked

kind and she plunged into her explanation.

‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Judy Taylor, I’m staying at

the Suttons’ farm for a while. I’m in the WVS and

wondered if there’s anything I can do to help while I’m

here. Mrs Sutton says your wife is the local organiser.’

Belatedly, she added, ‘I’m afraid I can’t hear what you say I’m deaf. Bomb blast.’

The beard moved and she guessed he was speaking. ‘I

can’t read your lips either,’ she added apologetically, and

was surprised to see that he was laughing. He reached out a

big hand and ushered her inside the house. Judy, slightly

disconcerted, found herself in a wide hallway, its floor

patterned with black and white tiles. An old coat-stand

stood near the door and there was a long settle that looked

suspiciously like a church pew against the wall. The vicar

led her through the door to her right, and she found herself

in a big room with a bay window overlooking the garden,

shabbily but comfortably furnished with a battered three

piece suite, a large cluttered desk and sundry other

mismatched chairs and small tables. The walls were lined

with bookshelves.

Mr Hazelwood spoke again and then pushed her gently

into a chair. He pulled a sheet of paper across the desk and

began to write on it.

You do the talking. I’ll do the writing!

Judy laughed and nodded, feeling suddenly at ease with

this big man who looked more like a farmhand than a vicar.

She said, ‘Well, it’s just as I said. I work for the WVS in

Portsmouth, helping the Lady Mayoress. I was out on an

ambulance during the raid a fortnight ago, and we got

caught in the bombs. We were all deafened, but the others

got their hearing back. The doctor thought I needed a rest.

He says it should come back, but no one knows for certain.

Anyway, I just thought I ought to be doing something while

I’m here, and Mrs Sutton said that your wife runs the WVS

in this area.’

She does, he wrote, but is that quite what the doctor meant

by ‘having a rest’?

‘But I’m perfectly well,’ Judy protested. ‘I feel as if I’m

shirking. There must be something I could do.’

I’m sure there is. He paused and looked at her thoughtfully,

then seemed to make up his mind. She’s out at the

moment, but she’ll be back soon. Why don’t you go and sit in the garden until she comes back? I’ll make you a cup of coffee.

Judy didn’t much like the liquid Camp coffee mixture

that most people used. ‘Water would be fine,’ she said, and

he nodded and led her through to a big kitchen where he

poured her a cup of water. Carrying this, he opened the

back door and she found herself in a tiny garden that had

not been taken over for vegetables. There was a patch of

lawn with a pond filled with squiggling tadpoles which were

being attentively watched by a large black cat with huge

yellow eyes. The garden was bounded by a warm brick wall

with a flower border that seemed to sweep up to it like a tide

of colour, and in the middle was an gnarled apple tree

covered with deep pink blossom. It was a tiny patch of

tranquillity; a haven from the world outside.

The vicar indicated an old wooden seat under_ the tree

and Judy sat down and accepted the water. He smiled at her

and vanished round the corner of the house, and she leaned

back her head, closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the

sun on her face. After a moment or two, a furry paw

touched her knee and the cat jumped on to her lap. She laid

her hand on its sun-warmed back and smiled.

When she opened her eyes, a young man was sitting on

the grass watching her. Judy started and spilled some water

over the cat, which leaped off her lap and sat down a few

yards away, shaking its head indignantly.

The man spoke. He looked about the same age as Judy,

with dark hair brushed back from his forehead and very blue

eyes under heavy black brows. He was frowning slightly and Judy realised that he must have been speaking for some

moments.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t hear you. I’m deaf.’

‘Oh,’ he said, and looked nonplussed. Judy held out the

sheet of paper the vicar had given her, and he looked at it

and smiled. He took the pencil and wrote, I’m Ben

Hazelwood. You must be waiting for my mother.

Judy nodded. ‘My name’s Judy Taylor. I’m from

Portsmouth.’

