Portsmouth 1941, and the Luftwaffe unleashes
its full armoury in the first of three major blitzes.
Judy Taylor and her family are bombed out and
relocated to a small terraced house in April Grove.
Then, just when Judy thinks things can't get any
worse, she hears the most devastating news:
her fiance has been killed.

Judy is encouraged to join the WVS with her recently
widowed Aunt Polly, and they are soon accompanying
evacuee children and running canteens, often in the
face of air raids, flying bombs and V2 rockets.

Gradually Judy and Polly begin to come to
terms with their grief -- but neither of them
is prepared for a surprising future . . .'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.
Lilian Harry grew up close to Portsmouth Harbour, where her
earliest memories are of nights spent in an air-raid shelter listening
to the drone of enemy aircraft and the thunder of exploding
bombs. But her memories are also those of a warm family life
shared with two brothers and a sister in a tiny backstreet house
where hard work, love and laughter went hand in hand. Lilian
Harry now lives on the edge of Dartmoor where she has two ginger
cats to love and laugh at. She has a son and daughter and two
grandchildren and, as well as gardening, country dancing, amateur
dramatics and church bellringing, she loves to walk on the moors
and - whenever possible - to go skiing in the mountains of Europe.
She has written a number of books under other names, including
historical novels and contemporary romances. Visit her website at
www.lilianharry .co.uk
By Lilian Harry
Goodbye Sweetheart
The Girls They Left Behind
Keep Smiling Through
Moonlight & Lovesongs
Love & Laughter
Wives & Sweethearts
Corner House Girls
Kiss the Girls Goodbye
PS I Love You
A Girl Called Thursday
Tuppence to Spend
A Promise to Keep
Under the Apple Tree
Dance Little Lady

Under the
Apple Tree

LILIAN HARRY

Copyright © 2004 Lilian Harry
The right of Lilian Harry to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.
ISBN O 75285 929 3
Typeset by Deltatype Ltd, Birkenhead, Merseyside
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

www.orionbooks.co.uk

For my dear grandson, Peter who took the time to show us over the hotel, taking Maurice
back to the roof for the first time since the war ended; and to
all those whose memories, research and chance remarks,
have helped me along the way.

Credit is theirs; errors are mine

The words of the song 'Friend O'Mine' were written by
Frederick Weatherley, who died in 1929. The song was one
which I remember my father singing to my mother at family
parties, and never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

Chapter One

The Taylor family already knew what they would find when
they crept out of their Anderson air-raid shelter on that
bitter morning of 11 January, 1941. Huddling together on
the two camp beds that Dick Taylor and his son Terry had
set up before Terry had gone away to sea, they had listened
in fear to the tumult outside and, when the ground beneath
them swelled and shook, when the very air seemed to
collapse in the roar of that almost unbelievable explosion,
when they knew that their own house must have been hit,
they had clutched each other in terror that they were about
to be blasted from their hiding-place.
The sheets of corrugated iron that formed a shelter over
the hole Dick and Terry had dug, had rattled and shaken
about them, and earth had crumbled through the cracks
between them. But they had held firm, and when the crash
of falling masonry and the smashing of glass had ceased,
Dick and Cissie and the others were still alive. Alive -- but
not yet safe. It was another six hours before the All Clear
sounded and they dared to creep out and see, in the cold,
grey "light, what had been done to their home.close beside her. Polly had been living with the Taylors ever
since her husband Johnny had been lost at sea in the early
days of the war. At thirty-five she was twelve years younger
than Cissie, and the same number of years older than her
niece, thus she was more like a sister to twenty-two-year
old Judy and they had long ago dispensed with the title of
'Aunt'. Now, as they crept up the garden path towards the
mound of broken beams, shattered glass and tossed bricks,
they reached out to each other and touched hands.
'It's awful,' Judy said shakily. 'Everything smashed to
bits, just like that. And what for? Why us? The man who
dropped that bomb doesn't even know us. Why are they
doing it, Poll?'
'It's not just us,' Polly said quietly. 'You know that. Look
at what's been happening in London and all those other
places. We're all getting it. And I reckon Pompey got it as
bad as any last night. Look - you can still see the flames. It
looks as if the whole city's on fire. There must be thousands
like us, bombed out of their homes. And thousands killed
too, I expect. At least we're all alive.' She bit her lip and
Judy knew that she must be thinking of Johnny. 'Thank
God we were down in the shelter.'
Judy nodded. There had already been over thirty raids on
Portsmouth. The people had grown used to the eerie wail of
the siren and the frantic dash for shelter. They had heard
the thunder of the explosions and felt the earth quake as
craters were blasted into roads, and houses demolished.
They had emerged into devastated streets, picked their waythrough the rubble and seen dead and injured lying like
broken dolls where they had been flung. They knew what
had happened in London and Coventry. Yet they were still
not prepared for this terrible Blitz. Perhaps you never can
imagine the worst, she thought. Perhaps you always do
think it'll never happen to you.
She had almost refused to go down to the shelter the
night before. She hated the confinement of the small space
half underground, with the corrugated iron curving low
over their heads. But the family's insistence had forced her
to conquer her fears and now, seeing the ruin of her home,
she was thankful. If they'd let me stay indoors, she thought,
I'd be dead now, buried in all this rubble.
They paused and lifted their heads. A pall of dust and
filth hung about them like a fog, filling their mouths and
noses with its grit and stench. The sky was blackened by
smoke, shot through with searing flashes of red and orange
flame. Judy stared at it and felt her heart gripped by dread.
'And how long are we going to stay alive?' she burst out.
'We were lucky not to get a direct hit on the shelter. They'll
come again, Polly, they'll keep on coming till we're all dead.'
Tears were pouring down her cheeks. 'Look at that. Our
house. Our home. Nothing left. All Dad's books and Mum's
sewing things, and our Terry's gramophone and all our
records, and your Sylvie's dolly that she left to keep you
company while she's away, and - and . . .' Sobbing, she ran
forward and began to tear at the rubble.
Polly gripped her arm tightly and drew her back.
'Leave it, Judy. Cissie's right - we won't find anythingcountries, and we haven't got a chance.'
Polly stared at her. Her grey eyes, so like Judy's and
Cissie's too, hardened, and her mouth drew tight. She shook
Judy's arm and her voice was low and fierce.
'Don't say that, Judy! Don't ever say that. We're not
going to let them win. We're not going to give them the
chance. Remember Dunkirk! They didn't beat us then and
they won't now. They'll never beat us. Never!'

Gradually, the people who had been bombed out of their
homes that night began to sort themselves out.
'There was an ARP man round just now with a loud
hailer. He says we've all got to go to the church hall,' Mrs
Green of number three told Cissie as the Taylors straggled
out of the back alley at the end of the street. Everyone was
out now, standing and staring in dumb stupefaction at the
destruction. Of the houses left standing, none had a single
window with glass in it, most had lost their chimneys and
several had their fronts torn away, so that the rooms inside
were exposed for all to see, like those of a dolls' house. Mrs
Green's bedroom wallpaper, that she'd been so proud of
when she'd had the room done up just before the war
started, was ripped and dirty, and there was a mass of laths
and plaster all over the bed. The bath was full of broken
slates and the lavatory hung half off the wall, with water
pouring out of the cistern above it. The floors had broken
away and there were boards, ceiling joists and all manner of
rubble piled in the downstairs rooms.
'Look at that,' she said bitterly. 'We put all we had intothat house. Our hearts and souls. And look what they done
to it. All smashed to bits.' She turned away, her face
working. 'We'll never get it back to how it was, never.'
Cissie shook her head. 'How many d'you think have been
bombed out like this? What's it like in the rest of Pompey?'
'Gawd knows. That ARP bloke says the whole city's been
blasted away. All the big shops out Southsea way have gone
- Handley's, Knight & Lee's, all them - and the big Co-op
down Fratton has burned to a cinder, and the Landport
Drapery Bazaar, and Woolworth's, and C&A.'
'And the Guildhall too,' someone else chimed in. 'He said
the Guildhall's still burning. So are the hospitals - the Eye
and Ear, and part of the Royal - and the Sailor's Rest, and
the Hippodrome and--'
'Blimey, ain't there nothing left?' Dick asked, his chest
wheezing.
Judy stepped forward quickly. 'The Guildhall's gone?'
She turned to her mother. 'I ought to go there.'
'But we don't know where we'll be. If we've got to go to
the church hall. . .' Cissie stared at her, white-faced and
frightened. 'What can you do anyway, if it's all burned
down? You can't go off now, Judy.' Her voice rose. 'And
there's your gran too, all by herself up in April Grove what
about her? Someone ought to go round to see if she's
all right.' She shook her head worriedly. 'I just don't know
what to do first. I don't know what to do for the best. Oh
dear.'
'I'll go to Gran's first, but I really ought to try to get to
work. There must be all kinds of stuff to sort out.' Judy
gazed back helplessly, and Polly came to her rescue.shelter.' She turned back to Cissie and took her arm. 'You
and me and Dick'll go to the church hall and see what's
what, and Judy can come over once she's found out what's
going on. Come on - Dick's getting shrammed with cold,
stood out here with all this dust getting down into his lungs
and all.'
Cissie stood undecided for a moment, then Dick coughed
again and she nodded. 'You're right, it's not doing him no
good at all being out in this cold air with all this smoke
about.' She glanced up at the blackened sky. 'There's still
places on fire, you can see the flames.' A fresh thought
struck her and her voice began to rise again. 'And look at us,
got nothing but what we're standing up in - my best coat
gone, and that nice red frock you made yourself, Poll, and
that warm jumper I knitted Dick for Christmas. I don't
know what we're going to do, I don't really.'
'Don't worry about that now,' Polly said gently. 'Come
on, let's get down the hall into the warm, they'll sort us out.
I dare say they've got clothes and other stuff. Come on, Cis.'
Cissie nodded. 'All right. We can't do nothing here, that's
for certain.' She took a deep breath and straightened her
shoulders. 'Now then, Judy, you make sure you come back
the minute you can, and you will look in on your Gran,
won't you? She ought to have come up to us like I wanted,
not stopped down there by herself where we don't know
what's happening to her . . . Dick, are you all right?'
He nodded, though he was holding his chest as if it
pained him. 'This blasted dust, it's everywhere. It's plaster
dust, you know - it's that fine it gets right down inside.' Hecoughed again and Cissie clicked her tongue. 'Lot of use I'm
going to be,' he said bitterly. 'Useless article.'
'Now you're not to talk like that,' his wife said sharply.
'You did your bit in the last lot, that's why you're like this
now. Come on, we're going down the church hall; they'll
have somewhere to sit down there and a nice hot cup of tea.
That's what we all need.' She started to move away, her
hand hooked firmly through her husband's arm, and then
turned back to Judy. 'You do whatever you can for your
gran, Judy, and come back once you've found out what's
happening. If we get sent on anywhere else we'll make sure
the people at the hall know the address.'
Judy watched them go, torn with doubt. She wanted to
support her mother and help her father and she was racked
with fear for her grandmother, all alone in her own small
terraced house. But as well as her concern for the family
there was her loyalty to her job at the Guildhall offices and
her anxiety for the people who spent the nights there - the
Lord Mayor himself, who had moved in when the bombing
started, and the ARP staff. What had happened to them, if
the Guildhall had been destroyed?
She turned and made her way through the streets, passing
groups of people scrabbling through the debris in search of
possessions or -- even worse -- for family members or
neighbours who had been buried. At every turn, she longed
to stop and help, but you couldn't help everyone and her
fears for her grandmother grew. Suppose she hadn't gone to
the shelter - suppose her house had been bombed before she
could get out - suppose the Anderson itself had had a direct
hit! Everyone knew they couldn't stand up to that. Supposeback and had to find a different way through streets and
alleyways she had never seen before, until she began to
despair of ever finding a route out of this nightmare.
At last, when she had almost given up hope, she found
herself in September Street, at the top of October Street
which led down to April Grove, and she broke into a run.
There had been some damage here - slates torn off,
windows smashed in, and towards the bottom of the street a
whole house ripped to pieces, leaving a smoking gap
between its neighbours. Her heart in her mouth, Judy came
to the little row of houses that ran along the end and then let
out a long breath of relief when she saw that the street had
been virtually undamaged.
She came to the front door, varnished and polished by
her father just before the war had started, and hammered on
it, calling at the top of her voice. 'Granny! Gran - it's me,
Judy. Are you there? Are you all right?'
'She ain't there, love.' The voice brought her whipping
round, to stare in dismay at the wrinkled face of the old
woman who lived next door. Then the crumpled lips
stretched into a toothless grin. 'She's gorn round the church
hall, see if she can 'elp out a bit. Got all the bombed people
there, they 'ave, givin' 'em soup and cupsa tea and that. I
told her, I could do with a cuppa meself after the night we
bin through, but she never bit. Anyway, thass where she's
gorn.' She blinked her rheumy eyes at Judy. 'You don't feel
like a cuppa tea, I s'pose?'
Judy shook her head. 'I'm on my way to work, Mrs
Kinch, but I wanted to make sure Gran was all right first.
I'd better go and see if I can find her.'
She ran back up to October Street. The church hall wasabout a quarter of a mile away, across the railway line and
past the shops. It was crowded with people, all looking
bewildered and lost, but she caught sight of the brisk little
figure standing behind a long trestle table, wielding a teapot,
and pushed her way through the throng.
'Gran! I've been looking for you! Mrs Kinch said you'd
be here. We were worried.'
Alice Thomas looked round and gave her granddaughter
a quick nod. 'Judy. I was wondering about you, too thought
I'd come up and see once I'd finished here, but the
rate we're going it don't look as if we're ever going to finish.
Must be thousands bombed out, thousands . . . How d'you
get on down home? Any damage round your way? I hear the
Guildhall's on fire, and the Landport Drapery Bazaar,
where young Jean Foster works, and God knows what else
down Commercial Road.'
Judy stared at her miserably. 'Gran, the house was
bombed. Everything's gone - everything. Mum and the
others have gone to our church hall -- we've got nowhere to
go. All we've got left is the Anderson!' She began to cry,
covering her face with her hands, swept by sudden
desolation. 'Oh Gran.''
Her grandmother put down her teapot and came quickly
round the end of the table. She laid her arm round Judy's
shoulders and led her back behind the table, pushing her
gently down on a pile of blankets. 'You sit there, love, and
I'll get you a cup of tea. I don't suppose you've had a thing
to eat yet, have you?'
Judy shook her head. 'There wasn't anything to have.
And no kettle or anything. Oh Gran, what are we going to
do?' She gestured helplessly round the hall. 'All these
people -- all of us with nowhere to go and nothing left but
done that! Now, you drink that up and you'll feel better, and
then you can give me a hand here.'
Judy shook her head. The tea was hot and warming, and
she barely noticed the sweetness. She drew in a long,
sobbing breath, then said, 'I can't stop, Gran, I've got to try
to get to work. Goodness knows how long it'll take me - it's
terrible out there - but I've got to try. And I must find
Mum and Dad and Polly first, to tell them you're OK. If we
can come to you for a few nights, while we get sorted
out. . .'
'Few nights nothing!' Alice said smartly. 'You'll come for
the duration. They won't find you nothing better, I can tell
you that, not with all these other people needing a place.
Now, you're not leaving here without a bit of food inside
you. There's some bread and marge at the end of the table,
and another cup of tea wouldn't do you any harm.'
'No thanks, Gran, but I'll take the bread to eat on the
way.' Judy pulled herself to her feet and bent to give her
grandmother a kiss. 'I'll see you later, back in April Grove.
Don't overdo it, mind.'
'Cheek!' Alice said, poking out her tongue. 'I could give
you youngsters the runaround any day. Mind you tell your
mum and dad what I said, now. I'll expect you all for tea at
number nine.' She filled her teapot from the steaming urn
and turned back to the queue. 'Now then, love, you drink
this. It's nice and sweet, good for shock. You'll feel all the
better for it. . .'
Judy headed for the exit and set off back to the hall where
her mother and father would have gone. After that, she'd get
down to Commercial Road and try to find out what was
happening at the Guildhall, and where the office staff
should be going.Back outside, it seemed like hours since they had crawled
out of the Anderson shelter to find the house blown into
oblivion. Yet the sky was still darkened by the pall of
stinking smoke, and the streets were still crowded with
people, wandering bewildered and stunned by all that had
happened during that terrible night. It was as if day had
decided not to break, as if the sun had taken one look at
what was happening and turned away its face.
The sun would come back though, she thought. It would
come back when the sky had cleared, and let light back into
their lives. As Polly had said, they weren't going to let the
Germans beat them. They wouldn't give them the chance.The sight that greeted her as she came down Commercial
Road took her breath away.
By then, she'd seen enough damage and heard enough
stories to have a fair idea of what was happening. But she
still wasn't prepared for the scene of total devastation here the
great shops nothing more than smoking ruins, the road
swarming with firemen and police and ARP wardens, the
knots of stunned bystanders - and the few shops that hadn't
been hit, open and with counter staff valiantly trying to
carry on as if nothing had happened.
Worst of all was the Guildhall itself. The great, proud
building on the square was still ablaze, its bell tower sending
flames high into the sky, shot with flashes of brilliant green
fire as the copper of the cupola melted and ran down the tall
stone pillars. Judy stopped where she was, on the opposite
side of the square, and stared at it. Her eyes filled with tears.
'Terrible, innit,' said a man standing nearby. 'Just
terrible. They'll never be able to put it back, you know, not
like it was. The whole of Pompey's bin ruined. Never be the
same again, never.'
'But what happened to the people inside?'Judy whispered.
'The Lord Mayor was sleeping there, so that he could always
: on hand if he was needed. And there were staff, and
firewatchers on the roof. What happened to them all?'
The man shrugged. 'Don't ask me. Mind, I did hear as
they'd all gone out to Southsea, took over a hotel or
summat. Fine time to go on their holidays!' He snorted
derisively.
Judy stared at him, then turned away. She started to cross
the square but was held back by a large policeman. 'Sorry, love,
you can't go over there, it's dangerous. We got enough to
contend with here, without sightseers getting under our feet.
What you doing here anyway? Ain't you got no home to go to?'
'As a matter of fact, I haven't,' Judy said, suddenly angry.
'We were bombed out last night, like a lot of other people.'
She ignored his embarrassed flush and went on quickly, 'I
work in there - or did till yesterday. I came down to see
what I could do. Is it true the Lord Mayor's gone out to
Southsea? Is he all right? Are all the staff safe?'
The policeman shook his head. 'I don't know about the
staff, love, they ain't told us nothing. The Mayor's all right,
I do know that, but what I heard was he'd gone up Cosham.'
He lifted his head as someone gave a yell from across the
square. 'Look, you can see we're busy, love, just be a good
girl and get out of the way, will you? And all you others
too,' he added, raising his voice to include the rest of the
crowd. 'Go and give a hand to someone what needs it there's
plenty of clearing up to be done.' He turned away
and the crowd began to shuffle off, muttering.
Judy stood wondering what to do next. Southsea and
Cosham were at opposite ends of the city. Someone must
know, she thought. And wherever the Mayor was, he'd need
his staff, the secretaries and office workers who knew where
everything was kept. Her heart skipped as it suddenly struck
her that the offices themselves must have been destroyed,
and everything in them. The papers, the files, the typewriters
- everything the city depended on to keep it
functioning smoothly, would all be gone. How would they
ever manage to sort it all out?
'Judy!'
She turned quickly. 'Miss Marsh! Oh, I'm so glad to seecarrying a notebook and wearing her office suit and her
smart hat with the little veil, and Judy felt suddenly
ashamed of her own clothes - the skirt and jumper she'd
worn to go to the shelter last night, with her old coat thrown
over the top. She began to stammer out an apology, but the
supervisor cut her short.
'Don't be silly, child. You've got here, that's the
important thing. Was it very difficult, getting through the
streets?'
'Well, it was a bit.' Judy thought of the ruined houses, the
fires, the devastation on all sides. 'And we were bombed out
ourselves.'
'You were bombed out? My dear girl!'
'Yes -- our house was blown to bits,'Judy told her, nodding
miserably. 'There's nothing left at all.' And to her dismay, she
began to cry, again the tears pouring down her face as she stood
at the edge of the square with the Guildhall and, it seemed, the
whole of Portsmouth, in flames around her.
'Judy. Come here, love.' She felt the older woman's arms
around her and leaned against the solid body, half amazed at
what was happening. Miss Marsh had always been strict and
unapproachable, not the sort of person you'd cry on at all yet
here she was, patting Judy's shoulder and murmuring,
'There, there,' just like a mum or an auntie would.
'I'm sorry, Miss Marsh,' Judy said shakily. 'I didn't mean
to give way like that -- but I was so frightened when I saw
the Guildhall, and so worried about the Mayor and
everyone, and then when I saw you--'
'It's all right, Judy. You don't have to go on.' Miss Marsh
gave her a handkerchief. 'It's not very clean, I'm afraid there's
so much dust in the air. Now, let me get this
straight. Your own home was bombed last night, is that
right? Was anyone hurt?''No.'Judy blew her nose. 'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
use--'
'Don't be silly. Who else lives in the house? Your mother
and father?'
'Yes, and Polly -- she's my auntie, my mum's sister -- and
her little girl Sylvie, only she's evacuated, and my brother,
when he's at home, but he's away at sea now. He's in the
Navy.'
'So it's just you and your parents and your aunt at home
at the moment?' Miss Marsh said, trying to unravel this
information. 'And where are they now?'
'They went round to the church hall. They're going to
my gran's up at Copnor after, but they had to stay there to
register. Someone said there's clothes, and there might even
be a bit of money to help get straight again. It's not that we
want charity,' Judy said earnestly, 'but we've lost everything, and there's the electricity bill to pay, and--'
'Well, all that will be sorted out. And will you be staying
with your grandmother in Copnor?'
'Yes. She lives in April Grove, off September Street.'
'I know where you mean. So at least you've got somewhere
to go tonight?'
'Yes. That's why I thought I ought to come down and see
what's happening here.' Judy sniffed and blew her nose
again. 'Only it took such a long time getting through the
streets, and I know I'm ever so late . . .'
'For heaven's sake, girl, don't apologise for being late. I'm
amazed you came at all. Now listen, the Lord Mayor's
arranging to take over part of the Royal Beach Hotel at
Southsea to use as offices - it was closed when the war
started and is already being used as a casualty clearing
station - so that's where you'll be reporting for work. It's
the ARP who have relocated to Cosham. As you've seen,selves who have lost everything - he's managed to find a
bank that's open for business and they've released a
substantial sum of money for the Air-Raid Distress Fund, so
that people can be given some ready cash. The War
Emergency Committee will divide it between all their
members so that it can be distributed. They'll also be
evacuating any homeless women or children who want to
leave the city and, as you know, Emergency Centres have
been set up in schools and church halls.'
'Yes, that's where Mum and Dad went,' Judy nodded.
'And you remember the Lady Mayoress set up her own
Clothing Fund at the beginning of the war, so there will, we
hope, be enough clothes to give everyone at least one warm
outfit.' Her glance took in Judy's own shabby attire. 'I
suppose that's all you have yourself now?'
Judy said glumly, 'I'm afraid it is, Miss Marsh. They're
my oldest things, I always change into them, to keep my
work clothes nice, and when the siren went--'
'Well, I wouldn't expect you to be dressed in your best
for an air raid!' The supervisor's face broke into a rare smile.
'Now, you're not to worry about that. Come to work in
whatever you can find. But today, I think you ought to go
back and help your family.'
'Oh no! I mean, I ought to be at work - there must be so
much to do. And there isn't really anything I can do at home
- at Gran's, I mean -' To her horror, she felt the tears
gather in her eyes again and blinked them away furiously.
'I'd much rather be doing something useful, Miss Marsh.'
The supervisor looked at her consideringly. 'Very well,
then. But you don't have to come all the way out to
Southsea, not today. What you can do is stay here and look
out for any other Guildhall or Municipal staff like yourself,
who come down to find out what's happening. Tell them to
report to the Royal Beach.' She sighed. 'We still don't know
who is likely to turn up and who isn't. There may be otherswho've been bombed out, or even hurt in the raids. But
those who can, will surely do as you did and come here.
Now, do you think you can do that? You know everyone,
don't you?' She held out her notebook. 'Write down the
names of all the people you see.'
Judy nodded. 'I can do that, Miss Marsh.'
'Good. That enables me to go out to the hotel and get on
with the work there. We're having to start completely from
scratch. Now, Judy, when you're sure you've seen everyone
- everyone who comes here, that is - you're to go back to
your grandmother's and be with your family. You've had a
dreadful time and you must be exhausted.'
'We didn't get much sleep last night, but I don't really
feel tired, Miss Marsh - just sort of light, if you know what
I mean.' Judy put her hand to her forehead and swayed
slightly. 'I expect I'm just a bit hungry.'

Miss Marsh gave her a sharp glance. 'A cup of tea and
something to eat for you, my girl. Come on -- there's a stall
over there, they'll see to you.' She led Judy over to a
makeshift stall where an urn was boiling on a large stove
which appeared to have been built out of bricks salvaged
from the piles of rubble. A woman in a green uniform was
dealing out mugs of tea and sticky buns to the firemen and
soldiers who were still desperately trying to put out-the fire.
Gratefully, Judy ate a bun, surprised to find just how
hungry she was, and swallowed the tea. She smiled a trifle
shakily at the supervisor. 'I feel a bit better now. Sorry
about that.'
'That's all right. You've got more colour in your cheeks,
anyway. Now, I'm off back to Southsea. Don't forget -- it's
the Royal Beach Hotel -- and once you're sure you've seen
everyone, you're to go straight home. Don't stay here too
long, anyway. If they haven't arrived by mid-afternoon, they
won't be coming.' Her face twisted a little and she turned
away. 'I'll look for you at the hotel tomorrow morning.'
'Yes, Miss Marsh.' Judy watched her walk briskly away.She knew well enough what the supervisor had meant.
There might be casualties, even deaths, amongst the staff. In
the chaos that the raid had caused, nobody knew what might
have happened.

How did other places manage when this happened to
them? she wondered. Places like London, Bristol, Liverpool,
Coventry. They'd been through this as well, yet somehow
they still managed to carry on.

Perhaps that was the answer. Perhaps that was all you
could do. Just carry on.

It was growing dark again as Judy walked wearily down
October Street and turned into April Grove. The pall of smoke
was still drifting above the rooftops, and with no street-lights
and every house blacked out there was no glimmer of cheer in
the devastated streets, no hint of warmth in the bitter cold.
What will we do if they come again? she wondered. How could
we stand another night like last night?

She came to her grandmother's door and knocked. It
opened, and her aunt drew back the blackout curtain for
Judy to push past. They felt their way down the short, dark
passage to the back room, where she found the family sitting
round by the glow of a small fire with a kettle resting on the
coals, and the light of a single candle. Her mother and
grandmother sat in armchairs on each side of the fire, and
Dick and Polly were on kitchen chairs in front of it. Dick
got up and moved his chair aside, pulling another into the
space for Judy.

'That's better,' she said. 'It's horrible outside.' She
shrugged off her coat and hung it on the inside of the door
to the staircase.

'Oh Judy, thank goodness,' her mother said. 'We were
starting to get worried about you.'

'I've been down the Guildhall Square, looking out for the
other people at work. They've moved the offices out to
Southsea.' Judy sank down on the chair and stretched her

hands out to the fire. 'It's awful, Mum. The whole place has
gone. The Guildhall's still burning, and they say everything
inside's been destroyed. All those lovely pictures, and the
wooden panelling, and the carpets - everything. And there's
street after street just ruined. You can't get through some of
them at all. Someone told me there'd been nearly three
thousand fires. Three thousand! How could they hope to
put them all out?'
'It's wicked,' Cissie said, her voice trembling. 'Wicked.'
'It's war, Cis,' Dick said. 'There's worse happening than
a few pictures and carpets getting burned. People are being
killed. Like that young woman just up the road here.'
'What young woman?' Judy looked at him. She'd visited
her grandmother often enough to know most of the
neighbours in April Grove by sight and from Alice's talk.
'Who's been killed, Dad?'
'I'm not sure if you knew her,' Alice said. She looked
down at the black and white cat on her knee, stroking his
head. 'She'd only been here a few months - bombed out in
the first big raid she was, and came to live in March Street.
Kathy Simmons - had two little girls and a baby boy.'
'I remember you talking about her.' Judy stared at her
grandmother. 'Wasn't the baby born in the shelter? Don't
say she's been killed? Was that her house I saw this
morning, bombed flat?'
'That's the one. Olive Chapman as was - you know, she
married Derek Harker from the builder's - had just gone
over to fetch her to their shelter but Kathy went back
indoors to boil some water for her Thermos flask, apparently,
just as the bomb fell.' Alice shook her head. Her face
creased with sadness. 'They said she couldn't have known
anything about it - but still, it's cruel, a young mother like
that killed for no reason.'
'Oh, how awful.' Judy put both hands to her face. 'What
about the children? Those little girls - and the baby?'
Cissie took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. 'Olivehad the girls with her, out in the street. They were blown
halfway up the road by the blast, but they weren't hurt, not
as such. But the baby - he was with his mummy, poor little
scrap.' She stopped, her mouth working. 'Only six months
old. It don't bear thinking of.'
Polly put her hand on her sister's arm. 'Don't upset
yourself all over again, Cis. It's terrible, I know, but like
Mum says, they couldn't have known anything about it.'
'But it's their lives gone, isn't it!' Cissie cried. 'That little
baby, with his whole life ahead of him - he never even had
the chance to learn to crawl! As for those two girls, they've
lost their mother. And they're not the only ones, are they?
There's you, Polly, with your Johnny gone, and poor Olive
Chapman lost her baby that she was expecting, and others,
hundreds and hundreds of others. What was Mrs Shaw
along the road telling you about her Gladys, driving that
ambulance last night? Went down a cellar she did, and
found a whole family dead down there, all except one little
girl. How's that poor little soul ever going to get over it?
How are any of them ever going to get over it? And this is
just the beginning!' She pulled her apron up over her face
and began to cry. 'I don't think I can stand it any more!' she
said in a muffled voice. 'I just don't think I can stand it!'
The others gazed at her and then looked at each other
miserably in the glow of the fire. There didn't seem to be
anything anyone could say, Judy thought. They all felt
pretty much the same. But you couldn't give in. You just
couldn't.
'Come on, Mum,' she said gently. 'We all depend on you,
you know. You're the one that keeps us all going.'
'Well, I'm not much use to you now,' Cissie said bitterly.
'I'm not much use to no one. I've just had enough, that's all.
We've been having raids for months, and there's been all
those terrible things happening in London and Coventry and
the rest, and now it's our turn, and they're just bashing us to
pieces, to pieces -- and what can we do about it, eh? Tell methat. Oh, I know we can bomb them too, but what good's that
going to do? It just means a whole lot more people get killed
in their own homes, people like us who never wanted a war in
the first place. How's it ever going to end?'
'We can't just let them ride roughshod over us,' Judy
said. 'You know what they've done in Poland and all those
other countries. We can't let that happen here.'
'So it's better to be bombed to bits, is it? It's better to
have everything smashed to pieces around us and have little
babies killed?' Cissie took the apron from her face and stared
at them. 'Oh, I know what they say, I know what they tell
us, and I'm just an ordinary person who doesn't know
anything about these things - but I just can't see the sense of
it all.' She took a deep breath. 'I'm sorry, I know we're not
supposed to talk like this, but I've just had enough of it all
today, that's all.'
'You need a cup of tea.' Judy got up, but her grandmother
put out a hand.
'There's no gas, love. The mains got fractured, see, and
they turned it off because of the danger. That's why we've
got the kettle on the fire.'
Judy sank back. 'No gas and no electricity. It's the same
all over the city, I suppose. It's a good thing we've got some
coal.' A thought struck her. 'Here, what about ,mr coal?
From - from home? Hadn't we better get that over here?'
'We've done it, love,' her father said. 'Been going
backwards and forwards all day with my old barrow. Had to
leave one of us on guard, too. There's people swarming all
over the place, looking for anything they can pick up. Not
that there was much to find in our place,' he added ruefully.
Judy stared at him. 'You mean they were stealing things?'
'Well, they wasn't offering to pay for them! There's
always people out for easy pickings, no matter what's
happened.'
She nodded. 'I know. The shops have all got soldiers
standing outside them because of looters, but I neverthought they'd take stuff from people who'd been bombed
out. That's awful.'
'It's all awful,' Polly said, 'but sitting here telling each
other about it won't make it any better. Now look, I know
we'd all like something hot but we can't, and that's all there
is to it -- but we can make a few sandwiches. There's plenty
of marge and fish paste and some of that blackberry and
apple jam Mum made in the autumn, and you'll never guess
what else I found in a tin in the cupboard.'
'What?' Judy asked obediently, and her aunt gave a little
crow of triumph.
'Christmas cake, that's what! Keeping it for Easter, your
Gran was, but I reckon we need it more now. We can all
have a really good slice, and thumb our noses at Hitler while
we eat it!'
Judy laughed and after a moment or two the others joined in.
Their laughter was a little shaky, and sounded dangerously
close to crying, but somehow they all felt better for it, and as
Dick stoked up the fire and the kettle boiled and Polly began to
cut bread, and the Christmas cake was sliced up and handed
round, the little gathering began to seem almost like a party.
'I reckon we ought to play a few games,' Judy said. 'Or
sing some songs. Cheer ourselves up a bit. Just in case
there's any Fifth Columnists listening down the chimney.
We don't want them reporting back to Hitler that we're
downhearted, do we?'
They ate their sandwiches and cake, then did as she had
suggested. But as their voices rose in a wavering rendition of
'Roll Out the Barrel' and 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary',
they were each still thinking of the devastation outside, and
of the people who were homeless tonight, or who had been
killed or injured. They were each thinking of Kathy
Simmons and her baby boy, of the two little girls who had
lost their mother, and of all those others up and down the
country who had had their lives shattered.
Later on, when everyone else had gone to bed - Cissie

and Dick upstairs to the front bedroom, Polly to the back
room she would share with Judy, and her grandmother Alice
to the front room downstairs -- Judy sat by the dying fire
and tried to write a letter to her fiance, Sean.
It seemed so long since she had seen him, so long since
the night last May when they'd got engaged, only three
weeks after they'd met at a dance on South Parade Pier.
Dick and Cissie hadn't been at all keen on such a hasty
courtship, but Judy was twenty-two, so they couldn't very
well say no. And there was no question of a wedding yet,
with Sean going back to sea the very next day.
For most of the past eight months, Sean had been in the
Northern Atlantic, off Norway and Iceland. During that
time, he had sent letters -- none for weeks, and then a dozen
all arriving at once. Letters that were now buried beneath a
heap of rubble in Friday night's blast.
How did you tell your fiance the sort of things that had
happened during the past twenty-four hours? Judy sighed
and sucked the end of her grandmother's fountain pen, and
started to write.
Dear Sean,
We had a bit of trouble in Pompey last night. There were
a lot of aircraft and we got badly bombed. We 're all OK
but Mum and Dad and Polly and I are staying with
Gran up in April Grove. I hope things are OK with you,
as they find me here. I'm too tired to write any more now
and will close for tonight.
From your loving Judy.
It didn't seem much, but she felt that if she started to tell
him what it had really been like, she would still be there
come morning.Chapter Three

Polly got up early next morning and found Judy already
downstairs, lighting the fire.
'I know Gran wouldn't usually have a fire in the morning,
but there's no other way of making any tea. I wanted to get
everyone a hot drink before I go off to work.'
'You're going to work?' Polly looked at her niece in
surprise. 'But it's Sunday.'
'Doesn't matter. We've got to get the new offices sorted
out. People will be flooding in wanting help, and we can't
just tell 'em to go away and come back on Monday. There's
all the Emergency Centres to be seen to, and people
evacuated or found new homes - any amount of things to be
done.' Judy held a sheet of newspaper in front of the fire to
make it blaze up. 'It's a good thing you went and got our
coal. I don't know how long it'll be before we get the gas and
electricity back.'
'It's not just that, either. They were going round telling
people to boil water for ten minutes before drinking it in
case of typhoid.' Polly put some plates on the table and
began to slice the rest of yesterday's loaf. 'Well, at least Jerry
gave us a quiet night; we'll all feel better for a few hours'
sleep. Me and your mother have got to go round the
Emergency Centre again this morning, get new ration books
sorted out and see what money they'll give us. They were
too busy yesterday, so once we'd registered we just came on
here. And there's people we ought to let know - your
Auntie May and Uncle Fred, and your mum's friend Mrs
Walker. One of us ought to go round and see Jean Foster

too, let her know where we are. She's Terry's girlfriend
after all, almost one of the family.' She stopped and stared at
the loaf in her hand. 'I wish I could go out and see Sylvie.'
'Oh, Polly! She must be wondering if you're all right.
They won't know what's been going on, out there in the
country.' Judy lowered the newspaper just as it was
beginning to scorch in the middle. 'Why don't you go on the
train?'
'I don't suppose they're running, do you? Anyway, I
don't feel I can leave your mum and dad, not with the way
Cis is, and your dad was wheezing all day long yesterday.
There's such a lot to see to here. I did send a telegram
yesterday, just to say we were all well, but she don't know
nothing about the house, of course. There's not much point
in telling her, is there - not straight away. She's only seven
and I don't want to frighten her.'
'She'll have to know, though, because of addressing her
letters.' Judy stood up, irresolute. 'Perhaps I shouldn't go
into work, after all . . .'
'No, no, you go, you can't let the office down. We can
manage here, and what Sylvie doesn't know won't hurt her.
I'll try and go out sometime next week if the trains are
running again, and I'll write her a letter. Now, is that fire
hot enough for the kettle yet?'
The two of them got together a scrappy breakfast of bread
and margarine, just coloured with jam, and by the time the
kettle boiled Alice had emerged from the front room where
she had slept on the sofa and Cissie had come down from
upstairs. 'I told Dick to stay in bed; he's had a terrible night,
hacking away. That dust and smoke really got into his chest.
How were you on that settee, Mum? I felt proper bad,
turning you out of your own bed.'
'Don't be daft, girl, I was snug as a bug in a rug. Stood to
reason you two would have to have the double bed. I might
be able to get a camp bed or put-u-up for later, but the settee'll do for now.' She bustled through to the lean-to
scullery. 'I suppose there's no gas on yet?'
'Nothing's on yet. And we haven't got all that many
candles left, neither. I don't know what we're going to do if
they don't get things straight soon. There's going to be
people desperate.' Polly poured out five cups of tea. 'There,
are you going to take Dick's up to him, Cis? There's not
much sense in him coming down till the room's warmed up
a bit. And look, I'll toast a slice of bread, he needs
something hot inside him. Spread some Marmite on it.'
Cissie took her husband's breakfast up the stairs and the
others sat round the table, drinking their tea. Polly looked at
her mother.
'Cis and me are going down the Centre this morning, see
what's what. Are you going to stop here with Dick?'
'I am not!' The old woman looked at her indignantly, her
bright eyes snapping. 'Stop here when there's work to be
done? No, I'll be helping on the tea-stall, same as yesterday.
There'll be plenty glad of a cuppa while they're clearing up.'
'Yes, but I don't want you to overdo it.'
'I'll be the judge of when I've overdone it!' Alice retorted.
'Just because you've moved in here, our Poll, it doesn't
mean to say you can start ordering me about. I'd have done
as I pleased if you hadn't been here and I'll do as I please
now you are, and don't you forget it.'
Judy grinned and Polly shook her head. 'I'm not likely to
forget it, you independent old besom! You'll be ordering us
all about from your deathbed - that's if you don't outlive us
all. All right, you go and pour tea for firemen while me and
Cis go and see about our ration books and try to put
together a few clothes and things. How about you, Judy, do
you want us to try to get you anything?'
Judy shook her head. 'Miss Marsh said there were going
to be some things out at the new offices - the Lady
Mayoress was going to see to it. After all, if she can't get us
a few things from her own Clothing Store, nobody can!' She

put down her cup and stood up. 'I'd better be going.
Goodness knows how long it'll take me to get all the way out
to Southsea. I don't suppose there's any buses running.
Better expect me when you see me.' She shrugged into her
coat and called up the stairs to her mother. "Bye, Mum I'm
off now. 'Bye, Dad.'
Polly watched her go. 'I hope she'll be all right. She was
tossing and turning all night long. It really upset her, seeing
our house bombed to bits and then going down and seeing
the Guildhall in flames - not to mention all the other
damage. We'll have to keep an eye on her, Mum.'
'She'll be all right. She's made of the right stuff- like you
and me. And she knows that the best way to take your mind
off things is to get on with your work. No, it's Cis that I
worry about, she takes everything so hard. And Dick, too.
He was grey when he got round here yesterday, proper
grey.'
'Well, with all that smoke and dust about. . .'
'It's not just his chest. It's what it's doing to his mind. It's
bringing it all back, you can see that. What he went through
before . . . you know what I mean.' The old lady nodded
significantly. 'He'll be getting those nightmares again, you
see if he don't.'
Polly opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again
quickly as they heard the sound of footsteps descending the
stairs. By the time Dick appeared at the staircase door in the
scullery, Polly was already at the sink, pouring water from
the kettle into the enamel bowl. She added a small lump of
washing soda and gave him a bright smile.
'Hello, Dick, how're you then? Sleep all right, did you? I
must say it was a treat to be allowed to stop in bed all night
instead of having to get up and go down the shelter . . .
D'you want another cup of tea?'
He shook his head. 'No, thanks. Just going out to the lav.'
He opened the back door and a bitter wind scoured into the
scullery. 'Strewth, it's like an icebox out here.' The doorslammed behind him and he passed the scullery window on
his way to the lavatory, tacked on to the back of the lean-to.
Polly sighed. It was going to come hard to them all, not
having an indoor lavatory any more. And no bathroom
either. None of the little two-up, two-down houses in April Grove had a bathroom. They all had a tin bath hanging on a nail outside, which had to be dragged in every Friday or
Saturday night and filled with kettles of hot water, or from
an Ascot if you were lucky enough to have one. It would be
hard on them all, having to go back to that.
'Have you still got that old bath, Mum?' she called. 'Only
I was just thinking, you won't be able to come up to us any
more of a Friday afternoon for your bath, will you? I
wondered if you'd got rid of it.'
'Not got rid of it, as such,' Alice said, coming through
and taking a tea-towel from the back door. 'It's still out
there - but don't you remember, I got Terry to fill it up
with earth and plant potatoes in it. Won't be much cop for
bathing in now!'
Polly stared at her and began to laugh. 'Potatoes! Well,
we'd better get 'em out. I don't suppose you can buy tin
baths for love nor money now.'
'Get 'em out? They're me earlies! I've been looking
forward to them for Easter. We'll have to use the small one
- stand up and wash ourselves down. You know they're on
at us to save water anyway.'
Dick came back indoors, shuddering with cold. 'I could
do with that tea now, if there's any left. Did I hear someone
talking about a bath?'
'I was just saying, we're going to miss having the lavvy
and everything indoors.' Polly dried her hands and poured
him a cup of tea. 'There you are, Dick, and don't laugh at it,
you'll be old and weak yourself one day . . . Here, guess
what, Mum's gone and planted spuds in her old tin bath,
and says we'll have to wait till Easter before we can have a
good soak. What's it like outside, apart from cold?''I never hung about to look. You can still smell the smoke
and that. I saw that woman next door, what's her name, the
thin scraggy one that hangs round the dockyard gates, but I
never said nothing. Wouldn't want her to get the wrong
idea.'

