Under the Apple Tree (37 page)

her help. The woman smiled her thanks and Polly collected

the rest of the crockery and picked up a tea-towel.

‘So you’re from Portsmouth?’ the woman, who had

introduced herself as Mrs Cousins, observed after they had

chatted for a few moments. ‘I’ve got an auntie near there.

Gosport, she lives in - I dare say you know it.’ She had a

pleasant face, with warm brown eyes and greying hair.

Polly nodded. ‘It’s across the harbour. You can get there

by ferry - I’ve been a couple of times, but there’s not much

there. It’s not like Pompey. We’ve got all the best shops.’

She paused, then added, ‘At least, we did have, before the

Germans decided to change things.’

Mrs Cousins gave her a wry look. ‘I know, you’ve had

some terrible raids. But it’s the same story everywhere raids

and Blitzes, people killed or made homeless. And there

don’t seem to be no end in sight, neither.’ She scrubbed at a

large pan that seemed to have been used for making

porridge. ‘What it is, we’ve never had this kind of thing in Britain. We’ve always sent our armies off to fight in other

countries, and then gone on much the same as usual at

home. But now, with all these air raids, we’re all mixed up

in it together, and it’s children and old people as much as

soldiers and sailors.’ She regarded the pan and then turned

it upside down on the draining board. ‘That’s what sticks in

my craw - seeing little nippers hurt and killed and

frightened. Not that there ought to be any here by now,’ she

added grimly. ‘Ought to be out in the country, where they’d

be safe.’

Polly began to wipe the pan with her teacloth. ‘I know. I

don’t understand why their parents keep them in towns. My

little girl went straight away, right at the beginning. I know

a lot of people brought their kiddies back when nothing

much seemed to be happening, but surely with the way

things are …’

‘Oh, there are still people who think they know best. And

there are plenty who don’t really care all that much, to tell

you the truth.’ Mrs Cousins swished water round in the

enamel washbasin and then tipped it down the sink. ‘Some

of the slums up the East End are a real eye-opener youngsters

in rags who don’t see soap and water from one

week’s end to another, scavenging for food while their

parents are in the pub drowning their sorrows in gin or beer

and don’t know where they are half the time. Mind you, I

don’t say they’re all like that,’ she added fairly. ‘There are

some who try to keep decent no matter how poor they are,

but there are plenty who just have no idea. No idea at all.

We do our best to help them, of course, but it’s an uphill

struggle.’ She ran water over a dishcloth, squeezed it out

and began to wipe down the scrubbed wooden draining

boards. ‘Well, that’s breakfast done and dusted, time to start

the dinner things.’ She opened the door of a larder and

began to heave out a bag of potatoes.

‘I’ll help you,’ Polly offered, but Mrs Cousins shook her head.

‘No, I heard the Mayoress tell you to go out and get some

fresh air. That meeting’s going on till about three - you can

either come back and have a bite here, or have something

while you’re out. There’s a Lyons’ Corner House not far

away - try that. You can always get a decent meal there at a

reasonable price, and it’s the sort of place a woman can go

on her own and not feel conspicuous.’

Polly nodded and found her beret and shoulder bag. At

the last minute, she remembered her gas-mask in its

cardboard box, and slipped that over her shoulder too. She

had still never really got used to taking it with her

everywhere she went and often forgot, but here in London

with the evidence of the Blitz wherever you looked, it

seemed unlucky to go without it. The Germans hadn’t used

gas so far, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t - and she

knew from Dick’s experiences in the 1914-1918 war just

how terrible it could be. He’d had only a whiff and was still

suffering; those who had been badly gassed had died in

agony.

She walked out of the front door and stood for a moment

looking about her. The sun was shining and she had a

sudden, unexpected feeling of holiday. For a few hours, she

had nothing to do and no one to please save herself. She was

in London - a bombstruck, half-ruined London, it was true,

but London nevertheless - and there were still sights to see.

