Under the Apple Tree (35 page)

couldn’t hear them she felt less left out than usual. They

smiled at her and one, a lanky, red-haired girl with freckles

and a ready grin, linked arms with her as they swung along.

She smiled back, feeling a little as if she were a foreigner

who didn’t understand the language, but aware that they

were friendly.

After a while they left the lane and crossed two or three

fields. In the distance, Judy could see a church tower which

she thought must be at Bridge End. She wondered how

Stella and Muriel were getting along. She would have liked

to go and see them, but her deafness made it too difficult.

She still shrank from new situations and encounters.

The wood lay in a hollow, and in the centre of it was a

swampy area, with tussocks of tough grass and reeds

growing in shallow water. Judy could see the moss growing

in thick, soft cushions of bright green everywhere. She

looked at it with interest, wondering just why it was so

valuable.

‘The moss has healing properties,’ Mrs Hazelwood had

told them as they set off. ‘It stops wounds from going septic.

We send it out to the troops.’

Everyone was wearing Wellington boots and they set

down their baskets on tussocks and began to work. It was

quite pleasant, Judy discovered, once you’d got used to

plunging your hands into the cool, damp cushions and

pulling them up to pack into your basket. It didn’t take long

to fill them, and within an hour or so they were on their way

back, each swinging two tightly packed baskets. As they

crossed the fields, they paused to gather wool left on the

fences by sheep and crammed it in with the moss. Mrs

Hazelwood received them with approval.

‘That’s excellent. We’ll have another moss-gathering

party tomorrow.’ Most of the women had meals to prepare

for menfolk and children, the evacuees as well as their own,

so could only spare an hour or two each day. But it was

surprising how much could be achieved in a short time, Mrs

Hazelwood told Judy, inviting her in for a cup of tea before

returning to the farm. An hour or so making scrim in the

mornings, another hour spent gathering moss or wool in the

afternoon, and it all added up to a substantial contribution

towards the war effort.

She took Judy into the garden again. The sun was warm

and they took their tea to the seat under the apple tree. Mrs

Hazelwood talked carefully, facing Judy so that she could

read her words. She talked about her children — Ian, who

had taken Orders and followed his father into the Army as a

chaplain, Peter who was a Lieutenant in the Navy, and

Alexandra who had volunteered as a VAD nurse and was at

present working at Haslar Naval Hospital in Gosport.

‘It’s good to have her so close. She comes home when she

can manage it, for her day off. But they’ve been so busy

during the last few months, with all the bombing…’ She

fell silent and sat gazing at the black cat, who was stretched

out on his back in the sun, soaking up the warmth. ‘I’m glad

to know they’re all being useful, though,’ she said at last.

Judy sipped her tea and thought how difficult it must be

for mothers like Mrs Hazelwood, knowing that their

children were in danger and unable to do anything to keep

them safe. She thought about Ben, who was as safe as

anyone could be at his school in Winchester, yet wanted to

leave that safety and take to one of the most dangerous of

occupations as an RAF pilot. How would the Hazelwoods

feel when he took that step, without even consulting them?

They’ll be upset about it, she thought, but they’ll be proud

too. And we all have to put our worries away in this war,

because it’s got to be fought, to save the whole of Europe,

maybe the whole world, from tyranny, and none of us is

really safe.

A shadow fell across the lawn and Ben himself appeared,

tall and loose-limbed in grey flannel trousers and white,

open-necked shirt. He grinned at his mother, winked at

Judy, and flung himself down on the grass beside the cat.

There were some extra cups on the tray and he poured

himself some tea.

Mrs Hazelwood stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to finish your

tea,’ she said to Judy. ‘And please come back tomorrow if

you’d like to do some more - but don’t feel you have to.

You’re here for a rest, remember.’

She walked away across the lawn, her skirt swaying

around her lean figure, and Judy watched her, thinking how

kind she was, how kind everyone was in this village. She

glanced at Ben uncertainly and he reached out a hand and

pulled her to her feet.

‘Come for a walk. Or are you worn out from all your

moss-gathering?’

Judy shook her head. ‘I feel I ought to be doing more.’

‘Well, we’ll take some baskets,’ he declared, ‘in case we

find something useful.’ He led her across the garden to the

shed where the baskets were kept and handed her one,

taking another for himself. Side by side, they strolled off

between the green hedges.

A little way along the lane, Ben turned off to the left

down a track Judy hadn’t noticed before. It was roughly

metalled and ran between hawthorn hedges frothed with

white blossom. The grassy banks beneath them were misted

with bluebells and here and there were patches of starry

white wild garlic flowers. Now and then the lane was shaded

by a spreading oak, ginger with new leaves just about to

burst, or a stand of tall elms crowded with rooks. There

were a couple of farm cottages, with small children playing

in the dust, and then the lane wound down a hill and forded

a river before climbing up out of the valley through woods

on the other side.

There was a narrow wooden bridge over the river, and

Ben crossed halfway and then sat down, swinging his legs

over the side. Judy joined him and they sat quietly for a

while, watching the brown water ripple beneath them.

‘I suppose there are birds singing,’ she said thoughtfully after a moment or two. ‘Wish I could hear them.’

‘You will,’ he said, and she could tell by his expression

that his voice was firm, as if he knew that what he said was

true. Judy shrugged.

‘I hope so. But nobody knows for sure. I might be deaf

always.’

He shook his head. ‘You won’t. You’ll hear again. I know

you will.’ He smiled, full of confidence. ‘You’ve just got to

want it badly enough - you’ve got to believe it.’