Alice laughed. 'Nancy Baxter's all right! She wouldn't
bother with you, Dick, she's got her own customers. And
you won't get past her old ma without speaking, I can tell
you that. Granny Kinch has a word for everyone that goes
along the street.'

'I know that, nosy old faggot. What about those nippers?
They been evacuated?'

'No such luck,' Alice said. 'Young Micky's as full of
mischief as a barrel-load of monkeys; got into trouble with
young Gordon Hodges after Christmas last year, but it was
only Gordon got sent away though everyone knows it was as
much Micky as him. The other one's just a baby - Vera,
she's called, and she's as scrawny as her mother.'

Cissie had come downstairs again and was sitting in the
back room making more toast over the fire. She called to her
husband to come and have some more, and he took his cup
of tea through and sat down at the table. They sat in silence,
each wrapped in thought.

'It don't seem possible we've lost everything,, does it,
Dick?' Cissie said at last. 'Our home, and all our furniture
and clothes, and the wireless you and Terry built, and all
Terry's Meccano and model aeroplanes ... I can't sort of
take it in. I keep remembering things - our photos too, and
your Brownie camera. . .' Her voice trembled.

'I know, love. And they'll never be able to give it all back.
All we'll get is a few clothes and some cash to tide us over.
We'll have to start all over again.'

'But we'll get something from the insurance, won't we? I
mean, we've got all the papers — we've got the tin box with
everything in, that we always take down the shelter with us.
We'll have to look it out, Dick, see what it says, and we'll

have to let the collector know where we are too.' She rubbed
her face. 'There's so much to do - so much to think about. I
don't know how we're going to get through it all.'
He was silent for a moment, then he said, 'Nor do I, Cis.
It's all too much for me. I keep remembering the last lot what
it was like out in the trenches. Blokes screaming and
crying and going off their heads, and then the gas . . .' He
coughed, his thin body racked, and gazed at her with red
rimmed eyes. 'I've been dreaming about it all night. I
thought I was back there. I don't know how I'm going to
face up to it all over again, Cis, I really don't. . .' His voice
trailed away to a whisper and he began to shudder.
His wife got up quickly and came round the table to put
her arm around his shoulders and draw his head down
against her breast. 'Oh Dick,' she said, her voice trembling.
'It's not fair, not when you've been through so much
already. But we'll get through it together. We will, really.
Look, we're not hurt, any of us, we're all right, and we've
got somewhere to live too -- we're better off than a lot of
people. And our Judy's still home, and we've got Polly too,
and Mum as bright as a button still. We've got a lot to be
thankful for. We'll face it together, you and me, all of us.
And if we've got to start all over again, then that's what we'll
do. We're not going to let Hitler get the better of us. We
beat the Germans before, didn't we? And we'll beat 'em
again!'
Dick stayed still, his head resting heavily against her, for
a long time. Then he drew in a deep breath, lifted his head
and gave her a shaky grin.
'You're right, love,' he said. 'We didn't give in last time
and we won't now. We'll give 'em something to remember
us by!'
She smiled down at him and he reached for her hand and
squeezed it. They looked into each other's eyes with a
mixture of pride and defiance. But behind their eyes, each
had the same thought.
What would happen if they were wrong? What would
happen to them all if the Germans really did invade?
Despite his protests that he ought to go to the Centre with
them and do his bit, Cissie insisted that Dick should stay at
home in the warm. 'I don't want you in bed with your chest
again,' she said, winding a long scarf round her neck. 'And
you can put the kettle on a bit later so there's a nice cup of
cocoa for us when we get back, we'll be shrammed. Tibby'll
keep you company.'
Dick looked at the cat, curled up in Alice's chair. 'I'm not
sure he doesn't make me cough even more. All right, Cis,
I'll stop here, but I'll make meself useful just the same. You
can sort out some veg for dinner and I'll set about peeling
them. I suppose we can put the saucepans on the fire?'
'It'll make them sooty,' Polly said, 'but we can scrub that
off. We've got to have something hot inside us.' She pulled
on the woollen mittens Alice had knitted from an old
unpicked jumper. 'Come on, Cis. The sooner we get there
the sooner we'll be back.'
The two sisters went out into the street. A bitter wind
was slicing across the allotments which ran along the back of
the houses and came down to the wide part at the end of
April Grove. A pleasant-faced woman with beech-brown
hair tucked under a dark red hat was pushing a pram up the
street, and she nodded and smiled as she came up to them.
'Hello, you're Mrs Thomas's daughters, aren't you? Popped
in to see if she's all right, have you?'
Polly shook her head. 'Come to stay, more like. We were
bombed out, Friday night. We're going round to the
Emergency Centre now to see what they can do for us, but
we won't get another house, not when Mum's got this place.
It's going to be a bit of a squeeze, though.'
'No! You never were!' The woman looked at them in
dismay. 'You poor things. None of you hurt though?''No, thank goodness. I hear there was a bit of a tragedy
here though. You're Mrs Budd, aren't you?'
The woman nodded. 'That's right, I live in number
fourteen. Poor young Kathy Simmons. Such a nice little
body, too, and those two little girls. They're in with me
now, I've left my Rose looking after them. This little
madam's my youngest, Maureen.' They all peered into the
pram at the little girl sitting inside, and she beamed back at
them. She looked about eighteen months old, Polly thought.
Jess Budd went on, 'I'm just going up to my sister's at the
end of March Street. Her girl Olive's not very well.' She
stopped, folding her lips as if she didn't want to talk about
what was wrong with Olive.
'Mum told us,' Polly said gently. 'That's a shame. I
know, I've been through it myself- lost two after our Sylvie
was born. Well, we'd better not keep you, Mrs Budd. I
dare say we'll be seeing you again.'
They walked on up the street, each thinking how lucky
they had been to lose no more than their home and
possessions. There was no doubt about it, they agreed, you
could always find someone worse off than you were yourself.
Olive Harker, losing her baby, Kathy Simmons and her
baby killed, the two girls left motherless . . . And that was in
just one street, with no other damage. What terrible
tragedies were happening in all those other streets, where
house after house had been destroyed?
'I feel I ought to be doing something to help,' Polly said
after a moment or two. 'Ever since Sylvie went off to the
country, I've felt I should be doing more than just cutting
people's hair. I mean, it's not exactly vital war work, is it?'
'Well, no, but it's good for morale, isn't it? That's what
they say. Anyway, what else could you do? You're not
thinking of joining one of the women's services, are you?'
'I don't think they'd have me, not at my age. Thirty-five's
too old. No, I was thinking of doing something voluntary. I
mean, I've got Johnny's pension and if I could work parttime at the salon I'd have enough to live on, and then I
could give a bit of time to something else. There must be
plenty of things to do. Look at Mum, she's always on the
go, doing her bit, and she's getting on for seventy. It makes
me feel ashamed.'

Cissie was silent for a minute or two, then she said, 'I
suppose I ought to be doing a bit more, too. I mean, there's
nothing to stop me.'

'You've got Dick to look after. You know he needs you
with him if he gets one of his chests. And there's got to be
someone at home to keep the place going, if all the rest of us
are out.'

'I suppose so. And I could do knitting and needlework
and things.' They were almost at the church hall. 'Look at
that, Poll, there's still a crowd of people inside. Looks as if
they've been there all night, some of them, poor souls. And
those women taking their names, they look worn out, don't
they. What a job.'

'Yes,' Polly said, gazing at them. 'What a job.'

Chapter Four


With soldiers, sailors and marines throwing themselves into
the work of helping to clear the streets, there were a few
buses able to get through and Judy managed to get to
Southsea without too much trouble. It took her over an hour
all the same, and she thought ruefully of the extra time it
would add to her working days while the Council offices
were there.
The Royal Beach was a large hotel, directly opposite
South Parade Pier. It was eight storeys high and probably
one of the grandest hotels in the city, its rooms lavishly
decorated and lit with chandeliers. At least, that was what it
had been like before the war, Judy thought when she
arrived. The chandeliers had all been removed for safety partly
their own and partly because of the danger of flying
glass to people if the hotel were bombed -- and some of the
furniture had been taken away to make room for the
makeshift beds and trolleys for the casualties who were
brought here after a raid.
Most of these had gone now, for the hotel was being used
as a clearing station rather than a hospital, but the big
ground-floor lounge, bar and restaurant where they had
been brought were littered with blankets and sheets, piled
ready for washing, and there was a smell of blood and vomit
and disinfectant. First-Aid workers were busy cleaning up
and sorting fresh bandages and bedclothes ready for the next
raid. They looked exhausted, as if they'd been there eversince the bombs began to fall, and Judy thought they
probably had.

'Do you know where the Council offices are going to be?'
she asked a woman who was near the door, scrubbing at a
patch of what looked like blood on the floor. 'I was told to
report here for work.'

The woman, her sleeves rolled up and a scarf wound like
a turban round her head, looked up, and to her surprise
Judy recognised the face of one of the WVS volunteers who
had come to the Guildhall for meetings with the Lady
Mayoress. They looked at each other and the woman
smiled.

'You didn't expect to see me here, did you! Well, we all
have to do our bit. I think the offices are going to be
upstairs, though I did hear that the Mayor will have the
meeting room on the ground floor as well.' She sat back on
her heels and pushed a few straggling hairs out of her eyes.
'I expect you'll get a guided tour, but just in case you don't,
the basement's being used as a shelter - the stairs are over
there, behind that door - and there's a lookout post on the
roof. The Fire Brigade are manning that at the moment, but
I did hear they're going to put Observers up there, to see
when planes are coming. Anyway, you should find your
people on the next floor.'

Judy thanked her and went up the gracious stairs that
wound their way from the big foyer all the way to the top of
the building. The balustrade was of elegant wrought iron
and the well was lit by a single thick flex that hung from the
very top, bearing glittering chandeliers at each floor. I
suppose it was too difficult to take these away, she thought,
looking at the shimmering crystal drops. The touch of
luxury sent a little thrill through her body. It was almost like
working in a palace.

There wasn't much luxury in the new offices, however.
Once comfortable, spacious bedrooms with balconies on
which the guests could sit and look out over the sea only

yards away, across the road, the rooms were now stark and
empty. Beds, dressing-tables and wardrobes had all been
removed to make space for utilitarian desks and tables, and
plain wooden chairs that looked as if they'd come from the
cheapest furniture shop in the city. There were no cabinets,
shelves or drawers and people were standing looking a little
helplessly about them. Presumably office furniture would be
brought in as soon as it could be obtained, but for now they
had to make do with what there was.

'How long d'you think we'll be out here?' Judy asked
when she found the former bedroom that had been assigned
to her department. 'It's taken me ages to get here this
morning.'

'It'll be for the duration, I'm afraid,' Miss Marsh said.
'It's the same for us all, Judy.'

'I know.'Judy rubbed her cold hands together. There was
no fire in the grate and a bitter wind was scouring in from
the sea and finding its way through the windows. 'Well,
what is there to do? I suppose none of the office papers were
saved?'

'Nothing at all. The Lord Mayor only just managed to
get out of the Guildhall before the roof caught fire and fell
in, and the ARP were too busy trying to save the building.
There were people firewatching up on the roof too, but they
got down just in time, thank goodness.' Miss Marsh sat
down at a desk that had been brought in from the hotel's
reception area, and massaged her forehead with her fingertips.
'We've just got to start from scratch. Organise
ourselves as best we can, and try to get things in order again
- but it's not going to be easy. Think of all the forms we
used to use, all gone; we'll have to get them printed all over
again, and I haven't even heard from the printers yet. Most
of the phones are out of action, and for all we know they
could have been bombed too and all the plates destroyed . . .
It's a nightmare, Judy.'

Judy looked at her helplessly. 'But there are people

downstairs already, wanting help - what are we going to tell
them?'
'Tell them we'll do our best but it may take time. They
can't expect miracles.'
They would though, Judy thought as she went to face the
huddle of men and women who were down in the reception
area. 'We can't get no information,' one man complained.
'We've had to trek all the way out to Southsea, and you
know what the streets is like - and then when we do get here
we can't find nothing out. What are we supposed to do?
There's no gas, no electricity, not even any water laid on
down our way, and nobody seems to know nothing. It's a
flipping disaster.'
'Well, so it is,' Judy said. 'You know how much damage
there's been. It's bound to take time to sort things out, I'm
afraid.'
'And what're we supposed to do in the meantime?' the
man demanded again. He had a pugnacious face, with small
eyes and a flattened nose, and his ears looked as if they'd
been chewed. He glowered at Judy and she took a step back.
'I got a wife an' three nippers to look after. They ain't had a
decent meal for two days, only what that WVS stall or
whatever it's called has been able to dish out. My missus
can't even boil up a kettle to make a cup of tea.'
'I'm really sorry,' Judy said. 'We're doing all we can.'
There was a mutter of discontent from the crowd, and a
woman in a brown herringbone coat with a scarf wrapped
round her head said, 'Well, what about the Public Assistance,
then? Can't they do nothing?'
'They're not here,' Judy said. 'They've been sent
somewhere else - I'm not sure where.' She escaped back
into the makeshift office. 'They're really upset,' she told
Miss Marsh. 'I feel sorry for them but it's not our fault.'
'They won't understand that. They're worried and
frightened and a lot of them have lost their homes. Well,
you know yourself how they must feel. Look, here are the
addresses of the Public Assistance, the Police Headquarters
and the Medical Offices. They're spread all over the place,
I'm afraid. You'd better put a notice on the wall.'

Judy went back and tacked up the notice, listening to the
aggrieved remarks as she did so. She couldn't blame the
people for feeling upset - as Miss Marsh had said, they were
all under strain - but she did think they ought to make some
allowances. After all, nobody had known the Guildhall was
going to be destroyed, and all these arrangements had had to
be made at a moment's notice. 'I've had to come a long way,
too,' she pointed out as one young woman with a baby in
her arms started to complain about having to go miles away
for Public Assistance. 'And I was bombed out on Friday
night. It's the same for us as for everyone else.'

'Yes, but you're paid to come here,' the woman snapped.
'We've got to find our own shoe-leather.' She hoisted the
baby higher on to her hip and glared at Judy before turning
to push her way out of the building. Judy looked after her
and sighed.

'Never mind, my dear,' said a voice in her ear. 'I don't
suppose she means to be nasty. She's just tired and
frightened, like the rest of us. Come inside and have a cup of
tea. There's something I want to ask you.'

Judy turned and saw to her surprise that it was the Lady
Mayoress herself who was speaking to her. She was a
familiar figure in the Council offices and had often smiled at
Judy as she went by, but had never spoken to her before.
Puzzled, Judy followed her back to the office, where the
tables were being taken over as desks by various members of
staff. The Mayoress walked across to a corner of the room
and motioned to Judy to sit down. She gave her a friendly
smile. 'I've seen you in the offices quite a lot, haven't I?
Your name's Judith Taylor, and you've been working for
the Council for some time, haven't you?'

'Yes, madam. Ever since I was sixteen. I worked in a shop
when I first left school and did shorthand and typing at


night school, and then I saw a job advertised in the Council
office and I applied for it.'

'Well done. You're obviously a girl with some initiative.'
The Lady Mayoress paused. 'Now, I know just how busy
we're all going to be here, and I know how difficult it's
going to be for Miss Marsh to get her office organised, but I
have a very special request to make. As you probably already
know, I'm the local President of the WVS - the Women's
Voluntary Service. You may have seen our Head, Lady
Reading, when she visited us last July.'

'Yes, madam, I remember her. She came to the Guildhall
with another lady.'

'That's right. That was Lady Northampton. Now, the
WVS does a lot more work than many people realise - I
expect you've seen the stalls giving out tea and buns and
soup that have been set up in all the bombed areas. We were
there when the men came back from Dunkirk, and we've
been helping out at Emergency Centres and First-Aid Posts.
But we do a lot of other things, too: we've cooked Christmas
dinners for folk who wouldn't otherwise have had anything,
we've sorted out coal rations for old people, and we've even
enrolled people into the Blood Transfusion Service. In fact,
wherever people need help, you're likely to find a WVS
volunteer offering it.'

She paused again and Judy gazed at her, wondering
where all this was leading. Feeling that she was expected to
make some response, she ventured, 'My granny helps on
tea-stalls and things, but I don't think she's in the WVS.
They have a uniform, don't they?'

'Yes, we wear dark green with a dark red blouse or
jumper, and a green beret. But we're not like the women's
Services - we don't call people up. We just ask for
volunteers. And we pay for our own uniforms,' she added.

Judy began to guess what this was about. 'And you'd like
me to be a volunteer? Well, I will, of course, but I can only

help out in the evenings. I couldn't do anything in the
daytime because of my job.'
The Mayoress shook her head. 'No, my dear, I'm not
asking that, although I hope that you will be able to help, in
whatever way you can. What I'm asking you to do is work
for me - for the WVS - full-time.'
'Full-time?' Judy stared at her. 'I don't understand. I
thought it was all volunteers?'
'I'm sorry, I haven't explained properly. Look, my dear,
it's obvious that with Portsmouth now under severe attack we're
sure to get more bombing raids like the one on Friday,
we're in the front line here - there are going to be a lot of
people needing help. Immediate, practical help with things
like clothes, rations, food, accommodation - the sort of
things the Council would do, certainly will do - but the
WVS can do so much more quickly, leaving the Local
Authority to get on with the job of permanent rehousing,
putting the city back to rights and so on. That means we're
going to need more volunteers and more office staff to help
them. I'd like you, Miss Taylor, to join my staff.'
The? But . . .' Judy glanced round the room, looking
more like a bustling office now with men and women sitting
at tables which were already covered in sheets of paper.
Typewriters were being carried in, packets of envelopes
being opened. Where had they all come from? she wondered,
and felt guilty at not helping. 'But I've already got a
job, madam, and I ought to be doing it now. I don't want to
be rude - I'd really like to be able to help you, and I promise
I will, in the evenings and at weekends, but there's going to
be so much to do here--'
The Mayoress held up her hand. 'Just wait a minute,
Miss Taylor, while I finish explaining. I've already spoken
to Miss Marsh and she understands the position. She's
agreed to let me have two of her girls to help for as long as I
need them. I'm afraid I asked for her best girls,' the Lady
Mayoress smiled, 'and she said that in that case one must be

you. But of course, this will only be with your agreement nobody's
going to force you. That's not the WVS way at
all!'
Judy gazed at her, unable to think of anything to say. She
glanced across the room to where Miss Marsh was busy at
her own desk, deep in discussion with two of the senior male
clerks.
'And Miss Marsh doesn't mind?' she asked at last.
'I wouldn't say that - she doesn't want to lose you at all,
and I don't blame her. But she understands the need.' The
Mayoress leaned across the little table. 'You see, the kind of
person I need will be someone who can respond to an
emergency -- who can work on her own initiative, and who is
practical and won't mind going out of the office and giving a
hand wherever it's needed. Someone who can organise
anything from the evacuation of small children to collecting
scrap metal. It takes a very special kind of person to do all
that's going to be required in these coming days and
months, Judith - not the sort of girl who just wants to sit at
a desk in a nice warm office all day.'
'And you really think I could do all that?' Judy asked,
with a little twinge of excitement.
The Lady Mayoress gave her a steady look. 'You were
bombed out on Friday night, weren't you? You and your
family lost everything. Yet you still made your way to the
Guildhall - your place of duty - having first made sure that
your family would be cared for at an Emergency Centre.
You even stopped on the way to help others who needed it,
and you then stayed at your post all day, despite the dangers
- there could have been fallen masonry or unexploded
bombs anywhere in the Guildhall Square - to make sure
that everyone from the offices knew the situation here.
Today is Sunday morning, and you're here again, ready to
start work. That's how I know that you're the sort of person
I need.'
Judy glanced round the room once more. 'But I'm not the
only one, madam. All these others . . .'
The Mayoress smiled again. 'I also like the look of you,
Judith. I think we can get along - and that's important too.
Now, what do you say? You don't have to agree, and if you
do say yes and then find you're not happy with the work -- I
warn you, it'll be hard, with long hours, and not always as
clean and pleasant as you've been accustomed to -- then I
won't hold you to it. You'll be able to return to normal staff
duties. But will you at least give it a try?' She tilted her head
a little and lifted her fine eyebrows.
Judy bit her lip, longing to say yes, yet still held back by a
sense of loyalty to her workmates. She looked over at Miss
Marsh again and the supervisor caught her eye, said
something to her companions and came swiftly across the
room.
'Well, Judy? Has the Lady Mayoress explained what she
wants?'
'Yes, Miss Marsh. I don't know what to say. There's all
the work of getting the office together again, and--'

'Say yes,' the older woman advised her. 'It's an opportunity
for you, Judy, and I believe you'll be good at it. I can
manage with the rest of the girls, and the male clerks, and
we may be able to take on extra staff as well. But the
Mayoress needs someone with Council experience as well as
initiative, and in you she'll have both.'
Judy felt her skin colour. 'Well, if you really think so . . .'
'I do. I'll be sorry to lose you, Judy, but we all have to use
our abilities where they're most needed, and the WVS does
an excellent job. They'll be needed even more as this war goes on. Now, you'll have to excuse me, I must get back.'
She bobbed her head at the Lady Mayoress. 'Let me know if
there's anything else you need, madam.'
Left together, the Lady Mayoress and Judy looked at
each other. Judy smiled awkwardly and said, 'Well, it looks
as if that's settled then, madam. And - and thank you for
asking me.'
The Mayoress held out her hand. 'I'm very pleased to
have you on my team. Now, I told you that I was stealing
two girls from Miss Marsh, but I haven't told you who the other one is. It's Laura Godsall - I think you know her,
don't you? She's rather senior to you and will be my
secretary, but to all intents and purposes you'll share the
work between you. We don't have "hierarchies" in the WVS, we like women to be able to use their own individual skills so if you have any ideas of your own, or think things could
be done differently, you must say so. Now, I've been given
the office next door for my own use, so come through and
we'll get started.'
'Yes, madam.' Still feeling rather bewildered, Judy
followed the Mayoress through to a smaller room where she
found another desk and two of the dining tables. Laura
Godsall, a tall girl a year or two older than Judy, with long
blonde hair rolled up in a thick pleat over her forehead,
Betty Grable style, was sitting at one with a pad of
notepaper in front of her.
'Here's Miss Taylor come to help us,' the Mayoress said
briskly. 'You know each other already, and I'm sure we're
all going to get along famously. Now, what's been going on
while I've been out of the room, Laura?'
'I'm trying to make lists of all the things we need to do,'
Laura said. She had a low, rather musical voice, and Judy
remembered that she sang in one of the church choirs in the
city. Her father was a vicar. 'If we appeal for more
volunteers, we need to be able to give them jobs to do
straight away. The tea- and soup-stalls all have a rota, but
we need more people for the Emergency Centres, and more
Evacuation Helpers. Mrs Daysh was in here just now from
the Clothing Fund; she says they're desperate for more
clothes--'
'You see why I need help!' the Mayoress said to Judy.
'There's an enormous amount to be done. Now, as Laura
says, the first thing we must do is find more volunteers.
That means plenty of notices to be put up, and we can't get
them printed - the printers have got far too much to cope
with - so I think you'd better spend some time making them
by hand. Big, bold and simple, there's no time for anything
fancy. We'll get them into all the Emergency Centres and
First-Aid Posts, and everywhere else we can think of. I've
managed to get hold of some large sheets of paper - here,
spread them out on the table. Now, I must get down to the
Clothing Store. We had a new consignment in last week that
I don't think has even been unpacked yet. I'll take Mrs
Daysh with me and we can sort them out at once.'
She was" gone, leaving the two girls with a pile of paper
and a box of crayons between them. They looked at each
other and Judy grinned a little ruefully.
'Well, I suppose it's important work.'
'It is,' Laura assured her briskly. 'Even if it does feel a bit
like being back at school. Let's see how many we can get
done by lunchtime - and what's the betting that by then
she'll have thought of something else for us to do!'
As it turned out, by lunchtime the Mayoress had thought
of quite a few things for them to do. Most of the women
who were already volunteers had gone straight to the
Emergency Centres, but some had come to the hotel with its
new offices to ask for orders. Laura and Judy, by now
inundated with requests for help, were kept busy matching
them up, and Judy soon lost any sense of embarrassment at
asking a well-dressed woman to take a frail old lady to the
lavatory, or sending a young mother with three small
children of her own to look after a crowd of bedraggled
urchins who didn't seem to have any parents at all.
'They wouldn't volunteer if they didn't mean it,' Laura
remarked as she helped an efficient old lady to unload a pile
of woollen jumpers that someone had sent in. 'It's like the
Mayoress says - if you're in the WVS you've got to beflexible. Ready for anything. I can't see anyone offering if
they're not prepared to do whatever they're asked to do.'
'Well, I hope we get lots more offers from these notices,'
Judy said, printing wanted - volunteers for the WVS out
for the hundredth time. 'It's been busy enough before, it'll
be even worse now, especially if we get more raids like
Friday's.'
'D'you think we will?' Laura paused in her sorting.
'D'you think they'll bomb us that badly again? I don't know
how much more people will be able to stand.'
'We'll stand as much as we've got to,' Judy said grimly.
'We don't have any choice, do we? And the Germans aren't
going to stop because they feel sorry for us. They'll hammer
and hammer and hammer till they think we'll give in.' She
drew a thick black line under the words and looked up.
'We'll get more raids all right, Laura. They haven't finished
with Pompey yet - but what they don't know, is that
Pompey hasn't finished with them.''Chapter Five

Back at home at last, Judy stretched her toes out to the fire
and took a cup of tea from her mother. 'Thanks, Mum. I
really need this. It was a horrible journey back. There's any
amount of streets still blocked, the bus kept having to go a
different way. Some people said they were further away
from home when they got off than when they got on!'
'It's a shame you've got to go all the way out to Southsea,'
Cissie said, offering her a tin of broken biscuits before
settling a saucepan on the coals. 'I hope they manage to get
the offices back into town before long.'
Judy shook her head. 'They won't go back now. You
haven't seen the damage, Mum. We'll be out at Southsea for
the duration, that's what Miss Marsh says.' She nibbled a
piece of Rich Tea. 'Anyway, what sort of a day did you
have? Did you manage to get the rations sorted out?'
Polly nodded. 'We've got temporary books, and we've
registered at the Co-op where Mum gets her rations.
They've opened up a grocery store not too far away, being
as the big one's been bombed. Had to queue half the day but
at least we've got a bit of food in the place now. And we got
a bit more coal too, since we couldn't manage to get all ours
out, but the woman was a bit funny about that, said it didn't
take any more to warm five of us than one. I told her, we've
got to have something to cook on while there's no gas, and
we've got an invalid in the house too, and she gave way in
the end but she didn't like it.'
'She only give us enough for a couple of hours a day
anyway,' Alice observed. 'I could have practically carried it
home in my pockets.'
Judy smiled. She was tired and cold after the long journey
from Southsea, and it was good to be back with the family
again. 'I feel as though I've been working forever,' she said.
'It doesn't seem like Sunday at all today. Did you manage to
get to church?'
'Yes, we did, and so did just about everyone else in
Pompey,' Polly told her. 'Our church was full and I reckon
all the others must have been as well - the ones that are still
standing, anyway. The vicar told us there was - how many
churches did he say got bombed, Mum?'
'Well, there was the Wesley down Arundel Street, and
the one in Elm Grove, and Kent Street and Lane Road - oh
yes, and Immanuel too, all Baptist places they were. And the
old Unitarian in the High Street, that's nothing but a pile of
rubble now, they say.'
'What, old John Pound's church?' Dick said, glancing up
from his armchair. He was looking a bit better now,
although still with a slight greyish tinge to his face. 'I never
heard that. Well, that's a proper shame - bit of history, that
church was. It was where old John Pound the cobbler
started up his Ragged Schools. Many a time I've looked at
the old wall tablet that said about how he used to take
kiddies in off the street and teach 'em their letters while he
mended shoes. Used his own money to feed 'em too, he did,
and put shoes on their feet and clothes on their backs. I call
that a real shame.'
'I don't think he actually mended shoes in the church,'
Judy began, but was silenced by a glance from her mother.
She bit her lip. It hardly mattered anyway. The tragedy was
that so many buildings had been bombed, whether they
were fine old churches or tiny terraced houses. The city was
having its heart torn out.
'Tell you what,' she said. 'I've got a new job!'The others stared at her. 'A new job? Why? Have you
been promoted? You never told us about this, Judy.'
Judy laughed. 'I didn't know, that's why! And it is a kind
of promotion, I suppose, in a way. The Lady Mayoress has
asked me to work for her, helping with the WVS. You know
she's high up in it, and she says they're going to be even
busier now, helping in all sorts of ways. She needed some
more staff, so she asked Miss Marsh if she could have me
and Laura Godsall.'
'But surely they're all volunteers?' Cissie said. 'Does that
mean you won't get paid?'
'No, I'll get the same wage as before. She's allowed some
paid staff, you see, so that she's always got people who know
what's what. And we're stopping out at the Royal Beach
because the WVS works with the Local Authority - it's
something like the way the Wrens help the Navy and the
ATS help the Army, that sort of thing - but we might find
ourselves doing all sorts of jobs. I think it sounds
interesting,' she said and finished her tea while the others
gazed at her.
'Well, fancy the Lady Mayoress herself asking for you,
our Judy,' Alice said at last. 'They must think a lot of you.'
Judy shrugged, feeling pleased all the same. 'I don't know
about that. I reckon I just came in the door at the right
moment.'
Polly's face was bright with excitement. 'So you're going
to help with the WVS. Well, what a coincidence. Because I
am, too!'
'You are?' Judy turned to her. 'How d'you mean, Polly?
Are you volunteering?'
'I already have. Put my name down at the Centre this
morning.' Polly beamed at her niece. 'I've got to come out
to Southsea tomorrow to sign on. I'll come with you on the
bus, first thing.'
A huge smile broke out over Judy's face. 'That's
smashing! We need lots and lots of volunteers, and it's goingto be really interesting work, Poll - you've no idea all the
jobs they do. It's not just serving out tea and sorting old
clothes. Though those things do have to be done as well, of
course,' she added fairly.
'Well, I don't care what I do so long as it's helping the
war effort,' Polly declared. 'I've been thinking ever since I
let Sylvie go out to the country that I ought to be doing
something, but what with having a job and not being able to
go in the Services, I didn't really know what to do. But this
will suit me - I can put in all the hours I want to and still do
a bit of hairdressing as well. I went round to Mrs Mason's
this morning to make sure it was all right with her if I just
did part-time. We decided afternoons would be best; seems
to me it's mornings that volunteers'll be needed most, when
there's been a raid overnight.'
'They'll be needed morning, noon and night,' Judy said.
'But whenever you work, you'll be welcome, Polly. You're
just the sort they need. I'm really pleased.'
'And I'll still be giving a hand where I can,' Alice chimed
in. 'I'm going to go round the Centre regular. Annie
Chapman works there - you know, Jess Budd's sister from
over the end of March Street, it was her Olive that was with
Kathy Simmons -- and she says I'll be welcome any time.
There's always something to do there. And Peggy Shaw,
from down the street, she works in the First-Aid Post and
her Gladys drives an ambulance, so we'll all be doing our bit
round this way. Well, most of us,' she added as an
afterthought. 'I don't suppose that Ethel Glaister will lift a
finger to help - wouldn't want to chip her nail varnish - and
Nancy Baxter has her own ways of helping, as we all know.'
'Mum!' Cissie protested, amidst laughter from the others.
She got up from her chair and bent to lift the lid from the
saucepan simmering on the fire. 'I reckon this stew's just
about ready now. There's only enough meat in it to cover a
half-starved mouse, but plenty of veg, so let's get round the
table and tuck in.' She brought the pan to the table andbegan to spoon stew into the bowls. 'And just in case you
think I'm not pulling my weight, I'm going to be doing
needlework for the Marine barracks, helping make uniforms,
and Dick's going to be making rag rugs for people
who are being rehoused and got no furniture.'
'That's right,' Dick said, drawing up a chair. 'It'll be a
hive of industry round here. She'll have me knitting next.'
'Well, that wouldn't be anything to be ashamed of,' his
mother-in-law told him. 'Plenty of sailors used to do
knitting when they were at sea. I don't know where they'd
have got new socks from otherwise, when they were away
for years at a time.'
They sat round the table, eating their meal. As Cissie had
said, there wasn't much meat in it but what there was had
given it some flavour, and the vegetables were good.
Afterwards they had boiled rice with golden syrup, and
while they were eating that Cissie put the kettle on the fire
for another cup of tea.
'Wonderful how you can manage when you've got to,' she
remarked. 'But I'll be thankful when we've got the gas and
power back on. Have you heard anything about that, Judy?'
'I know they're hoping to get the Dockyard generators
linked into the city electricity supply,' Judy said, gathering
up the dishes. 'If they can do that, everyone will have some
power in the next day or two. I don't know about the gas,
though.' She hesitated. 'There's going to be a big funeral on
Friday -- some of the people that were killed. They say there were over a hundred and fifty. They're going to be buried
all together at Kingston Cemetery, and the Mayor and all
the Corporation are going. I don't know how many of their
robes they'll be able to wear; a lot of them were burned in
the Guildhall.'
There was a moment of sadness, then Polly said, 'Talking
of uniforms, I'll be getting the WVS one. It's quite nice green
with a sort of grey thread running through it. We've
got to pay for them ourselves, though.'
'I'm having one too,' Judy told her. 'I don't mind paying
for it - I'd have to get some more clothes for work anyway.
Did you manage to get much at the Centre, Mum?'
They went on talking as they cleared the table, made tea
and put the kettle on the fire yet again for washing up, and
then settled down with their knitting. All the women were
making something. Judy and Polly had started balaclavas for
the Navy, Cissie was unravelling one of Dick's old cardigans
to make gloves, and Alice was making squares from scraps of
leftover wool, to be sewn together to make blankets. Polly lit
an extra candle, to give them more light.
'I'm getting a bit worried about this coal supply,' Cissie
said, rolling wool into a ball. 'With all this cooking, and
needing water for washing and scrubbing the floors, you've
got to keep the fire going but what we've got in the shed's
going down really quick, even with those few loads we
managed to bring here from home.'
'Well, once the gas is back on we can sit in our coats
during the day and just keep the fire for evenings,' Dick
said. 'One thing about making rag rugs, they do keep your
knees warm while you're working on them!' He glanced at
the clock on the mantelpiece. 'Let's put the wireless on - it's
nearly time for the nine o'clock news.'
'Good thing I had the accumulator charged last week,'
Alice remarked, doing as he asked. 'At least we can still find
out what's going on.'
The news, read by Alvar Liddell, was as gloomy and
frightening as usual. There had been more Luftwaffe attacks
on British warships in the Mediterranean; a destroyer had
been damaged, the aircraft-carrier Illustrious crippled and
another ship, unnamed so far, sunk. In the Netherlands, all
Jews had been ordered to register with the authorities. Mr
Churchill had insisted to Parliament that assistance to
Greece must be given top priority.
'The trouble is, everywhere needs to be top priority,'
Dick said, switching it off again. 'We can't be in all those
places at once. It's like a disease, breaking out everywhere,
and as fast as you try to stop the bleeding in one place it
starts somewhere else.'
Cissie shuddered. 'That's horrible, Dick.'
'Well,' he said quietly, 'war is horrible.' He looked down
at the fire and then pulled his cardigan close around his thin
chest. 'I don't know about you, but I'm for bed. I dunno,
ever since Friday night I seem to feel so tired I can hardly
keep my eyes open. I reckon I'll be a bit warmer there, too.
Did you put the bottle in, Cis?'
His wife nodded. 'Half an hour ago. You go up, Dick,
and get comfortable. I won't be long.' She waited as he went
outside to pay a last visit to the lavatory and then had a
quick wash at the scullery sink before climbing slowly
upstairs. 'It's the shock,' she said to the others. 'It's knocked
him sideways, and I'm not surprised. It's not right, men like
him having to go through this all over again.'
'What happened to him in the Great War, Mum?' Judy
asked. 'I know he was gassed, but there was more to it than
that, wasn't there?'
Cissie looked at her and sighed. 'Well, I suppose it's only
right you should know. Not that I know all the ins and outs
of it myself, mind - a lot of it, I just had to pick up from
what Dick said and what other people have told me. And
Dick's never told me the full story, never will. I don't think
he can bear to remember it.'
'Bad as it was, I don't think the gas was the worst of it,'
Alice said. 'I think it was what else happened to him that
upsets him most.'
There was a brief silence, then Cissie said, 'I reckon you
might be right, Mum.' She turned back to Judy. 'See - your
dad and me were childhood sweethearts - always knew each
other, and we always knew we'd get married one day. But
there didn't seem to be no hurry till the war broke out, and
then when he joined up we thought it'd all be over by
Christmas, so we decided to get married then, when he came

back. And so we did, only it wasn't all over, and he'd had a
taste of the trenches by then and he didn't want to go back.'
'Didn't have no choice, though, did he,' Alice said. 'You
either got shot as a deserter or went back and probably got
shot by the Germans.'
'That's right. He had an awful time -- I only know about
it from the nightmares he used to have. Still has, sometimes,
specially since this lot started ... He didn't come home
again till the next Christmas - our Terry was three months
old then. I tell you, when he walked through that door over
there, I didn't even recognise him. He looked like a ghost.
No - more like a skeleton, he was so thin and drawn. And
he couldn't even talk for three days - just sat and cried in
the chair. Wanted me with him all the time, couldn't bear to
let the baby out of his sight ... It was pitiful. Pitiful.'
Judy stared at her, shocked. 'But what was the matter
with him?'
'What do you think? He'd had just about all he could
take. A lot of them had. They'd been living like rats in
holes, being shot at day and night - it wasn't human, what
they had to go through. Why, we couldn't even bang a door
shut without him jumping out of his skin. Shell-shock, they
called it,' Cissie said bitterly. 'Gave him a few weeks' leave
to get over it and then dragged him back. He wasn't over it,
not by a long way. He isn't over it now - he never will be.
It's why he flares up sometimes, all over nothing. Something
happens that touches him on the raw and he loses his
temper. He never used to be like that. It's all through what
happened in the war.'
'And was it after that when he was gassed?' Judy asked
quietly.
'That's right. Saved his life, that did.'
'Saved his life? But it's left him more or less crippled!'
'And if it hadn't, he'd be dead,' Cissie said bluntly. Judy,
accustomed to gentleness from her mother, caught her
breath at the harshness of her voice. 'They called it shell


shock when he was home and they wanted him back again,
but out there they had a different name for it. Cowardice.
And you know what they did to cowards, don't you?' She
gave Judy a bitter look. 'They shot them.'
Judy caught her breath. 'You mean they were going to
shoot Dad?'
'I'm not saying they were going to, but I think that's what
he expected. And then they got this gas attack. He only got a
whiff, mind - he said there were boys that got a full whack,
and they died screaming. It turns your lungs to a sort of
mush . . . But your father wasn't too close. It was enough to
make him poorly for a bit, mind, and leave his lungs
damaged for life, but it got him invalided home and there
was no more talk about cowardice. He was all right to work
too, for a few years, till it started to get worse, but at least
he's still alive. I thank God on my knees every day that he's
still alive.'
Judy was silent. She had always known that her father's
illness stemmed from the Great War, but had never heard
the details before. She glanced at her Aunt Polly.