She decided to do as the Mayoress had suggested and go

first to St James’s Park.

Really, she thought a few minutes later, having crossed

Birdcage Walk and gone through the park gates, you’d

hardly know there was a war on. Well, provided you ignored

the gun emplacements and trenches, and didn’t look up at

the fleet of drifting barrage balloons that had been supposed

to prevent the enemy aircraft from getting through … But

apart from those things, the grass was green, the cherry

trees a foam of pink blossom, and the ducks on the lake were quacking about their business apparently without a care in

the world. I wonder what they make of the bombing, she

thought, leaning over the bridge and wishing she’d brought

some stale bread. I wonder if it frightens them or if they just accept it as part of everyday life. I wonder how many have

been killed …

‘Hello.’ The voice made her jump. ‘Aren’t you the young

lady I met on the train for Ashwood? Whatever are you

doing here?’

Polly turned, startled. Beside her, leaning on the railing

of the bridge, stood a man - a long-legged man with wavy,

iron-grey hair brushed back from a broad forehead, wearing

a tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers. His voice was deep

and warm, and she remembered it at once and smiled up at

him.

‘I’ve come up to WVS Headquarters with my boss - she’s

at a meeting. I drove her up and now I’ve been sent out

to get some fresh air and exercise.’ She laughed selfconsciously.

‘I feel a bit like a little girl who’s been sent out

to play!’

He raised his eyebrows, so that his forehead creased into

the three crinkly lines that she remembered. Not frown

lines, she thought, but humour lines. And there were other

little ones too, splayed out from the corners of his dark

brown eyes. It was a cheerful, crumpled face, a face that

looked as if it had been lived in, and had found something to

enjoy in much of what it had seen.

‘What a bit of luck,’ he said. ‘Is this your first time in the

Smoke?’

‘Mum brought me and my sister a few times when we

were children. She had a cousin in St John’s Wood.’ Polly

laughed. ‘I was so disappointed the first time I came -I was

expecting a real wood! But she showed us St Paul’s and the

Tower, things like that. It’s a long time ago now.’ She

sighed a little. ‘I was going to come with my hubby, but we never got round to it.’

He looked at her for a moment, then said, ‘Well, why

don’t you let me show you a few of the sights now - those

that the Germans have left us, anyway. Buckingham Palace

ain’t far. And then we could walk up Piccadilly and back

down Regent Street. What time d’you have to be back?’

‘I think they expect the meeting to end at three. But I

really ought to go and help. There’s a lady there cooking

dinner all by herself.’

‘She won’t be for long,’ he said, grinning so that his face

crinkled into a million tiny lines. ‘My sister will make sure

that everyone who walks through the door will lend a hand!

I told you she works there, didn’t I? She’s in charge of the

kitchen. In fact, it was probably her you saw - Edna

Cousins, her name is.’

‘That’s right! She told me her name was Mrs Cousins.’

Polly gazed at him. ‘I can see the likeness now, too.’ She put

out her hand. ‘My name’s Polly Dunn.’

‘And I’m Joe Turner.’ His hand was big and warm, with

stubby fingers. ‘Pleased to meet you, Polly Dunn.’

They shook hands and then stood looking a little

uncertainly at each other. After a minute or two, he said,

‘Well, how about it? Going to let me show you the sights?’

‘Well, if you think it will be all right,’ Polly said, a little doubtfully. ‘I still feel a bit guilty, as if I’m taking time off when I ought to be working.’

‘You’ve driven up from Portsmouth,’ he said. ‘You’re

going to drive back. You’ve had some bad raids recently and

I’ll bet my bottom dollar you’ve been out night and day,

helping and probably risking your life. If your boss has told

you to get some fresh air, I think that’s what you ought to

do!’ His face crinkled.

Polly laughed. ‘Well, if you put it like that! And I would like to see Buckingham Palace - that’s if you’ve got time.

