Under the Apple Tree (15 page)

at her again and, as the train slowed down, leaned out to

open the door. ‘I hope you find your kiddy OK,’ he said,

‘and good luck. Don’t get bombed out again, will you!’

Polly laughed and stepped down on to the platform. ‘I’ll

try not to. Goodbye, and thank you for the things you’ve

said. It’s nice to be appreciated.’

‘Oh, you are, love,’ he said, and his eyes met hers again.

‘You don’t have to worry about that. You really are.’

The train set off again with a loud snort from the engine,

and Polly stood on the platform waving as it steamed off

along the track. It rounded a bend and disappeared from

sight and she let her arm drop with a sigh. A nice man, she

thought. The sort of man you could feel comfortable with.

A pity she would never see him again.

All the same, he’d more than made up for the old porter’s

cantankerousness, and the station clock told her that she had

an hour and a half before the Portsmouth train was due.

Sylvie’s billet was in a farmhouse only ten minutes’ walk

away. She would be just coming back from school now, and

certain to be there. With a leap of excitement in her heart,

Polly turned to walk briskly out of the station, and forgot

about the man in the fawn greatcoat, with the warm dark

eyes and the corrugated forehead.

‘So I had over an hour with her,’ Polly told the family later

when she finally arrived back at April Grove. ‘It was lovely

- she was so excited to see me. And the people she’s billeted

with, Mr and Mrs Sutton, they couldn’t be nicer. They’ve

got two other evacuees there too, a brother and sister; the

boy’s Sylvie’s age and the girl’s a bit older. Jenny and Brian, they’re called. They were all playing Ludo when I got

there.’

‘I didn’t know there were other children there,’ Cissie

said. ‘Sylvie’s never mentioned them in her letters.’

‘Well, you know Sylvie’s letters, they’re not much more

than Dear Mummy, I hope you’re well, I’m well, I hope

Granny’s well…’ Polly said, laughing. ‘After all, she can’t write all that much. But these two haven’t been there long.

They were sent out after the Blitz, apparently, like Stella

and Muriel,’

‘And d’you think they’ll settle in all right?’ Judy asked.

She’d spent most of the day trying to sort out other hasty

evacuations. ‘We’ve had complaints from a few people.

Some of the parents think their children aren’t being looked

after properly and some of the country hosts say the

children are so badly behaved they can’t put up with them.

Mostly ones from Rudmore and areas like that,’ she added.

‘Everyone knows what a slum Rudmore is,’ Alice

remarked. ‘Though they’re the salt of the earth just the

same. And I dare say there’s a few from Old Portsmouth

too, with backsides hanging out of their trousers and no

shoes. Look at the Hodges family who came here just before

the war started. They lived in a pub in Old Portsmouth, so

Tommy Vickers told me, and didn’t have a penny to bless themselves with. Mr Hodges works down the Camber dock,

steady enough work but you know what the pay’s like. And

that boy of theirs, the older one - Gordon - you could see

from the start he’d be a troublemaker. Got mixed up

straight away with Micky Baxter, and now he’s in an

approved school for pinching stuff from an antique shop.

You remember that, don’t you? Caused a real rumpus in

April Grove.’

‘Don’t understand why they didn’t send Micky away too,’

Dick said. ‘He was in it just as much as the older one.

Wasn’t there a younger boy, too?’

Alice nodded. ‘Sammy. He’s not a bad little chap, helped

his mum a lot before she died. Mr Hodges couldn’t manage

at all after that, left the kiddy on his own for two or three

days at a time. If it hadn’t been for Freda Vickers giving him

his dinners I don’t know what would have happened.

Anyway, Tommy went down the billeting offices in the end

and they took Sammy out to Bridge End, where the other

youngsters went.’

‘It looks a nice village,’ Polly said. ‘The vicar’s a real

gentleman, a bit odd but you expect that of a vicar, don’t

you, and his housekeeper Mrs Mudge is a proper motherly

soul. Stella and Muriel’ll be all right there.’