'I suppose you didn't realise - you were only little then.'
'Nine, when he first came home,' Polly said. 'I was a
bridesmaid at the wedding. I was only twelve when the war
ended, and Dick went back to his job in the Dockyard - and
then our dad died and I don't think I really noticed much.
Cis didn't tell me till I was a lot older, when Dick started to
get worse.'
'Poor Dad,' Judy said softly. 'Poor, poor Dad.'
'Well, he's got plenty to be thankful for, all the same,'
Alice said briskly. 'He's not had such a bad life. The gas
didn't kill him, he's got a good wife and two children to be
proud of, and there's plenty of others went through the
same as he did, and worse. I'm not playing it down, mind,
just saying it could have been worse.'
'You're right, Mum,' Cissie said. 'It could have been a lot
worse. That's what I thank God for.' She rolled up anotherball of crinkly, unravelled wool and got up. 'Well, I'm going
up now, too. Don't you be too long, Judy, you look tired. So
do you, Poll.'

Fifteen minutes later, Judy and Polly were left alone by
the dying fire. Alice had gone into the front room, where a
mattress had been put on the floor for her, and a few
minutes later they heard her snoring. They looked at each
other.

'That's awful, what Mum said about Dad,' Judy said.
'But Gran's right, isn't she? At least he's alive. You must
wish you could have your Johnny back, even if he'd been
injured.'

'I do,' Polly said quietly. 'But I'm not sure it's what he
would have wanted. He was always so proud of being fit and
strong - I don't think he could have put up with being an
invalid. And I was thinking about you, too. You haven't said
anything about Sean, but you must be worried stiff. I saw
your face when the newsreader said about the ship that's
been sunk in the Med. You were thinking about him then,
weren't you?'

Judy bit her lip. 'I don't even know exactly where the
Southampton is, but she could be out there, Polly. And they
wouldn't let me know, would they - not straight away.
They'd notify his mum, over in Ireland. I'd have to wait for
her to write to me.' She sighed. 'I try not to worry, but
sometimes it feels like a great lump of jagged metal inside
me. I don't know what I'd do if I lost him, Polly. We knew
each other such a short time.'

'I know,' her aunt said softly. 'I know just what it's like.
All you can do is wait. That's all any of us can do - wait,
and do something useful in the meantime. At least we can
do that.'

'Yes,' Judy said. 'At least we can do that.'

Chapter Six

Several of the April Grove residents attended the mass
funeral at Kingston cemetery the following Friday. They
were there to mourn Kathy Simmons and her baby Thomas.
Alice, Cissie and Dick walked down with Freda Vickers,
from the end of April Grove. Her husband Tommy was an
air-raid" warden and had been one of the last men to come
down from the roof of the Guildhall when it had caught fire.
It had snowed during the week and the pavements were
slippery with ice. They walked carefully, holding on to each
other's arms.
'He was named after my hubby, the baby was,' Freda told
them sadly. 'Tommy was with her in the air-raid shelter
when he was born, see. Took care of Kathy right through,
and she was so grateful. Hadn't lived in October Street all
that long, but they were a lovely family, and the two little
girls are dears.'
'It's terrible,' Cissie said. 'All those people killed, and all
the families left behind to grieve. What about her hubby,
then -- where's he?'
'I told you, Cis,' Alice said. 'He's in the Merchant Navy.
On convoys somewhere.'
Judy and Polly were at the funeral too. Judy had gone
down from Southsea with Laura and the rest of the Council
staff and the Mayor, Mayoress and Corporation, all in
ordinary clothes because their grand robes had been lost in
the Guildhall fire. The Mayor's regalia, which had been
kept in a safe, had been saved, however, and he wore that
over his dark suit, while the bishops of both Anglican andRoman Catholic churches were resplendent in blue and
gold, and black, gold and cherry-pink respectively.

The procession was led by the Royal Marine Band, its
trombones dazzling, its drums muffled with black crepe. It
was followed by twelve Rolls-Royce and Daimler hearses,
each driver wearing a top hat, and the coffins draped in
Union Jacks. Beside the hearses, in a slow march, walked the
servicemen who were to act as pallbearers, and behind them
came a parade of all the Armed Services, including some
from the French Navy, as well as members of the ARP and
Home Guard. Tommy Vickers was there, his yellow hair
glinting in the sunlight when he took off his hat in respect
for the dead.

Polly was smart in her new green WVS uniform, standing
in line with the other volunteers along the road. The icy
pavements were packed with mourners, and a number of
people who had just come to watch.

'Sightseers!' Judy said indignantly as they walked back to
Southsea afterwards. 'Got nothing better to do. As if
watching a lot of coffins being put into a grave was
entertainment!'

'Well, I'm sure they were upset about it too,' Polly said.
'And you've got to admit it was a real sight, for all it was so
sad. I didn't know Kathy Simmons but I couldn't help
shedding a few tears. All those poor souls being put into one
grave - and all those people standing there, absolutely quiet,
watching. And those words the bishop said, about us being
a "proud people" and calling them "Citizens in the City of
God". I don't know how they think these things up.'

'Neither do I,' Judy said caustically. 'All that about them
being "happy dead" and "winning a victory"! I bet Kathy
Simmons isn't happy being dead, and I bet she doesn't think
she's won a victory either. It's just words, Polly, and they
don't mean a thing!' Her cheeks flushed and her eyes
brightened with anger. 'Just because he's a bishop, we're
meant to believe him and be proud that so many people were



killed and injured and bombed out of their homes, and I tell
you, I'm not! I'm not proud at all!'
Polly looked at her in surprise. Judy had never expressed
such feelings before, but when you came to think about it,
perhaps she had a point. The bishop's words had made her
feel proud, but it was true that she hadn't felt like that
beforehand. She'd been sad and upset and frightened. She
thought for a moment and then said carefully, 'I suppose
he's trying to make us all feel better - stronger. Being
miserable isn't going to help them, or us. If we can feel
better about them dying, perhaps it helps us to carry on.'
She sighed. 'Pompey's not the only place hit this week.
Plymouth and Bristol have had bad raids too. I suppose this
sort of thing's happening there as well. What I wonder is
where they get all the coffins from. They surely don't have
all that many ready at the undertakers.'
'I reckon they've got places making them specially,' Laura
said. She and Judy were also in their new WVS uniforms,
with warm greatcoats over their jackets and skirts. 'They
won't tell us about them though, because of spreading
panic'
They reached the Royal Beach and went inside. The
offices were busy, with half a dozen girls clacking away at a
bank of typewriters and clerks sitting at paper-strewn desks
and dining tables. All the forms and official documents had
to be printed and sent out to homes and businesses all over
the city, and on top of that the bombed and damaged
premises must be surveyed for repair or rebuilding. There
were lists of people who needed rehousing, lists of places
where they could be sent, lists of those who had decided to
take evacuation, lists of places in the country that could
accommodate them. Lists, lists, lists, Judy thought as she
pulled off her coat, gloves and hat and hung them on a hook.
There's no end to them, but without them we couldn't even
begin to get everything done. She sat down at her own desk
and gazed at the mound of paper that seemed to have grownduring her absence. Each list, each entry, she knew,
represented some personal problem or even tragedy - a
workman needing new clothes, a family bombed out just as
her own had been, two little sisters whose mother had been
killed.
'That's Kathy Simmons,' she said, staring at the sheet of
paper in her hands. 'She lived just across the road from my
gran, where we're staying now. She was killed with her baby
boy in her arms, and now the little girls have got no one.
Oh, Laura.' Suddenly, she was in tears. The strain of the
past week - the horror of seeing her home in ruins, the
desperate struggle to get through the streets, the sight of
the Guildhall that was the pride of Portsmouth, the funeral
of so many people that afternoon - overwhelmed her with a
rush of emotion, and she put her elbows on her desk, her
face in her hands and shook with sobs.
'Judy!' Laura came and put her arms round Judy's
heaving shoulders. 'Oh Judy, don't. I know it's awful.' She
held the girl's head against her, stroking the bright hair.
'I've cried, too. I cried all night, thinking of it all. Perhaps
it's best to cry. Let it out, Judy, let it out. It'll make you feel
better.' She went on murmuring and stroking, and Judy's
tears slowly began to subside, until at last she was able to
look up and blow her nose and give a small, shaky smile.
'Sorry, I didn't mean to break down like that. It was just
seeing their names. It's different when it's someone you
know.'
'I know. It makes it so real. Not that we're in any doubt
about that,' Laura said with a sigh, glancing round the
office. 'I just wish we could wake up and find it was all a
dream - a nightmare. But it's not.'
'No. It just seems like one. A nightmare we can't wake up
from.' Judy blew her nose again. 'And being sorry for
ourselves isn't helping anyone. We've got so much to do -- there's so many people needing things.' She drew the sheet
of paper towards her again. 'Stella and Muriel Simmons.They're staying with Mrs Budd, down at the other end of
April Grove from Gran, but I suppose they'll have to be
evacuated. Poor little scraps. They'd already been bombed
out once, you know.'
'Would you like me to see to that?' Laura asked gently,
but Judy shook her head.
'No, I'll do it. I can't give up over everything that upsets
me, or I'll never get a thing done. It's the same for all of us,
after all. We're all going to come across people we know,
sometime or other.' She looked at the paper again. 'What do
we do, though? Send someone to go and see Mrs Budd, or
get their evacuation organised first and then just tell her?'
'Haven't they got any other relatives? A granny or
aunties? What about their father?'
'I think he's in the Merchant Navy.' Judy sighed. 'I
suppose someone had better go and find out.' She glanced
round the room and saw her aunt standing by the window,
talking to another WVS volunteer. 'I know - I'll get Polly to
do it. We're staying in April Grove after all, and Gran
knows Mrs Budd. Polly and Mum grew up there themselves,
though I don't think the Budds moved in till after
they'd got married and moved out. It's better than sending a
stranger though, and we can find out about the girls' family
before we do anything else.'
She made a note in the ledger she had been given to keep
a record of what action had been taken in each case, and
went on to the next, two boys whose mother was in hospital
with a broken leg. They ought to have been evacuated too,
she thought. She was surprised how many children there
still were in the city - children who had been evacuated
right at the beginning of the war and then come home when
nothing much seemed to be happening, children who had
refused to go or whose parents refused to send them,
children who were under five and too young to go without
their mothers, whose mothers wanted to stay at home with
their husbands . . . Surely some of them would go now, shethought. Surely, after this, their parents will see the danger
they're in.
But not everyone wanted to be parted from their children.
There was Jess Budd, whose boys were at Bridge End. She
and her elder daughter Rose, together with the baby
Maureen, had all gone out there to begin with, but Jess had
come back to look after her husband Frank, who worked in the Dockyard, and naturally the baby had had to come too.
And then Rose had wanted to come back with her mother,
and after some argument Frank had agreed to her return.
He wouldn't hear of the boys coming back though, and they
didn't really want to. They were enjoying their stay in the
country and, apart from being disgruntled at missing the air
raids, they were content to stay there, especially now that
there was some snow.
'I thought perhaps Stella and Muriel could go to the
vicarage there,' Jess said when Polly went to see her. 'That's
where my boys are now, and they're well looked after. The
vicar's got a housekeeper who's like a mother to them, and
the vicar's like an overgrown boy himself, by all accounts.
There's plenty of room there and I'm sure they'd be
welcome, and they met Tim and Keith at Christmas.' She
took a photograph from the mantelpiece and looked at it
fondly. It was a studio portrait and showed the whole family
in their best clothes, with baby Maureen seated on Jess's
knee and Frank and Rose behind her while the two boys
stood straight and proud beside them. 'My Frank had this
taken specially, before they went back. He wanted us all
together, just in case . . .' She bit her lip, then added
brightly, 'You've seen my boys in the street, I expect, before
they went away?'
'The whole school went to Bridge End, did they?' Polly
asked, trying to get the picture straight in her head.
. 'That's right. The teachers are there, too - Miss Langrish
and the others. They're happy enough there. Well, mostly,'
she added, remembering the children like Martin Baker andthe little Atkinsons who had not been at all happy. 'They
didn't all get good billets, I'm afraid. But the girls would be
all right at the vicarage.'
'What about the father? Do they have any other relatives?'
Jess frowned, trying to remember. 'Well, Mr Simmons is
in the Merchant Navy, he doesn't get home very often, of
course. As for other relatives - well, I got the impression
there weren't many. They're not Pompey people anyway.
Kathy told me once they both came from Basingstoke. Her
parents died when she was a kiddy and she was brought up
by her gran, but the old lady's over ninety now. And I think she said her hubby's mother was in a home - doesn't really
know what's going on.'
'It doesn't look as if they're going to be much help,' Polly
said. She looked down at her notebook. 'They're staying
with you at the moment, is that right? But I expect you'd
rather they were evacuated.'
'I don't mind having them at all, but I think they ought to
be somewhere safe. The poor little mites have been bombed
out twice and they're terrified every time we hear a plane go
over. We've had to go down the shelter quite a few times
already since the big raid, and you can see they're almost out
of their minds with fear, especially Muriel, the younger one.
And Stella's like a little old woman - you'd think she was
carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. They
need to be somewhere they can feel safe and start to be
children again.'
Polly nodded. 'We can certainly contact the vicar and see
if he'd be willing to take them. What's his name?'
'Mr Beckett. But I think I ought to talk to their father
first - he's hoping to be able to get back and see them soon.
His ship comes back to Pompey, you see, for supplies. I
wouldn't like him to come and find them not here, not when
he's lost his wife and baby boy as well.'
'Well, we'll wait a little while,' Polly agreed, 'but we can't
leave it too long. As you say, they ought to be somewheresafe.' She put her notebook away and stood up. 'Thanks,
Mrs Budd. It's been nice to talk to you.' She glanced around
the small room. 'You've got a lovely place here.'
'We do our best to keep it nice,' Jess said modestly.
'Frank does a lot of work on it - woodwork and decorating,
and that - at least, he did when you could still get the
materials. It's not rented, you see, like most of the houses
round here. Frank wanted his own place - likes his
independence, and likes to be able to do what he wants with
his home. A lot of his mates said he was daft, taking on a
mortgage, said it'd be a millstone round his neck, but we've
never regretted it. He always says he'd sooner put the
money into his own bricks and mortar than pay rent for the
rest of his life.' She looked round proudly. 'It's been a real
struggle at times, but this house will be ours one day, with
no more to pay - well, that's if the Germans let it!'
Polly nodded. Before Johnny was killed, they'd rented
two rooms, and even Dick and Cissie's house had been
rented. Her mother Alice had been lucky to be able to stay
in the house at the other end of the street, where Polly and
Cissie had grown up, after her husband had died in the 'flu
epidemic after the Great War, but she was still paying rent.
Frank and Jess Budd had been sensible, she thought, as well
as brave to take on such a commitment.
'Well, let's hope they do,' she said, referring to the
Germans. 'It's no picnic, being bombed out, I can tell you.'
Jess's face softened in sympathy. 'Yes, I heard about your
trouble. It must have been a terrible shock, coming out of
the shelter to find everything gone. Thank goodness you
were all down there, though. I've heard of people who just
popped indoors to make a cup of cocoa . . . well, look at
Kathy, killed in just those few minutes. It doesn't bear
thinking of.'
Polly walked back up the icy street towards her mother's
house. No it didn't bear thinking of, but you had to think
about it when it happened to you. There were a lot of thingsthese days that didn't bear thinking of, but you had to do so
all the same. Things like her Johnny, drowning or blown up
at sea -- she would never know just what had happened to
him. And their little daughter Sylvie, out in the country
near Romsey, living with strangers. They were kind enough
to her, Polly knew that, but it wasn't right, a kiddy of seven
living with people she didn't know. And how long was it
going to be before she could come home and be with her
mummy again? Nobody knew.
'You're Mrs Thomas's girl, Polly!' a cracked voice
exclaimed, making her jump. 'I knowed you when you was a
little 'un. Come back to stop with your ma then, I hear.'
'Mrs Kinch!' Polly said, stopping. 'Yes, we were bombed
out of "our house, so me and Cissie and her husband, and
their Judy, have all come back to April Grove. It seems
funny, being back where I was born,' she added, glancing
along the street where she had played so often as a child.
'Ah, I remember you two, skipping and playing two-ball
up against the walls.' The old woman looked just the same
as always, Polly thought, her thin grey hair wound tightly
into metal curlers and covered with a brown net. 'My Nancy
often talks about you - she'll be pleased you're back. You
can come in and have a cuppa tea with us one of these days,
have a bit of a chinwag about old times.' She peered at
Polly's green uniform. 'You joined up then, have you?
Which Service is that?'
'It's not one of the Armed Services. It's the WVS - die
Women's Voluntary Service. Anyone can volunteer,' Polly
said proudly. 'We do all sorts of things - help people who've
been bombed out, run tea-stalls down by the docks, take
children to be evacuated, collect scrap - anything that needs
doing. Nancy could join if she wanted to,' she added a little
doubtfully.
Granny Kinch cackled. 'My Nancy's already doing her
bit towards the war effort,' she said, confirming Alice's
remarks about Nancy Baxter. 'But you carry on, young

Polly, there's plenty of other comforts our boys need these
days. Anyway, I can't stand here nattering all day, I got our
Micky's dinner to get. He does a bit of work down Charlotte
Street market; brought home a nice string of pork sausages
last night, he did, and he'll expect 'em on the table when he
comes in.' She grinned toothlessly at Polly and went
indoors.
Polly opened the door of number nine and went inside,
smiling. Her brother-in-law was in his armchair, a piece of
canvas spread over his knees as he hooked bits of coloured
material into it. 'Hello,' he said, 'what's tickled you?'
'Granny Kinch. Just said she couldn't stand nattering at
the front door all day. I thought that was all she ever did!
You know, she doesn't look a scrap different from how she
looked when I was a little girl - I think she must have been
born toothless and with curlers in her hair.'
Dick grinned. 'I don't know about the curlers but I
expect she was born toothless. Look, what d'you think of
my rug? Bit of all right, isn't it? I'm getting proper nifty
with this hook.'
'You are,' Polly said, admiring it. 'Some family's going to
be pleased with that to put in front of their fire.' She sighed
and sat down in the other armchair. 'It's awful, though,
Dick, when you think of it. I've just been down to see Mrs
Budd about those two little Simmons girls. There must be
hundreds of kiddies like them, lost their homes and parents.
It's so tragic'
'You weren't much older when you lost your own dad,' Dick said, 'so you can understand what it's like for them.
And it's the same for your Sylvie. D'you reckon you'll be
able to get out to see her soon?'
'I hope so. It's just that with everything so upside down
all over the city, and now we've got all this snow, there's
hardly any trains or buses running and they're needed for
getting people evacuated.' She looked into the fire, thinking
of her daughter. 'I'm glad I had her home for Christmas. Atleast we all had a few days together then for Terry's bit of
leave, but I'm even more glad I made her go back. I felt
awful when she begged me to let her stay, but it was the
right thing to do.'
Dick rolled up his work and got up. He went out to the
scullery and filled the kettle. The gas was back on now, as
well as the electricity, and soon the kettle was whistling and
he made the tea and brought in two cups.
'Here. You look a bit done up. It's upset you, talking to
Jess Budd.'
'I think it has, a bit.' Polly stirred a saccharin tablet into
her tea and sipped it. 'I want to help, Dick, and I'm glad I
joined the WVS, but it does bring it home to you what
terrible things are happening. Not that we need it bringing
home to us - I think we've had our share already. But it
seems worse, somehow, when it's other people. You can see
that some of them just can't cope with it. It's in their eyes they
look sort of lost and bewildered. They're like little
children.'
'It's shock,' Dick said. 'I've seen plenty of it, Polly.
They'll be all right after a bit - at least, they would be if
they had a chance of some peace and quiet. But that's just
what we don't get, isn't it?'
She shook her head. 'It's as if the Germans are just
banging away at us all the time. They knock us down and
then hit us again, just as we're getting up. Nobody gets a
chance to recover from one blow before the next one knocks
them for six. You just don't know what's going to happen
next.' She glanced up at the mantelpiece. 'Is that a letter for
our Judy?'
Dick nodded. 'Came by second post. Got an Irish stamp
on it. I dare say it's young Sean's mother - she writes now
and then, doesn't she?'
'Yes, she does. Perhaps she's got some news from Sean. I
know Judy's been a bit worried, not hearing from him just
lately.' Polly looked round as the front door opened and

closed again. 'I expect that's her now. There's a letter here
for you, Judy,' she called.
Judy burst into the room, her face alight. 'A letter? From
Sean?' She held out her hand for the envelope Polly was
taking down from the mantelpiece, and as she caught sight
of the stamp, the colour drained from her face. In the same
instant, Polly remembered her remark a few days earlier.
'They wouldn't let me know, would they - not straight away.
They'd send any telegram to his mum, over in Ireland. I'd have
to wait for her to write to me.'
'Oh Judy,' she said, getting up quickly. 'Oh, Judy . . .'
Chapter Seven

Only Polly could give Judy any comfort during the dark
days that followed.
The Southampton, a cruiser, had been sunk on 11 January
- the day after the Blitz on Portsmouth. Perhaps, Judy
thought, Sean had been dying at the very moment she and
the family had crawled out of their Anderson and stared in
horror at the wreckage of their home. Or, if not then, it
must have been at some other moment during that dreadful
day - as they walked into the Emergency Centre, perhaps,
or while she was struggling to reach the Guildhall, or when
she came into the square and saw the great building going
up in flames, the copper melting in green streaks of fire
down its scorching walls ... At some time during that day,
Sean, the merry Irish sailor she'd met and fallen in love with
at a South Parade Pier dance - the laughing young seaman
who had swept her off her feet, begged her to marry him
and given her the tiny diamond she was wearing on her
finger now - had died in the sea he had loved and which had
become his killer. Had he been thinking of her as he died?
Had he called her name, regretted that he would never see
her again? Or had he forgotten everything else in his
desperate struggle to stay alive?
'It's no good torturing yourself over it,' Polly told her as
they huddled together on the single bed in Alice's back
bedroom. 'You've just got to do your grieving and then
come to terms with it. It's hard - no one knows that better
than me - but you've got to do it.'
'I can't,' Judy sobbed. 'I can't stop thinking about him,Poll. What was it like? If only I knew, if only I could imagine it, I could feel I was sharing it with him then. I could feel
that perhaps it wasn't so lonely. I know that's stupid, it can't
make any difference to him now - it couldn't ever make any
difference to him. But it might help me to understand.'
'I know. I know just what you mean.' Polly stroked her
niece's bright, fair hair. 'I went through it all when I lost
Johnny. I felt cheated, somehow. Not just of his life, though
that's bad enough, losing the life we were going to have
together, but of his death, too.' She looked at Judy, whose
sobs had lessened a little. Her face was still buried in her
hands but Polly sensed that she was listening. She hesitated,
hoping she wouldn't increase the girl's pain, and then went
on. 'It's like it says in that old song - you remember, the one
your dad used to sing to your mum sometimes, when we
were round the piano. My dad used to sing it too. All about
sharing the good things in life, and the bad ones too. "Am I
not yours for weal or woe? How else can friends prove true?
Tell me what breaks and brings you low, And let me stand with you."'
She paused again. Judy lifted her head. Her eyes were red
and swollen, her skin puffy, but she looked at Polly and
nodded. 'I remember it. The last verse always made me cry.'
'It makes me cry too,' Polly said, her own eyes filling with
tears as she thought of the two men who had meant so much
to them - both sailors, both lost at sea. I shouldn't go on
with this, she thought, it's too heartbreaking - yet that last
verse, sad though it was, had expressed so well the loss she
had felt, and it had helped her to think that someone else
knew and understood that loss. 'Do you remember how it
goes?' She sang the words, very softly.
"So when the night
falls tremulous, When the last lamp burns low, And one of
us, or both of us, The long, lone road must go . . . Look
with your dear old eyes in mine, Give me a handshake true.
Whatever fate our souls await, Let me be there -- let me be
there. There, with you."'They were both crying now, their tears falling like rain,
yet Polly felt that for Judy the tears were healing ones, no
less bitter, but the tears of a grief shared and understood.
She held her niece's shoulders firmly, feeling the slim body
shake against hers, and felt her own grief as fresh and sharp
as on the day when she too had received that terrible news.
And we're not the only ones, she thought. There are
thousands of us, all over the country. All over Europe. And
perhaps, before this awful war is finished, all over the world.
Lives torn apart too soon; wives and husbands robbed of
a lifetime together. Robbed even of that last goodbye.
Judy felt for a handkerchief. There was scarcely a dry one
left in the house, and the one she used now was already
sodden. But there was an air of finality as she rubbed her
eyes and turned to look at her aunt.
'It'll always make me cry, that song,' she said 'but I'm
going to try to stop now. I'm going to do all I can to help
people who're worse off than me - and there's plenty of
them. I'm going to do it for the war effort, and to beat
Hitler, same as before -- but I'm going to do it now for Sean
as well. So that he won't have died for nothing.'
Polly gave her a shaky smile. 'That's right, Judy. That's
what I'm doing. Working for Johnny and my Sylvie - so
that he won't have died for nothing, and so that she's got a
life to look forward to. A better life.'
'There'll never be anyone else for me,' Judy said sadly. 'I
don't suppose I'll ever get married and have children now.'
'I thought that, too,' Polly agreed. 'But I don't know,
Judy - no one ever knows what life will bring.' She sighed.
'It'll have to bring someone pretty special to take Johnny's
place, all the same. And I don't even know that I want it to.
Johnny's got his place in my heart - I don't think there's
room for anyone else.'
'We'll be old maids together,' Judy said with an attempt
at a smile. 'Well, you won't be an old maid, because ofSylvie. But when she's grown up and got her own family,
we'll stay together, won't we? You and me?'

Polly hugged her. 'We will. As long as we've got each
other, we'll never be really alone, Judy. Never. You will be
happy again, Judy - I promise. And we'll always share
things. All right?'

'All right,' Judy said, and then her eyes filled again and
she cried out in a voice sharp with anguish, 'But I'm going
to miss him so much, Polly! I'm going to miss him so
much . . .'

The end of January 1941 and beginning of February
brought several important visitors to Portsmouth.

Winston Churchill was the first. Accompanied by Franklin
Roosevelt's Envoy, Mr Harry Hopkins, he went on a
tour of the city's bombed areas before arriving at the Royal
Beach to meet the City Council members. Judy, lining up
with the rest of the staff to greet him, gazed in awe at his
stumpy figure and the famous cigar wedged in his mouth.
He really does look like a bulldog, she thought - absolutely
determined, as if nothing can stop him. If anyone can make
us win the war, he can.

He made a speech too, as good as any on the wireless. 'I
thought about you a good deal a few weeks ago when we
knew how heavily you were being attacked,' he told them,
'and I am very glad to find an afternoon to come to see you
here and wish you "Good Luck". Our buildings, our
dwellings, may be destroyed, but the spirit of Britain glows
warmer and brighter for the tribulations through which we
pass. We shall come through. We cannot tell when. We
cannot tell how. But we shall come through.' He paused and
seemed to look at every person present, as if calling on each
one to live up to his expectations. 'We have — none of us —
any doubt whatever. And when we have done so, we shall
have the right to say,' his voice swelled and deepened, 'that
we live in an age that, in all the long history of Britain, was

most filled with glorious achievement and most graced by
duties done.'
There was a pause as he finished speaking, and then a
spontaneous outburst of applause. All the women and many
of the men had tears in their eyes. Mr Churchill stood for a
moment, smiling broadly, then he nodded his big head and
waved his hand, giving them the famous Victory salute, and
turned to go out of the room.
'Isn't he wonderful!' Judy said, going back to her desk.
'You can't help but follow a man like that. I mean, even on
the wireless he makes you feel you could do anything, but
when you see him in person - well, he's like a tidal wave,
rushing you along.'
'And the way he puts things,' Laura agreed. 'I used to be
good at English at school, but I could never put things the
way he does. And it wasn't even a big speech, not to go on
the wireless or in Parliament, I mean. It was just to us, here
in Pompey.'
'It'll be in the newspapers though,' Judy said. 'The Evening News will print it -- there was a reporter here taking
down every word -- and some of the others will too, I expect.
Plenty of people will get to know what he said to us.'
They went back to work, heartened by the Prime
Minister's words. Judy thought about them, wondering just
why they seemed so different from the bishop's during the
mass funeral. He, too, had been trying to give them hope,
but somehow it hadn't been the same. It was as if he were
trying to brush aside and glorify the horrible deaths that so
many people had suffered, whereas Mr Churchill seemed to
suffer with them. He'd seen deaths like that himself, he
knew what they were like and didn't pretend they were
glorious or 'happy', but at the same time he seemed to draw
strength from them, and hand it on to others. What was it
he'd said in that other speech? 'I have nothing to offer you but
blood, toil, tears and sweat.' And, 'We shall fight them in the
streets and the hills and on the beaches. We shall neversurrender.' He didn't pretend, but at the same time he gave
you hope and some of his own stubborn determination. And
he made you feel that, however small a part you played
yourself, it was important. It was all a part of the great
national effort.
Just at the moment, Judy's part in that effort was trying
to set up a system for salvage collections - there had been
appeals for binoculars for the Navy, for saucepans and other
aluminium goods for making aeroplanes, for clothes, for rags
and bones. Nothing, it seemed, was to be thrown away;
everything could be put to some use.
'There are going to be special bins for food scraps,' she
said. 'They'll be collected for pig swill - pigs will eat
anything. There'll be one on the corner of every street to
start with.'
'One pig?' Laura was sorting through a pile of temporary
ration books to be issued to people who had lost theirs in the
bombing.
'One bin, twerp!' Judy threw a screwed-up scrap of paper
at her and Laura caught it and threw it back.
'I hope you weren't going to waste that - it'll do for one
of your collections.' They made faces at each other, grinned
and went back to their tasks, feeling more light-hearted.

The next special visitors were the King and Queen
themselves. Judy, in a flurry of nerves, made Polly help her
drag in the small tin bath the night before, muttering to each
other that it would be a good thing when the potatoes could
be harvested and the big bath returned to its proper use.
They poured in hot water from kettles and added some bath
salts Polly had been given for Christmas. Judy got in first,
luxuriating in the pleasure of having a bath on a Wednesday
instead of the usual Friday or Saturday. Then she got out
again and Polly got in, followed by Alice, Cissie and finally
Dick. 'We might as well all have a treat,' Alice said. 'No
sense wasting the hot water.'
With their hair newly washed and set with Amami lotion,Judy and Polly joined the rest of the staff and volunteers at
the hotel early next morning to receive the Royal visitors.
The King, looking serious but ready with a shy, friendly
smile, was wearing Naval uniform - he'd actually served
during the Great War, Polly whispered to Judy, and been in
the Battle of Jutland. The Queen was in a dark costume,
with a hat that was swept up away from her face, four rows
of pearls around her neck and a fur stole draped over her
arms.
All the bigwigs were there too -- the Lord Mayor and
Lady Mayoress, of course, Admiral Sir William James the
Commander-in-Chief of Portsmouth, Brigadier Harter,
Major-General Hunton, Colonel Walker and the Town
Clerk. The men bowed deeply and the Mayoress dropped a
graceful curtsey. As they passed the staff, the latter all
bowed or curtseyed as well, most of them terrified that they
would fall over or get their hair caught in someone's
buttons. As the door of the Mayor's office closed behind the
visitors, the staff heaved a general sigh of relief.
'She looks just like a film star!' Judy exclaimed. 'Did you
see those pearls? And that fur -- it must have been real
mink!'
'I can't see why she needs to dress up like that,' remarked
Eileen Hall, who didn't really like royalty. 'Especially when
she's going to see people who've been bombed out and got
nothing. It's just flaunting herself and all her money.'
'No, it's not.' Polly was an avid follower of the Royal
Family. 'They can't help being rich, and if they've got nice
clothes they might as well wear them. Anyway, she says that
if people go to see her they dress up in their best, so why
shouldn't she do the same?'
'Oh, know her personally, do you?' Eileen sneered, and
Polly flushed angrily.
'No, I read it in the paper, and so could you have done if
you didn't have your head buried in penny romances all the
time. Anyway, I've got work to do and we'd better not startyelling at each other or they'll hear us in there and a fine
impression of Pompey that'll give them!'
They went back to their desks, the excitement of the
morning slightly dimmed by the squabble. Polly felt angry
with herself for letting Eileen get under her skin. I ought to
learn to ignore her, she thought as she tried to sort out lists
for the salvage collections, a job she had taken over from
Judy who was now busy helping the Mayoress with the
Clothing Depot. All the WVS staff and volunteers were
extra busy that morning, as they were all going to St Mary's
Hospital in the afternoon to meet the Queen again as part of
her tour.
'It was lovely,' Judy told her mother that evening as they
sat round the supper-table eating bubble and squeak. 'There
must have been a couple of hundred of us there, all WVS,
and there were some Red Cross nurses too. The Queen's
ever so pretty - smaller than you'd think from her pictures,
with gorgeous blue eyes - and she was so interested. D'you
know what I heard her say? "Sunshine will come again," she
said. Don't you think that's lovely? She couldn't talk to
everyone, of course, but she managed to have a few words
with quite a lot. And they did so much during the day. They
went and looked at some of the bombed areas down
Commercial Road, and the Guildhall, and some of the
ordinary streets as well, and she saw our Clothing Depot,
and the billeting people, and the welfare offices, and then
they went and had lunch on the Victory.'
'Oh, that must have been lovely,' Alice broke in. 'And
nice for the King, too, him having been in the Navy.'
'Well, I don't think he was ever on a ship like the Victory,' Polly said with a grin. 'And after that, he went to
see the Gunnery School and she came on to the hospital and
some of the First-Aid Posts. They were on the go all day.'
She was silent for a moment, then she said, 'I think she's
right about dressing up, you know. It wouldn't have been so
special if they'd come in old clothes - even if they've gotany! And it does make you feel better, knowing someone like
that's taken the trouble to look nice for you. It makes you
feel as though you matter to them.'
'Yes,' Judy agreed. She was still grieving for Sean, still
thought about him all the time, still felt cheated of all they
might have known and had together. But Polly was right,
she thought. 'It does make you feel better.'
'That bit about sunshine coming again,' Alice said after a
moment. She looked at the two faces, showing the same
sorrow, and her own face softened in sympathy. 'It's true,
you know. You can't go on without letting in a bit of
sunshine now and again. You've got to start living again.
You've got to.'

Chapter Eight

The raids continued, although all through January and
February the concentration was on other cities. Bristol, Plymouth and Swansea all came under heavy attack, and all
along the south coast the sirens went night after night,
sending people to the shelters to sit listening to the snarl of
German bombers overhead, and wonder where they were
making for.
The firewatcher's post on the hotel roof had been taken
over by the Royal Observers' Corps. Judy had noticed the
young men in their RAF uniforms coming in and out
several times before she found herself in the lift with one, on
her way to the fifth floor with a message. He was tall, with
fair hair and blue eyes and a nice smile, and she smiled back
and asked, 'What is it you're doing up there? Looking out
for enemy aircraft?'
'That's right,' he said. He touched the badge on, his arm.
It showed a Spitfire in flight. 'The RAF advertised for chaps
like me who are keen on spotting aircraft, so I applied and
here I am.' He grinned. 'It's like a dream come true, sitting
up there in the best place in Southsea, looking for
aeroplanes. I used to do it for a pastime and now I'm
helping the war effort as well!'
Judy looked at him, so clean and smart in his uniform,
obviously enjoying himself on the roof of a nice building,
with nothing uncomfortable or difficult to do, and thought
of the pilots who risked their lives every day in the air, and
the sailors like Sean and Johnny, who died horrible deaths at
sea. 'Nice work if you can get it,' she said tartly.

