Under the Apple Tree (36 page)

strange time to go to London, with all the devastation there,

but it’s at this time they need us most. Now, do we have enough petrol? I’ve got some vouchers so that we can get

more if we need it, but of course I’d rather not use them.’

‘I think there’s enough.’ Polly put the car into gear and

nosed it carefully out on to the road. South Parade Pier

shone as if it had been iced, and the sun was glinting on the

sea, turning the waves to white-flecked blue. The fenced-off

common was crowded with servicemen and girls, walking

arm-in-arm or sitting on the grass. Because it was May, the

sailors were all wearing their white cap-covers — one of the

first signs of spring, Polly-had always thought it. The sight

reminded her of Johnny and brought an ache to her heart.

She had looked up the route to London and laid a set of

directions on the seat beside her. It was the first time she

had driven so far; she had never been further than the

Queen Alexandra Hospital before, and driving over Portsdown

Hill was like entering new territory. She knew the

road to Petersfield from having been on charabanc outings

out that way before the war, but from there it became a real

adventure.

‘You drive very well, Polly,’ the Mayoress commented,

and Polly blushed and thanked her.

‘I like it. My husband could drive and he let me go very

slowly in bottom gear in a field once or twice - but I never

thought we’d have a car of our own. And even if we had, I

don’t suppose I’d have driven it. Women don’t, do they? Or

didn’t, before the war,’ she added.

‘No, and I dare say they’ll go back to being passengers

once the war’s over,’ the Lady Mayoress said thoughtfully.

‘The men will want their own places back then. And they’ll

need help to find them, I think. It will be very strange for

them to come home to wives who’ve learned to manage

without them. Women will have to take a back seat, even if

they don’t want to, just to help their men feel at home

again.’

‘I suppose so. I know I’d be so glad to have my Johnny

back that I wouldn’t care if I never touched a car again. I’d just want to look after him, like a wife should.’ Polly

stopped, aware that if she continued to think and talk about

Johnny the tears would come, and she couldn’t drive with

tears in her eyes. ‘It’s a lovely morning, madam.’

‘It is.’ The Mayoress gazed out of the window and sighed.

‘You know, on a day like this, driving through the

countryside with the sun shining and the birds singing, it’s

hard to believe we’re at war. And then you remember the

raids and all those poor souls without a home - well, you must feel for them especially, Polly, having been in just the same position. You’ve dealt with it all so well, I’m afraid I

tend to forget.’

‘Not all that well, madam,’ Polly said, thinking of the

nightmares and the tears that soaked her pillow. ‘But you

can’t let it get you down, can you? You just have to carry

on.’

‘And how’s Judy? Is the countryside helping her?’

‘I think it is. We had a letter this morning - she still can’t

hear much, but she seems to be more settled in herself.

She’s found the local WVS organiser and she’s doing some

work - says she’s making scrim!’

‘Scrim? Whatever’s that?’

‘It’s camouflage netting, madam,’ Polly grinned. ‘Apparently

the nets are stretched over big frames and you have to

weave in strips of fabric. She says it’s the filthiest job she’s ever done, but she quite likes it because she’s making

pictures to send to the troops! I’m not sure what she means

by that, to tell you the truth. And she’s been out collecting

some kind of moss; she says they use it like a sort of

bandage.’

‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of that. Sphagnum moss, I think it’s

called. Well, that’s excellent news, but I hope she won’t

overdo it. She’s supposed to be having a rest.’

‘Oh, Judy’s like our Gran,’ Polly said. ‘She doesn’t agree

with resting. What I’m afraid of is that she’ll get to like being out there and not want to come home!’

‘It’s more likely that they won’t want to lose her,’ the

Lady Mayoress said. ‘Judy’s an excellent worker, and no

WVS organiser is going to let someone like that slip through

their fingers. I wonder now if I was wise to let her go!’

Polly laughed. ‘Well, so long as she’s helping the war

effort one way or another, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

It’s like our Gran says, cream always rises to the top.’

They drove on. Polly’s confidence was increasing and she

found herself enjoying the drive along country roads and

through small towns and villages. After a while, she said, ‘It

looks as if the weather’s changing, madam. There’s a big

black cloud ahead, see?’

The Mayoress stared at it. ‘I don’t think it’s an ordinary

cloud, Polly,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s smoke. We’ve seen just

the same over Portsmouth after a raid. There must be fires

still burning. You’ll have to go carefully - we may not be

able to get all the way in by car.’

Sobered, they drove on. There was damage in the

outskirts of London and, as they approached the city itself,

they began to see the devastation of the raids beneath the

pall of smoke and dust that darkened the sky.

Buildings on all sides were destroyed or damaged, their

roofs splintered and caving in, their walls torn down like a

child’s sandcastle. Some were smouldering, some still in

flames, and although there were firemen and engines

everywhere it was clear that it was impossible to deal with

them all. Some houses had been just left to burn, with their

occupants watching in despair. In one street, Polly saw a

housewife in pinny and curlers, hurling buckets of water at

the walls of her house. Others seemed to be reasoning with

her, trying to get her to leave it, but her face was twisted

with anguish and it was as if she barely knew they were

there. She shook them off and ran back to the standpipe for

more water, crying and screaming in her blind distress. The

sight caught at Polly’s heart and she remembered her own pain as she and the rest of the family had crept out of their

shelter to find their own house in ruins. It isn’t fair, she

thought helplessly. What had we done to deserve that? What

did this poor soul do to deserve it? What in the world is it

all for?

‘It’s dreadful,’ the Mayoress said as, having been diverted

down street after street, they drove at last through

Westminster. ‘Worse even than Portsmouth. Row after row

of houses, completely demolished. These poor people!’

