Under the Apple Tree (31 page)

and a vicar. He was a tall, spindly man with long arms and

legs, and he smiled kindly at Judy as he sat in the corner

opposite her. As she had dreaded someone would, he began to make conversation.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pointing at her ears. ‘I can’t hear.’

His mouth made an ‘oh dear’ shape, and he looked

concerned. ‘Since birth?’ he mouthed. ‘Or an accident?’

‘Bomb blast,’ Judy said briefly. ‘In Portsmouth.’

‘Portsmouth?’ He said something she couldn’t catch, then

mouthed again. I have evacuees from Portsmouth.’

Judy nodded. She didn’t really want the struggle of

conversation with a stranger but the vicar was clearly trying

hard not to let her feel ignored. The other passengers had

stopped their own conversation and were watching and

listening. Feeling selfconscious, she said, ‘There are some

children in our street evacuated out this way somewhere. A

village called Bridge End.’

‘Bridge End? But that’s where I live!’ He leaned forwards

and repeated his words more slowly. ‘Perhaps you know

them. Tim and Keith Budd.’

The names were easy to read. Judy forgot her self

consciousness and nodded eagerly. ‘I know them! They live

in April Grove. My granny lives there too, and we went to

stay with her when we were bombed out.’ She remembered

her aunt’s visit here. ‘You’ve got Stella and Muriel

Simmons too.’

‘That’s right.’ He looked enormously pleased to have

found this point of contact. ‘Such sweet girls, and such a sad .

story. But they’re settling in very well.’

‘It was my auntie who brought them to you,’ Judy said,

not really understanding all his words but able to pick up a

few. ‘Polly Dunn. Do you remember her?’

‘Mrs Dunn! Of course I remember! Such a nice woman.

So you’re her niece.’ He sat back and smiled broadly. ‘Well,

how very pleasant. Are you coming to Bridge End on a

visit?’

Once again, she was able to recognise the important

words. Perhaps it was because he was a vicar, and used to

talking clearly in church. ‘No, I’m going on to Ashwood.

My niece Sylvie - Polly’s little girl - is evacuated there. I’m going to stay with her foster family for a while. The doctors

think it might help me get my hearing back.’ She had

forgotten her shyness, delighted to find someone so easy to

talk to, someone who had met Polly and knew people she

knew. ‘It’s shock, you see, and blast, not actual damage.’

‘Then I’m sure a stay at Ashwood will do you the world

of good. And why don’t you try to bring Sylvie over to

Bridge End to see us one day? I’m sure Stella and Muriel

would like to see an old friend.’

‘I don’t think they’d know her,’ Judy said, having

disentangled this invitation. ‘But she’d like to come, I’m

sure. I’ll see if we can manage it.’

The train arrived at yet another small station and the

vicar glanced out of the window and jumped to his feet,

knocking his head on the luggage rack as he did so. He

rubbed his head ruefully and smiled at Judy. ‘I’m always

doing that. I can never remember how tall I am. Now, don’t

forget, bring Sylvie over to see us the first chance you get.

I’m very easy to find. The vicarage is right beside the

church, and my name’s Mr Beckett. Everyone knows me.’

The train had stopped and he opened the door, tumbling

out on to the platform in a tangle of arms and legs. Judy

smiled and waved at him, and the other occupants of the

compartment laughed.

‘I just bet everyone knows him!’ said a woman who

happened to be looking Judy’s way as she spoke. ‘A real

character, he is.’ The rest of the conversation was lost as she turned away and the other passengers joined in, but for once

Judy didn’t feel left out. She sat back in her corner and smiled to herself, still feeling the warmth of the vicar’s conversation and the attention he’d paid to her. Some

people understood, then, she thought. Some people understood

what it was to be deaf.

Ashwood station was only a few miles further down the line and the guard remembered to walk along the platform and

open the compartment door for her. Judy smiled her thanks

and scrambled down, lugging her suitcase and carrier bags.