'Well, someone's got to do it!' he said jocularly, and then
caught the note in her voice. 'Look, I know it must seem a
cushy number - and maybe it is, compared with what some
poor blighters have to do - but it's essential work just the
same. We're the ones who spot the aircraft first and identify
them so that others can shoot them down and stop them
bombing Pompey. I know a lot still get through, but that
doesn't mean we've just got to sit back and let them all come
in. It'd be even worse if we did that.'
'Yes, but why does it have to be people like you? Why not
people who can't go on active service? People who've been
injured or can't serve for one reason or another?'
'Like poor eyesight?' he asked quizzically. 'Well, don't
ask me. I suppose because we're the ones who volunteered.
Blokes like me who've always been keen on aeroplane
spotting. We're the ones who're good at it. And it does take
a bit of skill, you know, to be able to spot an aircraft coming
in at twenty thousand feet and be able to recognise what it
is. It's not all that safe sometimes either,' he added as if as
an afterthought, 'sitting up on top of an eight-storey
building right on the beach. We're an easy target.'
'I suppose so,' Judy said a little grudgingly. The lift had
arrived at the fifth floor and she got out. The young
Observer went on to the top; here he would climb the steel
ladder to the roof, originally installed as a fire escape. On
her way to one of the offices with her message, Judy passed
a room that the Observer Corps was using as a classroom
and glanced in through the open door. A row of young men
and two or three girls were sitting at desks while an
instructor fixed large sheets of paper covered with the
silhouettes of aircraft on a board.
I suppose it is skilled work, she thought, and I suppose
it's a bit dangerous being up there like sitting ducks - but all
the same, it doesn't compare with what other people are
doing. It doesn't compare in the least with what Sean and
Johnny and all those others in action are doing.Even without the raids, the war news was bad. Malta, its
position in the Mediterranean making it a vital possession,
was bombarded day and night while the islanders, with only
three Spitfires to protect them, dug themselves into caves
and catacombs and sat out the raids which all but destroyed
their island and capital city.
Meanwhile, the war had spread. Italy had taken over the
vital supply ports of Tobruk, Somaliland and Libya, as well
as Greece and Albania. Most people in Britain had never
even heard of these places and had to search out old school
atlases to find where they were, and daily newspapers
published large maps of the world which could be pinned on
walls. Even then, it was difficult to make sense of what was
happening.
'I don't see why it's spread so much,' Cissie said, staring
at the coloured pins Dick had put in to mark the progress of
the different armies - red for Britain, black for Germany,
blue for Italy. 'It was just Poland and Austria, and places
like that, to begin with. Why does Africa have to get mixed
up in it?'
'It's because of Italy coming in on Hitler's side,' Dick
explained. 'They've got all these places in Africa, you see,
and so have we, so we've got to defend ours against them.'
He paused doubtfully, his chest wheezing a little. It still
didn't seem to make much sense. 'Frank Budd was saying
the other day that they're getting worried about the Japanese
now. They think they might come in.'
'The Japanese!' Cissie stared at him. 'Why? Whatever's it
got to do with them?'
'Well, nothing, but apparently they don't like America
being in the South Pacific. They've got places in Hawaii- naval
bases - so they're quite close to Japan really.' He
looked at the map again. 'You can see it better on a globe.
They look far apart on a map, but if you imagine it sort of
bent round the back, then you can see how close they are.''But America's not even in the war,' Cissie said. 'What's
the point of Japan butting in?'
'They think the Americans want their oil. And they'd like
to take over China as well, and maybe even go up into
Russia, and this would be a good chance, while we're all
busy defending everywhere else.' Dick began to cough. His
chest was getting worse again and he'd had two mild asthma
attacks in the past week or so. 'I don't understand it any
more than you do, Cis, but that's what I've heard.'
Cissie shook her head. 'I can't make it out at all. Seems to
me they've all gone mad. The whole world's going to be
fighting each other at this rate, and what's the good of that?
What's going to be left when they finish? What's the point
of it all?'
Judy, who had been sitting quietly mending her stockings,
looked up and said, 'Freedom, Mum. That's what it's
all about. We couldn't let Hitler march all over Europe and
take away everyone's freedom like he did to the Jews and all
those other poor people. We had to stop him.'
'Yes, but all these others - Africa and Japan and Russia he
wasn't marching into their countries. It's like boys
fighting in the street. One or two start scrapping and then
the rest all pile in just for the sake of it, and in the end no
one knows what it was all about. It was the same in the
Fourteen-Eighteen War - someone shot that man in
Yugoslavia and before we knew where we were, all our men
were being marched off to fight. Millions were killed, and
thousands like your dad, messed up for the rest of their
lives. It's like a disease.' She stopped and stared at them all.
'Like a horrible, mad disease.'
Mike Simmons turned up on Jess Budd's doorstep one day
and, after some discussion, agreed that the two little girls
should go out to Bridge End and be billeted at the vicarage.
'I wanted them to be evacuated right at the beginning,' he
said sadly, 'but Kathy wouldn't hear of them going withouther, and she wouldn't go herself because she wanted to stay
in Pompey for when I got home. We went over it again and
again, but all she would say was that the Queen wouldn't let
her girls go to Canada without her, and she wouldn't go
because she wanted to be with the King, and it was the same
for her. I stopped trying to talk her round in the end. I
didn't want to spend all my time arguing.' He shook his
head. 'Perhaps I ought to have put my foot down - said
she'd got to go. But how could I make her, Mrs Budd?' He
lifted his head and looked at Jess. 'How could I?'
'Well, it's the same with me,' Jess said a little uncomfortably.
'I feel the same about leaving my Frank, and so of
course the baby has to be here, too. And Rose went to start
with, but she wanted to come home . . . But I do think your
little ones'd be better off out there now, Mr Simmons.'
Polly was given the task of taking Stella and Muriel out to
Bridge End on the train. So far, she'd not had any specific
job to do in the WVS but had just helped wherever she was
needed, but since the Blitz, more and more children who
had returned to Portsmouth for Christmas and stayed there
- or perhaps not been evacuated at all - were going back,
and they all needed escorts. Polly had accompanied several
already, and enjoyed the task, though the children varied
greatly.
'You should have seen the boys I took last week,' she told
Laura when she was in the office collecting the documents
that would have to go with the two girls. 'I thought I knew
Pompey pretty well, but I've never seen anything like the
home they came from. It was no better than a hovel. And
their clothes! Well, I've seen better on a scarecrow -- toes
poking out of their boots, hardly any backside to their
trousers -- I felt ashamed, I did really, to be taking them to
strangers in that state.'
'Weren't there any clothes in the Store they could have
had?' Laura asked, shuffling the papers together.
'Yes, there were as it happens, and I got them fitted outwith nice flannel shorts and a jacket and shirt each, and a
pair of Wellington boots -- there weren't any other shoes
that would fit them. But that was only one outfit. I just hope
they can put something together in the country.' Polly
shook her head. 'But it's not just that, Laura. It's the boys
themselves. They were sick on the train, all three of them I
don't know why it is that boys are always sick, the girls
don't seem to suffer like it - and they'd obviously never seen
a hanky before in their lives, their noses never stopped
running. And their language! I tell you, I didn't know half
the swear words they came out with!'
'How did you know they were swear words then?' Laura
asked with a grin and Judy, who was putting some papers
away in a" filing cabinet in the corner, chuckled.
Polly smiled too, pleased to hear her niece laugh. 'It was
the way they said them. And the way they looked at me, too,
as if they wanted to see what I'd say -- I knew they were
swearing all right. I don't suppose they knew what they
really meant, though, any more than I did. And I'm not
going to repeat them now,' she added firmly as Laura's
mouth opened. 'Goodness knows what I might be saying!'
She collected the railway tickets and other papers and
went out. She was to deliver the children next day, and went
down to Jess Budd's early in the morning to find the two
girls waiting for her, neatly dressed in clothes that Jess had
found for them amongst her own daughter's old things, with
their faces shining and hair brushed.
'Well, you do look smart,' Polly said, gazing at them. 'I
should think anyone would be pleased to have two nice little
girls like you billeted with them.' The little one, Muriel, was
nearly eight, just the same age as her Sylvie, and Stella was
ten and old enough to be sensible. They looked back at her
and then turned to Mrs Budd.
'Do we have to go, Auntie?' Muriel asked, her bottom lip
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
navy-blue woollen gloves over the rail on the front of the
stove before holding one of his hands out to Polly and
smiling at the girls. 'I was expecting Mrs Tupper.'
'She couldn't come. She's got 'flu. My name's Polly
Dunn, I brought the girls from Portsmouth.'
'How kind of you. How very kind.' The vicar beamed at
her, then turned to the girls and dropped to one knee so as
to be able to look into their faces. He was like a spider, Polly
thought, or one of those stick insects they'd once had in the
classroom at school - all long, thin arms and legs that looked
as if they ought to have at least two elbows or knees each.
But his smile was as wide, as joyous and as unforced as a
baby's, as if - like Mrs Mudge - he was really pleased and
happy to see them.'How very good to see you both,' he said, taking one of
the girls' hands in each of his. 'How very, very good to have
you here with us. I hope you'll be very happy here.'
They stared back at him without expression. Then Stella
said bluntly, 'Our mummy's dead. She was killed by a
bomb. And our baby, too.'
There was a brief, appalled silence. Polly put a hand to
her burning face. It was a clear reproach, as if to say 'How do
you expect us to be happy, here or anywhere else?' But Mr
Beckett didn't seem at all put out by it. He nodded gravely,
his smile put away for the moment, and drew them a little
closer. '
'I know, my dears, and I'm very, very sorry. You must
miss her so much. I lost my own mother when I was just the
same age as you.'
They looked at him uncertainly. 'Did you?' Stella asked
at last.
'Yes, I did. She was riding a horse and it jumped a fence
that was too high. She fell off and her back was broken. She
never woke up again.' There was a moment of quiet, then he
said, 'I was very unhappy about it for a long time. I'm still unhappy about it. But do you know what happened? After a
while, I found I could still be happy about other things. And
that will happen to you too, as time goes on. So I hope
you'll be very happy here with us -- even though I know
you'll never stop being unhappy about your mother, and
you'll always miss her.'
There was another moment of quiet. Polly was aware of
Tim and Keith standing in the doorway, their eyes fixed on
the vicar's thin, stooping back. She was struck by the
expression in their eyes. It's the sort of look boys only give
to someone they really think a lot of, she thought - an older
boy or a teacher, or a father -- and a sense of warmth stole
across her heart.
Muriel took a deep breath. She nodded matter-of-factlyat the vicar, then let go of his hand and looked up at Mrs
Mudge.
'I'm hungry,' she said in her small, clear voice. 'Can we
have our dinner now?'
The rabbit stew was, Polly thought, the best meal she had
eaten for months. It was followed by a rice pudding and
then Mrs Mudge made a large pot of tea and set it on the
middle of the table.
'You children can go and play now,' she said. 'Put your
Wellingtons on, and your coats and scarves. Have both you
girls got gloves?'
'Mittens,' Stella said, holding them up. 'Auntie Jess
knitted them. She was teaching me,' she added proudly.
'Well, that's good. I'll go on teaching you, then. We can
do with some more knitters around here to make things for
soldiers and sailors.' Mrs Mudge buttoned Muriel into her
coat. 'Tim and Keith will take you out and show you their
snowman, won't you, boys? And you can go for a walk
round the village. The boys know most of the people here
now, so you don't need to worry about anything. You look
after them, now, boys.'
Tim, who had been talking about a snowball fight that
had been arranged between the evacuees and the village
children, looked somewhat disgruntled by this instruction,
but the vicar gave him a firm look and he went without
argument. In any case, Stella, who had recovered her normal
assertiveness, was already taking charge. 'We'll look at the
snowman first,' she was saying as they went out through the
back door, 'and then you can take us to look at that pond.
There were some boys sliding near it. . .'
The door closed behind them and Mr Beckett smiled. 'I
foresee a few battles there. Tim won't like being bossed
about by a girl, and that's the boys' slide.'
Polly grinned back. 'Not now Stella's here. I haven't
known her long, but I can tell you this - anything a boy cando, Stella can do better! I don't think you'll have any
problems getting her to settle, Mr Beckett. I'm not so sure
about Muriel, though. Stella mothers her a lot, but she's a
sensitive little girl and she's been through so much in this
past year. She may need some extra care.'
'Well, she's come to the right place for that,' Mr Beckett
said, warming his long, thin hands round his cup of tea.
'Mrs Mudge and I have had quite a lot of experience in
looking after children now, haven't we, Mrs Mudge? I think
both those little girls will settle in very well. They can be
safe and happy, and forget about war now. They can be
children again, as God intended them to be.'
Polly glanced at the housekeeper and was surprised to
catch the expression on her face. She was looking at the
vicar in just the same way as Tim and Keith had looked at
him when he was talking to the little girls. As if she thought
the world of him. And there was an added tenderness in her
face that reminded Polly of Jess Budd, when she looked at
the photograph of her two sons.
Tenderness, and indulgence for boys and their ways. But
Mr Beckett wasn't a boy. He was an elderly man.
Polly finished her tea and thanked them both before
gathering together her coat and gloves and getting ready to
walk back to the station for the return journey to Portsmouth.
As they went outside, she saw the four children
careering madly round the big garden, hurling snowballs at
each other. One caught Mr Beckett on the shoulder and as
Polly gasped in dismay he chuckled and bent to gather up a
handful of snow.
'I'll show you!' he yelled, flinging a huge snowball that
caught Tim full in the chest. 'I'll show the lot of you!'
Polly and Mrs Mudge looked at each other, and the
housekeeper raised her eyes to heaven and spread out her
hands.
'Boys!' she said. 'They never grow up . . .'Chapter Nine

When Polly reached the station the aged porter told her that
there wouldn't be a Portsmouth train for another two hours.
'That's if it comes at all,' he added, with some
satisfaction. 'Never know where you are with the times these
days.'
'Two hours!' Polly looked at the station clock and
wondered what to do. She didn't like to go back to the
vicarage, even though she was sure Mrs Mudge would be
kindness itself, and it was too cold to stand on the icy
platform all that time. I suppose I'll just have to go for a
walk, she thought. But it'll be getting dark in an hour or
so . . .
As she stood there, gazing at the unhelpful face of the
porter, she heard the whistle of an approaching train and
turned quickly. To her disappointment, it was heading away
from Portsmouth, towards Salisbury. A sudden idea struck
her.
'Does that train stop at Ashwood? The little halt just
before Romsey?'
'It do,' he admitted unwillingly.
'Then I'll get on that and catch the Portsmouth train back
from there,' she said. 'I can go and see my daughter.'
'You'll need a ticket.'
'Well, you can sell me one, can't you? A return ticket?
Then I can come back here and use my Portsmouth return
for the rest of the journey. Hurry up,' she urged him as the
train drew up at the platform. The guard got out and she
waved to him. 'Don't go yet, please! I'm just buying a
ticket!' The porter, evidently unable to think of any reason
why not, was shuffling reluctantly towards his little office
and she ran after him. 'Oh, please hurry!'

Begrudgingly, he made out the ticket and Polly handed
him the money and ran out on to the platform again. The
guard was holding a door open and she leaped aboard and
threw herself down into a seat. For once, the train wasn't
crowded and there was only one other person in the
compartment - a man with wavy, iron-grey hair brushed
back from a broad forehead, wearing a shabby greatcoat and
khaki woollen gloves. He grinned at her as she flung herself
down, and said, 'You only just made it, love.'

Polly looked at him. His voice was deep and warm, with a
London accent, and he had a good-natured face, with three
corrugated lines on his forehead that somehow added to the
twinkle in his dark brown eyes. She smiled back.

'I didn't think the man was going to let me have a ticket.
He doesn't seem to like passengers.'

'I 'spect he thinks they make the station look untidy,' the
man said. 'You can't see what it's like now, with all the snow
and ice, but in spring and summer it's a real picture. He
wins prizes for the Best Station Garden — I reckon he thinks
trains and passengers are a bit of a nuisance. They get in the
way of his garden!'

Polly laughed. 'Well, you'd think he'd have been glad to
get rid of me, then. I just think he wanted to be awkward.'

There was a slight pause and then the man said, 'You
don't live at Bridge End, then?'

Polly shook her head. 'No, I'm from Portsmouth. I've
just been taking two little girls to an evacuation billet.'

He looked concerned. 'But this train ain't going to
Portsmouth - it's just come from there. You're going the
wrong way, love.'

'No, I'm going on to Ashwood to see my own little girl.
There isn't a train back to Portsmouth for two hours, so I
thought I'd take the chance. It's only a short journey - I'll

just have time to see her before I have to go back. I haven't
seen her since Christmas,' she added wistfully, 'and a lot's
happened since then.'
'You're telling me.' The corrugated lines on his forehead
deepened a little. 'Had a big raid in Pompey last month,
didn't you? Were you there through that?'
Polly nodded. 'We were bombed out.' She stopped
suddenly, wondering if she had said too much, then decided
that even if spies or Fifth Columnists were listening there
wasn't much worth reporting back to Hitler about the fact
that the Taylors and Polly Dunn had been bombed out, or
that little Stella and Muriel Simmons had been sent to
Bridge End. All the same, you never knew who you might
be talking to and she resolved to watch her words.
Portsmouth was an important city and almost any snippet of
information might be of use to the enemy.
'Bombed out?' he echoed. 'Here, that's rough. Were you
inside the house, or did you manage to get to a shelter?'
'Oh yes, we always went down there. We lost everything,
but at least we were all right. We're lucky too, because we
could go and stay with my mother. And Sylvie - my little
girl - was already out in the country so she wasn't there.'
He shook his head. 'Bloody awful, all the same, if you'll
pardon my French.' He glanced at her uniform. ''I see you're
in the WVS.'
'Yes, I am,' Polly said, pleased that he had recognised it.
'You know about the WVS, then?'
The man laughed. 'I ought to! My sister works at the
Headquarters in London - 41 Tothill Street. She never
stops telling me about all the good work they do - if I wasn't
a man she'd have recruited me long ago. Mind you, she's
right - they do wonderful work. All the things nobody else
will do.'
'Well, we're not dogsbodies,' Polly said, 'but I suppose
it's true that there just doesn't seem to be anyone else to do
a lot of the jobs we take on. But that's because in wartime
there are a lot of new jobs to do, like taking children out to
the country -- it just doesn't happen in peacetime.'
''S right. And we're lucky there are women like you ready
to do them.' He grinned at her. 'Tell you what, I reckon this
war'll be won by you women. Not by fighting, I don't mean
that, but 'cause you're always there on the spot, ready to do
whatever's needed to keep the country running. Look at all
the young girls who're joining up now, so that the men can
go and fight - and all the others like the WVS and that,
doing all sorts of work, driving buses and ambulances,
farming, you name it - and still managing to keep homes
going for their menfolk and kiddies.' He nodded. 'Without
them, I reckon the war would've been lost from the very
start.'
Polly gazed at him. 'You really mean that?'
'I do. I really do.' Their eyes met and Polly felt a thrill of
warmth touch her heart. The man looked out of the
window. 'Here, look, we're just coming into Ashwood now.
Well, it's been a real pleasure to meet you, love.' He smiled
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?'
'My Fred - has anyone seen my Fred?'
Others were scrabbling desperately at piles of rubble.
'Our Brenda's down there somewhere; she was under the
stairs and it's all fell in on top of her. Oh my God, my God, she'll be killed. We've got to get her out! Help me, for God's
sake, help me. Our Brenda's in there, our Brenda!'
The Scout pushed Judy past them and through a
doorway. The building had been a small church with a
meeting-room at the back. The windows had been shattered
but the glass had been safely caught by the criss-crossing of
brown paper and the thick blackout curtains, and it was
otherwise intact. Judy cast a nervous glance at the remaining
walls, wondering what damage had been done to them
unseen, and if another blast was all that was needed to bring
them tumbling down. But there was nowhere else fit to use,
and already a short, chubby man in an overcoat and dog
collar was setting up trestle tables and brushing dust off
them with his sleeve.
'I'm WVS,' Judy said, joining him. 'Judy Taylor. I've
come to set up an Incident Enquiry Centre.'
'Oh, bless you, it's so good to see you.' He grasped her
hand briefly in his. 'Look, we've started to take information
- the wardens are bringing in news all the time. They tell us
which Emergency Centre people have gone to, or which
hospital. Then, as people come in to enquire about their
family and friends, we know where to direct them.' He
shook his head. 'All too often, it's the mortuary, I'm afraid.
Let's see if we can get an urn of tea on the go; there's
nothing like a cup of hot sweet tea for shock. Where have
you come from, my dear?'
'Copnor.' Judy felt a pang of anxiety, wondering how her

parents and grandmother were faring amongst all the
bombing. The noise now was almost unbearable, each
explosion sending shock waves through the ground and up
through your whole body. Even bombs falling a mile or
more away could be felt - and Portsmouth was a small area,
the island of Portsea on which it was situated only five miles
long and half as wide. Every now and then there was a
duller thud which meant a bomb had landed in one of the
two harbours, sending mud and sea water flying into the air.
Portsdown Hill, to the north, was alight with incendiary
bombs.
However, there was no time for thinking about the
family, or bombs, or anything but the people who were
straggling into the meeting-room, their faces lost and
confused. Another woman had arrived, who seemed to know
the clergyman and to be familiar with the battered tea urn,
so Judy left her to it and sat down at one of the tables,
drawing a sheet of paper towards her.
'You'll need to go to the Emergency Centre - there's one
about half a mile away. If you're not hurt, you'd best get
into a shelter until the raid's over, and then go. Give me
your name first, in case anyone comes looking for you ...
There's a First-Aid Post at the infants' school round the
corner - take him there and they'll bandage him up and see
if he needs to go to hospital. Give me your name and
address first.'
An air-raid warden pushed past the queue and bent to
speak in her ear. He gave her a scrap of paper, covered with
dirty fingerprints, and Judy read it quickly. She looked at
him in consternation.
'You think his parents will come in here?'
'More'n likely, ducks. They'll be looking for him, see?
Stands to reason, dunnit. You'll have to tell 'em.'
Judy bit her lip and looked down again at the scrap of
paper. It bore the details of a child found dead in the street
- a boy of no more than three years old, horribly injured,

who must have run from a bombed house and then been
caught by a second explosion. There was a brief description
- chubby, with fair, curly hair, wearing blue pyjamas and
still clutching a teddy-bear. The body had been taken to the
local morgue.
Tears came to Judy's eyes but the warden had already
gone, called by a shout from the doorway. The next minute,
someone was standing before her holding out a length of
thick string. The other end was attached to a wire-haired
terrier of some indeterminate breed, leaping and barking
hysterically.
'Found 'im wandering about outside, miss. The ARP
man said to bring 'im in 'ere.'
Judy glanced helplessly at the clergyman, who nodded
briskly. 'Put him in the church, my dear. We've already got
quite a menagerie in there.' He turned away to attend to
someone else and Judy took the makeshift lead and dragged
the frantic dog through the door leading into the main
church where, as the minister had said, there were already
several animals including two black cats who leaped up on to
the altar and began spit and hiss furiously.
'I hope to goodness you don't all get free and start
fighting,' Judy muttered, tying the dog to the leg of a pew.
The church was very plain, with little ornamentation, and
she hadn't even known it was here until this evening. She
found two large cardboard boxes and having - with some
difficulty - caught the two terrified cats, she crammed them
in and then hurried back to the meeting-room where a
queue of people was building up, some wanting to know
where they should go, some desperate to find family or
friends they had lost.
Judy recorded all the new arrivals and checked her list to
see if the missing had already been sent on.
'Yes, he had a head injury, they took him to the Royal.
No, it didn't look too bad, really ... A black cat? Yes, we've
had two brought in. They're in boxes in the church through

that door, but please be careful not to let any of the other
animals out . . . The whole family were sent to the
Emergency Centre - yes, they're all quite safe, not hurt at
all ... A little boy?' She looked up, her heart sinking, and
saw the fear in the face of the woman standing before her.
'He's called Bobbie,' the woman said. Her voice was
rough, her eyes huge and dark, her cheeks drawn with fear.
'We were in the shelter - next door was hit. I looked out to
see what was going on, and he just slipped past me. He
hated being in the shelter. I couldn't find him nowhere, and
then another bomb . . .' She stopped, the tears running
down her face, and stared at Judy piteously. 'Has he been
brought in here, miss? Have you seen him?'
Judy swallowed, not knowing how to find the words to tell her. 'Was - was he wearing blue pyjamas?' she asked,
praying that the woman would say no. But she nodded her
head and with a sick sense of doom, Judy went on. 'And and
did - does he have fair, curly hair? And - and a teddy
bear?'
'Yes! Yes, he never goes anywhere without it, screams the
place down if we take it away! Oh, where is he, where's my
Bobbie?' the woman cried eagerly, and then her voice faded
to a whisper and she stared at Judy with terror in her eyes. Where is he?'
'I'm dreadfully sorry,' Judy said wretchedly. 'It might not
be your little boy -- I didn't see him myself - but the warden
told me there was a little boy like that found a few streets
away . . .'
'Where is he? Tell me!' The woman leaned forward. 'For
God's sake! Tell me where my Bobbie is!'
'It might not be him,' Judy repeated. 'But the - the little
boy the warden told me about - they had to take him to the
- the mortuary.' She bit her lips, angry with herself for
breaking the news so badly, for not being able to find the
right words. 'I - I'm so sorry. He couldn't have known
anything about it.'

'The mortuary? You mean he's dead?'
Judy nodded miserably, tears filling her eyes. The woman
stared at her. Then she banged her fist on the table. 'My
Bobbie? Dead!' She stared wildly at Judy. 'But he was only three. It was his birthday last week - I made him a cake. He can't be dead. He can't, he can't, he can't. I won't let him be
dead!' Her voice rose to a shriek and she turned and began
to scream at the queue. 'I won't let him be dead! I won't, I won't!'
Tm very sorry,' Judy said, crying almost as much as the
woman herself. 'It's terrible. I'm very, very sorry.'
The clergyman came round the table and laid a hand
gently on the woman's shoulder. 'Come along, my dear.
Come and sit over here for a few minutes. I'll bring you a
cup of tea. Then I'll go with you to see if it is your little boy.
Come along . . .'
She stared at him, and for a moment Judy was afraid she
was going to hit him. Then her face crumpled, and she
covered it with her hands and began to weep. She allowed
him to lead her into a corner, where she sank on to a chair,
sobbing as if her heart were broken. Which, Judy thought, it
probably was.
She watched them ruefully. Well, a fine job I made of that, I don't think! she told herself. She groped for a hanky
and rubbed her face fiercely, then looked up to see who was
next in the queue.

The raid became known as Portsmouth's Second Blitz.
Thousands of incendiaries and nearly three hundred high
explosive bombs were dropped on the city. Fourteen
hundred people were made homeless, just under a hundred
killed and over two hundred injured. Had it not been for the
shelters, there would have been many, many more.
Polly and Judy met as they both made their way wearily
along September Street. They stopped for a moment, tears
of thankfulness filling their eyes as they hugged. 'I've been

so worried,' Polly said, and Judy gave a shaky laugh. 'I was
just going to say the same thing!' Their eyes met, and each
knew what the other was thinking. What had been
happening in April Grove?
Stumbling with fatigue, they continued along the street.
The shops were already beginning to open. Mrs Marsh was
polishing the dairy windows, and Alice Brunner was
opening the door of the newsagent's to take in a pile of
newspapers. She looked tired and unhappy, and Judy
remembered that her husband Heinrich had been interned
as an alien. They said good morning to her and she nodded,
a wavery smile briefly lighting her pale face.
'It doesn't look as if there's been any damage round here,'
Polly said as they turned down October Street. Near the
bottom, the ruin of Kathy Simmons's house made an ugly
gap between the houses, but apart from a few slates in the
road and a broken window or two, there seemed to be
nothing worse. With a sigh of relief, they turned the corner
at the bottom and saw that number nine was still intact.
'Oh, thank goodness,' Judy said, and nearly ran the last
few steps, eager to be indoors with her family again. With
Polly close behind her, she unlocked the door and went
inside.
Cissie was hurrying along the passage to meet them, her
face drawn.
'Don't look like that, Mum,' Judy said. 'We're back safe
and sound.'
'It's not that,' Cissie said, her voice shaking. 'It's your
dad. He's having an asthma attack - a bad one. I think he
needs to go to the hospital.'

Chapter Ten

Polly took one look at Dick, who was sitting hunched over
the dining table, gasping desperately for breath, then turned
round and went straight down to Peggy Shaw's house,
where she and Gladys were just crawling into bed. Gladys
put on her clothes and came out again, dashing off through
the streets to fetch the converted baker's van. Alice had been
out in the scullery making tea, and they all had a quick cup
while they waited. By the time Gladys came back, Judy and
her mother were bending over Dick, trying to get him to
breathe out by pressing on the sides of his chest.
'Can't - breathe,' he wheezed, his eyes filled with panic.
'Got to - get me - breath. Ahh - ahh - ahh . . .'
'You've got to breathe out, lovey,' Cissie urged him,
pressing harder as he tried ineffectually to shake her off.
'You know that's what the doctor said. You can't get any
more breath in, you've got to let it out first. Now calm
down, Dick, and try - please, just for me.'
'Can't - breathe,' he wheezed again. 'Can't.' He stared at her
with pleading, terrified eyes and beat feebly on the table
with his hands. 'Cis!'
'It's all right, Dick.' She spoke calmly, trying to still her
own panic. Dick had had enough attacks over the years for
the family to become accustomed to them, but they were
always frightening. You could see that Dick was afraid he
was never going to be able to breathe again, and when he
was as bad as this Cissie feared that he might be right. She
pressed his chest again, signalling to Judy to do the same
and suddenly Dick began to cough, his thin body torn with

the violence of his retching. A gobbet of dark yellow phlegm
spat out of his mouth and landed on the tablecloth, and they
stared at it in horror. It was tinged with black dust, like soot,
and there were streaks of blood in it as well.
'Dad!'Judy gasped, and looked wildly round for Polly. 'Is
Gladys coming? He's got to go to hospital!'
'She's here.' Polly came in swiftly, followed by Gladys
Shaw. ''Come on, Dick -- let's get you out to the ambulance.'
She helped Judy and Cissie lift him to his feet.
Dick, still wrenched with coughing, was trying frantically
to breathe. He leaned on the table, his face almost blue.
'Hot,' he gasped. 'Too hot.' He tried to throw off the
blankets, but Cissie firmly wrapped them round him again.
'You've got a temperature,' she said anxiously. 'If you
take all those off you'll catch a chill. Come on, now, let's get
you outside.'
'Keep him wrapped up,' Polly said, 'it's bitter out here.'
They half carried him along the passage to the front door
and lifted him into the van. 'That's it, Dick. You'll be all right now. Shall I come with you, Cis?'
'No, you stop here, you need your rest.' But it was clear
that Cissie needed company. Polly and Judy glanced at each
other, and Judy said quickly, 'I'll go, you've been up all
night and you were travelling all day yesterday. Look, I'll
get to work as soon as I can, but you can explain if I'm late.
I can't leave Mum by herself.'
'No, she's got to have one of us.' Polly chewed her lips.
Gladys had started the engine and was in the driver's seat
now, impatient to be off, and Polly leaned in through the
window. 'I just hope to God they'll take him in at the
hospital. They must be crowded out with casualties as it is.
Knock on the door when you get back, Gladys, would you?
And thanks for turning out again.'
Gladys nodded and Judy jumped up beside her. Cissie
was already in the back, kneeling beside the makeshift bed.The van jolted off down the road and Polly and her mother
went back indoors.
'I dunno,' Alice said, sitting down and picking up the cup
of tea she'd poured before Gladys had arrived. 'It's just one
thing after another. I've never seen Dick as bad as that,
never. This tea's gone cold.'
'I'll make you some more,' Polly said. 'It's all these nights
down the shelter. It's so cold and damp, it's bound to set
him off. And then the worry of it all. He's never got over
what happened to him in the Great War, you know. It
brings it all back, hearing the planes go over and bombs
falling. It was a bad raid tonight, too -- as bad as that big one
in January, I wouldn't wonder.'
Alice nodded. 'Don't trouble about the tea, Poll. I can't
be bothered. I just want to go to bed, though whether I'll be
able to sleep is another matter.'
She went into the front room. They'd got a bed-settee in
there now, bought with the money Cissie and Dick had been
given for being bombed out. It was more comfortable than
the old sofa and could be folded away during the day. Polly
heard it creak a bit as Alice got into it, and then silence.
She sat gazing at the ashes in the grate, her coat pulled
round her shoulders for warmth, thinking over the long day.
It seemed a lifetime since she'd collected young Stella and
Muriel from Jess Budd and taken them on the train. Then
there'd been the surly porter and the walk to the vicarage
through the snowy lanes, and the warm welcome given them
by Mrs Mudge and the vicar. That rabbit stew had been the
best Polly had tasted for a long time - and not a 'ration' in
it, she thought, smiling. And then there'd been the sudden
decision to go on to Romsey to see Sylvie, the pleasant man
on the train, and the joy of seeing her daughter again, even
though it meant the pain of parting only an hour later.
'I wish you could come out and stay here too,' Sylvie had
whispered, burying her face against Polly's coat. 'I miss you
ever so much.'

in'I miss you too,' Polly had said, brushing away the tears
before they fell on to Sylvie's blonde curls. 'But I've got
work to do in Portsmouth, and it's safer for you to be out
here. And you're having a nice time, aren't you? Mr and
Mrs Sutton are looking after you well, and you've got Jenny
and Brian to play with.'
'They're all right,' Sylvie said dismissively, for all the
world as if she hadn't been engrossed in a game of Ludo
with them when Polly had arrived. 'But I'd rather be home
with you.'
'Well, I expect all the children feel like that. And let's
hope it won't be long before you can come back.' Gently,
Polly unwound the child's fingers from her coat. 'Now, give
me a big kiss and say you'll be a good girl for Mummy, and
I'll come back and see you as soon as I possibly can. And tell
Mrs Sutton I'll write again soon.'
Sylvie nodded and sniffed hard. A large tear rolled out of
her eye and down her cheek. Polly bit her lips fiercely,
hugged her and then turned away. She closed the kitchen
door behind her and walked swiftly down the garden path.
It must be the hardest thing anyone has to do in this war,
she thought, feeling the ache of tears in her throat again as
she stared at the cold ashes. Saying goodbye to your
children. It must be just as bad when they're grown up too,
and going off to fight like Terry, serving on one of Britain's
biggest battle cruisers, and Annie Chapman's boy Colin.
Just as bad as saying goodbye to your husband, not knowing
whether you'll ever see him again. And knowing, when that
telegram comes, that you've said goodbye for the last time
ever.
The sorrow of it all - of leaving her little girl with
strangers, however kind, of losing her husband at sea, of
knowing that this anguish was multiplied a thousand times
up and down the country, and now, on top of it all, the
worry over Dick -- surged over her like a tidal wave and,

worn out by her day and by a hopeless, overwhelming
misery, Polly put down her head and wept.

'It's pneumonia,' Cissie said later to Freda Vickers, who had
called to ask how Dick was. 'Well, what can you expect,
with his lungs being so bad anyway. They were ever so kind
- stretchers and injured people everywhere, but they still
took him in straight away and put him in an oxygen tent.
Wouldn't let me and Judy stop, of course. Said I could go in
and see him at visiting time - that's three this afternoon.'
She blinked away tears. 'I don't know as they can do much
for him, though. I mean, there's not much you can do for
pneumonia, is there? Only keep him warm and look after
him till the crisis happens, and even then it can go either way.'
'I think they can drain the fluid off from his lungs, can't
they?' Freda said doubtfully. 'Stop it building up, like. And
if he's on oxygen, that'll help the breathing. Anyway, he's in
the best place, Cis. At least he won't have to spend any more
nights in a hole in the ground for a while.'
Cissie sighed. 'That's true, but I shall worry all the time,
not knowing what's happening to him. I hope we don't get
any raids while he's in there.' She turned as they heard the
tapping of high heels coming along the pavement behind
them, and nodded at the woman in a powder-blue suit and
feathery hat. 'Morning, Mrs Glaister.'
Ethel Glaister gave them both a cool look. 'Good
morning,' she said in her rather sharp voice. 'I'm surprised
you've got time to stand gossiping after a night like last
night. I'm going up to the butcher's shop - he had some
fresh stewing steak brought in yesterday, I've heard, and I
mean to get some.'
'Mum's gone up there already,' Cissie said. 'And Mrs
Vickers just called to enquire after my hubby. He was taken
into hospital with pneumonia this morning.'
'Oh.' Ethel Glaister looked slightly taken aback. 'Well, I

hope he'll soon be better. Of course, he doesn't work, does
he?' She stepped past them, leaving the two women openmouthed.
'Well!' Cissie said at last. 'And just what do you suppose
she meant by that? That he's some sort of parasite? No loss
if he doesn't get better? I've a good mind to go after her and
give her a piece of my mind!'
'She's not worth it,' Freda said, although she looked
equally indignant. 'And I don't suppose she meant anything
by it, not really. She's just got to say something and she
can't help saying it in a nasty way. That's Ethel Glaister all
over.'
'Well, you won't catch me giving her the time of day
again,' Cissie said, turning away. 'Anyway, I'm going in now, thought I might have a bit of a lay-down. If I'm going to
see Dick this afternoon I want to look a bit brighter for him.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror just now and I look
like death warmed up.'
She went indoors and stood for a moment looking around
the room where she had grown up. It still felt funny to be
back, with so many of the neighbours she had known as a
child. Ethel Glaister, who had always thought herself a cut
above the rest of April Grove - Granny Kinch and her
daughter Nancy, who most people thought were a cut below and good, friendly people like Freda and her husband
Tommy, and Peggy Shaw and her daughters, and Jess and
Frank Budd. It was a good place to be, she thought. And
there were so many streets like this in Pompey - streets of
small terraced houses, where families lived all their lives and
got to know each other, always ready to help out, with just
the odd one or two like the Glaisters and the Kinches and
Baxters, who didn't quite fit in with the rest yet were still
part of the pattern. So many streets like this, in every city in
the land.
We may not have much, Cissie thought, going upstairs to .
lie down on the bed she and Dick shared, but we've got a lot

more than some. We've got ourselves - family, friends and
neighbours. That's what you need most in times like these.

