Under the Apple Tree (13 page)

trembling. ‘We like it here with you.’

Jess Budd looked down at them tenderly. ‘I like having

you, Muriel, but you’ll be safer out in the country. And

you’ll be with Tim and Keith and the other children.’

‘Tim and Keith are boys. I’d rather stay here with you

and Maureen and Rose. They’re not going out to the

country.’

‘I know.’ Jess looked helpless. ‘But your daddy wants you

to go, doesn’t he? Don’t you remember, he had a talk with

you both when he came to see you? He told you then he

wanted you to go, so that he wouldn’t have to worry about

you in the bombing.’

‘Well, I want to go,’ Stella said suddenly. ‘I’m fed up

with being bombed. And Tim and Keith don’t matter, Mu.

We don’t have to take any notice of them - there’ll be plenty

of girls to play with.’

Jess and Polly glanced at each other, trying not to smile.

Polly picked up one of the little cardboard suitcases. ‘Come

on, then. We’ll catch the train at Hilsea station. Have you

been on a train before?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Jess said, putting Maureen into her

pram. ‘We’ll wave goodbye.’ To Polly she said quietly, ‘I’ll

miss the little dears, but it’ll be better for them to be away

from Pompey. Every time they walk up the street they see

the house they lived in - well, the space where it used to be.

It’s not good for them, being reminded what happened that

night.’

Once on the train, the girls perked up and looked out of

the window eagerly. Neither had ever seen the countryside

before, and they cried out with excitement at seeing cows

and sheep in the snowy fields. There were even one or two

early lambs skipping about and Muriel turned to Polly, her

face alight, and asked if she would be allowed to have one of

her own.

‘Maureen Budd’s got one. The butcher gave it to her.’

‘The butcher gave her a lamb?’ Polly asked in surprise.

‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s not a real one,’ Stella said. ‘It’s the one he used to

have standing on his counter. He gave it to her at

Christmas.’

‘Well, what a lovely present. There can’t be many little

girls who’ve got a lamb like that.’

‘Yes, but I want a real one,’ Muriel persisted. ‘Like Bo

Peep.’

‘No, that was Mary,’ Stella corrected her. ‘Bo-Peep lost her sheep.’

They started to recite nursery rhymes and then went on

to songs. They were on their third rendition of ‘Run,

Rabbit, Run’ when the train arrived at Bridge End station.

Polly gathered together their few pieces of luggage and.

helped them down on to the platform.

‘We’re supposed to meet Mrs Tupper,’ she said, consulting

her instructions and glancing around. ‘I don’t see

anyone here, though.’ An elderly porter was shovelling snow

into piles on the platform and she approached him. ‘Do you

know if there’s been a lady called Mrs Tupper here? She

was supposed to meet us.’

He straightened up and pushed back his cap to scratch his

forehead. ‘Mrs Tupper? Big lady, is she, in charge of the

evacuees?’

‘I don’t know what she looks like,’ Polly said, ‘but these

are evacuees so I expect that’s the one. Have we missed her?’

He shook his head. ‘Ent coming. Gone down with ‘flu,

that’s what I heard. Message come through on the telephone

half an hour ago.’ He started to shovel again.

Polly looked at him in exasperation. ‘Well, what was the

message? Didn’t she say what I should do with the girls? I

was supposed to hand them over to her.’

He shook his head. ‘Wasn’t her that telephoned. Told

you, she’s got the ‘flu. Too poorly to come to the telephone,

I dare say, so she got someone else to do it for her.’

‘Yes, but what did they say? Wasn’t there any instruction

for me?’

‘You?’ he repeated blankly.

Polly took a deep breath. I shall laugh about this later, she told herself, but she didn’t feel much like laughing now.

‘Yes, me. Presumably that’s why she - or whoever it was,’

she added hastily as his mouth began to open, ‘telephoned

the station, to let me know that she wouldn’t be here. And I

expect they left a message to say what I should do. Didn’t

they?’