They were just finishing up the tea left in the pot when

the familiar wail of the siren rose in the air. It had sounded

almost every night since the Blitz, but the raids hadn’t been

as bad as on that terrible night. All the same, you couldn’t

take chances and there was a hasty gathering up of coats,

blankets and the tin box that contained all the important

household papers — insurances, birth certificates and so on and within five minutes they were all in the Anderson

shelter at the bottom of the garden, huddling on the bunks

Dick and Terry had fitted there. Dick lit the hurricane lamp

and they all looked at each other and shrugged.

‘Might as well have a game of cards,’ Cissie said, but Polly shook her head.

‘I’m going down to the Emergency Centre. I said I would,

if there was a raid. What about you, Judy?’

Judy nodded. Like Polly, she was still wearing her WVS

uniform. ‘You’ll be all right here, won’t you, Mum? You’ve

got Dad and Gran with you.’

‘I’m not worried about us,’ Cissie said anxiously. ‘It’s

you, going through the streets in the blackout, in the middle

of a raid. Surely they can’t expect you to do that?’

‘Someone’s got to, Mum,’ Judy said. ‘We were glad

enough of the Centre when we got bombed out. Anyway, if

we go quickly we’ll be there before the planes come - and

they might not even be coming here, this time.’

There had been alarms almost every night since the big

raid, and a few bombs dropped on the city and its outskirts,

but there had never been as much damage again, and

nobody had been hurt. More often, the planes went over on

their way to London or some other city. You still had to take

shelter, just in case, but Portsmouth people were beginning

to hope they’d had their share.

‘I feel sorry, leaving Cissie like that,’ Polly remarked as

they groped their way through the pitch-black streets. ‘She’s

always been a bit nervous, but we’ve got to do our bit.’ She

grabbed Judy’s arm as they heard the first drone of enemy

aircraft approaching. ‘Oh Lord - here they come!’

They flattened themselves against a wall, staring up at the

sky. It was criss-crossed with the long swords of the

searchlights, and now and then the dark shape of a plane,

high above, was caught in the shining white beam.

Immediately, a rattle of ack-ack fire would break out from

one or more of the gun emplacements around the city — on

Southsea Common, or the slopes of Portsdown Hill - and

once the two women saw a burst of orange as a plane was

hit, and the streak of flame like a ribbon as it fell to earth.

‘Suppose it fell on buildings?’ Judy whispered, but she

knew that the gun crews couldn’t think of that. It was too important to destroy the plane and its deadly cargo, for if it

were allowed to go on its way, many more buildings might

be demolished and people killed.

‘Come on,’ Polly murmured, giving her arm a little tug.

‘We’re not far away from the Centre now. Let’s get there as

quickly as we can.’

The Centre was an old church, and its crypt was being

used as a shelter. Polly and Judy reached it safely and

scrambled down the steps. The basement was already

crowded with people, and there were a few hurricane lamps

set about, lighting their faces eerily. At the far end someone

had set up a long trestle table, and a WVS volunteer was

busy with a large steaming urn.

‘You can spread this bread with margarine and fish paste,’

she directed the two newcomers. ‘We’re not expecting too

much trouble tonight, but you never know. Here, aren’t you

Alice Thomas’s girls? You know me — Mrs Chapman, from

the bottom of October Street.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Polly started to slice the bread. ‘The

house with the turret. How’s your Olive now?’

‘Oh, not so bad, considering. She’s still cut up about

losing the baby, of course, but she’s not letting it get her

down. Gone back to work at Derek’s dad’s place, just like

before.’