Judy had gone to work straight from the hospital. There was
so much to do that she felt that even if she did go to bed she
wouldn't rest. Getting there through the newly bombed
streets was the usual problem and she wondered if Polly
would like the idea of looking for a couple of second-hand
bikes so that they could cycle to Southsea. It would be better
than having to rely on the uncertain bus service.
As usual after a raid, the casualty station on the ground
floor was frantically busy and there was plenty to be done
for those who had come looking for help, grumbling as
always about having to trek all the way out to Southsea
where the nobs were living in luxury in one of the best
hotels. The staff were used to these complaints by now and
tried to ignore them and get on with the business as
cheerfully as possible, understanding that most of the
grumblers were shocked and bewildered by what had
happened to them.
As she came through the front door, Judy had encountered
the young Observer she had met in the lift a few weeks
earlier. The staff were accustomed to seeing the RAF
uniforms about the building now, and knew most of them
by sight, if not by name. Judy had discovered that most of
them - the night staff in particular - were volunteers, with
other jobs during the day, and her antagonism had faded.
She looked at the tired young face with sympathy.
'Have you been up there all night?' she asked, looking up
at the roof of the big building. 'It must have been pretty
scary.'
He nodded. His eyes were bloodshot with fatigue and
rimmed with red. 'I suppose it is. You don't think about it
at the time, though. You just have to get on with the job. I
hope we managed to get a few of the blighters.'
'It was a bad raid. I've been at an Incident EnquiryCentre. There was this little boy . . .' She swayed and put
out a hand to steady herself against the wall. 'I don't know
how they can do it -- bomb people like this. I just don't
know how they can do it.'
'It's the same for us,' he said quietly. 'We're doing the
same to them.' He ran his fingers through his fair hair. It
was straight and thick, and looked as if it could do with
cutting. If he'd been in the Army, Judy thought irrelevantly,
he'd have been marched off to the barber's, but the RAF
didn't seem to bother so much about that sort of thing, and
what did it matter anyway?
'You look all in,' she said, and he gave her a wry grin.
'So do you. Pity really, or I'd have asked you for a date.'
'A date?
'Yes - you know, when a bloke takes a girl out. To the
pictures or for a drink, that sort of thing.' He grinned again,
and the grin reached his eyes. They were nice eyes, she
thought, very blue and a bit shy despite the cheekiness of his
grin. 'I've been thinking about it for a while now but I never
seem to catch you. And now I have, we're both too whacked
even to think about it.'
'I can't think about it anyway,' Judy said, her tone more
brusque than she had intended. She turned quickly away.
'I've got to go now. Sorry.' She went through to the office
and shut the door behind her. Laura glanced up in surprise.
'Hullo, what's been eating you? Didn't I see you talking
to Chris Barrett in the corridor? He surely hasn't upset you,
has he?'
'Is that his name?' Judy said off-handedly. 'I've never
bothered to ask. I don't like him much.'
'Don't like him?' Laura asked in astonishment. 'Why, half
the girls in the building are head over heels about him. He's
gorgeous!'
Judy shrugged. 'He's all right, I suppose. Thinks a bit too
much of himself, that's all. Anyway, I've got more
important things to think about. My dad was taken into

hospital this morning - he's had a really bad asthma attack.
I've got to find Polly and tell her what's happened, and then
I've got a load of work to do.'
Laura looked concerned. 'Oh Judy, that's awful. I am
sorry. Look, Polly's in the small office - you go and see her
first. And don't take any notice of Chris, it's just his way.
He's a nice chap, and if he asked you for a date he meant it.
He wouldn't fool about. I tell you what, he wouldn't have to
ask me twice!'
Judy shrugged again. She found Polly and gave her a
brief account of what had happened at the hospital, then
went to her desk and started to deal with the pile of papers
that seemed to have appeared overnight. The Lady Mayoress
was there this morning, interviewing some new recruits
and Judy was in charge of sending them in. After a time,
Polly came over and asked if she could have a few minutes,
too.
'Why, you're not thinking of resigning, are you?' Judy
looked at her aunt in alarm. She knew that seeing Sylvie
yesterday had upset her and she wondered if Polly was
thinking of going out to the country to be with her
daughter. 'I suppose you could get a transfer,' she added
doubtfully. 'The WVS does a lot of work in country places
as well.'
Polly shook her head. 'I'm not thinking of that. But
there's a notice up about a driving course and I thought I'd
go in for it. It was seeing Gladys Shaw with that ambulance
last night - I'd like to do something like that, something
really active. I mean, I know helping at the Centres and
taking kiddies out to the country is valuable work too, and I
expect I could still do that as well. But I'd like to do
something more.'
She went in to see the Mayoress and asked if there was
any chance of her becoming a driver. 'I don't really mind
what I do, madam. I'll do anything to help. But I did do a
bit of driving before the war - my hubby was a mechanic

and he used to get a car and take me out in the country
sometimes of a Sunday and give me a lesson round the lanes
- and I think I'd pick it up quite quick. And when I saw the
notice . . .'
'Yes.' The Lady Mayoress regarded her thoughtfully.
'Yes, I think you could do well as a driver. You'd have to
learn to drive in the blackout as well, you know.'
'Yes, I understand that. Not that it's very dark when the
raids are on,' Polly added, thinking of the red glow that had
lit Portsmouth during the night of the Blitz. But the
Mayoress shook her head.
'Not just during raids. At other times too. You see, we
have a car pool and we get called upon to use it for all kinds
of things, at any time of the day or night. Last week, for
instance, one of our volunteers had to meet a visiting
Minister at the railway station and bring him here for a
meeting. Before the meeting was over she was asked to take
a bundle of clothes to the Clothing Depot at the warehouse
then on the way back she was flagged down by a man whose
wife was in labour and had to be taken urgently to St Mary's
Hospital to have her baby. She still managed to get back in
time to return the Minister to the station - where she found
herself collecting a load of sandbags to go to the canteen in
Commercial Road! All that was during the day, of course,'
she added, 'but she could equally well have been asked to do
similar journeys during the night, without lights to guide
her.'
'I think I could do that,' Polly said. 'I know Portsmouth
like the back of my hand.' She looked at the Mayoress. 'I
want to do something that - that sort of asks a lot of me,'
she said quietly. 'You see, I lost my hubby over a year ago his
ship was one of the first to go down - and I feel I want to
make it up to him, somehow. I can't explain it any better
than that, but I want something more difficult to do.'
The Mayoress looked at her steadily, then nodded her
head. 'Yes, I understand completely, my dear. I'll put youdown for the driving course, and I'm sure you'll be a credit
to us. And to your husband,' she added. 'I know that
wherever he is now, he's proud of you.'
Polly went out of the room and stood for a moment taking
deep breaths and blinking away her tears. She was still there
when Judy emerged from the main office and looked at her
enquiringly.
'Well? Did she say yes?'
Polly grinned a little shakily at first, then her smile
broadened. 'Yes! She did. She's putting me in straight away.
I'm going to learn to drive, Judy! I'm going to learn to drive
a car!'

Polly's lessons began almost at once. Determined to learn
quickly, she begged to go out as often as possible and soon
passed the test and gained her licence. But before she was
allowed to join the WVS pool or drive an ambulance, she
had to master the art of driving in pitch darkness with only
two narrow slits of light to guide her.
'Honestly, it's like driving with a blindfold on!' she
reported, coming home after her first lesson. 'You don't
know what you're going to bump into! I was frightened to
go more than five miles an hour -- the instructor said it
would be faster on a push-bike! It's not so bad when there's
something light-coloured to pick out, but some streets are so
black you could be out in the middle of the countryside for
all you know.'
'Is that why all the trees along Copnor Road have got
white bands painted round their trunks?' Cissie asked, and
Polly nodded.
'People were forever driving into them before they did
that. Still, I'll get used to it - and, as I said to Mrs Parker,
there's plenty of light to see by during the raids, what with
searchlights and fires and everything!'
Alice went out to the scullery and returned with a
steaming casserole. She'd managed to get some oxtail from

the butcher yesterday and it had been simmering all day
with vegetables from the garden. She'd skimmed off most of
the fat and put it aside for dripping, and it was a rich,
gleaming brown.
'My, that looks good,' Polly said, drawing up her chair.
'I've been looking forward to this all day.'
Alice nodded. 'It's so tasty, oxtail - makes a lovely gravy.
I just wish Dick could have some, it would build him up.
Say what you like, hospital food doesn't have the nourishment
you get at home.'
'How is he today?' Polly asked her sister. 'You said he
was a bit better yesterday afternoon.'
Cissie lifted her shoulders a little. 'Well, they had him out
of the oxygen tent then for a while, but he's back in it again
today. He's still poorly. They think the crisis will come any
time now.' She laid down her fork and stared at the
tablecloth. 'I wish they'd let me stop with him. I can't bear
to think of him so ill, and me hot there. And - and when the
crisis comes -- he could die. He could die, and me not
there
Polly and Judy gave each other a swift glance, remembering
their own shared grief, and the words of the song Dick
used to sing to Cissie. 'Let me be there with you . ..'
Simultaneously, they reached across the table and laid their
hands on Cissie's. Alice too laid a hand on her daughter's
arm.
'Dad's not going to die, Mum,' Judy said in a shaking
voice. 'He's not. By the time you go back tomorrow, he'll
have passed the worst and be on the mend. I know he will. I
can feel it.'
'I can too,' Polly said. 'We'll have him back here before
you know it. All the same, it's a shame you can't stop with
him. He must want you there.'
'Well, that's the way hospitals are,' Cissie said, wiping her
eyes. 'They have their visiting hours and you've got to stick

to them. But I'll be there on the dot tomorrow, you see if
I'm not.'
'And I'll go with you,' Judy said. 'I know they probably
won't let me in to see him but you need someone with you,
Mum. Just--' She bit her lip and stopped, but they all knew
she'd been going to add, ''Just in case' They knew that
however strongly they hoped for Dick to get better, however
strongly they believed that he would, he really was
dangerously ill.
'We'll say our prayers for him tonight,' Polly said soberly.
'We all will.'

Once Polly had satisfied her instructor that she was
competent to drive at night as well as by day, she was
assigned a number of duties. Mostly she undertook these in
an old van that had been converted to act as an ambulance,
but could also transport various bulky items or people, but
sometimes she found herself driving one of the cars that had
been donated to the pool 'for the duration' as the expression
was. On these occasions she usually had a passenger of some
importance - the Lord Mayor himself, going to meet some
visiting dignitary at the railway station, or a high-ranking
official arriving from London. Once, she found herself
holding a baby while its mother, the wife of-, a Naval
Captain, struggled to get twin toddlers off the train. 'It may
be the last chance for them to see their daddy for a long
time,' she explained to Polly, lifting them down to the
platform. 'There you are, darlings, now just stand still while
this nice lady helps us with all our bags. It's just not possible
to travel light with three little ones,' she said, brushing her
ash-blonde hair back from her forehead while she tried to
count the pieces of luggage strewn around them. 'I don't
know how I'd have managed if all these kind people hadn't
been so helpful.' She indicated the two blushing sailors and
a middle-aged man who had formed a chain to get the
suitcases and naval holdalls off the train and were now

apparently awaiting further orders. 'But people always are,
don't you find?'
Polly smiled and nodded, but she wondered privately if
the Captain's wife would have been offered so much help if
she'd been elderly and rather less glamorous. Her pearl-grey
suit was probably at least three years old, yet the quality of
its cut and fabric ensured that it still looked smart, and the
stole draped carelessly round her shoulders looked like
ocelot. Her hair was styled with the latest rolled-up pleat at
the front, and her fingers glittered with diamonds. But her face was friendly and the smile she bestowed upon her
helpers so dazzling that they almost reeled.
'You've got a car.' she said to Polly, as if she'd expected
to be guided to a truck. 'Oh, how kind. If you wouldn't
mind carrying Benjamin for a little bit longer . . . He's been
most dreadfully spoilt on the train,' she continued, wafting
down the platform in a cloud of scent. 'Everyone wanted to
hold him. And the twins have been treated like princesses.
We couldn't have had a nicer journey. Oh, just look at that!'
She stopped at the entrance to the station and gazed
rapturously across the harbour.
Polly followed her gaze. I suppose it does look quite
interesting, she thought, although having lived all her life
with this view on her doorstep she had never taken much
notice of it. Now she looked more attentively at the wide
expanse of shimmering water, its green, broken surface
speckled with white foam, and at the craft tossing about on
its waves. Tugs, Isle of Wight paddle-steamers, Gosport
ferry-boats, naval pinnaces and, towering over them all, the
ships of the Royal Navy, sleek and grey, anchored in the
middle of the harbour or tied to the dockyard jetties with
the Semaphore Tower and the masts of HMS Victory behind them.
'It's splendid,' the Captain's wife said. 'Quite splendid.
You're so lucky to live here. We've always been based at
Chatham, so we've made our home there, but I should just

love to live in Portsmouth. The harbour is so much a part of
the town, don't you agree?'
By the time Polly dropped her at the hotel where she was
to spend a few days with her husband, she felt that she was
seeing her home town with new eyes. The Captain's wife,
who seemed no older than Polly herself, was so interested,
so enthusiastic and so sympathetic over the raids they had
suffered that Polly felt as if they'd been friends for years.
She helped her into the hotel, and said goodbye with regret.
'Now, you must come to see us,' the Captain's wife said,
pressing her hand. 'Milly and Mandy have obviously taken
you to their hearts and I don't think Benjamin would mind
at all if you took him home with you! I know your name,
and I know where you work, so I'll be in touch. Thank you so much, Mrs Dunn.'
'It's quite all right. It's been a pleasure.' Polly looked at
her and hesitated. She didn't really believe that the other
woman would contact her again. It was just the way people
like her talked. But she really did seem very nice. 'I hope
everything goes well with you and your husband,' she said
with a rush. 'I hope it isn't too long before - well, you know,
before he comes home again.'
The dazzling smile faltered a little and Polly caught a
glimpse of the fear that lay behind it. She's as scared as the
rest of us, she thought. She knows he could die at sea, just
like my Johnny, just like Judy's Sean, but she's doing her
best to hide it; she's doing her best to make things nice for
other people, even if all she can do is smile at them. I bet
everyone who's met her today feels better for it.
'It won't be any time at all,' the Captain's wife said firmly.
'And meanwhile, we can find plenty to do to keep ourselves
busy, can't we?' She cast a humorous glance at her little
brood, the twin girls standing on either side of her,
clutching her pearl-grey skirt, and the baby cradled in her
arms. 'Even if it's only wiping noses and changing nappies.

Speaking of which . . .' She wrinkled her nose and laughed,
and Polly smiled back, then turned and hurried out.
It was time to go back to the Royal Beach and take on her
next assignment. Within half an hour the Captain's wife
would be almost forgotten. But her smile, and the warmth
with which she bestowed it on all who came within her
orbit, would not be forgotten. They would remain in every
heart.
We can all do that, Polly thought. We can all do our bit,
just by putting a smile on our faces and helping each other.
That's what Mr Churchill means when he says we'll come
through. That's what he means by the spirit of Britain.

Chapter Eleven

Dick had, at last, passed the crisis of his illness. Cissie and
Judy had gone to the Royal Hospital, dreading what they
might find, and had been overwhelmed with relief to see
him out of his tent and sleeping more peacefully than he had
done since the night of the asthma attack. Cissie, looking at
his white face, had broken down in tears and the nurse had
come to lead her to a chair and even brought them both a
cup of tea.
'It's been a hard time,' she said sympathetically. 'He was
seriously ill - Doctor was worried about him - but he's
turned the corner now. He'll still need a lot of nursing
before he's back to strength again, mind.'
'So long as he's on the mend,' Cissie said through her
tears. 'Oh, I'm so thankful. We've got used to the asthma
attacks over the years, but this one was so bad, and then
when we found he'd got pneumonia as well. . .'.
'Well, his chest condition makes him very vulnerable,' the
nurse said. 'And I dare say he's been spending nights in an
Anderson, too; the damp and cold are bound to have an
effect. And then there's all the worry of the raids.'
'We were bombed out in January,' Cissie said. 'And he
was gassed in 1917 - and shell-shocked too. He's not been a
well man since.'
'You'll have him home again soon,' the nurse told her
cheerfully. 'And let's hope we don't have any more raids like
that one. That was terrible.'
Judy stayed with her mother until she was sure Cissie was
fit to go home alone, then she made her way out to the Royal

Beach. She had sent a message via Polly to say she would be
late, knowing that the Mayoress would understand, but she
was anxious not to waste a minute. She arrived to find the
place in uproar.
'We've lost an important document,' Laura explained
breathlessly as Judy came into the main office. 'It was
supposed to go to the top office and nobody can find it. You
don't happen to know where it is, do you?'
'Which one was it?' Judy asked, and turned pale as Laura
told her. 'Oh my goodness! I had it yesterday - I slipped it
into my drawer for safety. It must still be there.' She ran to
her desk and pulled open the drawer. 'Is - is this it?'
'Yes!' Laura snatched it away from her and raced over to
the Lady Mayoress, who was sitting at her desk searching
through a huge box file. 'Here it is, madam. Judy had it all
the time.'
'Judy did?' The Lady Mayoress stared at her. 'But what
on earth? Why? No, don't bother to explain. Just take it up
to Mr Williams at once -- you know where he is, don't you -- on the eighth floor. And then come straight to me when you
get back.' She shook her head as if in despair and Judy,
scarlet-faced, took the file back from Laura and scurried out
of the room.
She was almost in tears as she stepped into the lift. It was
the first serious mistake she had made, and she had never
seen the Mayoress look so annoyed. I didn't know it was so
important, she thought as she waited for the door to close,
and I didn't know I was going to be late this morning. Oh,
please don't let her be really angry with me. Please don't let
her say I'm no use to her and I've got to go back to my old
job. What if Miss Marsh doesn't want me any more? What
if she says I'm no use either? Oh, why won't this wretched
door close.
Judy hated the lift. It was small and creaky and you could
see the walls through the cage-like structure. When you
were inside it, moving slowly up or down, it was like being

in a long vertical tube with no windows. She always felt as if
the sides were closing in on her and, if she could, used the
stairs. But now, with a document to be delivered urgently to
the eighth floor, she had no choice.
She wrenched at the iron door but nothing happened; she
was just about to step out and face the long climb up eight
flights of stairs when a cheery voice said, 'Hey, don't take it
out on the door! What harm did it ever do you?' and she
looked up and saw Chris Barrett, the fair-haired Observer,
grinning at her from the corridor.
'It won't shut, that's what harm it's doing!' she retorted
savagely. 'I've got to get an important file up to Mr
Williams and I'm going to have to climb up all those stairs,
and - and if you want to know the truth, I've just about had
enough!' Then, to her fury, she burst into tears.
'Hey.' He came a little closer. 'Hey, come on. Don't cry.
It can't be that bad. Let me have a go.' He stepped into the
lift beside her, pressed the button and the door slid across
immediately. 'There you are! Chocks away and ready for
take-off. You just need to press the button, that's all, it
won't know otherwise. Where d'you want to go? Floor
eight?'
'Yes.' Judy scowled at the buttons. 'I did press it. It took
no notice.'
'Well, it is a bit temperamental. It's refused to start a
couple of times lately. I think they're sending out a
maintenance crew from somewhere, but what with everything
else . . .' He smiled down at her. 'Your name's Judy,
isn't it? Judy Taylor?'
Judy admitted that it was. 'And you're Chris Barrett.
Someone in the office told me. I didn't ask her,' she added
quickly, just in case he might think she was interested in
him. 'She just saw us talking and told me.'
The lift creaked slowly upwards. It might have been
quicker to walk anyway, Judy thought, and then she
wouldn't have had to stand in this tiny space with this

cheeky airman. She stood gazing fixedly at the floor,
determined not to glance up and catch Chris Barrett's eye.
She was sure he was staring at her. There was a silence.
'So how are you getting on, up there on the roof?' she
asked eventually, unable to stand it any longer. 'I suppose
you've been pretty busy lately.'
'Pretty well,' he agreed. 'There are planes about all the
time, even when there's no raid. We have to spot our own as
well as theirs, you see. And we have to be able to recognise
them straight away. It's not much good to HQ if you can't
tell a Spit from a Messerschmitt.'
Judy nodded. They were passing the fourth floor now.
She could see the corridor through the iron gates, its carpet
taken up to leave bare boards, the doors that had once led to
luxurious bedrooms open to show glimpses of the offices
within. She wondered what sort of people used to come and
stay here. Entertainers who were appearing in the theatre at
the end of the long pier over the road, probably. People like
Joe Loss, Ambrose, Max Miller. It was funny to think that
she might be standing in a lift that had once carried a
famous comedian or band leader . . . She tried to imagine he
was here now, instead of this tall, fair-haired young
Observer and, just as she was drifting off into a dream of.
being recognised by a famous band leader and becoming a
singer like Anne Shelton or Vera Lynn, the lift gave a loud
creak and shuddered to a halt. They were between floors
and all they could see through the gates was the wall of the
lift-shaft.
Judy and the Observer stared at each other. A worm of
panic stirred deep in her stomach.
'It's stopped.' She put out her hand and pressed the
button hard. 'What's happened? Why's it stopped?' The
worm twisted a little. She began to shake the gates.
'Don't do that. It might be dangerous.' He gripped her
wrist and pulled back her arm sharply. 'I'm not surprised.
This thing's been on its last legs for years.'

'But what shall we do?' Her voice was rising. 'I've got an
important document to deliver. I was late in this morning
anyway. The Mayoress will be furious!'
'No, she won't. It's not your fault the lift's broken down.
Don't get in a flap, Judy.' He laid his hand on her arm
again, more gently this time. 'Look, there's nothing we can
do. Someone will notice pretty soon and they'll send for that
maintenance crew I was talking about. They'll get us out.'
'And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?' Judy
demanded, her voice shaking. 'Tell each other stories? Sing
songs?'
'Well, we could do worse.' He grinned. 'Come on, Judy,
it's not the end of the world. A lot worse things than this
have happened.'
Judy flung him a look of fear. 'I know. It's just that I - I
hate being shut in tiny spaces. I've never liked using this lift
-I always use the stairs if I can. And - and so many awful
things have happened, and this is the last straw. I know it's a
small thing really, but that's what straws are, aren't they?'
She covered her face with her hands. 'I was late in this
morning because I went to the Royal Hospital to see my
dad. He's had pneumonia. He's getting better now but we -- we thought he was going to die.' Her voice shook and she
began to cry.
There was a moment's pause and then Chris put his arm
across her shoulder. 'Hey, hey, come on. He's getting better. That's what you've got to think of. He's not going to die.
And you're not going to have to spend the rest of your life
stuck in this lift with me.' He peered upwards through the
gates, trying to see to the next floor. 'At least, I hope not!'
Judy looked around. The walls of the shaft could be seen
on each side. They were roughly built, not finished with
plaster, and were dingy and draped with cobwebs. She
shuddered.
'It's horrible. Nobody ever cleans these walls. I feel as if
I'm shut in a zoo, or going down a mine.'

'It's just the lift-shaft,' he said soothingly. 'I expect they
used to clean it when it was a hotel but we don't have time
for those things now. Tell you what, soon as we get out of
here I'll fetch a bucket and mop and clean the whole thing
myself, from top to bottom. How's that?' He grinned at her.
Judy looked at his open, friendly face, his twinkling eyes
and smiling mouth, and drew in a deep breath. I'm being an
idiot, she thought. Letting it all get on top of me. He's right
-- it's just a lift-shaft and soon someone will come and get us
out. There's nothing to be frightened of. She repeated the
words firmly in her mind. There's nothing to be frightened of. And the thought of Chris with a bucket and mop, cleaning
the entire eight floors of it, brought an unexpected bubble of
laughter to her lips.
'Sorry, it just sort of came over me for a minute.' She
managed a smile and felt a little better. 'Well, you wanted a
date. Looks like you've got your way!'
'So it does.' He grinned. 'Though I had thought of taking
you somewhere a bit more glamorous than this - a British
Restaurant, perhaps!'
'Or a WVS Emergency Centre,' Judy said, and he
laughed. He had a nice laugh, she thought, his blue eyes
crinkling at the corners and his smile widening to show very
white teeth. Polly's right, she thought, he is good-looking. It
was easy to imagine other girls finding him attractive.
'We might as well sit down, I suppose,' he said, indicating
the dusty floor. 'Sorry I can't offer you anything more
comfortable. But if we're going to be here a while. . .'
'Why, how long d'you think it could be?' She glanced
upwards, her anxiety returning. 'I don't think anyone's even
noticed yet!'
A yell sounded from above and they heard the distant
rattle of gates. Chris grinned at her. 'I think they have now!
But they'll just think some twerp's left the gates open on
another floor. It'll be a while before they realise it's stuck.'

He moved closer to the gate and shouted up the shaft. 'Hey!
We're stuck - the lift's stuck! Get some help, will you?'
There was a brief silence. The yells from above sounded
again, together with an even more impatient rattling. Chris
renewed his own shouting and eventually a voice sounded
from somewhere closer. 'Where are you?'
'Where d'you think we are?' Chris bellowed. 'We're stuck
in the flipping lift!'
'Yes, but what floor? We can't tell.'
'I don't know.' He glanced at Judy.
'I know we went past the fourth floor,' she said
doubtfully. 'I'm not sure about the fifth.'
'Well, we're pretty high anyway. It's no use rattling the
gates like that,' he shouted. 'Get the maintenance crew,
they'll know what to do.'
There was some muted conversation from above, as if
several more people had joined the first. Then a new voice
shouted, echoing hollowly in the shaft.
'We're sending for the maintenance people. Soon have
you out.'
'What a good idea,' Chris said sardonically, and Judy
giggled. 'I'd never have thought of that.'
'Who's in there?' the new voice called.
'Chris Barrett, ROC, and Judy Taylor, WVS. You'd
better let our people know.'
'We'll let your people know,' the voice shouted, overriding
Chris's last words. He rolled his eyes and Judy giggled
again. Her panic seemed to have vanished and the humour
of their situation was beginning to strike her. She followed
his advice and sat down in a corner, wrapping her arms
about her knees. Chris looked down at her, then sat down in
another corner.
'I think we're going to be here quite a while. I don't know
where the maintenance chaps are coming from, but I don't
think they're on permanent duty here. Hope you're not
hungry.' He gave her a wry look.

'Not really.' It was some time since her breakfast of
Shredded Wheat and toast, and thank goodness she had
been to the lavatory when she'd arrived at the hotel. Judy
pushed her fingers through her hair and sighed. 'Oh, this would happen. Just when we're so busy. And Mr Williams
wanted this file urgently.' She touched the brown folder.
'Well, he'll have to manage without it a bit longer. I don't
suppose it was that important, anyway. People make a lot of
fuss about things like that, and then it turns out they don't
matter at all.' He cocked his head to one side. 'Cheer up,
Judy. The worst that can happen is that you've got to spend
a couple of hours alone with me. And even that's not too
bad. I'm quite a gentleman really, you know. I won't take
advantage" of you.' He grinned wickedly. 'Not unless you
want me to!'
Judy gave him a cold look. 'Well, I don't want you to.'
Then she relented and smiled reluctantly. 'All right, I won't
keep moaning. We're here and we might as well make the
best of it. Tell me some more about what you do up there
on the roof. It sounds quite interesting.'
'It is.' His face lit up with enthusiasm. 'We're all mad
keen about spotting aircraft, you see. That's why we
answered the adverts.'
'I'd have thought you'd have been called up anyway,' she
said, with a touch of tartness in her voice as she thought
again of Sean and Johnny. 'Why aren't you in one of the
Services? Active, I mean.'
'Because most of us are in reserved occupations. I'm in
the Dockyard. I filled in my papers,' he said, looking at her
earnestly. 'I took them in and everything, but the foreman
told me I could forget it - none of us Yardies'll be called up.
And he was right, I haven't heard a thing, so when this came
up - well, I wanted to do my bit so I slapped in my
application straight away.'
Judy looked at him and felt ashamed. She said, 'What sort
of qualifications did you have to have, then?'

'Just good sight and being able to recognise aircraft.
That's all that's needed. You've got to be able to think
pretty quickly too,' he added. 'But really, they just wanted
blokes who already knew their stuff.'
'But there's a classroom - I've seen it. They're training
people now.'
'Yes, we still have to train. We're training all the time.
We've got to keep the skills up, and we've got to be able to
recognise new aircraft. We have competitions too,' he
added. 'Master tests, they're called. We do them once a
quarter and we compete with spotters from all over the
country.'
'Competitions? How do they run them? I mean, you can't
actually use aircraft, can you?'
'No, they use a flashtrainer - a screen and epidiascope.
You sit in a room looking at a screen, and then the bloke
says, "Blink" and you blink, and they flash a silhouette up
on the screen. It's only there for a hundredth of a second,
and you have to be able to identify the plane in that time. If
you get ninety per cent right, you get this Spitfire badge,
and if you do that three times in a row you get a red badge,
and then you're a Master Spotter.' He paused and then
added modestly, 'I've done it twice so far.'
'A hundredth of a second?' Judy stared at him. 'I didn't
think they could measure time as small as that. I can't even
imagine what it is.'
'It's just a flash,' he said. 'You can barely see it. But if
you're good, you can recognise a shape in that time.'
'But aeroplanes - they're not that different, surely? I
mean, they've all got two wings and a tail - how can you
possibly tell what they are in that time?'
'Oh, there are lots of differences. Tails, rudders, wing
shapes - they're all a little bit different. That's why we've
got to be able to recognise them instantly, you see. If we see
a plane coming in over the coast we've got to know what it is
straight away so that we can phone through to the Ops room

at Winchester. We've got to know what direction it's coming
from, where it's heading, and we've got to plot its position.
Then they can match that up with reports from other
observation posts and see what's happening in the sky.
There might be just one, you see, or there might be
hundreds. That's how they know where to send our own
aircraft to intercept them, and whether to sound the air-raid
sirens or not.'
Judy gazed at him, fascinated. She had almost forgotten
that they were stuck in a lift and that Mr Williams was
waiting for his important document. 'How many of you are
there doing this? At one time, I mean.'
'Two. One to look at the sky and one to write the log. We
write down what's happening every minute, and then our
logbook can be compared with all the others so that Ops
know that all aircraft in the vicinity are being observed.' He
glanced at his watch. 'They'll be getting in a flap over me
pretty soon, but I dare say they'll pull someone out of the
classroom to stand in for me.'
There were sounds from above. Someone was rattling the
lift gates. A voice yelled down, 'You OK in there?'
'Oh, we're fine,' Chris called back. 'Having a wonderful
time. Always wanted to be stuck in a lift with a pretty girl!'
'You behave yourself,' the voice commanded. 'If he gives
you any trouble, miss, you just scream. Anyway, you'd
better make up your minds for a bit of a wait. We've got to
get someone out from naval barracks to see to the
mechanism. Nobody here seems to know how the bl-- blooming thing works.'
'Well, don't hurry on my account,' Chris returned,
winking at Judy. He settled himself more comfortably in his
corner and said, 'What about you? What d'you do?' He
glanced at her green uniform. 'I know you're WVS but I'm
not sure what that is.'
'Women's Voluntary Service,' Judy said. 'It's run by the
Lady Mayoress here in Portsmouth, but there are branches

everywhere. It started in 1938 to help women get involved
in air-raid precautions and then it just expanded. Now, we
do whatever we're asked to do. We never say no,' she
finished proudly, and then caught the glint in his eye and
wished she hadn't.
'I won't take you up on that!' he said with a grin. 'But I
wouldn't go around saying that to some of the other oiks
we've got - they're not all as gentlemanly as me. So what
sort of things have you done so far?'
Judy shrugged. 'Anything and everything. We set up
Enquiry Centres when a raid starts, for people to come to if
they're worried about members of their family, and we open
Emergency Centres' for people who've been bombed out.
We take hot drinks and sandwiches round to the air-raid
shelters. We go into bombed areas and do whatever we can we
build fireplaces with bricks from the rubble and brew up
tea, or we take warm clothes out to people who've been
bombed out in their nightclothes. All sorts of things. And
we have a car pool, to drive people wherever they need to
go. My auntie's learned to drive 'specially - she's driven all
sorts of important people -- and she drives an ambulance in
the raids too.'
'That's pretty good,' he said admiringly. 'And all this
without getting paid?'
'Yes, everyone's a volunteer. Well, I get paid,' she added
honestly, 'because I'm "borrowed" from the Council. But I
do a lot of voluntary work as well. I don't just work office
hours.'
'Well, I think that's smashing,' Chris said. He hesitated
and then said, 'I think you're pretty smashing, too, Judy.'
There was an awkward pause. Judy looked down at the
ring on her finger, wondering if Chris had noticed it. For
the first time since Sean had died, she wished that she had
not been wearing it, and guilt immediately washed over her
at the thought. She could feel Chris's eyes on her and she
wanted to say something about Sean, to tell him what had

happened, but before she could speak they heard another
rattling from above. A voice shouted down, a voice they
hadn't heard before. This one was firm and positive, as if it
belonged to someone who knew what he was doing.
'The cavalry's arrived,' Chris said ironically.
'You OK?' the voice shouted. Judy imagined a naval
mechanic, big and brawny, with a 'full set' of beard and
moustache. 'Hold on, we'll have you out soon. Have to go
up on the roof to sort out the motor. Don't worry if the
whole caboodle shakes about a bit. We won't let you drop.'
'You'd better not, mate,' Chris called back. 'We're just
getting to know each other in here.' He winked at Judy and
settled back. 'Won't be long now.' There was a short pause,
then he asked, 'Whereabouts do you live?'
The moment for telling him about Sean had passed. 'I
used to live in Portchester Road but we were bombed out.
We're with my gran now, in April Grove.'
'April Grove? Is that up Copnor Road?'
Judy nodded. 'That's right, just off September Street.
Well, at the end of March Street and October Street, really.
It runs along the bottom, by the allotments.' She was
gabbling, she knew, thankful to be relieved of the necessity
of talking about Sean. 'They're just two-up, two-down
houses so it's a bit of a squash, but we were lucky to have
somewhere to go. And since Sylvie's out in the country--'
'Sylvie?'
'My niece. Her mum's my Aunt Polly, but I never call
her that because she's only twelve years older than me. She
- she lost her husband early in the war. At sea.' I could tell
him now, she thought, but the words were hard to find and
she added instead, 'So there's just the five of us - me and
Polly, Mum and Dad, and Gran. It's all right.'
Chris nodded. 'Like you say, we're lucky to have
somewhere to live these days. There's a hell of a lot of
people been bombed out. Far more than anyone expected.'
'The Council's had a lot of complaints about that,' Judy

said. 'People criticising because we weren't properly prepared.
But you don't know what's going to happen in a war,
do you? They thought there'd be thousands killed, and
instead of that they've been made homeless. It must mean
that the shelters are working, yet people don't think how
lucky they are to survive, they just moan because they've got
nowhere to live. Well, it is awful, I know,' she added. 'It's
horrible, not having a home. But we're doing our best people are being rehoused, somehow or other. And they are
still alive. That's the main thing.'
The lift shook and rattled, and Judy put her hand on the
floor to steady herself. It trembled beneath her and she felt
suddenly scared. Suppose something went wrong. Suppose
the lift suddenly plunged to the bottom of the shaft somewhere
down in the basement. That was at least five
floors . . . She looked at Chris in alarm.
'It's all right,' he said, moving a little closer. 'They're just
working on the motor.'
'But if it gives way . . .' She could hear the shake in her
voice. 'It'll be like being dropped off the roof in a box. We
wouldn't have a chance.'
'It won't give way. Here, let me put my arm round you.'
He slid his arm round her shoulders and held her firmly.
Judy pressed her face against his shoulder. He smelt of blue
serge and coal-tar soap and sweat. She breathed in the scent
of him, feeling a sudden quickening of her pulse. Sean had
smelt a little like this, but there was a difference . . . the lift
shook again and she gasped and pressed closer.
'It's all right.' Chris's voice was soft and soothing. His
fingers gripped her shoulder and he put his other arm
around her and stroked her back. 'It's all right, Judy. You're
safe. We're not going to fall. It's all right.'
They sat very still, pressed close together. Judy could feel
her heart beating. Her cheek was against his neck and she
could feel his pulse beneath the warm skin. His fair hair
tickled her face. She gripped his shoulders tightly.

I will tell him about Sean, she decided. After we've got
out of here, when everything's all right again, I'll tell him
about Sean. It won't make any difference. I don't want
another sweetheart, not yet, not for a long time, maybe not
ever. But I would like to be friends, and I want him to know
about Sean. I want him to know the important things . ..
The lift gave a huge shudder. For a moment, it hung
trembling, as if undecided as to what to do next. Judy held
her breath and pressed her face hard against Chris's
shoulder. She felt his arms tighten about her. The cables
creaked, the lift groaned and there was a shiver of
movement. Then, slowly and complainingly, it began to
rise.
'It's all right,' Chris whispered. 'Judy, it's all right.'
She lifted her head to look at him. 'We're going up! Oh, Chris.'
'Thank God for that,' he said, and grinned a little shakily.
'I don't mind admitting, even I was a bit worried there for a
minute!'
They laughed with relief. Their eyes met and as she saw
his pupils darken Judy felt a quick surge of excitement. She
lifted her face towards him and, when he bent closer and his
lips met hers, she closed her eyes and relaxed against his
body. For a brief, whirling moment, she forgot where they
were, forgot the creaking lift, forgot Mr Williams's important
document and the fact that there was likely to be a
reception committee awaiting them when they arrived. It
was only the sound of ironic cheering that brought her out
of her daze and then she blinked, stared through the gates at
the little cluster of people waiting at the foot of the steel
stairway, and jerked herself out of his arms.
'For goodness sake!' Scarlet with embarrassment, she
brushed back her hair, grabbed the brown folder and
scrambled to her feet. Mr Williams was there himself, his
hand held out, a frown of disapproval on his face. So wasLaura, her lips twitching with amusement. So were half a
dozen other Observers, all applauding - all except one.
The one not applauding was a girl of Judy's own age. Tall
and slim, with the sort of auburn hair Judy would have
given her eye teeth for, and eyes as green as a cat's, she was
dressed in the Air Force blue uniform and sported a Spitfire
badge like the one Chris wore on his sleeve. She was leaning
against the wall, her arms folded, her lips tight, and as she
glanced from Judy to Chris her eyes flashed with temper.
Why, she's his girlfriend, Judy thought indignantly. And
there he was kissing me, for all to see! The rotter!'
She turned away angrily and found herself confronting
the two sailors who had rescued them. They were packing
away their tools into canvas bags and straightened up to grin
at her. One was tall and thin, the other shorter than Judy
herself, with a bald head and button nose.
'Well, that wasn't too bad, was it, love?' he said, and she
recognised the voice that had shouted down to them, the
one that she had envisaged as belonging to a big, brawny
matelot with beard and moustache. 'You seem to have
passed the time all right, anyway!'
Judy stared at him. Then, still scarlet, she turned her
back and without even thanking him set off down the stairs,
back to the ground floor.
It'll be a long time before I trust that lift again, she
reflected grimly. And even longer before I trust one of those
beastly Observers!