‘Well, so they might’ve done,’ he muttered resentfully,

‘only I don’t know who you are, do I? I ent going to give

messages to people I don’t know. Might be someone else’s

message, mightn’t it? I got a responsible position here,’ he

told her severely, ‘and there’s a lot of funny people about.

Spies and Fifth Columnists and that. You know what the

posters say: Walls Have Ears. Well, I ent going to give no

messages to nobody, not unless I knows who they are, and

that’s flat.’ He sniffed and made to start shovelling again.

Polly reached out and grasped the handle of his spade.

‘All right. Perhaps I should have told you who I was. My

name’s Mrs Dunn, and I’m escorting these two little girls

from Portsmouth to their billet at the vicarage here. We

were supposed to be met by Mrs Tupper. Now she’s not

here and I’d like to know if she left any message for me, or

whether I should just take Stella and Muriel straight to the

vicarage. And I’d like to know quickly, please, because we’ve

been on the train all morning - goodness knows why it took

that long, but it did - and I have to hand them over and

then go back. On the train,’ she added, just to make

everything clear, and looked him in the eye.

The porter shrugged and looked away. ‘Well, that’s all

right then, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Take

‘em to the vicarage. It’s straight down the lane, by the

church. I dare say they’re waiting for them there — Mrs

Mudge and the vicar, and those boys they’ve got there

already. Pair of rapscallions,’ he added vengefully.

Polly looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and

curiosity. ‘What do you mean, rapscallions? And why couldn’t you give me the message in the first place?’

‘I told you, I wasn’t giving out no information till I

knowed who you was. And all boys is rapscallions, stands to

reason, it’s their nature. I was, when I was a boy.’ He stared

at her, as if defying her to doubt that he’d ever been a boy.

‘Anyway, you should see what those two gets up to, leading

the vicar astray. Man of his age too. Oughter know better.’

He shuffled off down the platform, leaning on his spade

rather than shovelling with it, and muttering to himself.

What on earth can he mean? Polly wondered, but it was

too cold to stand on the platform any longer. She led the

two girls out of the station, each carrying a suitcase and

festooned with brown paper bags containing their few

possessions.

‘It can’t be too far to the vicarage,’ she said encouragingly.

‘You can see the church tower there, look, across the

fields. But I’m sure we can get there by the lane,’ she added

as Muriel stared at the cows over the hedge and began to

look alarmed.

‘They’re ever so big close to, aren’t they? They’re as big

as elephants.’

‘Well, not quite.’ Polly herself had never been quite so

close as this to a cow, and was glad they didn’t have to go

into the field with them. Sylvie must be quite used to them

by now, she thought, and sighed. She’d hoped to get over to Ashwood today to see her. If she could have just handed the little girls over to Mrs Tupper, she could have got straight

back on to the train. She sighed again.

A small hand slid into hers. ‘Is it a big nuisance having to

take us to the vicar’s house?’ Muriel asked, and Polly looked

down at her and felt ashamed.

‘No, of course it’s not. I’ll be pleased to see where you’re

going, and I can tell Mrs Budd I’ve seen Tim and Keith as

well. I can give them the cake she’s sent.’

The church tower, which had been over to their left, had

disappeared behind some trees and then, mysteriously, reappeared on their right. I hope it isn’t too far, Polly

thought. It’s so cold and the girls haven’t had anything to

eat since breakfast. I hope the housekeeper’s got something

hot for them.

They began to pass a few cottages. There were one or two

on their own, then a small row, then some more in pairs.

Some were thatched, some had slate roofs, and with the

snow covering them like quilts and their gardens a

mysterious jumble of white bumps, they looked like a

Christmas card. Polly even spotted a robin sitting on a holly

bush and pointed it out to the girls. They nodded glumly,

too cold, tired and apprehensive to be excited by Christmas

cards.