You’ve got other things to do, surely?’

‘Not for an hour or two,’ he said. ‘I’m like you snatching a bit of time to try to forget the war. We’ve all got

to do that sometimes,’ he added, looking down at her as they

began to walk slowly through the park, alongside the lake

with its crowds of colourful ducks. ‘Keeps us from going

round the bend.’

They strolled along quietly for a while. Polly wondered

what he did. Despite his greying hair and crinkly face, he

didn’t seem too old to be in the Forces; in fact, when she

had met him before, she had put him down as a soldier - a

Sergeant, perhaps. Now she noticed that he walked with a

stick, favouring his right leg, and wondered if he’d been

injured and was on recuperation leave.

‘Sorry to be a bit slow,’ he said, as if reading her mind,

‘but I’ve got a bit of a gammy leg. Copped it on the beach at

Dunkirk. I’ve applied to go back to my regiment but they

seem to think I’d be a liability.’ He looked at Polly. ‘You’ve

got a kiddy, haven’t you, a little girl? You were going to see

her at Ashwood. I bet she was tickled pink to see you, wasn’t

she? Is she OK where she is?’

‘Yes, she’s with some really nice people. We’re lucky, not

all the evacuees are in such good billets. Actually, my niece

is out there at the moment, too. We thought she needed a

break, like you were saying just now.’

‘Your niece? Wasn’t she evacuated at the same time as

your kiddy, then?’

Polly shook her head. ‘No, Judy’s in her twenties now.’

‘Go on! You’re not old enough to have a niece in her

twenties!’

‘I am,’ Polly said with dignity, and then grinned. ‘I’m

quite a bit younger than my sister, Judy’s mum, Cissie.

There’s the same difference between me and Judy as there is

between me and Cissie.’

‘Don’t tell me any more,’ he said, ‘or I’ll start working

out your age, and that ain’t the way to behave with a lady.

And what about your hubby - serving, is he?’

‘No. He’s dead,’ Polly said quietly. ‘He was in the Navy, and his ship was sunk right at the beginning of the war.’

‘Oh, blimey!’ Joe stopped again and took her hand.

‘That’s me all over - open me big mouth and put me

blooming foot straight in it. Sorry, love. Just tell me to shut up.’

‘It’s all right,’ Polly said. She looked down at their hands.

Hers, small and slim, was almost lost in his big hand. She

saw that, like herself, he wore a plain gold wedding ring.

That was unusual, she thought. Not many men did that.

She drew in a shaky breath and said, ‘I think I’m getting

over it a bit now. I mean, so many things have happened and

so many people have been killed. You just have to get on

with life, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You do.’ There was a moment’s silence

and then he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and

they walked on. Polly took a deep breath, and then another.

Mentioning Johnny always brought an ache to her throat,

but she could feel a comfort in the warmth of this big man,

with her hand tucked so securely against his body. She had a

sudden longing to be held close, to be hugged. No more

than that - just to be hugged. To feel the closeness of

another human being. To feel the warmth of a living body

close to hers.

Oh Johnny, she thought, where are you? What happened

to you? And did you think of me, during your last few

moments? Did you know how much I loved you - and did it

help at all? Or did you forget everything and everyone in

those last desperate efforts to stay alive?

The tears came to her eyes and, without knowing it, she

tightened her grip on Joe Turner’s arm. He glanced down at

her but said nothing, and if she had looked up at him then

she would have seen that his eyes were wet too.

Chapter Nineteen Polly and Joe walked right through St James’s Park to

Buckingham Palace. They stood by the Queen Victoria

Memorial, gazing at the iron railings and the rows of

windows. The sentries were not dressed in red jackets and

tall busbies, as Polly recalled having seen them years ago,

but in tin hats and combat uniform. They looked grimly

prepared to fight to protect their King and Queen.

‘They were bombed too, weren’t they?’ she said, looking

at the big courtyard, and Joe Turner nodded.