For the next few days, Judy did her best to avoid Chris
Barrett.
It wasn't easy. She couldn't find out when his shifts were
without attracting comment; the story of their incarceration
in the lift, and the attitude in which they'd been caught
when it arrived, had gone all round the building and Judy
found herself the butt of a good deal of teasing. She did her
best to take it in good part and it soon died down, but she

knew that even to mention his name would be enough to
start it all over again. To be seen talking to him would be
even worse, so whenever she caught sight of him she darted
through the nearest doorway, making some excuse if she
found herself in an office she didn't normally visit. Once she
had to wait for several minutes in a cluttered broom
cupboard, as a series of footsteps went by, before emerging
in the hope that the corridor was empty.
To make matters worse, Chris didn't seem to have the
same inhibitions. Time and time again he tried to speak to
her, until at last Judy was forced to face him on the hotel
steps, where she'd met him as she hurried out. He stood just
below her, the sun on his hair as he looked up, and his blue
eyes laughing.
'Judy! I was beginning to think you were trying to avoid
me.'
'Well, you were right,' she retorted waspishly. 'Look, I'm
sorry, I'm in a hurry--'
'Don't rush off,' he begged. 'There's something I want to
say to you.'
'I've got a bus to catch.'
'No, you haven't. You come by bike, I've seen you. Look,
this won't take a minute.' He reached out and touched her
arm and Judy jumped away as if she'd been stung.
'Don't do that! Haven't you caused enough trouble?' Pink
with anger, she tried to push past him, but his hand
tightened on her sleeve and she glared at him. 'Let me go!'
'Not until you listen to what I want to say. Judy, about
the lift--'
'I don't want to talk about it,' she broke in, thrusting him
away and walking across the road with tight, quick steps. He
followed her and she turned at the top of the beach and
began to stride along the promenade, too angry to notice the
glint of sunshine on the rippling waves or the green rolling
hills of the Isle of Wight. 'It's taken days to live it down, and
if people see us here like this it'll start all over again. D'you

realise how embarrassing it was for me? All those people
watching - I thought I'd die, I did really.'
'I just want to say I'm sorry. I never meant to upset you.'
'Well, you shouldn't have done it, then. You should have
behaved like a gentleman.'
'Oh, come on,' he said, beginning to sound angry in his
turn. 'It was only a kiss, for Pete's sake. I wasn't asking you
to marry me!'
Judy looked down at his hand. She plucked it away from
her sleeve, then she met his eyes coldly.
'That's just as well,' she said in a tight, icy tone, 'because
I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on this earth.
And I don't want to be stuck in a lift with you again, either.
I don't even want to talk to you.'
'But why not?' he asked in bewilderment. 'Look, I
thought we were getting on really well when we were in that
lift together. And when I kissed you - well, you kissed me as
well. At least, that's what it felt like. And it wasn't the end
of the world when everyone saw us, was it? We weren't
doing anything wrong. So why was it so terrible?'
Judy looked at him. 'And what did your girlfriend think
about it? Didn't she think it was terrible - seeing you kissing
another girl?'
'My girlfriend?' He stared at her. 'What on earth are you
talking about now? I haven't got a girlfriend.' He glinted a
wink at her. 'I was hoping when we were in the lift that that
was about to change!'
Judy gave him a chilly look. 'So who was that redhead if
she's not your girlfriend? The one who was looking so
furious when we got out of the lift? If looks could kill, you'd
have dropped dead on the spot.'
'You mean Joyce? Oh Judy,' his face broke into laughter,
'Joyce isn't my girlfriend! She's engaged to a bloke at HQ in
Winchester. She wouldn't give me the time of day, let alone
go out with me. And if you want to know why she was
furious, it was because she couldn't go off duty until I wasthere - and she was waiting to go off on a forty-eight-hour
pass for a dirty weekend! It was bad enough that I kept her
waiting, but the thought that I might have enjoyed being
stuck - well, that took the biscuit. I tell you, the way she laid
into me you'd think I'd done it deliberately!'
'Oh,' Judy said blankly. 'Oh.' She stared at him for a
moment, then turned away and looked out over the sea.
There was a light breeze, just enough to blow the tops off
the waves into a spray of glittering foam. 'Oh - well, I'm
sorry. I thought. . .'
'I know what you thought,' he said, grinning. 'So now
will you think again? Give me a smile now and then? Say
hello - that sort of thing?'
She laughed. 'Of course I will! I'm sorry, Chris. It was
just that--'
'Just that we seemed to be getting on so well together,' he
said quietly. He took her left hand and raised it, looking at
the ring. 'I did notice it, in case you were wondering. That's
why I didn't ask to see you again - though I wanted to, right
from the start. To tell you the truth, I couldn't believe my luck
when that lift got stuck -- and before you ask, no, I
didn't arrange it!' His eyes laughed at her again. 'But then,
when we kissed - well, I felt that there could be something
more between us.' He looked at the ring again. 'This chap
you're engaged to - is it really that serious?'
Judy bit her lip and looked down. She could walk away
from Chris now. She could let him think she was still
engaged, that she wasn't interested in any other man. She
knew that he wouldn't pester her. He would accept it, and it
really would be just a matter of a casual 'hello' now and
then, a smile as they passed in the corridor.
But Sean was dead. He was never going to come back,
and was she to spend the rest of her life alone? The next
sixty years, perhaps, recalling a young sailor she had known
and loved for just a few weeks?

Chris might not ever be more than a friend. They might
fall in love for a little while and then part. But as she looked
down at the ring with its tiny diamond, she remembered her
grandmother's words. 'You've got to start living again sometime,
Judy. You've got to.'
Perhaps she could start with Chris.
She made up her mind and lifted her face to look him in
the eye. He was watching her with a tinge of anxiety.
'I want to tell you about it,' she said, 'but not now - not
here. Perhaps we could meet one evening, after your duty go
for a walk or something.'
'AH right,' he said. 'What about Saturday - oh blast, I
can't - we've got my uncle and aunt coming down from
London and Mum'll throw a fit if I'm not there. How about
Sunday? I'm on duty in the afternoon but I'm off at six - we
could go and have some tea and then maybe see a film.
That's if you'd like to do that,' he added with that touch of
anxiety again.
Judy nodded and smiled. 'That'll be fine,' she said. 'I'll
write down my address. Come and call for me at six.'
I've made a date, she thought with amazement as she
cycled home. I've made a date! It might not lead to anything
- I'm not sure I even want it to - but it's a date and I don't
feel guilty about Sean, I don't feel guilty at all. He wouldn't
have wanted me to live my life as if half of it was over. He'd
have wanted me to start living again.
She glanced down at her left hand and saw his ring,
winking up at her. On a sudden impulse, she stopped and
took it off her finger and put it on her right hand instead.
There, she thought. I'll still wear it for you, in remembrance.
But I know now that it can never be more than that.
It's not a promise any more.
With a heart lighter than it had been for many months,
she pushed down the pedal and cycled the rest of the way
home.

On 27 April, the Sunday when Judy had been due to meet
Chris, the Luftwaffe came again.
The raid began early in the evening, just when the people
of Portsmouth had finished their Sunday tea and were
looking forward to an evening spent playing cards or
listening to the wireless. The sirens wailed, cutting into
their comfortable plans, and once more they ran down their
gardens to huddle in their shelters, or went out to fight the
fires that tore through their homes and workplaces. Once
more, ambulances and fire engines raced through streets
blocked with rubble; once more, the Emergency Centres
were filled with homeless people while First-Aid Posts
tended the injured.
It was going to be another bad night. They knew it from
the incessant snarl of German aircraft overhead, from the
open roar of Allied planes, from the silvery net of
searchlights lighting up the sky, from the staccato rattle of
ack-ack. And, most of all, from the thunderous explosions
that shook the ground, rattling doors and windows, making
the very walls tremble. By dawn, there would be more
hundreds made homeless, more families bereaved, more
patients crowding in the city's hospitals - and if the
hospitals themselves were hit, as each one had been in
previous raids, more desperation as to where they could be
taken.
Gladys Shaw was out with her ambulance, racing through
streets that were lit by incendiaries and fire. Peggy was at
her First-Aid Post. Annie Chapman and Judy were at the
Emergency Centre, making an endless supply of hot soup,
cocoa and tea for the people who straggled in, lost and
bewildered, often bleeding, their homes damaged or
destroyed, their lives shattered.
As usual, Judy was ready to help in any capacity manning
a canteen somewhere amidst all the bombs,
rushing off to set up an Enquiry Centre somewhere for
people to report to, or to start the hunt for missing relatives,

helping with First Aid for those who stumbled in, hurt, but
not seriously enough to be sent to hospital.
She was bandaging a cut head for an old woman who had
been sheltering under her stairs when she heard her name
spoken and glanced up. 'Polly!'
'Judy.' Polly was looking anxious. 'I came in to see if
there was anyone who could come on the van with me. The
Red Cross nurse never turned up. But it looks as if you're
pretty busy here.'
'I don't know -- there are a few more volunteers here
now.' Judy glanced around and called to one that she knew:
'Susan, could you take over here? My aunt needs someone
on her ambulance - I'll go with her.' She followed Polly into
the fire-raddled, bomb-torn night and they scurried out to
the old van that had been converted to an ambulance. Polly
had been out at night quite a lot by now, learning to see in
what little glow was allowed from the narrow slits of light
from her headlamps. It was almost a luxury, she thought,
having all this light from the fires and the incendiaries, but
not a luxury she welcomed. Every raddled glow meant
someone's home or property on fire, every gleam of light a
broken heart.
There was no other light to be had. With the first stick of
bombs, the city's electricity system had failed and the city
was plunged into darkness. Only those places, such as
hospitals, which possessed their own emergency generators,
still had light. For the rest, out came the hurricane lanterns,
the candles, the torches with their precious, dwindling
batteries. None of these things would last for ever, and
nobody knew where the next candle, battery or half-pint of
paraffin would come from. If you could manage without
light, you did.
They were accustomed to the sirens going almost every
night, accustomed to nights when just a few bombs fell,
accustomed to nights when there was no bombing at all and
you just listened to planes going over on their way to raid

some other unfortunate city, and waited for the All Clear to sound. But tonight had a worse feeling about it. It was frighteningly similar to those other two nights when the
bombing had been so severe it had been called a 'Blitz'. The
aircraft filled the night sky with their roar, as if there were a
huge cloud of them up there, blacking out the stars and the
moon -- the 'Bomber's Moon' - each one loaded with bombs
and letting them fall over Portsmouth. It was as if it didn't
matter any more whether they fell on the Dockyard, on the ships in the harbour, on the Naval establishments and
military barracks, or on simple two-up, two-down terraced
homes like those in April Grove. It was as if so long as
people were injured and killed, so long as buildings were
damaged and destroyed, the pilots could go home satisfied at
having done their job.
Gladys Shaw was out in her ambulance as well. Polly and
Judy had seen it as they set off -- a battered old van in even
worse condition than theirs - and Gladys had given them a
murderous look as she swung the crank-handle. 'I'm fed up
with this!' she'd yelled. 'Bloody fed up! I was going out with
Graham tonight, and, now flaming Hitler's messed it all up
again. I'm sick of him - bloody sick of him!'
She'd swung the van out into the road and Polly and Judy
gave each other a grimace. 'We're all fed up,' Polly said,
starting her own van. 'We've had nearly enough of this,
Judy. But we've got to carry on, all the same.'
'She doesn't mean she's giving in,' Judy said, scrambling
into the seat beside her. 'She just means she'd like to wring
his neck.' So would I, she thought, thinking regretfully of
her own date with Chris and wondering if he had been the
first to spot and identify the new wave of attacking aircraft.
'Who's Graham, anyway?'
Polly put her foot cautiously on the accelerator. The van
was liable to pretend it wasn't going to move, then suddenly
leap forward, to the danger of anyone who happened to be
standing near. 'I think it's Graham Philpotts, that young

matelot Betty Chapman knocked about with for a while. His
family used to live round here when I was still at home,
before they moved over to Gosport. Where are we supposed
to be going, Judy?'
'Maddens. It's on fire.' Maddens was a big hotel on the
corner of the Guildhall Square. If that had been hit, there
were bound to be casualties, unless they'd all got into the
shelter before the bombing started. Whether the ambulance
would ever get there or not was another question: they were
sure to pass other emergencies on their way to the city
centre, and you couldn't just drive past people desperate to
get some injured friend to a First-Aid Post or hospital.
There was the added problem of finding your way through
streets that had been bombed already and were blocked with
fallen masonry, or full of other ambulances as well as fire
engines with hoses tangled like snakes all over the road -- and all this in pitch darkness lit only by jagged flames or
roaring infernos that warned you to reverse swiftly out of
their heat. It took hours to get anywhere, and more than
once Polly stopped while Judy tried to find out exactly
where they were. 'I thought I knew this place,' she said
despairingly, 'but we could be in the middle of Liverpool for
all I can recognise now.'
At last they reached their destination, only to find that the
casualties had already been removed. A fireman, his
reddened eyes staring out of a face streaked with soot, yelled
at them to get out of the way, Polly slammed the van into
reverse once more to get out of range of the flames, then
jerked to a stop and leaped out as a man jumped out in front
of the van, waving his arms. 'What is it? Someone hurt?'
'It's me mum,' he shouted. His voice was drowned by the
roar of the planes and the thunder of the bombs, but she
could read the message in his lips and see the terror in his
eyes. 'She's got caught under something -- oh my God, it's
awful. Come and help, miss, please, you gotta help!' He
had hold of Polly's arm, dragging her across the road. Judy

snatched up the First-Aid haversack and scurried after
them, her heart thumping. They ran down a narrow alley
and found themselves in a huddle of old houses, hidden
behind the Theatre Royal and the small shops and offices that occupied the buildings along the main road. I never even knew all this existed, Judy thought, her old fear of
confined spaces returning as she stared up at the high walls
that surrounded them, but there was no time for panic. The
man was tugging her towards a tall building, one of several
around a tiny, dank courtyard that probably never saw the
light of day. The building was half-collapsed, its front wall
sagging dangerously over the paving stones, and the lower
floor was in ruins.
'She's in-there?' Polly asked, stopping, and Judy, close
behind her, stared in dismay at the wreckage. 'Your
mother's in there?'
He jerked her arm impatiently. 'That's what I said, innit?
She's got a coupla rooms there - there's no shelter or
nothing, and she wouldn't go down the public, says there's
rats. For Gawd's sake, can't you do nothing? She's trapped,
there's summat over her leg, I can't get her out and she's
crying and moaning something awful.' He stared at the two
women, his face working with fear. 'I arst a fireman but
they're all too busy with Maddens and all round there. The
station's bin hit, and the Post Office and McIlroy's - it's
bloody chaos - and the ARP ain't no good, too bloody busy
going round telling people to put lights out. Lights!' He cast
a bitter glance at the raddled glow of the sky. 'There ain't no
bloody lights to put out, they done in the electric again, and
my poor old mum . . .' Once again, he jerked Polly's arm.
'Can't you do nothing?'
Polly shook herself and hurried forward. The wall of the
house sloped out perilously above her; she gave it one glance
and decided not to look again. The man urged her through
the doorway of the building and she crouched to scramble
under the leaning architrave. The door was stuck half-open

and she had to wriggle past it, praying all the time that the
building was not about to collapse on top of her. Behind her,
she could feel Judy following, and a moment later the room
was lit by the thin beam of the torch.
'Oh, my God,' Polly breathed, and heard Judy draw in
her breath.
The room was small and you could see that even before
the bomb had fallen it had been no more than a slum. The
walls had old cracks as well as new - cracks that were thick
with black dirt and mould. The one wall that was left
undamaged was encrusted with a huge patch of damp,
riddled with fungus. Half the ceiling had come down in a
muddle of laths and plaster. The fireplace was filled with
soot and rubble from the chimney, and didn't look as if
there had been a fire in it for months, despite the bitter
weather. The only furniture was an old table, now
smothered with dust and rubble, a broken armchair and a
chamber pot.
In one corner was a heap of what looked like old blankets
and possibly a mattress, and on this lay an old woman. She
was crumpled like a broken toy, her face creased with fear
and pain, and across the lower part of her body lay a large
beam of wood which had fallen in from the wall. There was
more rubble all around her, and it was a miracle that her
upper body had not been crushed as well.
Polly and Judy scrambled across the room and knelt
beside her. Polly touched the withered cheek.
'My name's Polly Dunn. I've come to help you. Tell me
where it hurts.'
'Every bleedin' where,' the woman muttered. Her voice
sounded like a creaking gate and every word came with
difficulty. 'Bleedin' Jerries.'
Polly cast a swift glance over the woman's chest and
shoulders. There was no blood and she ran gentle fingers
over her. Apart from a few swear words, the woman made

no response. There didn't appear to be anything broken
there, and Polly heaved a sigh of relief.
The pelvis and legs were a different matter. From the
waist down, the old woman was pinned beneath the beam
and a mound of bricks and mortar. There were probably
dreadful injuries there, and even moving the weight from
her body could cause more harm. Polly stared at the sight,
biting her lips and wondering what to do. She glanced
uncertainly at Judy and as she did so the woman groaned
and began to vomit.
'She's bleeding, look,' Judy whispered, pointing at the
rubble, and Polly saw a stream of blood trickling between
the bricks and soaking the dust and plaster. 'If we don't
manage to-stop it--'
Polly nodded sharply. The woman would bleed to death.
'We've got to get the stuff off her. But carefully. Where's
the son?'
'I'm here.' The man came forward, staring fearfully at the
mess. 'Is she going to be all right? Ma?'
'I don't know. We'll do our best, but it's dangerous - we
don't know what the injuries are. We've got to stop the
bleeding, so the first thing to do is get some of this rubble
off her. It's heavy, but we've got to be very careful not to
hurt her any more, or even take things off too suddenly.
You stay beside her, make sure all that sick's wiped away
out of her mouth.'
Polly began to lift bricks away, passing them to Judy to
toss into the corner of the room. Together they worked
while the man cradled his mother's head in his hands,
imploring her not to go, not to leave him, not to die, for Gawd's sake, not to die .. .
The blood continued to seep from under the rubble,
soaking their clothes. How much has she got in her, Judy
wondered, and how much can she afford to lose? She tried
to remember what she'd been taught in the First-Aid classes
all the WVS staff and volunteers had done. Was it eight

pints? A gallon? But this woman looked so tiny and
withered, she surely couldn't have that much blood in her
body. And how much had she lost already? She's going to
die, she thought suddenly, and her heart seemed to drop.
She's going to die.
The old woman was rambling now, swearing at the
Germans, at the Government, at the bombers, at the ARP.
She called out for people she must have known during her
life - Johnny, our Moll, Fred and Rags, presumably the
family dog. She went further back and cried for her father
and mother, who must have been dead for years. Her son
pleaded with her to come back to the present, to know that
he was with her: 'It's your Jack, Mum, don't you know me,
your Jack what's looked after you all these years. Don't say
you don't know me, Ma, I can't bear it . . . It's your Jack,
your Jack .. .'
Their voices went on and on, calling and shouting against
each other, and the anguish of it tore at Polly's heart. It
might be a slum, but this was a mother and son who'd stuck
together through who knew what bad times, and now they'd
come to this terrible end. Like Judy, she was sure the old
woman was going to die. Too much blood was being lost,
too much injury suffered. And yet she could not give up. As
long as the old heart could still beat, as long as the tattered
lungs could still draw breath to scream, there must be hope.
While there was life, there must still be hope . . .
At last there was nothing left on the crumpled body but
the beam itself. It lay across the woman's abdomen,
crushing her body and one leg which was curled beneath
her. Polly stared at it. She saw the mess of torn flesh and
broken bone, the twisted internal organs that should never
be revealed, and wondered sickly how the old woman had
survived this long.
'Oh Polly,' Judy whispered in her ear. 'Whatever are we
going to do?'Chris had been the first to spot the approaching wave of
bombers.
He had been working overtime in the Dockyard until
noon, then gone home for his Sunday dinner. He'd had a
wash at the sink, grabbed his tin helmet, fastened his
brassard to his arm and then cycled out to the hotel, looking
forward to his date with Judy later on. She was a real
smasher, he thought, his heart quickening a little, but it was
a shame she was engaged. Still, she'd agreed to go for a walk
with him so maybe it wasn't really that serious. If it was,
Chris wouldn't push things, but he couldn't help hoping...
He arrived at the hotel and went straight up in the lift,
thinking of the hour or so he and Judy had spent trapped
inside. Good old lift, he thought affectionately, watching the
walls as it creaked its way up. At least you were on my side.
The lift shuddered to a stop and he got out and climbed the
fire-escape ladder to the roof.
The roof was a large, flat area with a variety of small,
square buildings planted apparently at random over it. Some
were water tanks, one was the Fire Brigade lookout and one
was the ROC Observation Post - little more than a shack,
with a table inside on which lay a map with the pivoting
plotting instrument mounted on top. The Observers also
had a small wooden 'caboose' where they had a chair or two,
a stove and a kettle. Spud Murphy, Chris's fellow Observer,
was already inside, brewing up.
Chris took a quick look around. The view from up here
must be the best in Pompey, he thought. To the north, you
could see the green bulk of Portsdown Hill, pocked with
chalk pits, with the whole city spread between. You could
see all the bomb damage -- streets of demolished houses,
huge piles of rubble, the ruins of churches, shops and, worst
of all, the Guildhall, a gutted shell amidst the desolation.
His heart grew cold as he gazed at it.
Turning west, he could see the broad, glittering harbour,
always crowded with naval ships, and the Camber, driving

into the heart of Old Portsmouth, where the fishermen and
small commercial ships came. The square, white tower of
the cathedral looked deceptively strong and tranquil in the
late afternoon light and he wondered how long it would be
before that too was blasted to smithereens.
The Royal Beach faced south, over the Solent towards the
Isle of Wight. On an April Sunday afternoon in peacetime
this would have been thronged with yachts and sailing
dinghies and the beach crowded with families bathing and
having picnics on the shingle beach. Today there were just a
few, probably people who lived close by. Most of the others
who might have come out would be staying at home,
wanting to be within reach of shelter in case of a raid, and
South Parade Pier itself was almost deserted. Chris had been
to a good few dances there; like most young men and
women he was keen on the big bands and had never failed to
be there when Joe Loss, Ambrose or Sid Phillips were
performing. He wondered if Judy had been there on those
nights too - maybe with that fiance of hers - and thought
wistfully of taking her himself. He hoped that nothing
would happen to spoil their date tonight.
Spud poked his head out of the caboose. 'Tea up, mate.
Anything in sight?'
Chris shook his head, turning to gaze eastwards across the
sweep of Langstone Harbour, smaller and shallower than
the main harbour and used mostly by fishermen and leisure
sailors. It was from that direction, over Hayling Island, that
enemy attackers usually came, or sometimes from the Isle of
Wight. The two Observers who had been on duty came out
of the shack. There was nothing to report, they said, and
clattered off down the steel ladder, leaving Chris and Spud
in charge.
The ROC had been formed in the 1920s, almost entirely
of volunteers like Chris. Until only a fortnight ago, it had
been simply the 'Observer Corps', the title 'Royal' having
been conferred upon it in recognition of its services during

the Battle of Britain, last September. There was talk of their
being allowed to wear RAF uniform as well and Chris hoped
this would happen. He still felt disappointed at not being
able to join up, and to wear His Majesty's uniform and be
seen to be a part of it all would go a long way to make up for
that.
Carrying their mugs of tea, Chris and Spud went into the
lookout post. As well as the table with the map and plotting
instrument, there was a telephone and a large pair of
binoculars. It was one Observer's job to scan the skies,
keeping a constant watch for aircraft, while the other plotted
their position and course. The details were then telephoned
through to the Winchester Observation Centre, where the
plotters worked at their large central table, using long poles
to move the counters that represented the aircraft into their
positions. With information coming through headphones
from three posts at once, each observing the same aircraft, it
was possible for the controllers on the dais overlooking the
table to see exactly what was happening in the sky many
miles away, and to take appropriate action.
Chris picked up his binoculars and immediately spotted a
plane, heading for the Fleet Air Arm airfield at Lee-on-the
Solent. 'Friendly Fleet Air Arm,' he reported, and Spud
quickly plotted its position and wrote it in the log book. Friendly civil. Friendly coastal. Each one was plotted and
reported to Winchester. The overall picture was important,
even when there were no raiders.
The afternoon wore on, the few people who were still on
the beach went home and the sun began to dip towards the
horizon. It looked as though his date with Judy would be
safe. Spud took his turn with the binoculars and Chris made
another mug of tea and began to relax.
His four-hour duty was almost over when he picked up
the glasses for the last time and caught sight of the dark
spots far away over Hayling Island.
'Raiders,' he said sharply, and Spud, who was writing up

the log book, snapped to attention. 'Blimey, there's bloody
hundreds of them . . . Get their positions plotted, quick!'
Spud bent over the map which covered the table. It was
marked with Ordnance Survey grid references and, with the
pivoting mapping instrument mounted in the centre, he
could estimate the attackers' present position as well as their
direction. At the same time, reports began to come in from
the post further along the coast, giving details of the
invaders as they passed, and Spud began to set the
Micklethwait in position. 'Altitude?'
'Around 10,000 feet. Junker Ju88As . . . Dornier Do 17s
... Heinkels . . . They're sending the bloody lot over - this
is going to be a big one . . . Coming in fast now -- get on to
HQ.. . .'
Spud grabbed the phone and spoke urgently. '3M.3
calling, numerous planes seen 7592, flying north, height
10,000 feet.' By the time he had finished, Chris was spitting
out more information. Continuing to operate the
Micklethwait, Spud relayed the details, knowing that in
Winchester everyone would be agog, watching the development
of what must be a big raid. But a big raid over which
city? 'It's going to be Pompey,' he said, taking a quick look
through the window. 'Bugger it, Chris, it's going to be us!'
Almost before he had finished speaking, the sirens began
to wail. The steel ladder rattled and the Chief Observer thrust his way into the tiny shelter. 'What's going on?'
'Large formation over Hayling, sir.' Chris handed him
the spare set of binoculars. 'Looks like a hell of a raid.'
'You've been on to Winchester?'
The question was unnecessary. Spud was still on the
phone, reporting the progress of the invaders. 'Looks like
they're coming here, sir.' He thought regretfully of his date
with Judy. 'Blimey, they're like a flock of bloody starlings
coming home to roost!' The sky was darkening with the
mass of aircraft. In a few moments, the drone of their
engines would be audible; a few moments after that and the

bombs would begin to fall. 'Hey, look, ours are up now!' A
flock of wings had risen into the air down the coast,
somewhere near Chichester. 'That'll see them off! Atta
boy!'
The three men watched tensely. Chris had forgotten
about going off duty. The chances were that his relief
wouldn't get here now. Like most of the Observers, the next
two on duty were Portsmouth boys and able to live at home.
If the raid were bad, they might well get caught or be unable
to make it through the streets. Observers had been known to
be stuck in their posts for hours, sometimes days, especially
during the snowstorms of January, and you never left your
post until relief arrived -- not if you wanted to remain an
Observer.
Chris continued to watch the planes, still rapping out
estimates of position and altitude to Spud who swiftly
checked them on the map and relayed them to the plotting
rooms at Winchester. There was no time for anyone to think
about being off duty. No time to think of anything else but
the raiders, and the urgent need to prevent their deadly
progress.
'One's down!' Chris could see the balloon of black smoke
and the spurt of flame as a Dornier spiralled into the sea.
'Oh, bloody well done!' But one was not enough. Ten would
not be enough, nor twenty, out of the mass of aircraft still
steadily approaching. 'There's bloody hundreds of them,' he
said again. 'Bloody hundreds'
The siren had wailed into silence. The hotel was almost
certainly deserted now, with everyone in it sheltering in the
basements, just as all those in Portsmouth would now be
crouching in their Andersons or pushing into the street
shelters. Those who could not would be huddled under the
stairs, while some who refused to shelter at all would be
sitting defiantly in their own back rooms, convinced that if a
bomb had their name on it, it would find them wherever
they were. And some, ignoring the danger, would be

to go out into the streets, ready to put out
incendiaries, fight fires, rescue the trapped from bombed
buildings or give First Aid to the injured.
Judy would be doing that, Chris thought. Judy would be
out there now, setting up an Incident Enquiry Centre or out
on an ambulance somewhere. Oh God, he prayed, keep her
safe. Don't let her be hurt.
The planes were almost overhead. The men jammed their
tin helmets on their heads and watched tautly as one
streaked low, heading straight for South Parade Pier. The
roar of its engine shook the wooden turret, shook the hotel
itself. Frozen, Chris stared as a stick of bombs fell away
from its belly - four of them in a line, each falling into the
sea and sending up a huge spray of foam and shingle. Then
he saw that the plane was coming over the pier and straight
for the hotel. There'll be another bomb, he thought, it'll be
a direct hit. Someone grabbed his arm and he turned to see
the Chief yelling at him, the words inaudible but the
meaning clear. 'Get downstairs, you fool!' He found himself
pushed unceremoniously towards the steel ladder and
tumbled down it, ducking into the rest-room at the bottom
just as the explosion shook the building.
'Hell's teeth!' Spud muttered in his ear as the noise died
slowly away. 'That was flaming close.'
Cautiously, they got to their feet. There were only the
three of them there; everyone else had gone down to the basement,
leaving mugs of tea and half-eaten buns on the tables.
Two mugs had fallen to the floor, spreading their contents
on the linoleum, while one had stayed miraculously upright,
its surface barely rippled. The windows had shattered and
when Chris removed his tin helmet a mass of broken glass
showered to the floor. He found shards embedded in his
jumper, and wondered briefly what would have happened if
he had been in shirtsleeves.
'Right, let's get back up to the post,' the Chief said

tersely. 'Winchester will be wondering what the hell's going
on.'
They scrambled up the ladder. The wooden shack was
still standing. But there was a gaping hole in its roof now,
and as they crowded through the doorway they realised at
once what a narrow escape they had had.
The fifth bomb of the stick had landed behind the hotel.
Apart from the shattered windows there was little damage.
But it had dug a crater in the street below, and a paving slab
had been blown high into the air and had landed on the table
where, a few seconds earlier, Chris had been staring through
binoculars and Spud had been plotting the positions of the
enemy aircraft.

Cissie and Alice huddled in the Anderson, clutching each
other's hands in the darkness. Both were worried about
Polly and Judy, somewhere out there amongst all the
bombs, and both were anxious about Dick, still in the Royal
Hospital. It had been damaged once already in the first Blitz
and patched up again, but who was to say it wouldn't be hit
again? 'They don't bomb the same place twice,' Alice said,
trying to be a comfort to her daughter, but Cissie shook her
head and a hot tear fell on to the back of her hand.
'I can't believe that, Mum. All these thousands of
bombs -' they both ducked lower at the roar and vibration
of a bomb falling not far away '-- they've got to land
somewhere. I don't see how they can miss a big place like
the Royal.'
'But aren't they more likely to aim for the Dockyard? I
mean, the ships are more vital to them, aren't they, and the
repair shops. I reckon anywhere else just gets hit by
accident.'
'Mum, they don't care where they hit now. All that stuff
about only aiming for military targets - that's all gone by the
board. They just want to destroy and kill wherever they can.
And if they can't kill us, they'll frighten us to death. It's

what they call terror bombing.' Cissie clutched her hand
even more tightly as another explosion rocked the earth and
the corrugated iron roof of the Anderson shifted and
screeched. 'Oh my God, my God! Oh, Dick - where are
you? I want him back, Mum, I want him home!'
Alice was in tears. 'He's better off where he is, Cis. He's
being looked after, he's safe.'
'He's not! He's not! The Royal's already been bombed
once. He could be being bombed now, this very minute.'
Cissie had lost all control. 'At least if he was home I'd know
what was happening, I could look after him myself. I'm
going to get him, Mum.' She half rose to her feet,
crouching in the low space, and Alice groped for her and
grasped her coat.
'You can't! Don't be daft, our Cis! Sit down at once and
pull yourself together!' Her voice sharpened, became a
reminder of the days when Cissie had been a child and her
mother a strict disciplinarian. 'Sit down this minute!'
Shaken out of her hysteria, Cissie sank back on to the
narrow bunk, trembling with sobs. Alice put her arm around
her and drew her close, and Cissie leaned her head on her
mother's shoulder, feeling the comfort of her mother's
embrace just as a moment ago she had felt her authority.
'Oh, Mum,' she said brokenly. 'Oh Mum, I don't know
that I can stand any more of this.'
'I know, love,' Alice murmured, stroking her hair. 'I
know. This is the worst we've ever known, and we've been
through enough in our time, heaven knows. One world war
already, the 'flu epidemic that took your dad, the hard times
we went through in the thirties - and now this. But we've
got to bear up, Cis. It's no use giving way to it all. We've got
to keep going somehow, and keep a smile on our lips while
we do. It don't do none of us no good to let it get on top of
us.'
'A smile!' Cissie said, with an attempt at a laugh. 'I don't
reckon anyone feels like smiling tonight.' The noise was still

going on outside - the drone of planes, the rattle of antiaircraft
fire, the sudden shattering roar of exploding bombs.
'I don't see how anyone can feel like smiling.'
'Doesn't matter what we feel like,' Alice said with a
return to her sharpness. 'It's putting a smile on our faces
that counts, not what we feel like inside. It makes yon feel better, smiling does, and it makes other people feel better to
see you do it. So you try it now, Cis. Come on.'
'Oh Mum!' This time, the laugh was unforced. 'Who's
going to see me? It's pitch dark in here. Who's going to
know if I'm smiling or not?'
' You'll know,' Alice said firmly. 'And so will I. We'll keep
each other cheerful, Cis, same as we've done all those other
times. Now come on, put a smile on your face and let's play
a game of something to pass the time.'
'A game?' Cissie repeated, but Alice heard the wobbly
grin in her voice. 'And just what game d'you think we ought
to play, Mum - I Spy With My Little Eye?

'What are we going to do?' Judy repeated. She stared
around at the dimly lit room, the shadowy corners heaped
with rubbish, at the torn, broken walls, at the heavy beam
that still lay across the crushed body. The darkness and the
squalor of it pressed in on her and she felt the familiar worm
of panic.
'I don't know,' Polly whispered back. 'I don't know what
to do. I don't know what anyone can do.' She turned and
saw the woman's son staring too. 'We need help. We need
men - a doctor.'
'She's 'ad it,' he said tonelessly. 'She's 'ad it, ain't she?
Nobody can't get her out of this.'
'We'll fetch help,' Polly said again, and turned to Judy.
'Go and see if you can find someone. Bring them here. Say
they must come. We need at least two men, strong men, and
a doctor. We've got to have help.'
Judy stared at her. 'But I can't leave you.'

'Go!' Polly shouted, and her voice was edged with fear.
'Go on, go! Get some help! We can't do it by ourselves. Please, Judy!'
Judy's face crumpled but she turned and scurried out of
the building. Outside, the sky was crimson with flames and
even the beams of the searchlights were dimmed. She could
still hear planes overhead, and the sudden reverberation of
exploding bombs. No one will come, she thought despairingly.
Not for one old woman.
She ran out of the alley and looked both ways. Several
shops and offices were ablaze now, surrounded by firemen.
Over the road, she could see a huddle of people round
something on the pavement. She ran over and caught at an
arm. 'What's happening? Is there a doctor anywhere here?'
'Kiddy hurt,' a man said briefly. 'Doctor's looking after
her now.'
'Oh.' Judy gazed helplessly at the scene. The child was
stretched on the pavement, clearly unconscious, and a
woman was kneeling beside her. She must be the doctor Judy
had heard of the young woman doctor who had been so
brave in the bombing, coming out to help whatever the
danger. She wanted to go to her, beg her to come and help
the old woman who was dying in the slum room nearby, but
she knew she could not. This was a child, in, equal or
perhaps worse danger. The doctor wouldn't leave her, and
Judy couldn't ask it.
A van screeched to a halt and Judy looked round and saw
Gladys Shaw scrambling down from.the driver's seat. Her
mother Peggy came round from the passenger's side.
'What's the trouble? Does anyone need taking to the
hospital?' She looked down at the child on the pavement
and the young woman doctor beside her, then pulled open
the back doors of the van and dragged out a stretcher. 'Get
her into the ambulance. I'll take her straight away.'
Carefully, the doctor and two or three helpers began to lift
the small body on to it.

'I'll go with her,' someone volunteered. 'I'm her auntie,
I'll look after her.' There was a hasty consultation with the
doctor, and then she pulled herself up into the van with the
little girl. The crowd sighed thankfully and began to hurry
away to find shelter.
The doctor stood up and pushed back her hair. Judy
grabbed her arm. 'Don't go! Please - there's an old woman
in a building over there. She's trapped by a wooden beam
and she's bleeding terribly. My aunt's in there and we've
been lifting stuff off her, but we can't manage any more. We
need help.' She called out to some of the departing crowd:
'Can some of you come - please? She'll die if we can't get
her out.'
A couple of men turned and came back. 'Who is it?
Where is she?'
'Over there.' Judy pointed. 'Her son's in there with her,
and my auntie. We're both WVS, she drives an ambulance,
too - it's that van over there. The ceiling's all fallen in and
the old lady's in a terrible way, crying and screaming and
being sick.' They were all hurrying across the road now,
leaping across the snaking hoses of the firemen, dodging
past vehicles and fallen masonry. Judy ducked down the
dark little alleyway and led them into the courtyard. 'She's
in there.'
There was a brief pause. The two men, the doctor and
Judy all stood for a moment, staring at the building, at the
wall that still leaned outwards, looking as if it might topple
at any moment. Then the doctor turned to Judy and began
to speak.
Judy never knew what she had been going to say. At that
moment, there was a tremendous explosion as a bomb fell
only a few streets away. What glass there was left in the
surrounding windows blew outwards, spattering them with
lethal shards. One of the men screamed and clapped both
hands over his eyes, and the other jerked him and Judy to
the ground. The doctor dropped beside her and then cried

out and dragged them all to their feet again, pointing wildly
at the building above them.
The wall that had been leaning so precariously outwards
seemed to shiver and bend in the flickering light of the
flames that burned the sky. It buckled slowly and began to
fall into the courtyard. There was a shattering roar, and
Judy and the others scuttled back into the alleyway just in
time.
The narrow passage was filled with dust; thick, fine,
choking dust. Judy retched and struggled for breath. She
could see nothing in the sudden swirling darkness; she could
feel only the urgent hands of the young doctor, thrusting
her towards the entrance to the alleyway, towards what fresh
air there was. Her mind was filled with the compelling need
to breathe, to stay alive. I've got to get out of here, she
thought, I've got to get out. And then, following swiftly,
another thought: But Polly's still inside. . .
'Polly!' She turned and tried to run back into the alley.
'Polly - my aunt - she was in there! She was in that building! We've got to go back in and get her out!'

Chapter Twelve

By daybreak, the city once again lay devastated. The mine
that had destroyed Maddens Hotel had also damaged the
town railway station and the main Post Office. Kingston
Prison had been hit, and the railway line behind it blocked.
There were massive fires in the Dockyard and many homes
and businesses were hit. Over a hundred people had been
killed and hundreds more injured. Once again, the Emergency
Centres were busy finding homes for those who had
been bombed out.
Cissie and her mother crept out of their Anderson soon
after dawn. April Grove had escaped damage, and people all
along the row of long, narrow gardens leading to the
allotments were making their way up their paths, hoping the
gas was on so that they could make tea. Cissie went straight
through the house to the front, hoping to see Polly and Judy
coming home. Alice followed her.
There were quite a few people out there already. Frank
Budd, who had spent the night firewatching, was already
setting off to go to work in the Dockyard and Tommy
Vickers was coming down the street, stumbling a little with
weariness. The two men paused for a moment and Alice and
Cissie joined them.
'Bad night,' Frank said, shaking his head. 'There'll be all
sorts of damage done. You could read a newspaper by the
light of the flames. I suppose it was the city centre and the
Yard got it worst again.'
Tommy looked at him. Usually a bright, cheery man with
a quip for every occasion, he looked, as Frank put it later,

'proper done in'. His eyes were red-rimmed with smoke and
fatigue, his face drawn and grey. He rubbed a hand across
his face.'I just come from Powerscourt Road. There've been more
bombs there.' He shook his head slowly. 'Kids - boys -- in
the cellar of one of those houses that were bombed last year.
Where young Kathy Simmons lived before she come to
October Street.' His voice was trembling a little. 'Reckon
they had some sort o' den there - you know what boys are.
Collecting stuff - shrapnel, that sort of thing.' He took a
deep breath while Frank stared at him. 'Seems like they had
a bomb in there with them - unexploded. They must have
found it and took it there.' He stopped.
'A bomb?' Frank said. 'Why, the silly young fools. Didn't
they realise it could go off at any time?' He stopped and
looked more closely at Tommy. 'What is it, Tom? What
happened?'
'The place was hit again,' Tommy said wearily, 'and the
bomb went off as well. They'd got out of the cellar, they
were out in the garden when it went, but. . . He looked at
Frank and the women as if begging them to say it wasn't
true. 'They were youngsters from round here, that's the
worst of it. That Micky Baxter. And young Jimmy Cross.
And that little Nash boy - Cyril, is it? - the one that always
looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Not that we
found much of him,' he added bitterly. 'Blown to bits, poor
little tyke. And Jimmy Cross - well, he's lost a leg, blown
clean off, and they reckon he'll be lucky if that's all the
damage.'
Cissie stared at him. 'But youngsters like that ought to
have been down in their shelters. What on earth were they
doing out there? What were their mums and dads thinking of?'
'I don't suppose Nancy Baxter even knew Micky was
out,' Alice said. 'She's not home herself at night all that

much. But the other two - well, I'd have thought they'd be
better looked after.'
'It'll have been that Micky Baxter who was the ringleader,'
Frank said grimly. 'There's always trouble where
that boy is. What about him, Tom? Was he hurt?'
'I dunno. I don't think he was, much, just knocked out by
the blast.' Tommy rubbed his face again. 'But those other
two - I tell you, I don't never want to see nothing like that
again. That little Cyril Nash - he used to come round here
with his guy, Firework Night, asking for pennies. My Freda
always used to give him something, she said he had such a
sweet face. I dunno how she's going to take this.'
'And Jimmy Cross too,' Alice said sadly. 'I used to live in
the same street as his grandpa when I was little - played
together, we did. They were a nice family, the Crosses.
What a terrible thing.'
Tommy went indoors and Frank continued on his way.
Alice and Cissie looked at each other.
'I'm worried sick about our Polly and Judy,' Cissie said,
her voice shaking. 'Something's happened to them, Mum,
I'm sure of it. Something awful's happened to them.'