The lane turned again and the tower appeared directly

ahead, at the end of the village street. There were cottages

on both sides of the road, which widened to a village green

with a small pond in the middle. Beside the pond stood a

large snowman, and some boys were sliding on a long strip

of ice along the edge of the road.

‘Well,’ Polly said, ‘doesn’t this look lovely?’

The two girls regarded the scene without enthusiasm.

Poor little scraps, they’ve had enough, Polly thought. But it

did look a happy place, with all these cosy-looking cottages

and the snow-covered green and the children playing.

They’d be better off here, away from the war and all the

terrible things that had happened to them. Polly rather

wished she could stay herself.

The vicarage was easy to find - a large house, set back

from the road in a big garden with lots of trees, close to the

church. Polly opened the iron gates and they went up the

path. They climbed a few steps to the front door and Polly

lifted the knocker.

‘I don’t like this place,’ Muriel said, putting her thumb in

her mouth. ‘It’s too big.’

Before Polly could reply, the door opened and they saw a

woman standing there. She was as tall as Polly but a good deal rounder, with curly grey hair and very bright eyes. She

wore a cherry-red jumper and skirt, covered by a flowery

apron, and her sleeves were rolled up as if she’d just been

mixing cakes or scrubbing a floor. She beamed at them.

‘You’re here!’ She sounded as though this was the

moment she’d been looking forward to all day. ‘Come in out

of the cold. Come through to the kitchen, it’s nice and warm

and I’ve got some good stew simmering ready, and a loaf of

bread just out of the oven. Here, let me take your coats. My,

what pretty little girls. Mr Beckett’s going to be so pleased!’

She swept them along the passage and into the kitchen. It

was a big room, almost as big as the rooms at the Royal

Beach, and its warmth equalled the warmth of the housekeeper’s

welcome. Polly, finding herself pressed into a large

rocking chair by the stove, felt as if she had been wrapped in

a comforting eiderdown. She looked at the girls, who had

been ensconced on small stools and were now having their

Wellington boots removed, and hoped they felt the same.

‘The boys are out playing in the snow,’ the housekeeper

continued, warming Muriel’s feet between her hands. ‘And

the vicar’s probably with them if I know anything about it!

Nothing more than a boy himself, and that’s the truth. My

name’s Mrs Mudge, by the way. I’ve looked after the vicar

for years - me and my hubby both, before he passed away.

Anyway, they’ll be in soon clamouring for their dinner.

You’ll have something before you go back, won’t you,

Mrs … ?’

‘Dunn,’ Polly said. ‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble. I

don’t want to take your rations.’

‘Rations!’ the housekeeper exclaimed, as if she’d never

heard the word before. ‘You don’t want to worry about

rations! My stew’s all vegetables from the garden - Mr

Beckett and me dug over a big patch as soon as all this

started. There’s a bit of rabbit in it too, that Mr Knight

brought round. There’s not a single ration been near it!’

‘Well, it smells delicious,’ Polly said, eyeing the pan simmering on the stove. ‘And it will be nice to see the boys

- I can go back and tell their mother how they are. They’re

not being too much trouble, I hope?’ she added, remembering

her official position.

‘Trouble? Tim and Keith?’ Mrs Mudge laughed. ‘Well,

they’re boys, aren’t they - bound to get into a few scrapes.

But no, they’re no real trouble, no trouble at all, though

young Tim’s a bit of a live wire. If there’s anyone who’s

trouble in this house, it’s not them, I can tell you.’ She

folded her lips and nodded darkly.

Polly looked at her doubtfully, but before she could ask

what the housekeeper meant the back door burst open and

they could hear excited voices in the scullery beyond the

kitchen. Polly recognised the voices of Tim and Keith

Budd, whom she’d often seen playing in April Grove when

she’d visited her mother, and decided that the deeper tones

must belong to Mr Beckett himself. Aware of a sudden

nervous tension in the two little girls, she drew them close

and stood up as the vicar entered.

‘Why, they’re arrived!’ he exclaimed, rubbing long thin

hands together. He came forward hastily, draping a pair of