They worked busily, making cocoa and sandwiches. A lot

of the people there had no shelters - in some streets,

because of the way the water mains and sewers were laid, it

was impossible to dig the hole needed for an Anderson, so

those who lived there had to go to street shelters or Centres

like this. Mostly, they brought their own food and drink

with them, but there had to be plenty on tap for anyone who

was bombed out, or brought in as casualties. There were

First-Aid workers too, and ARP wardens popping in and

out to bring news, glad of a hot drink and a ‘wad’, so one

too

way and another they were kept busy enough even if there

were no bombs.

Peggy Shaw, who lived next door to Jess Budd, joined

them and began talking about her daughter Gladys, who

drove an ambulance. ‘Well, a bread-van, to be honest,

converted. She’s on standby all the time in air raids. And it’s not just driving, neither. She got a kiddy out of a ruined

cellar in the Blitz, saved her life, she did. Dug some poor

boy out of a pile of rubble, took I don’t know how many to

hospital, and then came home for a wash, changed her

clothes and went straight off to work.’

Peggy shook her head. ‘I had to hand it to her, I did

really.’

‘But you must have been worried to death,’ Annie said

‘knowing she was out in all that bombing.’

Peggy laughed. ‘Worried? I was out there with her! And I

can tell you this, there was no time for worrying — no more

than you had when you were sorting out all the people who

got bombed out.’ She picked up a fresh loaf and held it

against her chest as she sliced it. ‘Anyway, there’s no use

worrying, is there? If a bomb’s got your name on it, it’ll find you, wherever you are. That’s what I think. Doesn’t matter

whether you’re down the air-raid shelter or standing on top

of the Guildhall like Tommy Vickers was that night. If it’s

got your name on it, it’ll find you.’

Polly glanced up as a plane snarled overhead. There had

been several explosions already, and the roar of aircraft had

been increasing. The rattle of ack-ack fire came from

Portsdown Hill. ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but it

seems to me it’s getting worse.’

They all lifted their heads and listened for a moment.

There were obviously a lot of planes overhead, their nasal

snarl unmistakable as German craft. At that moment, a

tremendous explosion rocked the hall, and Judy put out a

hand involuntarily to Polly’s arm. They looked at each

other.

‘You’re right,’ Annie Chapman said grimly. ‘This is

going to be a bad one. It’ll be more than cocoa and hot soup

we’ll be needing before it’s over. Here come the first ones

now, look.’

People had begun to straggle into the hall. There were

already plenty who had come in for shelter when the siren

had first sounded, but these were men and women, and

children too, who looked frightened and bewildered. Some

were covered with dust and others were injured, limping or

holding their arms, or with blood running down their faces

and staining their clothes. Polly, who had just finished a

First-Aid course, went over at once to take charge.

. ‘She’s as good as my Gladys,’ Peggy said, watching her.

‘Hey-up, what’s happening now?’

The door burst open and one of the Rover Scouts, the

older members of the Boy Scouts who ran messages between

the Centres, came panting in.

‘They want someone to go and open an Incident Centre

in Portsea,’ he told them. ‘It’s bad down there - any amount

of places bombed. People all over the place, don’t know

what to do. A copper sent me on my bike to fetch someone

to take charge.’ He looked from Annie to Judy. ‘Come on!’

‘All right, young man, no need to get so aeriated,’ Annie

said severely. She started to take off her apron. ‘I’d better go.’

‘No, I will. I can run faster.’ Judy was pulling on her coat

and hat as she spoke. She looked at the boy. ‘Or I’ll ride

your bike, and you can do the running.’

‘But it’s got a crossbar!’

‘So what? Think I can’t manage it? I’ve been riding my

brother’s bike since I was ten years old.’ She hustled him

out of the church and grabbed the handlebars of his bike,

hoisting up her skirt to cock her leg over the bar. ‘Which

way?’

Portsea was, as the Scout had said, badly bombed. The

streets presented the now familiar sight of ruined houses,

rubble-blocked roads, fire engines and ambulances - and pathetic knots of people huddled together in shocked

bewilderment, or wandering in a daze, calling out for family

members or friends.

‘Joanie! Where’s our Joanie?’