'I just don't know what we ought to do,' Alice said. She'd
managed to persuade Cissie to come back indoors and boil
up a kettle for some tea; just for once, the gas supply seemed
to have survived the raid. That didn't mean it wouldn't be
cut off later, of course, if there was danger from an
unexploded bomb or some fracture further along the mains.
But for now, you could at least make a hot drink. Alice put a
couple of slices of bread under the grill too, but when she
spread margarine and Marmite on the toast Cissie shook her
head.
'I couldn't eat a thing, Mum, not till I know what's
happened to them. And there's Dick as well, he's supposed
to be coming out of hospital in the next day or two. What

am I going to tell him when I go in at visiting time if our
Judy still isn't home?'
'She'll be back by then.' Alice spoke with more conviction
than she felt. 'Bound to be. But I don't know what we can
do about it anyway, Cis. I suppose we could go down the
Emergency Centre. They'll know what's what.'
Cissie began to get to her feet. 'I'll go now.'
'You'll eat your breakfast first.' Once again, Alice's voice
was stern, reminding Cissie of her childhood. 'You don't
take a step out of this house without something inside you.
Eat up your toast now, there's a good girl. You don't want
me to waste it, do you?'
If she'd really been the child her mother seemed to think
she was, Cissie would have retorted that she hadn't wanted
her to make it. But she was a grown woman, for all her
nervousness, and knew that you couldn't afford to waste
good food these days. Alice was right - she did need
something to eat before she went out. So she picked up the
toast and nibbled it, then realised that she really was hungry
and ate it without further argument. She drank the tea and
then got up again.
'I'll go down the Centre now, Mum. You're right, they'll
know what's happened. They might even be there, our Judy
and Polly, having a rest before they come home. They must
have been so busy last night. . .' Her voice wavered again
and then strengthened as Alice too began to make ready for
going out. 'No, you stop here. You need a rest too and I'd
rather there was someone here in case they come while I'm
gone.'
She shrugged on her jacket and let herself out into the
street again. April Grove was busy now, with women at
their doors washing their steps and delivery vans already
beginning to arrive with bread, milk and vegetables. It was a
marvel how people just got on with their lives even after a
night like they'd just been through, Cissie reflected. Mind
you, the baker's van didn't seem to have many loaves to

hand out, and old Mr Briggs who drove it seemed to be
operating his own rationing system ('No, Mrs Kinch, you
'ad one yesterday, you can't 'ave got through that already'),
while his horse seemed nervous, as if it had been frightened
all night, which it probably had. But the milkman was
whistling cheerfully and the burly man from the greengrocer's
was weighing out potatoes as if he didn't have a care
in the world. So perhaps the raid hadn't been so bad after
all, she thought hopefully as she hurried along.
It was a different matter when she came out into the main
road. There were no buses running, and she could see a pall
of smoke further south, over Portsea. A woman walked past
crying, with a handkerchief held up to her face, and there
was a group of workmen standing on a corner looking
stunned. Cissie began to feel anxious again, a heavy sense of
dread settling over her like a cloud. She thought again of the
little boy who had been killed and the one who would be
'lucky if he only lost a leg'. How many others were there like
that?
Her chest and throat tight with anxiety, Cissie almost ran
along the pavement. I ought to go to the hospital too, she
thought, and let Dick know we're all right. Even if they
don't let me in, I ought to go. But I don't know that we're all
right, she reminded herself. Until I know where Polly and
my Judy are, I don't know that at all.
Dick would be all right, anyway, tucked up in bed and
well looked after. He was over the worst now, and yesterday
they'd told her he'd be home in a few days. He'd be
worrying about them, she was sure, and the minute she
knew about Polly and Judy she'd go straight to the Royal
and get a message to him, but just for now her sister and
daughter came first.
She arrived at the Centre at last. It was thronged with
people and as Cissie came round the corner and saw the
queue her heart leaped with relief. Not for all those poor
souls who'd been bombed out, of course, but just because

she knew that if there were so many people needing help it
was no wonder Polly and Judy hadn't been able to get home.
They'd been there all night, handing out cocoa and
sandwiches, and probably that's where they were still. Some
of the daytime volunteers might have been bombed as well,
or just couldn't get through the streets to take over. That
was all it was. She'd see them the minute she went through
the door, looking tired but cheerful, glad as always to be able
to lend a hand.
Getting through the door wasn't so easy, however. The
people waiting were reluctant to let her through. 'Oy, no
queue-jumping if you don't mind! Go to the back. It's first
come, first served.'
'I need to see my daughter.'
'You've got a wait, then,' said a woman with pinched lips
and a deep vertical line between her eyebrows. 'Gawd knows
what they're doing in there, but whatever it is they're
handing out there's not going to be much left for us poor
buggers. We bin here since five, and hardly moved.'
'No, she's a volunteer - a helper. She's been out all night.
I just want to make sure she's all right. And my sister too,
she drives an ambulance. Please let me through,' Cissie
begged. 'I've got my hubby in hospital, too, in the Royal,
he's had pneumonia. I've got to go and let him know we're
all right.'
'In the Royal?' A man standing just in front of them
turned. 'Well, you'd better go and see if he's all right too.
Didn't you know it got hit last night?'
'The Royal?' Cissie stared at him, her heart suddenly
cold. 'The Royal Hospital got hit?'
''S right. Mine fell on it. Hundreds killed, so I heard.
There was ambulances backwards- and forwards all night,
and what I heard was, the Casualty Ward got the worst of it.
Maybe that's where your girl's gone, if your sis was one of
the drivers.'
Cissie felt sick. She put out one hand and leaned against

the door jamb, swept by a wave of dizziness. The woman
who had been reluctant to let her through steadied her with
one arm.
'Here, hold on, ducks. I dare say your girl's all right, and
your sister too. They're probably in here now, dishing out
tea and filling up forms. And if it was just the Casualty that
got hit, your hubby'll be all right. Don't you worry. Now
look, you go on in and make sure they're here and then pop
off to the Royal. Let her through,' she said, raising her voice
to those in front. 'Let this lady through, she's got a girl and
a sister in the volunteers, and her hubby's down the Royal.
Come on, move yourselves!'
The queue shifted, some of those at the front grumbling a
little but, as the details were passed along the line, changing
dramatically as they went, Cissie was allowed to pass. By the
time she reached the head of the queue the whispers had
arrived before her, and she was receiving sympathetic
glances. 'Lost her hubby and daughter and sister in the
raid,' someone murmured as she passed, and Cissie swayed
again. Suppose it were true! Oh, let it not be true, she
begged.
To her relief, the woman pouring tea was Annie
Chapman. 'Cis! Whatever are you doing here? I thought
you'd be at the hospital.'
Cissie stared at her. 'At the hospital? You mean the
Royal?'
'Well, no. They were taking people to Queen Alexandra
or St James's. The Royal was hit, you know.' Annie's hand
flew to her mouth in consternation. 'Oh, my goodness. Your
hubby's in there, isn't he? How is he? Have you been to
see?'
'No - I didn't even know about it till a few minutes ago.'
Cissie put her hand to her head. 'I was looking for Polly and
Judy - they never came home. I thought I'd find them here,
but. . .' Annie's words sank in and she caught her breath.

'D'you mean to say they've been taken to hospital, too?
They've been hurt?'
Annie looked dismayed. 'Cis, I'm ever so sorry to break it
to you like this. That's what I heard, anyway. They were in
some building when it collapsed. They can't have been
killed,' she added swiftly. 'They can't, can they, or they
wouldn't have been taken to hospital. But that's all I've
heard. I'm sorry.'
Cissie felt as if all her surroundings - the hall full of
people, the noise, the clatter of kettles and teacups - had
fallen away from her, leaving her swinging giddily over a
yawning abyss. For a moment she was aware of nothing but
a deadly fear, a horror of the roaring darkness that rushed in
upon her. Then hands gripped her and she felt herself
guided to a chair and her head pressed gently between her
knees. Someone put a cup to her lips and she tasted cold
water. She spluttered and swallowed, and gradually the
sickness receded and she was aware once more of the clatter
in the hall, the hubbub of voices. Slowly, she lifted her
head. Annie was crouching beside her.
'I'm ever so sorry, Cis,' she said again. 'All we heard was
that they'd gone to hospital - we don't know which one it
was ourselves. They'll let us know later, but it was such a
bad night, everything's just an awful muddle.'
Cissie nodded. 'What am I going to do?' she asked
bleakly. 'I don't know where to go first. Someone said there
was hundreds killed in the Royal. I've got to find out what's
happened to Dick. But if Judy's been hurt -- and our Poll and
they might be in QA or St James's . . .' A fresh thought
struck her. 'St James's! That's the mental hospital! Does that
mean--?'
'It just means they were taking casualties there,' Annie
said firmly. 'It doesn't mean anything else at all. Cis, I don't
know what to tell you. We can't even ring up - the
telephones are mostly out of action again, and what lines
there are they need for the emergency services. It's like a

madhouse out there.' She bit her lip, obviously regretting
that choice of phrase, and turned as someone called her.
'Look, I'm sorry, Cis, I'll have to go. You can see how we're
placed here. Tell you what I think, you might as well go to
the Royal first, since it's nearest, and then when you've
made sure your Dick's all right, you could go on up to St
James's or QA. But why not pop in home first, because they
might be back by then. A lot of people who aren't hurt bad
are being sent home, and I dare say that's what's happened
to your two.'
Cissie nodded and stood up. She handed the cup back to
one of the other volunteers and made her way out of the
hall, not hearing the anxious enquiries from those who had
let her through. They looked at her stricken face and shook
their heads sadly. 'Shame, poor soul,' the whisper ran, but
Cissie heard nothing. She ran blindly through the streets,
seeing nothing of the damage, anxiety beating at her mind
like a bird with broken wings. Dick - Polly - Judy - what
had happened to them all? And she was gripped by a dark
certainty that they were all dead.

The Royal Hospital had been hit by a mine. It had blown
the Casualty Ward apart, and the entrance where patients
were being brought by ambulance. Everyone in the reception
area was killed. There'd been several ambulances
arriving at the time but most of the drivers had been outside
and blown clear. Those who had been hurt had been taken
to St James's.
'But what about my hubby?' Cissie asked desperately. She
didn't know where to go. The hospital forecourt was a mass
of rubble and splintered wood and glass, and there were
soldiers, sailors and ARP men pulling at it, trying both to
clear the forecourt and to find anyone who might have been
buried. Their faces were set and Cissie saw to her horror
that there was already a row of objects lying on the ground

nearby, humped under torn and bloody blankets. Bodies,
she thought, and panic edged her voice.
One of the ARP men looked up. His face was grimed with
dust and his eyes were red and sore-looking. He rubbed the
back of his hand across his face and said, 'What's up, love?
Who're you looking for?'
'My husband. He's in hospital here.' She glanced
fearfully at the row of bodies. 'How can I find out if he's all
right?'
'Brought in last night, was he?'
She shook her head. 'No, he's been here for weeks now.
He had pneumonia. I don't know where to go.'
'He'll have been took down the basements,' the man said.
'He wouldn't have been up here. You'll have to go and ask.'
He turned away. 'Sorry, love, but we're busy here, you can
see.' Someone called out and he went across to help a small
knot of men who were carefully lifting a beam away from a
heap of smashed bricks. Cissie made to follow him, then
stopped abruptly as she caught sight of red, bloodstained
flesh, the jagged end of a bone and a fragment of the blue
serge worn by sailors.
Sickened, she turned away. Picking her way through the
rubble, avoiding the bodies, she eventually reached a door
where a crowd of people were gathering, all seeking
information about friends and relatives who were patients.
Three or four nurses were sitting at makeshift desks with
lists in front of them, looking harassed. Cissie joined the
queue, listening anxiously.
'No, nobody in that ward was hurt. All the patients from
that part of the hospital who could walk went down to the
basements. There were several people in the reception area
when the mine hit, and they were all killed - a doctor, some
nurses, some new patients coming in and a sailor who was
helping on one of the ambulances. Yes, there were some
women ambulance drivers as well, they were taken to St
James's.' The nurse looked up as Cissie reached the head of

the queue. 'Men's Medical? If he was able to walk he'd have
gone to the basement. They took quite a lot of bed patients
there too, before the hospital was struck. Oh, a chest patient. . .' She consulted her list, then turned to the nurse
sitting beside her. 'Where did chest patients go, Morrison?
Weren't they going through the hallway on their way to the
shelter?'
The other nurse nodded. 'They'd just gone through.
Nobody was hurt,' she added quickly, seeing Cissie's face,
'but some were affected by the dust. The worst patients it
could happen to,' she murmured to the first nurse, and then
looked up at Cissie again. 'Go down that corridor and
through the double doors at the end. Someone there will
help you.'-
Cissie thanked them both and set off, walking as quickly
as she could and wishing she dared break into a run.
Affected by dust - the worst patients it could happen to ...
Oh Dick, she thought, please don't get pneumonia all over
again. Please don't suffer any more.
Through the double doors, things were quieter. The
hubbub of the crowd's anxious questions and the noise of
people working outside was shut out, and Cissie's footsteps
sounded suddenly loud. A Sister put her head out of a door
and looked at her, frowning. Cissie stopped.
'I've come to find out about my husband. He's been in
with pneumonia. I was worried after the raid.'
'Name?' the Sister asked briskly.
'Dick Taylor. Richard Taylor. He was a chest patient.'
The woman gave her a look as if to say she knew that a
man with pneumonia was likely to be a chest patient, and
Cissie felt herself blush. But when the Sister spoke again her
voice was kind. 'He'll be in there. It was unfortunate that
they were rather close to the area affected by the bomb, but
nobody was hurt. You can slip in and see him, but please
don't stay long. It isn't visiting time, you know.'
'I know. But I just had to find out if he was all right.'

Cissie's voice wobbled. 'I've got to try to find my sister too,
she was driving an ambulance last night - and my daughter.
She didn't come home either.' A sob caught in her throat
and she turned away hastily. 'I won't stay long, just to see
he's all right.'
The Sister touched her shoulder. 'Don't worry too much.
It was such a bad raid, they're probably still helping
somewhere. There must be hundreds of people who haven't
managed to get home yet.' She gave Cissie a brief smile and
then turned away as a man pushing a trolley thrust his way
through the doors and hastened towards them. There was a
small girl on the trolley, her face covered in blood and her
legs bent at an unnatural angle.
Cissie pushed through the ward door, tears running down
her cheeks. So many people hurt and killed, so many almost
out of their minds with worry. Just inside the ward, she
stood for a moment looking this way and that, trying to
make sense of the turmoil of beds hastily squashed in
together, the hurrying nurses and the paraphernalia of drips,
bedpans and trolleys.
A nurse came up to her, obviously about to order her out,
but Cissie forestalled her. 'I've come to see my husband.
The Sister outside said I could, just for a few minutes, just
to make sure he's all right.'
The nurse looked as if this was highly irregular but for
once Cissie stood her ground. She hadn't come this far to be
balked now. The woman obviously read this in her face, for
she shrugged and said, 'Well, just for a minute or two, then.
What's his name?'
'Taylor. Richard Taylor.'
'Oh yes, he's over there.' She pointed to a corner. 'He's
rather poorly, I'm afraid. Only a minute, mind,' she added
as Cissie started forwards. 'We're very busy.'
Rather poorly. Cissie barely heard the nurse's last words.
She almost ran across to the bed in the corner and stared

down at her husband. 'Dick! Dick, whatever's happened to
you?'
The figure in the bed stared up at her. 'Cis? Is that you?'
His voice was as rough as sandpaper.
'Yes, of course it is.' She fell on her knees, gripping his
thin hands. 'What's wrong? What's the matter with you?
They said no one was hurt.'
'I wasn't.' He could manage only a few words at a time.
'Got a faceful of dust and muck. Breathed it in. Felt like
sandpaper, it did. Been coughing all night.' He coughed
again, painfully, as if to demonstrate. 'Reckon I've still got
some in me lungs. It could turn to pneumonia again, Cis.'
He clung to her hand. 'I was coming home tomorrow.
Coming home.'
'I know.' She gazed at him in distress. 'Oh Dick.'
'Want to come home,' he wheezed. 'Take me home, Cis. I
don't want to be here any more.'
'Dick, I can't. If you discharge yourself, they won't take
you back again. And if you do get pneumonia . . .'
He fixed his eyes on her pleadingly and she stared back in
despair. The ward was full of noise. It smelt of urine and
faeces and blood, of disinfectant and medicines - the
'hospital' smell that all the wards seemed to share. Nurses
were hurrying to and fro, their shoes clattering on the
linoleum floor. Voices called out, some demanding, some
filled with pain, some in obvious delirium. I wouldn't want
to be here either, Cissie thought.
'I'll take you home the first minute I can,' she promised.
'But you'll have to wait for the doctor to say so. I'm sorry,
love.'
He looked at her and then turned his head away and stared
at the wall. Cissie stroked his hand desperately. 'Dick. Dick,
don't look like that. I can't take you home now. You might be
ill again - you could die.' Her voice rose in anguish. 'Dick, I'd
take you this minute if I could, but--'
'I'm afraid you'll have to go.' An authoritative voice broke

in and she turned quickly to find a tall, weary-looking man
standing beside her. Hastily, Cissie let go of Dick's hand
and scrambled to her feet. The man looked at her severely.
'I don't know who let you in now, but you'll have to come
back at visiting time. That's three o'clock this afternoon.'
'I know, thank you. I've been coming in for the past three
weeks.' Cissie looked back towards the bed. 'My husband -- is he ...'
'I haven't examined him yet,' the doctor stated. 'Sister
will give you any information this afternoon. Now, if you'd
please go.'
'Yes,' Cissie muttered, defeated. She turned back to Dick
and felt for his hand once more. 'Bye now, love. I'll be back
this afternoon. You'll be all right - I'm sure you'll be all
right.' She caught the doctor's eye again, dropped his hand
and moved away, walking uncertainly out of the ward. At
the door she stopped again. The doctor was bent over Dick,
his stethoscope placed on the thin chest. Blinded by tears,
Cissie turned away.
'Three o'clock this afternoon. I'll be back, she promised
Dick silently.
But before then, she had to find out what had happened
to Judy and Polly.

Chapter Thirteen

The noise as the front of the building fell into the courtyard
had been the worst explosion Judy had ever heard. It had
reverberated around the tall, narrow space between the
other buildings, blasting her eardrums and filling her head
with a roar that she thought would never stop. A great cloud
of thick, "choking dust rose into the air and she buried her
face in her sleeve, trying not to breathe in too deeply, the
foul, gritty powder coating her tongue and teeth and making
her gag and retch to get rid of it. I can't stand this, she
thought, I can't stand it any more. Make it go away. Make it
go away.
Someone pulled her sleeve and she lifted her face away
cautiously and saw the young doctor mouthing something at
her. Panic gripped her as she realised that she could hear
nothing. She tried to yell back, but even inside her head her
words sounded distorted and meaningless. She shook her
head, terrified, but there was nothing but a strange, roaring
silence.
She looked around. Dust was swirling around the narrow
space and even the crimson light of the flames outside could
only just penetrate the darkness. With another leap of fear,
she wondered if the buildings here had caught fire, but
could see no fresh flames. It could surely be no more than a
matter of time, though. All this wood and plaster needed
only a spark to set it off, and even as the thought entered her
head she saw a gobbet of flame drift past high above. We've
got to get out of here, she thought, and turned to see if the
entrance had been blocked.

Polly! For a few seconds, she had forgotten her aunt and
the old woman and her son, still trapped in the collapsed
building. She whirled back, to find her arm grasped again by
the doctor.
Judy shook her off angrily, and tried to shout again, but
her voice seemed to have no power. I can't even hear myself,
she thought in despair, but there was no time to think about
that now. She jabbed her finger urgently at the fallen
masonry and made her mouth shape the words, 'My aunt my
aunt --' Whether the other woman understood, she
didn't know, but she evidently remembered that they had
come here to help someone who was trapped, and nodded
quickly before turning herself to follow Judy's pointing
finger.
The two men were getting to their feet as well, shaking
their heads and rubbing their ears. We've all gone deaf, she
thought, and grabbed their arms to drag them in the
direction of the fallen house. Even now there were still
bricks and slates and slabs of mortar tumbling down from
the splintered edges of the roof that was still left, hanging
drunkenly from the adjoining buildings. It only wants one of
them falling on your head to kill you, Judy thought, but she
couldn't give up now. Polly was in there somewhere, and if
she left her she would never forgive herself.
Together, the four of them went cautiously forwards,
each keeping an eye on the wreckage above. To her
amazement, Judy saw that even though almost the entire
front of the building had fallen, the doorway itself was still
standing. The architrave must have been especially strong perhaps
old oak from an ancient sailing ship, strengthened
from years of immersion in salt water. Tentatively, she
pushed at the splintered door and it swung open a foot or
so, then stopped, blocked by rubble. Judy began to wriggle
through the narrow space.
A touch on her arm made her turn. The doctor was
shaking her head, obviously warning her of the danger, but


Judy shook her own head in reply. 'I'm going in there,
whatever happens. She eased herself very carefully round the
edge of the door and picked her way over a pile of bricks.
It hadn't been far to the room where the old woman had
lain, but it was now almost pitch dark in there, with only the
faintest red glow from the flame-lit sky. Judy tried to
remember which way she had gone, and moved very slowly,
feeling her way. If only she had a torch . . .
As if in answer to a prayer, a thin beam of light flickered
in one corner and her heart jumped. Polly had had a torch!
Was she still there, still miraculously alive, perhaps calling
out unheard by her deafened rescuers, shining the torch to
show them the way? Judy tried again to shout, without any
idea as to whether her voice could be heard. Behind her, she
was aware of someone following, one of the men or perhaps
the doctor. The light had disappeared, but she pointed and
felt, rather than saw, the nod of the head, then groped for
her companion's arm. The warmth and solidity reassured
her, and they went on side by side, taking slow, careful steps
and scrabbling with their hands at the mounds of bricks and
plaster.
Something soft met Judy's questing fingers. She froze,
half afraid of what it might be, then moved her hands
cautiously, feeling the softness of fabric coated with gritty
dust. It was a garment of some kind, but was it something
that had been taken off and flung down, or was it still
wrapped around a body? A body, she thought in panic, and
almost tore her hands away. At the same moment, the fabric
shifted under her hands and the light shone again.
'Polly!' The name was a thought rather than a cry, but
Judy hardly cared now whether she was deaf or not, for
there at her feet, half-buried in rubble, lay her aunt, her
small torch gripped in one hand and shining towards her
grime-coated face. There was blood on her forehead and in
her hair, but her eyes were open, and as Judy bent towards
her a faint smile curved her lips.

Judy almost fell on her, half laughing, half crying. Beside
her, the doctor bent swiftly to press her fingers against
Polly's neck and then looked up at Judy and indicated the
rubble. Her mouth moved and Judy read the silent message: 'She's alive! We've got to get this off her.'
Judy began to pull away bricks and slivers of wood. To
her immense relief they were all small, or at least within her
ability to lift, but she was so thankful to find Polly alive that
she felt she could have moved a mountain to get her out. By
now, the two men were also in the small space, and together
they worked feverishly to free the trapped woman. Oh, let
her be all right, Judy prayed. Let her not be hurt too badly.
It was uncanny, working in the silence, uncannier still to
know that the air must be filled with sound, with the
cacophony of aircraft overhead, the roar of exploding
bombs, the rattle of ack-ack guns. The raid was still going
on - at any moment they might all be blasted to oblivion or
burned to death in a firestorm - yet the most important
thing in the world now was to get Polly out of her prison, to
bring her out alive.
They had shifted all the small stuff now and by the
flickering light of Polly's torch, Judy saw with dismay that
there was a large beam of wood across her body. Oh God, if
she's been crushed . . . she thought in horror, but almost
before the thought had formed in her mind she saw that it
was balanced on two other lumps of broken masonry, and
didn't touch Polly at all. In fact, it had probably saved her
life, making a cage around her over which the rubble had
fallen, while inside she was barely scratched.
As soon as she was able, Polly began to struggle out from
underneath the beam. She was filthy and bedraggled, one
leg was dragging and there was still blood trickling down
her face, but her eyes were bright and she hugged Judy
fervently. Her mouth moved in some question, but Judy
shook her head and pointed to her ears. 'I can't hear,' she

mouthed. And then, hoping that Polly could hear her, What
about the others? The man and his mother?'
Either Polly heard her or read her lips, for she glanced
round the devastated room and shook her head slightly, the
movement obviously paining her. The others had already
begun to try to dig through the rubble and the two women
joined them, but it was clear that there was little chance of
finding any other survivors. Eventually, one of the men
straightened up and wiped his forehead. 'We can't move any
more. We'll have to get help. It's all big stuff, too heavy ... I
don't reckon there's anyone alive in here now anyway.'
Reluctantly, they turned and battled their way out
through the cluttered courtyard. Outside, the raid was still
going on, although it seemed to have lessened. We must
have shot down some of their planes, surely, Judy thought,
and rubbed her ears, suddenly afraid that she was never
going to be able to hear again. I'm deaf, she thought in
panic.
The young doctor saw the gesture and looked at her in
concern. 'Are you still deafened? she mouthed, and Judy
nodded. The doctor glanced at Polly, parted her hair gently
with her fingers to look at the wound in her head, and bent
to give her dragging leg a swift examination. Then she
straightened up and looked around.
The street was still full of people trying to fight the fires
that had broken out. Soldiers, sailors and civilians alike were
rushing to and fro with stirrup pumps, buckets, anything
that could hold a few drops of water. At least the mains
didn't seem to have been fractured this time. Judy moved to
go and help, but the doctor gripped her arm.
'Hospital,' she mouthed. 'You both need to go to hospital.
We need an ambulance.' She glanced around again and then
pointed to a vehicle which had apparently been abandoned
at the side of the road, and a sob of hysteria rose in Judy's
throat as she recognised their own old van.
One of the men who had helped her came forwards and

spoke in the doctor's ear. She nodded briskly. 'This man will
take you.' She helped Polly, who was beginning to sway,
into the back of the van. Judy, more anxious for her aunt
than for herself, followed, and they crouched together on
the makeshift bunk fitted inside.
The journey seemed to take hours. Swaying, jerking and
bumping through the bombed streets, they had no idea
where they were going. Polly was looking dazed and sick,
and Judy was unable to communicate with the driver.
Exhaustion overtook her, her ears hurt almost unbearably,
and she sagged against the cold metal walls of the van. She
was unaware of their arrival at the Royal Hospital and the
devastation that caused them to be turned away and sent to
St James's, and when they finally stumbled out of the van
she had no idea where they were.
Once in the foyer, she and Polly stood leaning against one
another, almost too bewildered and exhausted to care what
happened to them now. The place was in chaos, crowded
with nurses, doctors and injured people. Stretchers and
trolleys cluttered every space. Judy and Polly found
themselves being hustled into a corner where a harassed young nurse began to question them.
'I can't hear.' Judy pointed to her ears and then held her
hands over them to show that they were painful. The nurse
turned at once to Polly and evidently asked about her
injuries. Polly pointed to her head and then her leg, and the
nurse pushed her gently on to a bed and began to examine
her.
Judy watched anxiously. The head wound seemed-to have
stopped bleeding and was soon washed and bandaged. The
leg seemed to be no worse than a superficial cut on the skin,
but it was unpleasantly jagged and might have got germs in
it. Having attended to these, the nurse turned her attention
to Judy, but all Judy could do was mouth at her, 'I'm not
hurt. It's just my ears - the blast - I've gone deaf.' Tears came
to her eyes and she shook her head angrily, furious with

herself, but once started they could not be stopped and she
crumpled, her hands to her face, her shoulders shaking. I've
gone deaf. I've gone deaf. I'm never going to be able to hear
anything again ...

'Thank God I've found you.' Cissie collapsed on to a
wooden chair beside Polly's bed and stared at her sister.
'Oh, thank God. I thought you and our Judy were both . . .'
She couldn't say the word. Tears brimmed out of her eyes
and she wiped them away and sniffed, her mouth both
smiling and trembling.
'I don't know why they're keeping me in here,' Polly said
grumpily. She was sitting up in bed, swathed in a huge
white gown. 'I'm all right, it's just a bit of a cut on my leg
and a graze on the head. But they want to keep an eye on me
in case of concussion, the doctor said. I'm coming out
tomorrow though, thank goodness.' She glanced around the
overcrowded ward. 'They're doing their best, I know, but
it's horrible in here.' She looked at her sister. 'Have you
seen Judy yet?'
Cissie nodded. 'She's in a poor way. Oh, not hurt as such,
but it's her ears; she can't hear a thing and she thinks she's
gone deaf permanent. She's really cut up about it. I had a
word with the Sister and she says they'll keep her in for a
day or two to make sure there's no other damage, but she
thinks the hearing'll come back pretty soon. She says it's a
common effect of the blast. They get any amount of people
in here just the same way, she said.'
'Oh, I hope she'll be all right. It'd be awful if she was
permanently deaf, a young girl like that.' Polly lay back on
her pillows. She was white.and exhausted still and her voice
trembled as she went on, 'She saved my life, you know, Cis.
I wouldn't be here now if Judy hadn't come in and dug me
out, and got those men and that young doctor to help. I'd
have died in there, in all that filth and dust and -' Her voice
broke and she began to cry helplessly. 'Oh Cis.'

'Polly. Polly.' Cis slipped her arms about her sister's body
and held her like a baby. She always was my baby too, she
thought tenderly, remembering her delight when Alice had
told her she had a new sister. At twelve years old, Cissie had
been of an age to be of real help, cuddling Polly and helping
to wash and dress her - although she'd drawn the line at
changing nappies, she remembered with a smile. She
remembered too her pride as she'd pushed the pram up the
street, attracting envious attention from all her friends, and
her pleasure in watching the baby grow to a toddler and
then a little girl, always looking up to her sister, always
ready to be a companion.
Later, when Cissie had married, Polly was her bridesmaid,
and when Cissie's own children had been born Polly
was more like a big sister than an aunt to them. She and
Judy had always been special friends, and had formed an
additional link between Polly and Cissie herself. The
thought that Judy had saved her aunt's life brought a lump
to Cissie's throat.
'I'm sorry, Cis,' Polly wept. 'I can't seem to stop crying.
I'm so ashamed - but the doctor says it's natural, it's shock.
But whenever I think of being buried like that - oh, I can't
tell you what it was like, it was so horrible.'
'There, there,' Cissie said soothingly. 'It's all right, Polly.
You're all right now. You have a good cry. The doctor's
right, it's a natural reaction. Anyone would cry after a thing
like that - anyone. You just let it all out and you'll feel
better.' She rocked her sister's body in her arms and went
on murmuring to her, though her heart was heavy. Polly,
her bright, laughing sister, reduced to this sobbing wreck.
Her daughter Judy, frantic with the terror of being deaf.
Her husband Dick, only just over pneumonia, choking with
the dust of yet another bombing and reliving the nightmare
of his experiences in the First World War. What are we
coming to, she wondered, and what's going to become of us
all before this is over?

'I'll have to go soon,' she whispered as Polly's sobs eased.
'I want to pop in on Judy again, and I must be back at the
Royal in time to see Dick, and Mum doesn't even know
where I am. By the way, you know you've got company in
here from April Grove, don't you? I saw Peggy Shaw and
Gladys up the other end of the ward. They were at the
Royal when it got bombed last night. Peggy was thrown into
some rose bushes, and Gladys has got a broken arm.' She
hesitated, then decided not to tell her sister that young
Graham Philpotts, the sailor who used to go out with Betty
Chapman and had been calling round for Gladys just lately,
had been killed. He'd been helping with the ambulance, so
Peggy had told her quietly when she stopped to have a word
with them and Gladys was blaming herself. But Polly didn't
need to know that - not just yet.
This awful war, she thought, making her way slowly out
of the ward, sadly aware of the people around her - injured,
bereaved, homeless and bewildered. This awful war.

Chapter Fourteen

By the beginning of May, Dick, Judy and Polly were all
home again, each still somewhat shaken by their experiences.
To Cissie's relief, Dick's chest hadn't been as badly
affected by the dust as they had feared, but his nerves were a
different matter. The violence of the raid and the close
proximity of the mine that had hit the hospital had brought
back all the old terrors, and his nights, and therefore Cissie's
too, were broken by nightmares. In fact, she told Alice
privately, that was one of the reasons they'd sent him home
from the hospital - his cries and screams were keeping other
patients awake. He was nervous and on edge during the day,
too, likely to flare up over the least little thing, and although
Cissie did her best to remember that this was all part of his
illness, she couldn't help getting upset sometimes,
'Where's my glasses gone?' he demanded. 'You've been
tidying up again, Cis - I can't find nothing. You've hid
them deliberately.'
'Dick, of course I haven't! I wouldn't do a thing like that.
I expect you've put them down somewhere and forgotten
them.'
'Oh yes, it's bound to be my fault, isn't it! Everything that
happens in this house has got to be my fault. Neither use nor
ornament, that's me. I dare say you got on a lot better when
I was in that hospital. Better send me back.' He sat down,
staring angrily into space. Cissie took a deep breath and put
her arms around his shoulders.

'Dick. Please don't talk like that. You know it's not true.
All I want is to have you at home and feeling well again.' He
had covered his face with his hands and she tried to prise
them away. 'Dick, look at me. Please. Let me give you a
kiss. Come on, now,' she coaxed him, talking softly, stroking
his thin cheek with her fingers. 'Come on. You know you
don't mean those things. And look,' she laughed suddenly,
'there are your glasses - on top of your head! They've been
there all the time!'
For a moment, he looked even angrier and she was afraid
that she'd upset him even more by laughing at him. Then
the sense of humour that had always saved them came to the
rescue again and his lips pulled into a grin. He pulled her
close.
'Sorry, Cis. I'm a twerp. I dunno how you put up with
me.'
'Nor do I,' she said, hugging him in relief. 'But just you
thank your lucky stars I do, because I don't think you'll find
another woman at your age!'
'Don't you be too sure,' he warned her, his temper over
as quickly as it had arisen. 'That Ethel Glaister's been
giving me some funny looks just lately!' And they both
dissolved into laughter.
Polly too was plagued by nightmares. Half a dozen times
a night she woke, convinced she was buried under a pile of
bricks and rubble, and threw off her blankets, coughing and
choking in distress. As soon as she was awake, she realised
that it had been a dream, but it took several minutes to
regain control of her breathing, and she lay staring into the
darkness, almost afraid to go to sleep again.
Judy, who shared the small back bedroom, couldn't help
her for she had still not regained her hearing. The few
sounds she could hear seemed to come to her through a
thick fog of distorted mush, and it was almost worse than
not being able to hear at all. The normal family chatter with
the wireless on in the background almost drove herdemented, and she couldn't understand what anyone said
unless they spoke very slowly and exaggerated their lip
movements so that she could try to read them.
Even that wasn't very successful.
'Time for tea,' Cissie mouthed, and Judy stared at her
blankly.
'By the sea? What's by the sea?'
Sometimes she could see the funny side of it, and
laughed, but too often she became upset and angry. 'I'm fed
up with this!' she cried, beating her fists together. 'I'm never
going to be able to hear again, never - you don't know how
awful it is! I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life,
and it's like being in prison. I'm caged in all the time - it's horrible!'
The doorbell rang and Polly went to answer it. She came
back and said to Judy, 'It's someone for you. Chris Barrett,
from the Observers.' Judy stared at her uncomprehendingly,
and she wrote it down on the little blackboard they'd found
in Sylvie's toybox.
'I don't want to see him.'
'But he's come all this way specially.'
'Then he can go back,' Judy said abruptly. 'I don't want
to see him - I don't want to see anyone, not while I'm like
this. What d'you think he's going to say when he realises
what I'm like - deaf, half out of my mind? He'll never come
again anyway, so there's no point. Tell him to go away.' Her
lips trembled and Polly gazed at her anxiously. Judy turned
her face aside, but not before the others had seen the tears
on her cheeks. 'Tell him to just go away!'
'Perhaps she'll feel a bit more up to it in a week or two,'
Polly said gently to the disappointed young man. 'She's had
a terrible shock, and she's really not feeling well.'
Chris shrugged. 'All right, Mrs Dunn. Shall I come back,
then?'
Polly hesitated. She had no idea what the situation was
between him and her niece. 'Better leave it perhaps,' she

said, hoping she was doing the right thing. 'I see you out at
the Beach, anyway. I can always let you know when she's
feeling better.'
Shame, she thought, watching him walk off up the street.
He was a nice young man and it would have done Judy
good. But Judy didn't seem interested in him. Her deafness
seemed to be taking over her life. Time and again she
dissolved into tears of frustration and despair, and Cissie
began to be seriously worried about her.
'I think she's going to have a nervous breakdown if
something can't be done soon,' she told Polly as they ate a
hasty breakfast of cornflakes. 'She says it makes her feel so
useless. She can't go to work because she can't hear what
anyone says to her or use the phone or anything, and when
people talk to each other they leave her out, and that's
hurtful. She feels as if she's being treated as if she's stupid.'
'I know. And she seems to be shutting herself away from
everything. I mean, take that Chris Barrett - nice young
feller, he is, and he's obviously a bit struck with our Judy. I
was hoping they'd get together, but no. He's asked after her
a few times, wanted to come round again and see her but she
won't have it. Says nobody'd be interested in a deaf girl.
Says it's no use him coming, she won't even go to the door
to say hello. And it's not just the deafness, you know,' Polly
went on. 'It's Sean as well. She's never grieved properly
oyer him, just pushed it away. You can't do that. I should
know. I tried it myself when Johnny died, but you can't put
it off for ever.'
'I don't know what we ought to do about her,' Cissie said.
'She needs to get away from all this bombing. Well, we all
do. Raids night after night - you know last Tuesday's was
the fiftieth, don't you? It was in the Evening News. I mean,
how are we supposed to stand it?'
'We're not,' Polly said wryly. 'But you're right, Judy
needs some peace and quiet. I wonder if the people Sylvie's
staying with could put her up for a few days?'