Startled, she stared at him, and then, suddenly angry,

began to get to her feet. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t you realise, I do want to hear again - I want it more than anything in the world! But it’s my ears - there’s something wrong with

them, something damaged. Just believing isn’t going to make

any difference.’ She scrambled up, but Ben caught her hand

and drew her back down beside him.

‘I’m sorry. Please don’t go, Judy. I didn’t mean to upset

you.’ She looked into his face, reading only some of the

words but understanding his expression, and suddenly he

looked so young, so pleading, that she burst out laughing.

‘All right. But please don’t talk like that. It’s silly.’ She

sat down and looked at him again. ‘You don’t know, Ben.

You can’t. Even the doctors don’t know for sure. I could be

deaf for the rest of my life. And even if I am,’ she paused, ‘it can’t possibly matter to you.’

Ben opened his mouth and then shut it again. He looked

away from her, down into the brown, rippling water, and

she saw his mouth move, but he didn’t look back at her to

repeat his words. She felt a sudden sense of frustration,

wanting to be able to talk to him, freely and naturally. I do want to be able to hear him, she thought with despair. I want to be able to hear everyone. But wanting isn’t enough.

Ben suddenly gripped her hand more tightly, indicating

something with his head. Judy followed his gaze and stifled

a little cry of delight. A bird was sitting on a branch a few

yards further up the river - a bird with brilliant, electric blue wings and a flame-red breast. As Judy watched, it dived

into the water and reappeared a moment later with a small

fish struggling in its beak. It flew back to its branch, gave a few quick glances around, and then disappeared into a hole

in the bank.

‘A kingfisher!’ Judy exclaimed. ‘I’ve never seen one

before. It was beautiful. But why did it go into that hole? Is

it hiding?’

Ben shook his head. ‘That’s its nest. It must have young

in there.’ He smiled his wicked, curving smile at her. ‘Now

are you glad we came?’

Judy nodded, and felt the easy rapport between them

return. The moment of uncertainty had disappeared in their

shared pleasure. ‘Yes, I’m glad. It’s a lovely spot. Thank

you for bringing me. But I ought to be going back to the

farm now. I promised to help Mrs Sutton with the supper.’

He nodded and got to his feet, helping Judy up. They

stood facing each other on the narrow bridge for a moment,

then Judy turned away and walked back to the bank. Ben

caught her up as she bent to pick up the baskets they had

left on the grass. He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re

not cross with me, are you, Judy?’

‘No. I’m not,cross.’ Their eyes met again and she relaxed

and smiled. ‘I’m not cross at all,’ she said softly, and began

to walk back up the track.

Ben fell into step beside her. They did not speak again

until he left her at the gate to the Suttons’ farm.

Chapter Eighteen It really did seem as if the raids over Portsmouth were

easing. There were only four during May, spaced several

days or even a week or two apart, and they were light in

comparison to the savagery of the three Blitzes. Some

houses at Tipnor were damaged and the main railway line

put out of action, but many of the bombs fell into the sea

and there were only three people killed and just a handful

injured.

The Luftwaffe had not given up, however. Liverpool had

been cut off by seven nights of continuous bombing, with

fires raging uncontrollably throughout, the worst of all being

at the Bryant & May match factory. The city centre had

been reduced to rubble, and a ship loaded with bombs and

ammunition had been set on fire by a barrage balloon which

fell blazing from the sky; the explosion sank six other ships

and destroyed the dock area. A hospital had received a direct

hit, killing sixty staff and patients, and a hundred and sixty

children had died when their school shelter was bombed. By

the end of the week, almost fifteen hundred people had been

killed and seventy thousand were without homes.

London was attacked again. Under a cruelly bright

‘Bomber’s Moon’, the heaviest raid yet left the House of

Commons, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London and

the Royal Mint in flames. Every main railway terminus was

out of action, over three thousand people were killed or

injured and a hundred and fifty thousand homes had no gas,

water or electricity.

‘They’re having a terrible time coping with the homeless,’

the Mayoress told Polly as they walked out of the Royal Beach into the sunshine a few days after the raid. She had

been asked to go to London for a meeting at WVS Head

Office in Tothill Street. The main railway line had been put

out of action and, since the trains weren’t running, she had

decided to use the official car and asked Polly to drive it.

Polly was rather excited at the prospect. Driving a nice

car in daylight would make a welcome change from dashing through blacked-out streets in a converted van. She was looking forward to seeing London, too - she’d only been

there three or four times, long before the war had begun,

when Alice had taken her and Cissie to visit a cousin.

Johnny had talked about taking her to see the sights, but

somehow,” what with Sylvie’s birth and the miscarriages

later, it had never happened. Now some of those sights were

gone for ever, she thought, and others might not last much

longer.

The Lady Mayoress was still talking about the problem of

the homeless in London. ‘They don’t seem to have foreseen

such a situation, you see. They expected far more people to

be killed - over six hundred thousand were estimated, I

believe - and in the event there have been only twenty

thousand in London and forty thousand in the entire

country. Well,’ she caught herself up and gave Polly a wry

look, ‘one can hardly say only, but still it’s nothing like as

many as were expected. Whereas they did nothing to plan

for the homeless, and they already number over two million.

It’s a terrible problem.’

‘And not all of them as lucky as us, with relatives to go

to,’ Polly said. ‘Whatever will happen to them all?’ She

opened the passenger door of the car and the Mayoress got

in. Polly cranked the engine and as it hiccuped and then

purred into life she slid into the driver’s seat.

The Mayoress sighed. ‘I really don’t know where they’ll

all go. That’s partly what this meeting is about. It seems a