She stood for a moment on the platform, gathering her

thoughts, and then turned quickly as she felt someone tap

her arm.

‘Sylvie!’ With a cry of delight, she scooped the little girl

into her arms. ‘Oh Sylvie, how lovely! How did you know

I’d be on this train?’

Sylvie hugged her aunt and beamed up at her, her lips

moving quickly as she chattered. Judy felt a swift lurch of

dismay; she’d known she wouldn’t be able to hear Sylvie’s

voice, of course she’d known, but somehow the realisation

seemed to hit her more bitterly than since she’d first found

she was deaf. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvie,’ she said regretfully. ‘I

don’t, know what you’re saying. You have to speak very

slowly, and make sure I can see your mouth move. Like

this.’ She mouthed a few words and to her surprise Sylvie

burst into giggles.

‘Auntie Judy! You are funny!’

‘Funny?’ For a moment, Judy felt indignant. Nobody had

dared suggest she was funny - indeed, she was sure nobody

had even thought so. But suddenly, looking down at the

child’s bright face, innocent of either embarrassment or the

wish to hurt, she laughed. Maybe she was funny! Maybe

that was the best way to treat this affliction - laugh at it. She bent again and hugged her niece, lifting her in her arms to

whirl her round in the air.

‘Whee!’ The child’s scream of pleasure vibrated against

her body and Judy set her down again, trembling a little. It

was almost like hearing. Perhaps it would come back after

all, she thought with a lift of hope.

Sylvie was urging her to come with her now, picking up

one of the carrier bags in one hand and dragging Judy by the

other. Together, they hurried out of the station and along the lane. Judy looked around her and felt her heart move.

Born and brought up in Portsmouth, she had never been

far into the countryside. Before the war started, the family

had gone up on Portsdown Hill sometimes for picnics, or

caught a bus out to Denmead or Catisfield. Once or twice

they’d gone to Petersfield and wandered by the lake, and

they’d found bluebell woods and come home with arms full

of scented flowers. But for the past eighteen months such

jaunts had been impossible, and it was a long time since

they’d had a family picnic. Now, the feeling of space and the

sense of peace was like a balm to the soreness of her mind.

The lane leading from the station was wide enough for a

horse and cart and roughly metalled. It ran between hedges

laced with fresh new green, and mossy banks clothed like a

king’s robes with the gold and purple of primroses and

violets. The hedges were alive with birds, darting in and out

of the branches, their beaks stuffed with worms and insects.

They must all have nests in there, Judy thought in wonder.

And I expect they’re singing too. It’s lovely!

The sky was a soft blue and the sun warm. Sylvie skipped

beside her, one hand still clasped in Judy’s. Every now and

then she peeped up at her aunt and laughed, and Judy

laughed back. Mum and Polly were right, she thought. This

is what I need. But then, it’s probably what everyone needs.

In ten minutes, they were at the farmyard gate. Sylvie

stopped to unfasten it, putting down the bag to do so, and

Judy went through, looking about her with interest. She had

never been in a farmyard before, and her knowledge came

mostly from picture-books she had had as a child, showing

chickens and ducks scratching about the yard, cows in the

fields and maybe a horse looking over a stable door.

To her astonishment, that was exactly what it did look

like. There was even a big, swaggering rooster, its head

crowned with a scarlet cockscomb, its tail spraying out like

an iridescent rainbow behind it. It stared at Judy, tilting its

head, and she stopped for a moment, feeling as if she had actually strayed into her own childhood picture-book, and

gave a laugh of pure pleasure.

I’m laughing! she thought in amazement. I’m actually laughing.

The farmhouse itself was a long, low building with a

thatched roof and a row of small windows like eyes set

beneath curved arches in the thatch. A wide doorway gave it

the appearance of a smiling face, and there were flowers

growing along its walls. On the far side of the yard there was

a well, with a little roof over it, and a woman who was

winding up the handle turned at the click of the latch and

her face broke into a smile. Hastily, she brought the bucket

up to the top, unhooked it and set it on the ground before

hurrying over, wiping wet hands on her flowery pinafore.

