Under the Apple Tree (54 page)

spoke firmly. ‘Jean, I do not expect you to work all day long.

If you’ll just help out a bit in the mornings with some

cleaning - light cleaning - and doing the vegetables for

lunch, that will be quite enough. I mean it.’

‘But it’s not enough! I know it isn’t. A great big house

like this,’ Jean waved her hand at the sprawling Victorian

house, built in an age when vicars were expected to have

large families. ‘It needs a lot of looking after. And I’m

supposed to be working for my keep. Just doing a bit of

sweeping and peeling a few potatoes isn’t enough for that.’

‘Well,’ Mrs Hazelwood hesitated. ‘If you really want to

do more, you could take over the ironing. The vicar needs a

clean shirt every day, and there’s his dog-collars and his

surplices - there always seems to be a mountain of ironing

waiting to be done. But I don’t want you to stand for long

periods. You can sit on a high stool to do it, and you must

promise me that you’ll stop at once if you feel tired or your

back starts to ache.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Jean promised. ‘I quite like ironing anyway.

And I thought I might look after the ornaments in the

morning room as well. All those lovely pieces of china - I’d

really enjoy dusting them. That’s if you’ll trust me not to

drop them,’ she added hastily.

Mrs Hazelwood smiled. ‘Of course I trust you, my dear.

And I’d just like to say how much the vicar and I enjoy

having you with us. You seem to have fitted in so well - it’s

hard to believe you’ve only been here a week. And with Ben

gone, the house would seem so empty.’

Ben had written already from his RAF training camp, and

seemed to be enjoying it very much. He had written to Judy

as well, telling her rather more than he told his parents, and

she read his letter two or three times and then put it in a

drawer beside her bed. He seemed so young, she thought, so

young to be a pilot and risk his life. She thought of her

brother Terry, only a few years older and dead already. Ben

was a bit like a younger brother; she hoped he would

survive. Surely some of them must. Or would the war just

go on and on until there was nobody left to fight?

There had been more raids on Portsmouth and Polly

wrote to tell her that a huge bomb had fallen in Torrington

Road, not far from September Street, and buried itself

beneath a house. The bomb disposal squad had come to

defuse it and announced that, although it was now safe, it I

couldn’t be moved. There just wasn’t time, when there were

so many other bombs all over the city. It wasn’t a danger to anyone so could be left where it was for the time being,I wouldn’t like it, though, Polly had written. Imagine knowing there was a bomb under your floor! I mean, how do they know for certain it’s safe?

Towards the end of the month Hitler invaded Russia. He sent in three million troops — three million! Judy thought in

astonishment - and kept only six hundred thousand to cover

Europe and North Africa. Even that sounded a lot. Mr

Churchill immediately proposed an alliance with Russia and

Stalin accepted. It seemed very strange, when you remembered

that Russia had once been on Germany’s side, but this

war seemed to grow stranger and stranger as time went on.

Friends one day, enemies the next, and then the whole lot

ganging up on someone else. Like children in a playground,

Judy thought, only these games were much more dangerous.

Now that she was out in the country, she felt her anxiety

begin to diminish again. The peace she had known when she

was here before stole over her heart again, and the panic that

never seemed far away when she was in Portsmouth

receded. She felt ashamed, thinking of all those she had left

behind to face the bombing and the dangers, and threw

herself even more whole-heartedly into her voluntary work.

‘You could help with the pie scheme,’ Mrs Hazelwood

suggested when Judy went to ask what she could do. ‘We

always seem to need volunteers for that.’

‘The pie scheme?’

‘Yes. It’s called the Hampshire County Pie Scheme and

it’s approved by the Ministry of Food. A baker in Romsey

makes the pies and we pay him threepence-ha’penny each.

The public pays fourpence, so we make a ha’penny profit,

which we pay into our bank account and then send on to

Winchester. We’re allowed to deduct our expenses postage,

telephone calls and so on. We can order up to three

hundred pies a week, but if we need more we have to apply

for the baker to be permitted extra fat and meat.’

‘But what happens to the pies?’ Judy asked when she had

digested this information, conveyed by a mixture of clear

speaking and written notes. ‘Who has them all?’

‘Oh, all sorts of people. Land Girls, farmers, villagers, old

people who can’t manage to cook a meal any more. The pies

are very much appreciated, I can tell you. We collect them in the mornings when they’re baked and take them all

around the village and quite a long way into the outlying

countryside. It helps the rations along and saves people

cooking at lunch time.’

‘Lunchtime’ to Judy had always been ‘dinnertime’, when

she was used to having the main meal of the day. She could

see that it would be helpful to farmers’ wives not to have to

cook a large midday meal for all the farmworkers, and would

save their having to return to the house from distant fields.

‘So would you want me to take pies round?’ she asked a little

doubtfully. ‘I mean, I don’t really know the area that well. I

might get lost and wouldn’t be able to find my way back,

what with all the signposts being taken down and not being

able to ask, the way. And I’m not sure how many pies I could

carry on my bike.’

‘No, we wouldn’t expect you to do that. We use one of

the vans in the car pool. But if you could just take over the

paperwork?’

A few hours later, Judy found herself poring over a large

box filled with forms and letters. ‘I can see why you always

need volunteers for this,’ she said ruefully, and Mrs

Hazelwood looked a little apologetic.

‘I know. It’s dreadful, isn’t it, all that paperwork just for a few pies. But the Ministry insists, and I suppose they know

best.’ She glanced at the heap of letters. ‘You wouldn’t think

there was a paper shortage, would you!’

