Under the Apple Tree (45 page)

what you will, Ma, it’s their business more than it’s ours.

It’s Jean who’s in the family way, and it’s them who’ll have

to decide what to do about it.’ He set his jaw grimly.

Alice took no notice. ‘We can still put our point of view.

We’d better go round there one evening and talk it over.

And we’d better make it soon, in case they turn her out.’

‘They wouldn’t do that,’ Cissie said. ‘Not Mrs Foster.’

‘Mr Foster might,’ Alice said with a glance at Dick. Then

are harder about these things. And Mrs Foster always struck

me as one who’d set a lot of store on what the neighbours

say. They might not turn her out as such, but they might

send her to one of them homes for unmarried mothers,

where they can stop until the baby’s born. And you know

what happens then. They give the babies up and never see

them again.’ She drew in a ragged breath and her eyes filled

with tears. ‘I don’t want that to happen, Cis, I really don’t.

It’s as if it’s meant - finding out about it the very day we lose our Terry. I can’t bear to think of losing his baby without

even setting eyes on its dear little face.’

Cissie and Polly began to cry again in sympathy. They

moved to sit together, their arms about each other as they

wept for Terry and for the baby he had left behind, the baby

he had not even known existed.

Dick stared at them. There was a lump in his throat too,

and an uncomfortable feeling that he was the outsider, the

one who didn’t fit in, the one who had let himself down in

some way. I’ve only said what any other bloke with a sense

of decency would say, he told himself rebelliously. The girl

probably did lead Terry on. It was in her house it happened.

And it is for her and her mum and dad to sort out. They probably won’t thank us for interfering if we do go round

there.

And yet, he couldn’t ignore the pictures conjured up by

Alice’s words. Like Polly, he had seen the baby in its cot,

the laughing toddler staggering about the room. He had also

seen the boy that Terry had been, that his baby might

become. The schoolboy, his socks down round his ankles,

kicking a ball along the street, the twelve-year-old riding an

old bike, the sixteen-year-old out at work, on a Dockyard

apprenticeship perhaps, turning into a young man …

‘Blimey,’ he said in disgust, surveying the women. ‘It’ll

be like a blooming swimming pool in here in a minute. I

suppose I’d better go and make another cup of tea.’

Judy was out in the orchard with Sylvie when Joe Turner

arrived. The little girl was feeling better and had managed

to eat a piece of dry toast for her dinner, and was now lying

on an old blanket in the shade of the apple tree. Its new

leaves whispered above her, and she had fallen asleep while

Judy sat beside her on a cushion, darning socks.

She looked up at the click of the gate, wondering who the

stranger was who was standing there with Mrs Sutton. He

was stocky, with a face that looked as if someone had

screwed it up in a ball and then tried to iron out the creases.

But she could see that it was a friendly, good-humoured

face, even though just at present it looked grave. The

farmer’s wife too was looking upset, and Judy felt a sudden

pang of dread.

‘What is it?’ she asked, and started to scramble to her feet.

‘What’s happened?’

‘This is Mr Turner,’ Mrs Sutton said. ‘He’s come to see

you, Judy.’

‘To see me? But why?’ Judy stared from one to the other.

Joe Turner produced a letter and she looked at it uneasily.

‘What is it? What’s happened? Have they had another raid

in Portsmouth?’ She felt herself shrink away from the note as if by not reading it she could push away whatever

dreadful news he had brought. ‘Has Grandma’s house been

bombed? Has - has anyone been hurt?’

‘No!’ She could see just how forceful the word was, and

felt her body sag with relief. But his face was still solemn.

‘Not anyone at home, anyway.’ He nodded at the letter.

‘You’d better read it. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s right, love,’ Mrs Sutton said. ‘Read the letter.’

Slowly, Judy reached out to take it. It was addressed in

her aunt’s writing and began by introducing Joe Turner as a

friend. You can trust him, Polly had said. And then, as if

she found the words difficult to write, came the news that

had brought Joe to Ashwood. The news of HMS Hood.