‘Miss Taylor! So you’re here! Sylvie’s been down to the

station all morning, hoping you’d come soon. It’s a pleasure

to see you, it really is.’ She remembered Judy’s deafness and

repeated her words more slowly, smiling all the time. Her

face was round and rosy, her silver-grey hair scraped back

into a bun, her figure as comfortable as a cushion. She took

both Judy’s hands in hers and clasped them warmly.

‘Thank you,’ Judy said, liking Mrs Sutton at once. No

wonder Polly felt happy about her daughter being here. ‘It’s

so kind of you to let me come and stay. And please, call me

Judy. Everyone does.’

‘Judy. That’s a nice name. Now, come in and I’ll make

some tea.’ Mrs Sutton was still speaking slowly, but when

she turned away her words were lost. Judy followed her in,

ducking her head to go through the low doorway, and

standing for a moment to let her eyes get accustomed to the

darkness. Sylvie, beside her, squeezed her hand.

It’s like a house in a fairytale, she thought, looking about

her. The room was not very big - perhaps a couple of feet

all round larger than the rooms in April Grove — but it was

different from any room she had ever been in. The walls

were almost three feet thick and built of huge, uneven blocks of stone. The fireplace was like a small room in itself, sunk deep into the wall and with two stone shelves like seats

at the sides. Above one was a small iron door with a handle,

and Judy stared at it, wondering what it could be.

Over the fireplace was a lintel that could have made a

respectable tombstone, with another great slab down one

side. There was no fire burning, but a pile of logs on a

mound of ash indicated that cold nights would be cosy in

here. A couple of shabby armchairs, placed in the alcoves on

either side and covered with chintz in a faded flower pattern,

seemed to throw out an invitation to sink into them and rest.

There were other chairs too, and a couple of stools as well

as a squashed and battered pouffe that looked as if it had

been used by generations of children. In one corner stood a

small grandfather clock, its swinging brass pendulum

shining like a beacon, and a shelf ran round the room about

a foot below the ceiling, with jugs of all colours and sizes

ranged upon it. The floor was of stone flags, warmed by

colourful rag rugs; the walls were washed a rich cream,

broken by wooden beams, and the ceiling was supported by

similar beams.

Mrs Sutton had bustled through another door to a room

at the back of the house. Sylvie gave Judy a gentle push and

she went obediently after her hostess and found her in a

large kitchen, with a kitchen range at one end. Judy sat

down at the big kitchen table and looked at the dresser with

its rows of blue and white striped crockery, thinking how

cheerful it all looked.

Sylvie placed herself in front of Judy and spoke slowly

and importantly. ‘This is the kitchen. We have our dinner

here. This is Bossy.’ She lifted a large tabby cat from one of

the chairs and held him up for inspection. He hung like a

rag doll in her arms, sleepy eyes barely open, and Judy

stroked his big striped head. Sylvie dumped him down on

the chair again like a pile of washing. ‘We’ve got a dog too.’

She was still remembering to speak slowly and clearly. ‘He’s called Flash. He’s out with Uncle Bob. He collects sheep.’

Judy had a vision of the dog with his collection of sheep,

poring over them as her brother Terry used to do with his

stamp collection. She laughed and Mrs Sutton, standing at

the range and pouring water from a kettle into a big brown

teapot, looked round and smiled. She said something Judy

couldn’t hear, but she looked pleased and Judy thought she

could guess what the remark had been. Polly had told her

that she was low in her spirits, and the farmer’s wife was

glad to hear her laugh.

All the same, it was no easier to take part in conversations

here than it had been at home. The country accent was

difficult for Judy to read, and when Mr Sutton came in for

dinner with the collie dog Flash at his heels she found that

he talked almost without opening his mouth, so that it was