‘I should think this is the reason why there’s a paper

shortage,’ Judy said grimly, beginning to sort through. ‘It’s

worse than Portsmouth Corporation!’

The pie scheme was meticulously recorded. First, there

was a letter telling Mrs Hazelwood that approval had been

given for Ashwood to be a part of it, and explaining the

prices. Enclosed with this had been the forms for making

out monthly returns which must be sent in together with the

bakers’ receipts and paying-in slips (in duplicate). Then

there was a paying-in book (in triplicate) which must be used every time money was paid into the bank. There was a

licence for the baker to make meat pies, listing the

ingredients he was permitted to use and a large number

(including such items as syrup, table jellies and crystallised

fruits) which could not by any stretch of the imagination be

found in meat pies. Some of them Judy had not seen since

before the war; some, like soya flour, she had never even

heard of.

Well, it was probably meant to cover all contingencies,

not just meat pies. She turned to the next letter, which

appeared to be a stern reproof to someone for not enclosing

the baker’s receipt with the previous return. This was

followed by an equally severe reminder that on no account must the baker be asked for pies beyond the number for which he was licensed, and then a request that another form

be completed to show the number of pies distributed each

week during the eight weeks of April and May. The weeks

were numbered one to eight (that’s clever! Judy thought

sarcastically) and the pies should be entered in the column

headed subs, meals (what did that mean when it was at

home?) and no other entry was required, other than a

signature. Judy tried hard but could not think of any other

entry that the unfortunate filler-in might be tempted to

make. On the other hand, she thought, maybe I can.

The correspondence went on. Someone had noticed that

some months had five weeks and there was a letter about

this. A form had been sent out to ask for an overdue return

- there must have been quite a few, Judy thought, for them

to make a special form about them - and a somewhat

plaintive note that not so many pies had been distributed

during the previous month. Were the people who received

them less keen on the pies? Was there something wrong

with the pies? Perhaps it would be better to have pies only

twice a week instead of three times, or even just on Fridays.

Returns would, of course, still have to be made and the

money paid in as usual. Oh, and a shilling too much had been paid in last week and could the sender please deduct

this amount next time. By the time Mrs Hazelwood came in

again with a cup of coffee Judy’s head was spinning and she

felt that she never wanted to see a meat pie again in the

whole of her life.

‘Listen to this!’ she said, barely acknowledging the coffee

and biscuit that had been placed beside her. ‘Just listen! You

have entered i/- as Petty Cash and instead of deducting it from the ha’penny levy of Ł1.$.6d you have added it on and paid in pounds .6.6d, which of course is 2/- too much, and there is also the //- paid in excess last month, so that altogether you appear to have paid in 3/- too much. Perhaps you will be good enough to

adjust this when you next pay money in to the Pie Account. Someone,’ she said, looking indignantly at Mrs Hazelwood, ‘has spent time — precious, valuable time — working out

what’s been paid in and what hasn’t and where it should

have been instead. It must cost more to do that than they

ever get back in profit. Why do they bother? And look - just look at this return. It’s worse than an exam. It’ll take half the afternoon just to fill it in, let alone add this and deduct that, and get it all right! And it doesn’t matter how often they

write,’ she went on, scrabbling amongst the papers, ‘or what

the letter’s about, it always ends up with / enclose a few

monthly returns. What do they think we do with them all, eat them? Or maybe they think we put them into the pies.

Honestly, I can see why nobody sticks this job for long.’

Mrs Hazelwood was almost helpless with laughter. She

sank into a chair and wiped her streaming eyes while Judy

continued to stare at her indignantly. Then Judy’s lips

began to twitch and she began to giggle. She turned the box

upside down and tipped the papers out on to the floor.

‘There! That’s what I think of that! Still, I suppose it’ll

have to be done, or the poor people who buy these pies will

have to go without. But honestly, Mrs Hazelwood, is it

really doing any good?’

‘Well, it isn’t as successful as it was expected to be,’ the

vicar’s wife admitted. ‘But even if only one person who

needs pies gets them it will be worthwhile. And who knows

what the poor woman who writes these letters feels about it

all? If she believes she’s doing useful work towards the war

effort, then it’s good for her, isn’t it?’

Judy managed to get the gist of this and bent to scoop up

the papers. ‘I suppose so. But if they make all this fuss and

write all these letters about a few pies, how on earth do they

manage to run a war? Anyway, I’m sure we don’t need all

these letters now, Mrs Hazelwood. Is it all right if I throw

the old ones away?’

‘I should think so. But don’t just put them in the bin, will

you? They are official correspondence and we ought to

dispose of them carefully. You’d better put the important

ones into a box and store it in a cupboard somewhere, and

then take the rest down to the end of the garden. Mr

Honey’s having a bonfire.’

Judy drank her coffee and sorted through the papers

again, setting aside those she considered worth keeping

(including the monthly returns) and piling the others on her

desk. Then she set off to the end of the garden, where the

ancient man who came in three days a week to tend the

vegetables was stoking up a bonfire of prunings and spring

clippings.

‘Ah,’ he said when Judy approached. ‘Come to have a bit

of a warm, have ‘ee?’ He laughed uproariously while Judy

smiled politely, having no idea what he had said. He saw the

papers in her arms. ‘Want to put them papers on the fire?’

‘Yes, please. Shall I throw them on now?’

He shook his head decisively. ‘No, that’ll do no good,

they’ll just scorch round the edges if you puts ‘em on in a

pile, see, and then drift about all over the village in the

wind.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Secret papers, be

they?’

‘Not really; no,’ Judy said, catching on to the last phrase.

‘

‘But they’ve got to be disposed of.’ She made to throw them