Polly was almost in tears. ‘It gets worse the further in you

get,’ she said. ‘Isn’t there anywhere left standing? Oh look isn’t that Westminster Abbey, with its tower all smashed

down? And Parliament too! I never realised how bad it was.’

‘The House of Commons, yes,’ the Mayoress said as they

drove slowly past, negotiating the fire engines and hoses.

‘They’re still burning. Dreadful. Polly, look. Surely that’s

Mr Churchill himself!’

Polly, who had been keeping her eyes on the cluttered

road, risked a glance and saw the stumpy figure making his

way through the firemen towards the devastated building.

He was unmistakable, from the many times she had seen

him in newspaper pictures or on film newsreels, and of

course from the time he had visited the Royal Beach. He

looked just the same, dressed in an overcoat and trilby and

with the inevitable cigar gripped between his teeth, and

somehow just the sight of his determined, pugnacious figure

seemed to instil a little of the defiant hope that his words so often brought to the country. What did he feel like inside?

she wondered. Surely even he, at a moment like this, must

feel some despair. ‘He must be so upset. What will they do

now? They’ll have to find somewhere else to have Parliament.’

A thought struck her. ‘They’re homeless - same as

the rest of us.’

‘So they are.’ The Mayoress looked out of the window.

‘Turn left here, Polly. Tothill Street is the next on the right

that’s it. And there’s number forty-one. Thank goodness that seems to have escaped the bombing.’ She smiled at

Polly. ‘Well done. Now, I’m sure if you come in there’ll be a

cup of coffee for you, and then if you like you can walk

through to St James’s Park. It used to be very pleasant there the lake was always full of ducks. I expect they’re still there.’

Polly drew the car to a halt beside the kerb. There were a

few other cars there, mostly official ones like her own; with

petrol so severely rationed, most people who had their own

cars had put them on blocks in garages ‘for the duration’.

She supposed that the other cars had brought people like the

Mayoress for the meeting, and there might be some other

drivers like herself who would be at a loose end for a few

hours. At any other time, the prospect of some free time in

London would have been an exciting one. Now, looking at

the devastation around her, it was heartbreaking.

Number forty-one Tothill Street was a large house,

turned into offices and meeting rooms. They were welcomed

into a hall that had probably once seen debutantes

setting off to be presented to the King, and top-hatted men

and women in evening dress departing for the opera. A

graceful stairway rose on one side, and there were tall, heavy

doors leading into what had no doubt once been drawing

rooms.

The hallway and drawing rooms were now full of bustling

women in WVS uniform, or smart tweed or city suits. Polly

glimpsed an office very like the one at the Royal Beach, with

filing cabinets and girls seated at desks, typing or going

through papers. Before she could see more, she was led

through to the back regions and found herself in a dining

room with a long table and about a dozen chairs, some of

them occupied by women drinking coffee and eating toast;

and beyond that a large kitchen where someone was busy

preparing food and someone else was washing up.

‘I might as well help,’ Polly said, but the Mayoress shook her head.

‘You’re to have a cup of coffee and some fresh air. You’ve

had quite a difficult drive. I’ll just see how long my

meeting’s likely to take.’ She strode briskly from the room

and Polly found herself seated at the table, a cup of steaming

coffee in front of her and a plate of toast pushed under her

nose.

‘It’s all right,’ said a woman of about her own age with a

grin. ‘Breakfast goes on until lunchtime here. We’re coming

and going all the time, you see, and after a bad night people

just dash in whenever they’ve got the chance. My name’s

Daphne, by the way - Daphne Mallow. Have you driven up

from somewhere?’

‘Portsmouth.’ Polly took a slice of toast and spread it with

margarine and marmalade. ‘I’m Polly Dunn. I’m with the

Lady Mayoress. I’m a driver mostly, but of course I help

out wherever I can.’

The other woman nodded. ‘That’s what’s so good about

the WVS. We’ll turn our hands to anything, we never say

no, and we’re not bogged down by silly rules and red tape. I

hope I’ll be able to stay in it for the duration, not get called up into one of the Forces.’

‘Why, d’you think we’re likely to, at our age? They’ll only

take the younger ones, surely, in their twenties?’

Daphne shrugged. ‘Who knows? The longer it goes on,

the more help they’ll need. Of course, if it came to it I’d go

- that goes without saying - but I’d much rather do my bit

with the WVS. All that marching and drilling - seems a

waste of time to me.’

Polly nodded. She’d never thought about it before, but it

now seemed to her that Daphne might be right. After all, if

you were spending your time learning to march in step, you

weren’t spending it in helping people, and surely that was

what doing your bit for the war effort was really all about.

‘It’s because of discipline, though, isn’t it?’ she said, trying

to remember what Johnny had told her about being in the Navy. ‘If you get used to obeying orders without question even

if it’s just orders about marching - you’ll do it when

you’re in an emergency and it’s really important. I mean, my

hubby was at sea, and he told me that if an officer shouted

an order it wouldn’t be any good if half the men started to

argue about it. It could mean the ship being sunk.’

‘Well, of course everyone must be sensible about it,’ Daphne said. ‘But then women are, on the whole. We don’t need to have it drilled into us like that. And in the WVS we

can think for ourselves. You’re not always allowed to do that

in the Services.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall and

jumped up. ‘I must go! I’ve got to deliver a message to an

office in Whitehall. See you later, perhaps.’ She grinned

again at Polly, crammed her green beret on her head, and

was gone.

Polly finished her toast and coffee thoughtfully and took

the empty plate and cup through to the kitchen. There was a

plump woman of around fifty washing up and Polly offered