He held out his hand and she shook it. His grasp was firm

and cool. They looked at each other for a moment, neither

quite knowing what to do next. His smile was rather wicked

and very “attractive, Judy thought. It seemed to light up his

rather dark face, which she suspected might be forbidding

when he frowned and lowered those heavy brows over the

bright blue eyes. But his mouth was wide and curled up at

the corners, so that he looked as if he were about to break

into a chuckle.

‘Are you in the Services?’ she asked and he twisted his

mouth wryly and shook his head.

I’m not old enough. I’m thinking about lying about my age

and volunteering!

‘Not old enough?’ Judy said in surprise, reading this. ‘I

thought…’ She stopped and blushed, and he grinned and

held up both hands, fingers stretched, then one hand and

only two fingers of the other. ‘Seventeen? You look older.’

Eighteen in September. But I want to go before then. I want to fly.

‘Fly?’ She glanced up at the cloudless sky, remembering

the dogfights of last summer and the Battle of Britain that

had raged across the South of England. Pilots, many of

them barely more than boys, had been dying every day, yet

there seemed to be a never-ending supply of young men

willing to take their place. She looked at the youthful face,

noting now the signs of immaturity - the softness of his

cheeks and lips, the eager innocence of his eyes - and thought of him fighting in the skies, perhaps being hit, his

plane in flames, spiralling out of control…

The sudden vision shook her and she closed her eyes,

trying to push it away. When she opened them he was

watching her with some concern. She spoke quickly, at

random, ‘What do your parents think about it?’

He grimaced. Haven’t told them yet. Know I want to join

the RAF - don’t know I’m thinking of volunteering. He looked

suddenly anxious and started scribbling again. You won’t tell

them, will you?

Judy smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I won’t tell them.’

Ben looked up suddenly as if he had heard something,

and quickly screwed up the piece of paper and stuffed it into

his pocket. A moment or two later a tall, rather thin woman

came round the corner of the house. She was evidently

expecting to see Judy there and smiled and held out her

hand, saying something. Ben spoke to her and she nodded.

‘Miss Taylor. I’m very pleased to meet you, my dear.’

She spoke carefully and Judy guessed that she would have a

clear, rather pleasant voice. ‘I see you’ve met my son.’

Judy nodded. Mrs Hazelwood sat down beside her and

Ben went into the house, returning a few moments later

with a fresh sheet of paper. He smiled at Judy arid went

away again.

Ben’s home from school at the moment, Mrs Hazelwood

wrote. He has a week for Whitsun. Tell me what I can do for

you.

Judy nodded. One of the things you missed when you

were deaf, she thought, was the more casual part of

conversation - the little asides that didn’t really matter, the humorous comments and quips, the remarks that made

chatting a pleasurable experience. When you were deaf, it

was so difficult for people to get across to you the

information they wanted you to have - either by slowly

mouthing the words or by writing them down - that they

kept it to the bare minimum. It was like receiving a series of telegrams.

‘I’m in the WVS in Portsmouth,’ she said. ‘I work for the

Lady Mayoress. I thought perhaps there was something I

could do while I’m at Ashwood.’

Mrs Hazelwood’s eyes rested on her for a moment. They

were a cool grey, set wide apart in a face that was made to

look more narrow by pulling back the silver hair into a

French pleat. She had a wide mouth too, rather like her son’s, with a humorous curve to the lips, and her expression was compassionate.

‘Are you here for a rest?’ she said carefully.

‘Well - yes,’ Judy said. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with

me. Apart from my ears, I mean. I’m not ill or anything.

Just tired and - and things have been a bit difficult lately.’

She felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s no need to apologise.’ The curved lips were easy

to read. ‘I know just how difficult things have been in

Portsmouth. Was your home bombed?’

Judy nodded and bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears.

‘In the first Blitz,’ she whispered. ‘We were in the shelter Mum and Dad and Polly - she’s my aunt, she’s lived with

us since her husband was killed. We went to live with my

grandmother, and then Sean - Sean …’ To her horror, the

tears spilled over and a huge sob forced its way up from her

throat. She put her head into her hands, appalled but unable

to control the weeping any more, and the sobs tore