Judy stared at the words. They blurred and danced in

front of her eyes, and the orchard and the grass and the

sunshine seemed to fall away into darkness. She shook her

head, feeling sick and frightened, and found a cup of water

pressed to her lips. Mrs Sutton must have brought it with

her, knowing she would need it. She sank down again on the

cushion and reached a hand out to Sylvie, who was still fast

asleep. Her tears beginning to fall, she whispered, ‘Let’s go

somewhere else. I don’t want Sylvie to see. She’ll be

frightened.’

The others nodded and Joe Turner helped Judy to her

feet. She found her legs shaking, and leaned upon him as

they went softly from the orchard. Sylvie would probably

sleep for an hour or two yet, and would not be alarmed to

find herself alone when she woke. They went into the cool,

dim kitchen and Mrs Sutton shifted the kettle on to the hot

plate.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Judy said in bewilderment, staring at

the letter. ‘Our Terry. It’s awful.’ She shook her head and

looked at Mrs Sutton. ‘I went to bed early last night, before

the news. Did you hear it? Did you know the Hood had been

sunk?’

‘Well, yes, I did,’ the farmer’s wife confessed. ‘We both heard it. But we didn’t know your brother was on board. All

we knew was that he was in the Navy.’ She spoke slowly and

clearly, so that Judy could follow her, and wrote it down to

make sure. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she added in shaky handwriting,

and tears fell on to the paper.

‘Our Terry,’ Judy said. ‘Oh, I don’t think I can bear it!’

She bent her head and burst into tears, sobbing wildly. ‘It’s

not fair! First Johnny, and then Sean - and now Terry! It’s

just not fair!’

‘Judy, Judy.’ She felt Mrs Sutton’s arms around her and

her head was drawn down on to the warm cushion of her

bosom. A comforting hand stroked her hair and another,

harder and hornier but just as comforting, patted her hand.

She could feel the vibrations in the woman’s body that

meant she was speaking, and although she couldn’t hear the

words, she knew what they must be. ‘Poor love. You poor,

poor love. There, there. Cry it out, now, cry it out. Poor,

poor love.’

At length, with no more tears in her for the time being,

Judy hiccuped into silence. She screwed up the third of the

hankies Mrs Sutton had pressed into her hand, and gazed at

it through swollen eyes. Then she looked up at the two who

watched her so sympathetically.

‘I’ll have to go home. They’ll want me there.’ “

Mrs Sutton nodded. ‘I thought you’d say that. Mr

Turner here says he’ll take you back as soon as you like.’

She glanced at the clock. ‘There’s a train in an hour — you

can pack your things while I get some tea ready for you.

And you can take some fresh eggs and butter back for your

family. I dare say they’ll be glad of them. I’ll put in a few

slices of bacon as well.’

Judy barely followed this, but understood that she was to

go and pack and that Joe Turner would take her back to

Portsmouth. She looked at him doubtfully and he gave her

his crinkly grin. ‘Go on, love. I’ll wait for you here.’ He

seemed to realise why she was doubtful and added, ‘I’m friend of your Aunt Polly’s. Met her in London when si

come up to WVS Headquarters a couple of weeks back. My

sister’s the cook there.’ He followed Mrs Sutton’s example,

and wrote the words down and Judy read them, nodding.

‘Are you sure you want to bother? I could manage on my

own.’

He laughed. ‘Well, I can’t stop out here, can I! I’ve got to

go back to Pompey, so I might as well see you safe back

home. Anyway, I don’t reckon me and Polly would be

friends any more if I didn’t.’ He saw that she hadn’t

followed this and said gently and more slowly, ‘You go and

get yourself ready, love. We’ll go back to Portsmouth

together.’

Judy gave in and went upstairs. She stood at the door of

the room she had shared with Sylvie, the room that had

become so familiar and so dear. The walls were distempered

a sunny yellow, there were yellow curtains flowered with

blue at the window and yellow cushions on the low, deep

windowsill. It was a room that seemed filled with sunshine

on even the dullest of days, and here, as she had sat on that

windowsill gazing down into the orchard, she had found

comfort and healing. Now she was to leave it and go back to

the grey, ruined streets of Portsmouth, and she felt torn

between a desire to see her family again and a longing to stay

here for ever.

She crossed the room and looked down into the orchard.

Sylvie was still asleep on her blanket under the apple tree.

How many times have I sat under that tree in the past two

weeks? Judy thought. By myself, with Sylvie - and with

Ben. She thought of the tall, dark-haired boy with his bright

blue eyes beneath the heavy brows. They had shared an easy; understanding, a ready friendship, and she had found it difficult to believe that he was only seventeen. He seemed so

much older, so much more mature. He felt it himself too,

with his restless desire to leave school and join the RAF. He was ready for manhood.

She turned her mind away from that disturbing thought

and lifted her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe.

Then she took her few clothes from the cupboard and

drawers and began to fold them on the bed.

Chapter Twenty-Three During their light meal of sliced ham, early lettuce and

beetroot, Judy noticed that Joe Turner seemed uneasy, as if

there were something else on his mind. He said nothing,

however, until Judy had made her tearful farewells and

Sylvie, who had come in yawning and hungry after her

sleep, had accompanied them to the station where they

could catch the train back to Portsmouth. The little girl

clung to her aunt, begging to be allowed to go back to

Portsmouth with her, and Judy had been in tears yet again

as she gently unwound the small arms from around her

neck.

‘You’re better off here. We’re still getting raids - it’s not

safe. And you know you’re happy here with the Suttons and

the other children.’

‘I’d rather be home with you and Mummy,’ Sylvie said

mutinously.

‘You will be,’ Judy promised, hoping it was true. ‘Once

all this bombing’s over you’ll come back straight away, I

promise.’ Her words were lost as the train arrived, huffing

to a stop beside the platform. ‘I’ll have to go now, Sylvie. Be good for me, won’t you? And look after Cavalier.’ Cavalier

was the farmyard rooster, so named for his spectacular

feathers. She gave Sylvie a final hug and then turned away

quickly, dashing the tears from her eyes. I don’t know where

they all come from, she thought, but I wish I could smile as

much as I cry.

Joe opened the carriage door and helped her up into an

empty compartment, following with her case. He pulled

down the window so that she could lean out and wave goodbye to Sylvie, then the train gathered speed and surged

out of the station. In another moment the platform was out

of sight and Judy sat down and heaved a trembling sigh.

Joe Turner looked at her. ‘You all right, love?’

Judy nodded. He had such an expressive face, she found

him easy to understand. ‘I suppose so. It’s just a bit much to

take in. A couple of hours ago I was sitting under the apple

tree darning socks without a care in the world — well, not too many anyway,’ she amended, thinking ruefully of Sean and her deafness. ‘I suppose I was used to the ones I had! And

now, here I am on my way back home, and — and I’ve lost

my brother.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Oh dear, I’m going to

start crying again. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right, love.’ He handed her a large khaki

handkerchief. ‘You cry all you want. You’ve been through a

lot.’

‘So have other people,’ Judy wept. ‘It’s no worse for me

than it is for Mum and Dad - or Polly, or Grandma. We’ve

all been through the same.’

‘And you’ve all had a good cry,’ he said. ‘It’s natural.’

Judy gathered control of herself, glad that there was no

one else in the compartment. She gazed out of the window

at the fields and woods, thinking how strange it was” that war

was being waged less than a hundred miles away - not much

further than it was from Portsmouth to London - yet here it

seemed so peaceful, and so lovely. ‘Why do people have to

hate each other?’ she asked. ‘Why do they have to fight?

Why can’t people just live peacefully together, like we used

to?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Not for us to ask that, love,’ he said. ‘It’s

up to them that lead us.’ He hesitated and then said