Cissie stared at her in surprise. 'Surely not! They've got
those other two kiddies there too, haven't they? I don't
suppose they've got room.'
'Well, she could sleep in with Sylvie. Or maybe that nice
vicar where I took the Simmons girls could take her, there
seemed to be plenty of rooms there. Honestly, Cis, it would
do her so much good to be out in the country for a few days,
and it'd be lovely there now it's May. Look, I'll talk to the
Mayoress. She's really kind and helpful, and she might
know of somewhere.' Polly glanced at the clock on the
mantelpiece. 'Talking of the Mayoress, I'd better get a move
on or I shall be late. I'm going into the main Clothing Store
today, we're moving some of the stock to a church hall near
Elm Grove. Apparently the Queen wrote to the Mayoress after they came here that time and said we ought to have a
few more stores in case the main one got bombed. The
Mayoress was already seeing to it, of course, but it just
shows the Queen really thinks about these things, doesn't
it?'
She gathered up her jacket, bag and gas mask, and
hurried out, still limping a little. As soon as she had gone,
Judy came down the stairs and Cissie heard her take the lid
off the teapot to see if there was any tea left. She put her
head round the scullery door.
'Has Polly gone to work?' She had accepted the fact that
her voice could be heard by others, although she didn't seem
able to get the level right and either whispered or shouted. It
was one of the reasons why others found her so hard to talk
to, Cissie thought, and felt a fresh wave of sympathy.
'Yes, she's going to the Clothing Store.' She bit her lip,
aware that she'd spoken too quickly and without turning her
face to Judy's. She tried again, mouthing the words with
some exaggeration. 'Clothing - Store.'
Judy flushed and Cissie knew that the exaggeration itself
had upset her. She left the room quickly and then returned
with a cup of tea. She put it on the table, sat down, stared at

it for a few moments, then leaned her head on her hands and
burst into tears.
Cissie moved swiftly round the table and took her in her
arms. 'Oh you poor, poor love.' She patted her daughter's
shoulders helplessly, brushed her fair hair out of her eyes,
wiped her face with her hanky. 'Oh, I know you can't hear
me. If only I could help you. Oh my poor, poor love - what
are we going to do? What are we going to do?'
'Sorry,' Judy choked. 'Sorry, Mum. Didn't mean to start
again.' She dragged in a long, sobbing breath, and leaned
her head wearily on one hand while she felt for her own
hanky with the other. 'I'm so useless. No good to anyone. I
wanted to do so much.'
'Don't talk rubbish!' Cissie twisted her round so that she
could see her face. Even though her daughter couldn't hear
her words, she went on, knowing that she could read the
expression on her face. 'That's silly and you know it! You're
not useless!' She exaggerated the words. 'Not - useless. You
saved Polly's life, and you're alive too. That's what matters.
And your hearing will come back. You're not going to be
deaf for ever. The doctor said so.' She held Judy by the
shoulders, looking intently into her grey eyes. Judy stared
back, almost frozen, and Cissie went on more quietly, 'It's
not just that, though, is it? It's not just your ears. It's Sean,
isn't it?'
'Sean,' Judy whispered, showing that she had understood,
and the wide grey eyes flooded with fresh tears. 'Sean - oh, Sean.' Once again, she bent her head and began to sob. 'Oh
Mum, he's dead! Sean's dead. He's never coming back.
We're never going to be married, or have babies, or anything. We never had any time together.' She looked
down at the ring, now back on her left hand, its tiny
diamond winking in the morning light, and twisted it round
so that the diamond was hidden and it looked like a wedding
band. 'Oh, Mum.'
'I know.' Cissie cradled her head again. Her own eyes

were wet. She and Dick hadn't been keen on the hasty
engagement, so soon after the young couple had met, but it
was obvious they were head over heels in love, and it was
wartime. And now it was over, so swiftly it was easy to
forget it had ever happened. But Judy had not forgotten.
'You'll get over it,' she whispered. 'You'll get over it, in
time.'
But she knew that Judy could not hear her, and wouldn't
believe her if she could.

The Lady Mayoress agreed that Judy must have some time
off to recover from the shock of the raid and give her
hearing a chance to return. 'She needs some peace and quiet
away from these incessant raids.' She gave a small, wry
smile and echoed Cissie's words: 'We all do, don't we! But
Judy's had a sad time lately. You say her fiance was lost at
sea?'
'Yes. They hadn't known each other long. They wanted
to get married before he went away, but there just wasn't
time and my sister and her husband weren't keen. Not that
they could have stopped her, of course, because she's over
twenty-one, but Judy wouldn't have wanted to go against
their wishes. Now she blames herself because she didn't just
go ahead. She says she feels she let Sean down, and what
difference would it have made, as things turned out?'
'Poor girl,' the Mayoress said. 'She must certainly have a
few days off, and I agree that it would be ideal for her to get
away from Portsmouth for a while. You say you think your
own little girl's foster parents might take her in?'
'Yes, they might. And it would be nice for Sylvie to have
her there. I'll write and ask them.' Polly went back to
sorting clothes, feeling more optimistic. A week or two in
the country -- it sounded like bliss and would surely be just
what Judy needed to set her back on her feet. She's been
through too much too quickly, Polly thought. And just



because the rest of us have suffered, too, doesn't mean she
shouldn't be given the chance to get over it.
The main Clothing Store had been split into several
different sections, each situated in a different part of the city
so that even if there were another major raid, at least some
of them should survive. Polly was working this morning in
the Children's Swap Store, where mothers could come with
the clothes their own children had grown out of and
exchange them for larger sizes.
'My Johnny's right out of these flannel shorts and he can
hardly get into this jacket. He's growing so fast these days.'
'Have you got a pretty party frock for my Joan? It's her
twelfth birthday next week and I want to give her a nice
party, with jelly and everything.'
'Look, I got this skirt and jumper here last week for my
Dottie and it's all holes already. I'd have thought you'd have
better quality than this, what with it being the Lady
Mayoress's pigeon and all.'
Polly was constantly amazed by the requests, and even
more so by the quality of some of the clothes brought for
'swapping'. 'This pullover looks as if it's been in a cupboard
for years,' she said indignantly to one woman who had
tipped a pillowcase full of clothes on to the long trestle table.
'And a damp cupboard, at that. Look, that's green mould,
that is.'
'So what?' the woman demanded belligerently. She was a
big woman, with a bosom like a shelf and a dark, mannish
face. 'It's clothes, innit? You got a notice outside saying
you'll swap clothes, aincher? Well, I brought some clothes to
swap.'
'Yes, but,' Polly hesitated. 'They're supposed to be
swapped for children. I mean,' she corrected herself, aware
of a tittering amongst the queue, 'for children's clothes.
This is a man's pullover. You can't just come with old
clothes that nobody's used for years and take away better
ones. How old are your children?'The woman looked at her and Polly knew at once that she
had no children but had simply cleared out a cupboard.
Probably she would sell the clothes and then boast about
having 'done the Council'. A little worm of anger stirred in
Polly's stomach.
'I got six,' the woman declared. 'Six, from a six-month
old baby up to a boy of twelve, and they all needs clothes.'
She waved a muscular arm to indicate the festering heap of
rags on the table. 'You can see what they've had to put up
with ever since this bloody war started. Running about in
rags, they are, running about in rags.'
'I'm surprised they're still in Portsmouth,' Polly said
boldly, determined to call the woman's bluff. 'Haven't they
been evacuated?'
The woman hesitated. 'No. Yes. Well, they was -- but
they come back, see, when there wasn't no raids. Anyway,
the baby couldn't go without me, now could she, and what
with my hubby being away at sea since the war broke out I
got lonely on me own, and--'
'Didn't stay lonely for long then, did you?' someone in
the queue butted in. 'Not if the baby's only six months old!
Come on, Madge Perkins, you know you never got no kids,
so why don't you take your rubbish and get out? Runs a ragand-bone
shop down Rudmore, she does,' the speaker
continued indignantly, as the woman turned with a fearsome
expression on her face and bunched a massive fist. 'And her
hubby died years ago - it was the only way he could get
away from her. And you needn't wave your fists at me,
neither,' she added, squaring up as the queue joined in with
resentful muttering. 'I can fight me corner as well as
anyone.'
'Not in here though, please,' Polly intervened hastily. She
scooped the rags back into the pillowcase and thrust it at
Madge Perkins. 'Take this with you and go, please. If you
have clothes to donate - decent clothes, in reasonablecondition - one of the other Clothing Stores will be pleased
to receive them.'
'And give me nothing for 'em!' The big woman snatched
up the bag and glared at her. 'I can't afford to go giving stuff
away. I'm not rolling in money. Call this a charity? You
Council people, you're all the same, take it all off us in rates
and then wants the clothes off our backs as well. I tell you,
I'm doing good work with my trade, work for the war effort.
And as for you, Jean Barstow,' she turned on the woman
who had challenged her, 'I'll have something to say to your
Billy next time he comes round wanting to sell me rags and
bones. I give him too much for the last lot, out of the
goodness of me heart, and look how you repays me!'
She stalked out furiously and the queue made way for
her, glowering and muttering. Mrs Barstow poked her
tongue out at her departing back and then turned to Polly.
'You don't want to take no notice of Madge Perkins,
missus. She'd try it on with anyone. She'll be round all the
stores with that lot, trying to get something for it, and it's all
stuff that other people have chucked out. Trying to get
summat better and then sell it on, that's what she was doing.
Talk about working for the war effort!'
'That's right,' someone else chimed in. 'Trying to make
money out of the war. Unpatriotic, I call it.'
The queue murmured in agreement and Polly inspected
the clothes that Mrs Barstow had brought in. There were
two pairs of boys' flannel shorts, a jacket and a girl's skirt
and cardigan, both home made. They had all seen better
days and she wasn't at all sure that she'd be able to pass
them on to anyone else, but she was grateful to the woman
for sending Mrs Perkins packing and wanted to help her.
'How many children d'you have?'
'Boy and girl, both ten. They're twins,' she added
unnecessarily. 'They're not identical though, see, 'cause
they're a boy and girl.'
'Well, I can let you have one pair of shorts and a jacket

for the boy, and there are some skirts over there that might
suit your little girl, and some jumpers and cardigans. I'm
afraid you can only have one of each garment,' she added
apologetically. 'Not everything we get brought in is suitable
to be passed on.'
'Not as bad as Madge's stuff, though,' Mrs Barstow said
cheerfully. 'OK, missus, I'll have a look through and pick
summat out. The boy's things'll be easy enough, but my
Susie's getting a bit fussy about what she wears now. I tell
her there's a war on and she'll have to be grateful for what
she can get, but you know what kiddies are, they don't really
understand, do they?' She moved along the table, turning
over the neatly folded garments while Polly turned her
attention to the next customer.
As soon as she had finished, she went home to write to
Mrs Sutton to ask if she could put Judy up for a few days. I
know it's asking a lot, she wrote, but my niece really does need
some peace and quiet, and I don't know where else to try. We'd
pay for her keep of course, and I know she'd give a hand
wherever she could. She chewed the end of her pen,
wondering how to end the letter. Whatever else she thought
of sounded as if she were trying to make it difficult for Mrs
Sutton to refuse, and she didn't want to do that. In the end,
she just wrote, Yours sincerely, P.M. Dunn and left it at that.
The reply came two days later. It was waiting for Polly
when she came home from the hairdresser's, where she was
now working for just two or three hours each day after her
stint at the Clothing Store. Worn out with standing all day,
she dropped into a chair and opened the letter while Cissie
brought her a cup of tea.
'Well, isn't that lovely!' She raised a smiling face as Cissie
came in from the scullery. 'Mrs Sutton says Judy will be
welcome to go and stay with them, so long as she doesn't
mind sleeping in the same room as the two girls. She won't
mind that, will she?''I'm sure she won't,' Cissie was beginning, when Judy
herself interrupted them. Her face was flushed and angry.
'You're talking about me - I know you are! What are you
saying? What's that letter about?' She jumped up from her
chair, trembling. 'You're sending me away. You think I'm
mental as well as deaf, and you're sending me away! Aren't
you? Aren't you?'
'Judy, no!' Polly and Cissie spoke together, gazing at her
in distress. 'It's not that at all,' Cissie went on, speaking far
too quickly for Judy to follow, but Polly brushed her aside
and held out the letter. 'Here, read it for yourself. It's from
Mrs Sutton,' she said, speaking slowly and clearly so that
Judy could read her lips. 'Mrs Sutton. Where Sylvie is.
Read it, Judy.'
Judy took the letter, still gazing at her face, a slight,
puzzled frown creasing her forehead. She looked down at
the sheet of paper and then sat down slowly. Polly heaved a
sigh of relief and sank back into her own chair, taking the
cup of tea Cissie was still holding out.
'Mrs Sutton,' Judy said in her odd, painful voice. 'Mrs
Sutton - she says I can go and stay there?' She looked at
Polly. 'You wrote to her.'
'Yes, I wrote the day before yesterday and she's answered
straight away.' Polly forgot to speak slowly. 'Isn't that kind
of her? You'll like her, Judy, and Sylvie will be so pleased to
have her auntie there. And it'll be lovely there now, all the
spring flowers will be out and there'll be lambs and--'
'You wrote to her,' Judy said, ignoring her. 'You wrote
and told her about me.'
'Well - yes.' Polly began to feel uncomfortable. Judy
didn't seem pleased at all. 'I was worried about you, Judy.
We all are. We think you need a few days away, out in the
country where you can--' She recalled that Judy could
barely follow one word in three of this. 'We want you to
have a holiday,' she enunciated. 'Some peace and quiet. To
help you get better.'

She stopped uncertainly. Judy seemed to understand, but
she didn't look any more pleased. She stared from Polly to
her mother, then back at the letter in her hand. 'Why didn't
you ask me?' she said. 'Why didn't you tell me you were
writing?'
Polly glanced helplessly at her sister and Cissie said, 'We
only wanted to do what was best for you, love.'
'But why didn't you ask me? I've been here all the time.
I've still got a brain, you know - I can still decide what I
want to do! What if I don't want to go? What if I'd rather
stay here?' Her voice trembled. 'I want to go back to work. I
want to be useful. I don't want to be sent away to the country
like a - like a little child. And don't you understand? Don't any of you understand what it'll be like for me? Not being
able to hear what people say? Being with strangers, and not
being able to hear what they say?'
Cissie and Polly looked at each other. Polly put her
teacup back on the table and spoke again, very slowly,
looking directly into Judy's eyes.
'Judy. Nobody is treating you like a child. We want to
help you get better. You need to be away from Portsmouth
- away from the bombs. Away from noise. Please go. Just
for a few days. That's all we want you to do. Please. And the
Suttons will understand - I know they will. They're kind
people, Judy.'
There was a long silence. Judy looked down at the letter
again. Her face was pale. Then she said, 'Just for a few
days?'
'Yes. That's all, really. Just to see if it helps.'
'And I'd see Sylvie. It seems so long since I saw Sylvie.'
'She'd love to see you,' Polly said quietly, thinking how
long it was since she herself had seen her daughter. Not
since that brief hour when she'd taken Stella and Muriel to
Bridge End. When the children had first been evacuated, all
the parents had expected to be able to visit them regularly you
could even get the fare paid for two or three visits - but
once the raids had started there just hadn't been the chance.
Railways stations were full of posters - Is Your Journey
Really Necessary? -- and there was so much to do at home.
'I'd feel happier about her if I knew you'd had a chance to
spend a few days there,' she said to Judy.
Judy seemed to understand the gist of what she was
saying. She nodded and her mouth twisted into a wry smile.
'Well, I suppose I'd better go, then. But only for a few
days,' she added warningly. 'I'm not being sent away for
ever.'
'Of course not!' Cissie threw her arms around her and
kissed her. 'Oh Judy, I'm so glad! It'll do you good, I know
it will. And they have much better food out in the country
too - lots Of milk, and butter and proper eggs. You need a
bit of building up. You've been looking so peaky and
washed-out lately. Now, we'd better sort out what you're
going to take with you. There's that blue skirt you got from
the Clothing Store after we were bombed, and you can take
my best blouse, and--'
'Wait a minute!' Judy cried, only half understanding what
her mother was saying. 'Can't you wait to get rid of me? I
didn't say I'd go this minute.'
'No, but there's no point in waiting, is there? Mrs Sutton
says she's expecting you any day. And we're just having a
spell of nice weather too, so you may as well make the most
of it.' Cissie was not to be deflected. She ran upstairs and
began pulling open cupboards and drawers. Judy glanced at
Polly and smiled ruefully.
'You're determined to make me go, aren't you? But what
about Dad? He's the one who's been ill - he could do with a
few days in the country. Where is he, anyway?'
'He's gone for a walk,' Polly said. 'You might not have
noticed it, but he's really improving with this nice sunny
spell. He's gone over to Langstone Harbour - said he just
wants to rest his eyes on some water. It's months since he
was on the shore.' She saw Judy's face and repeated the

main words more slowly, until Judy understood. Then she
said, 'You won't feel too awkward, will you, Judy, when
you're at the Suttons'? They know about what's happened.
And your hearing is getting better, isn't it? You can hear
some things now.'
Judy shrugged. 'No, not really. I'm just getting a bit
better at lip-reading.'
'Well, I still think this is what you need.' Polly looked
into her cup and then stood up. 'This tea's gone cold. I'll
make some more, and then help Cissie with supper.' She
bent and gave Judy an awkward kiss. 'I'm glad you're going.
It'll do you so much good.'
Judy shrugged. 'Perhaps. But it's not going to bring Sean
back, is it?' She looked at her aunt. 'I may get my hearing
back, but I'll never have my sweetheart again.'Chapter Fifteen


The whole family walked down to the tiny station next
morning to wave Judy off. With a small suitcase from the
store, her gas mask in its cardboard box, and two brown
paper carrier bags, she looked like a waif as she climbed
aboard the train, and there were tears in all the women's
eyes. Even" Dick cleared his throat rather often, and hugged
his daughter tightly before letting her go.
'It's only for a week or so,' she said, leaning out of the
window. 'You don't have to look as if you're never going to
see me again.'
'Don't talk like that,' Cissie begged her, but what with
her deafness and the noise the engine was making, there was
no chance of Judy's hearing her. However, she had learned
to lip-read surprisingly well and grinned impudently at her
mother.
'I might not want to come back. I might decide to stay.'
'Don't you dare! Not but what it wouldn't be good to
know you were safe.' The whistle of the engine drowned her
words and the train began to pull away. Suddenly crying in
earnest, Cissie waved frantically and turned to her husband
to bury her face against his shoulder. 'Oh Dick, she's gone!
Oh, I hope she'll be all right, going all by herself. I hope
we've done the right thing.'
'Of course we've done the right thing -- and she's only
going to Ashwood. It's not the other end of the world.
You're going on as if she was off to the Front.'
'I know.' She sniffed and laughed a little. 'I'm being silly.
It's just that so much has happened, and you never know

what's going to happen next, and just saying goodbye, even
for only a week, makes you think about all the people who
go away and never come back, or perhaps there's no home to
come back to. Oh, I know I'm being silly, I'm talking a lot of
nonsense.'
'It's all right, love,' Dick said quietly. 'You're not talking
nonsense. We've been through some terrible times, you're
bound to worry. And I know you worry about our Terry
too, same as I do. We don't know where he is half the time,
and all we can do is hope we don't hear it's his ship that's
got sunk. It's worry we never thought we'd have, and more
than anyone should have to put up with. And I'm not a lot
of help to you,' he added ruefully.
'You mustn't say that.' They had begun to walk away
from the station. 'You don't know how empty the house
seemed while you were in hospital. I feel like I'm just half a
person when you're not there.' Cissie stopped and looked
into his eyes. 'You're only ill because of what happened to
you in the Great War. That was cruel, and you've been
suffering ever since. It's not your fault.' She took hold of
both his hands. 'Shall I tell you what I think? You're still serving your country. Every time you wheeze or cough,
you're serving your country, because you wouldn't be like it
if you hadn't gone to serve it then. And I thank God on my
knees every day - every day -- that you came home. So don't
ever say you're no use. Ever.'
'And so say all of us,' Alice said fervently, and Polly
agreed.
'We'll go home and have a cup of tea,' she said, 'and then
I'll be off down to the Centre.' She lifted her face to the
May sunshine. 'Do you realise, we've had five nights now
without a raid? Five nights of peace in our own beds. I can't
believe it.'
'Nor can I,' Dick said, 'but it won't last. Mark my words,
the Germans haven't finished with us yet.' He, too, looked
at the blue, innocent sky with its drifting fleet of silverbarrage balloons. 'They'll be back. Sure as God made little
chickens, they'll be back.'
Judy sat on the train, feeling a little sick. She had refused
both her mother's and her aunt's offers to come with her,
insisting that she could manage - 'I've only got to get off the
train and walk down the lane to the farm' - but inside she
felt apprehensive. Suppose the train broke down, or went
the wrong way, or she didn't recognise the station when
they arrived there? All the signs had been taken down, and
she had only Polly's description to go by, and the stations all
looked more or less the same. Because she wouldn't be able
to hear any announcements, they'd taken the precaution of
asking the guard to make sure she got off there, but suppose
he forgot? And suppose someone got into the compartment
and tried to talk to her? Suppose she got lost and had to ask
for directions? Tears came into her eyes as she reflected that
even a simple thing like a train journey seemed almost
impossible when you were deaf.
Angrily, she brushed the tears away. She had seen enough
injuries, and enough death too, during the air raids and in
hospital, to know that she had escaped quite lightly in
comparison with others. Awake night after night, she'd told
herself over and over again that losing her hearing was
nothing - nothing -- and if it really did get better, as the
doctors thought it would, then she had no reason to
complain. No reason at all to be sorry for herself. No reason
for this incessant weeping that kept overtaking her. No
reason to get so angry with her mother and aunt just because
they tried to help. No reason to feel so useless.
Yet everything seemed to be so difficult. The simplest
tasks - going shopping, answering the door - seemed
suddenly to be almost impossible. Making herself understood
was easier, although she suspected her voice was
coming out oddly, either too quiet or too loud, but trying to
make out what others were saying drove her into a frenzy offrustration. I'll have to learn sign language, she thought, but
that was only any use if everyone else learned it too. And she
felt left out of conversations. You couldn't expect people to
say everything slowly; you just had to sit by, knowing they
were talking and laughing but with no idea what the subject
or the joke was. It was even worse when they listened to the
wireless and you could see them looking dismayed by the
news or laughing at ITMA or Arthur Askey. It was like
living in a glass cage.
There I go again, she thought impatiently, feeling sorry
for myself. I've just got to grow up and get on with it. There
are worse things than being deaf. Being blind, for instance.
Not being able to see this lovely countryside, the cows and
sheep and the lambs, skipping about in the grass. The trees
all coming into fresh green leaf. The blossom on the wild
cherries and the apple trees that had grown beside the track,
from cores people had thrown out years ago.
But other people were different when you were blind.
They were helpful, considerate. They still treated you as a
human being, they took your arm and guided you along,
they talked to you.
If you were deaf, they treated you as though you were
stupid. They talked to you for a few minutes, making big
shapes with their mouths, and then they left you out. After a
while, it was as if you weren't there at all. As if you were
invisible.
The train trundled through the countryside, stopping at
every small station and halt and sometimes in between for
unexplained rests. The actual distance to the village where
Sylvie lived wasn't very great, but the journey took almost
two hours and at every stop someone got on or off. There
were servicemen and women, Land Girls, civilians in
shabby coats or smart suits, workmen carrying bags of tools,
and a vicar. He was a tall, spindly man with long arms and
legs, and he smiled kindly at Judy as he sat in the corneropposite her. As she had dreaded someone would, he began
to make conversation.
'I'm sorry,' she said, pointing at her ears. 'I can't hear.'
His mouth made an 'oh dear' shape, and he looked
concerned. 'Since birth?' he mouthed. 'Or an accident?'
'Bomb blast,' Judy said briefly. 'In Portsmouth.'
'Portsmouth?' He said something she couldn't catch, then
mouthed again. I have evacuees from Portsmouth.'
Judy nodded. She didn't really want the struggle of
conversation with a stranger but the vicar was clearly trying
hard not to let her feel ignored. The other passengers had
stopped their own conversation and were watching and
listening. Feeling self-conscious, she said, 'There are some
children in our street evacuated out this way somewhere. A
village called Bridge End.'
'Bridge End? But that's where I live!' He leaned forwards
and repeated his words more slowly. 'Perhaps you know
them. Tim and Keith Budd.'
The names were easy to read. Judy forgot her self
consciousness and nodded eagerly. 'I know them! They live
in April Grove. My granny lives there too, and we went to
stay with her when we were bombed out.' She remembered
her aunt's visit here. 'You've got Stella and Muriel
Simmons too.'
'That's right.' He looked enormously pleased to have
found this point of contact. 'Such sweet girls, and such a sad .
story. But they're settling in very well.'
'It was my auntie who brought them to you,' Judy said,
not really understanding all his words but able to pick up a
few. 'Polly Dunn. Do you remember her?'
'Mrs Dunn! Of course I remember! Such a nice woman.
So you're her niece.' He sat back and smiled broadly. 'Well,
how very pleasant. Are you coming to Bridge End on a
visit?'
Once again, she was able to recognise the important
words. Perhaps it was because he was a vicar, and used totalking clearly in church. 'No, I'm going on to Ashwood.
My niece Sylvie - Polly's little girl - is evacuated there. I'm
going to stay with her foster family for a while. The doctors
think it might help me get my hearing back.' She had
forgotten her shyness, delighted to find someone so easy to
talk to, someone who had met Polly and knew people she
knew. 'It's shock, you see, and blast, not actual damage.'
'Then I'm sure a stay at Ashwood will do you the world
of good. And why don't you try to bring Sylvie over to
Bridge End to see us one day? I'm sure Stella and Muriel
would like to see an old friend.'
'I don't think they'd know her,' Judy said, having
disentangled this invitation. 'But she'd like to come, I'm
sure. I'll see if we can manage it.'
The train arrived at yet another small station and the
vicar glanced out of the window and jumped to his feet,
knocking his head on the luggage rack as he did so. He
rubbed his head ruefully and smiled at Judy. 'I'm always
doing that. I can never remember how tall I am. Now, don't
forget, bring Sylvie over to see us the first chance you get.
I'm very easy to find. The vicarage is right beside the
church, and my name's Mr Beckett. Everyone knows me.'
The train had stopped and he opened the door, tumbling
out on to the platform in a tangle of arms and legs. Judy
smiled and waved at him, and the other occupants of the
compartment laughed.
'I just bet everyone knows him!' said a woman who
happened to be looking Judy's way as she spoke. 'A real
character, he is.' The rest of the conversation was lost as she
turned away and the other passengers joined in, but for once
Judy didn't feel left out. She sat back in her corner and smiled to herself, still feeling the warmth of the vicar's
conversation and the attention he'd paid to her. Some
people understood, then, she thought. Some people understood
what it was to be deaf.Ashwood station was only a few miles further down the line
and the guard remembered to walk along the platform and
open the compartment door for her. Judy smiled her thanks
and scrambled down, lugging her suitcase and carrier bags.
She stood for a moment on the platform, gathering her
thoughts, and then turned quickly as she felt someone tap
her arm.
'Sylvie!' With a cry of delight, she scooped the little girl
into her arms. 'Oh Sylvie, how lovely! How did you know
I'd be on this train?'
Sylvie hugged her aunt and beamed up at her, her lips
moving quickly as she chattered. Judy felt a swift lurch of
dismay; she'd known she wouldn't be able to hear Sylvie's
voice, of course she'd known, but somehow the realisation
seemed to hit her more bitterly than since she'd first found
she was deaf. 'I'm sorry, Sylvie,' she said regretfully. 'I
don't, know what you're saying. You have to speak very
slowly, and make sure I can see your mouth move. Like
this.' She mouthed a few words and to her surprise Sylvie
burst into giggles.
'Auntie Judy! You are funny!'
'Funny?' For a moment, Judy felt indignant. Nobody had
dared suggest she was funny - indeed, she was sure nobody
had even thought so. But suddenly, looking down at the
child's bright face, innocent of either embarrassment or the
wish to hurt, she laughed. Maybe she was funny! Maybe
that was the best way to treat this affliction - laugh at it. She
bent again and hugged her niece, lifting her in her arms to
whirl her round in the air.
'Whee!' The child's scream of pleasure vibrated against
her body and Judy set her down again, trembling a little. It
was almost like hearing. Perhaps it would come back after
all, she thought with a lift of hope.
Sylvie was urging her to come with her now, picking up
one of the carrier bags in one hand and dragging Judy by theother. Together, they hurried out of the station and along
the lane. Judy looked around her and felt her heart move.
Born and brought up in Portsmouth, she had never been
far into the countryside. Before the war started, the family
had gone up on Portsdown Hill sometimes for picnics, or
caught a bus out to Denmead or Catisfield. Once or twice
they'd gone to Petersfield and wandered by the lake, and
they'd found bluebell woods and come home with arms full
of scented flowers. But for the past eighteen months such
jaunts had been impossible, and it was a long time since
they'd had a family picnic. Now, the feeling of space and the
sense of peace was like a balm to the soreness of her mind.
The lane leading from the station was wide enough for a
horse and cart and roughly metalled. It ran between hedges
laced with fresh new green, and mossy banks clothed like a
king's robes with the gold and purple of primroses and
violets. The hedges were alive with birds, darting in and out
of the branches, their beaks stuffed with worms and insects.
They must all have nests in there, Judy thought in wonder.
And I expect they're singing too. It's lovely!
The sky was a soft blue and the sun warm. Sylvie skipped
beside her, one hand still clasped in Judy's. Every now and
then she peeped up at her aunt and laughed, and Judy
laughed back. Mum and Polly were right, she thought. This
is what I need. But then, it's probably what everyone needs.
In ten minutes, they were at the farmyard gate. Sylvie
stopped to unfasten it, putting down the bag to do so, and
Judy went through, looking about her with interest. She had
never been in a farmyard before, and her knowledge came
mostly from picture-books she had had as a child, showing
chickens and ducks scratching about the yard, cows in the
fields and maybe a horse looking over a stable door.
To her astonishment, that was exactly what it did look
like. There was even a big, swaggering rooster, its head
crowned with a scarlet cockscomb, its tail spraying out like
an iridescent rainbow behind it. It stared at Judy, tilting itshead, and she stopped for a moment, feeling as if she had
actually strayed into her own childhood picture-book, and
gave a laugh of pure pleasure.
I'm laughing! she thought in amazement. I'm actually laughing.
The farmhouse itself was a long, low building with a
thatched roof and a row of small windows like eyes set
beneath curved arches in the thatch. A wide doorway gave it
the appearance of a smiling face, and there were flowers
growing along its walls. On the far side of the yard there was
a well, with a little roof over it, and a woman who was
winding up the handle turned at the click of the latch and
her face broke into a smile. Hastily, she brought the bucket
up to the top, unhooked it and set it on the ground before
hurrying over, wiping wet hands on her flowery pinafore.
'Miss Taylor! So you're here! Sylvie's been down to the
station all morning, hoping you'd come soon. It's a pleasure
to see you, it really is.' She remembered Judy's deafness and
repeated her words more slowly, smiling all the time. Her
face was round and rosy, her silver-grey hair scraped back
into a bun, her figure as comfortable as a cushion. She took
both Judy's hands in hers and clasped them warmly.
'Thank you,' Judy said, liking Mrs Sutton at once. No
wonder Polly felt happy about her daughter being here. 'It's
so kind of you to let me come and stay. And please, call me
Judy. Everyone does.'
'Judy. That's a nice name. Now, come in and I'll make
some tea.' Mrs Sutton was still speaking slowly, but when
she turned away her words were lost. Judy followed her in,
ducking her head to go through the low doorway, and
standing for a moment to let her eyes get accustomed to the
darkness. Sylvie, beside her, squeezed her hand.
It's like a house in a fairytale, she thought, looking about
her. The room was not very big - perhaps a couple of feet
all round larger than the rooms in April Grove -- but it was
different from any room she had ever been in. The wallswere almost three feet thick and built of huge, uneven
blocks of stone. The fireplace was like a small room in itself,
sunk deep into the wall and with two stone shelves like seats
at the sides. Above one was a small iron door with a handle,
and Judy stared at it, wondering what it could be.
Over the fireplace was a lintel that could have made a
respectable tombstone, with another great slab down one
side. There was no fire burning, but a pile of logs on a
mound of ash indicated that cold nights would be cosy in
here. A couple of shabby armchairs, placed in the alcoves on
either side and covered with chintz in a faded flower pattern,
seemed to throw out an invitation to sink into them and rest.
There were other chairs too, and a couple of stools as well
as a squashed and battered pouffe that looked as if it had
been used by generations of children. In one corner stood a
small grandfather clock, its swinging brass pendulum
shining like a beacon, and a shelf ran round the room about
a foot below the ceiling, with jugs of all colours and sizes
ranged upon it. The floor was of stone flags, warmed by
colourful rag rugs; the walls were washed a rich cream,
broken by wooden beams, and the ceiling was supported by
similar beams.
Mrs Sutton had bustled through another door to a room
at the back of the house. Sylvie gave Judy a gentle push and
she went obediently after her hostess and found her in a
large kitchen, with a kitchen range at one end. Judy sat
down at the big kitchen table and looked at the dresser with
its rows of blue and white striped crockery, thinking how
cheerful it all looked.
Sylvie placed herself in front of Judy and spoke slowly
and importantly. 'This is the kitchen. We have our dinner
here. This is Bossy.' She lifted a large tabby cat from one of
the chairs and held him up for inspection. He hung like a
rag doll in her arms, sleepy eyes barely open, and Judy
stroked his big striped head. Sylvie dumped him down on
the chair again like a pile of washing. 'We've got a dog too.'She was still remembering to speak slowly and clearly. 'He's
called Flash. He's out with Uncle Bob. He collects sheep.'
Judy had a vision of the dog with his collection of sheep,
poring over them as her brother Terry used to do with his
stamp collection. She laughed and Mrs Sutton, standing at
the range and pouring water from a kettle into a big brown
teapot, looked round and smiled. She said something Judy
couldn't hear, but she looked pleased and Judy thought she
could guess what the remark had been. Polly had told her
that she was low in her spirits, and the farmer's wife was
glad to hear her laugh.
All the same, it was no easier to take part in conversations
here than it had been at home. The country accent was
difficult for Judy to read, and when Mr Sutton came in for
dinner with the collie dog Flash at his heels she found that
he talked almost without opening his mouth, so that it was
almost impossible to read his words. He was welcoming
enough and shook her hand warmly, but he seemed shy and
wouldn't look her full in the face, which made it even harder
to understand him. When he was followed in by Jenny and
Brian, the other two evacuees, the chatter became impossible
to follow and Judy's initial optimism faded a little. She
sat looking at the table, scarred with many years of use,
while the conversation flowed about her unheard.
Dinner was toad-in-the-hole with cabbage and potatoes,
followed by rice pudding. Afterwards, she helped wash up
and then Sylvie took her upstairs to show her where she was
to sleep.
The room was the same size as the one downstairs, its
uneven walls distempered in a sunny yellow and with yellow
gingham curtains at the low window. There was a cupboard
in one corner and a chest of drawers. Against one wall were
two bunks, both neatly made with patchwork quilts spread
over them.
'This is where me and Jenny sleep. My bed's the bottom
one. But you're going to sleep in it now, and I'm going to beon the floor.' A mattress had been laid under the window. It
looked comfortable enough, and Sylvie knelt on it to lean on
the wide windowsill and gaze down into the garden. She
turned after a moment and looked enquiringly at her aunt,
and Judy realised she must have said something.
She pointed at her ears. 'I didn't hear you. Say it again.'
But Sylvie shrugged and shook her head, as if what she had
said wasn't worth repeating.
Judy felt a familiar flash of irritation. This happened time
and time again. People made casual remarks but when they
were unheard, couldn't be bothered to repeat them. It made
her feel even more cut off - as if she had no choice in what
she was allowed to hear, as if she didn't matter. It made no
difference that on the occasions when someone did repeat
their casual remarks she thought herself that they weren't
worth repeating - she just wanted to hear. She wanted to
hear everything - like other people. Like she had before. She
wanted to be able to make up her own mind about what was
worth hearing.
The irritation quickly faded, however. It wasn't Sylvie's
fault, and she'd been very good about talking directly to
Judy. She was pointing down into the garden now, saying
something about an apple tree. Judy knelt beside her and
found that she was gazing out into an orchard at the back of
the house. She gave a little gasp of delight.
The orchard contained a dozen or so trees, every one
smothered in blossom. A foam of pale pink and white
seemed to wash like waves on the seashore right up to the
walls of the house, reaching just below the window. Their
scent drifted in through the open window, filling the room
with delicate fragrance. Below them, revealed only in
glimpses, the grass was sprinkled with late daffodils and
Judy saw the cat, Bossy, who had been ejected from his
chair at dinnertime, slumbering in a corner, warmed by
sunlight.
Judy felt a warmth steal over her body and into her heart.

I'm going to be happy here, she thought. It was the right
thing to do. If I can get better anywhere, it will be here.
She gave her cousin a hug. 'Show me the rest of the
farm,' she said. 'Show me everything.'

Chapter Sixteen

It was not until she experienced the peace of the countryside
that Judy realised just how much she had been affected by
the terror of the raids on Portsmouth.
For a few days, she just roamed about in a dream. The
weather stayed fine and after she had helped Mrs Sutton to
tidy the bedrooms and wash some of the everlasting supply
of dirty clothes from the children and Mr Sutton, she was
free to go outside and lift her face to the sunshine. Often,
she took a bowl of vegetables out into the garden and sat on
an old chair, preparing them, but more than that Mrs
Sutton refused to allow her to do. 'You're here to get built
up, not do housework,' she said, making her meaning plain.
'You go for a nice walk. There might be a few bluebells
starting to come out.'
The children were at school in the mornings, and Judy
wandered alone down the lanes, drinking in the scent of the
flowers that bordered the way, and wishing she could hear
the song of the birds. She came to the village and stood for a
moment gazing at the green with its pond, alive with
tadpoles, but turned away quickly when she saw an old man
hobbling her way. She wasn't ready to meet strangers, who
wouldn't understand her deafness. On her own, with no
need to strain to hear, she felt herself again.
Arriving at a crossroads, she took a different way and
found herself close to some woods. As Mrs Sutton had
suggested, they were filled with early bluebells just beginning
to come out - a sea of misty colour rippling in the
green dappled light that filtered down through the leavesabove. Judy gave a little gasp of pleasure and dropped down
amongst them, stretching herself out and breathing in their
fragrance. She turned over and gazed up through the leaves
at the sky. I could be happy in a place like this, she thought.
I could be happy here for ever.
Back in Portsmouth, on the night after Judy left, there was a
raid which was concentrated on the Hilsea area, with several
high-explosive bombs being dropped close to the gasworks
and on the main railway line. A lot of houses were hit too,
and three people killed, one of them a friend of Polly's.
'I knew her at school. We used to sit next to each other
when we were in Miss Jenkins's class. She went to work at
Lipton's, and then she got married to a chap from Tipnor
way - dockyardman, he was till he went in the Army.' Polly
wiped her eyes. 'They had two boys, must be about my
Sylvie's age. I suppose they were evacuated, poor little
souls.'
'It's awful for kiddies, losing their mums and dads,' Cissie
said. 'Like those two little Simmons girls. Our Judy's going
to try to get across to see them, you know. It's not far.'
'She'll see Jess Budd's boys too, then,' Dick observed.
'Not bad nippers, though the older one's a bit of a scamp.
He used to knock about with Micky Baxter, you know,
when his mother wasn't looking. I should think she's glad to
have him out of the way. That boy's a bad influence.'
'Oh, he's not so bad,' Alice said. 'I saw him down
Charlotte Street the other day, working on one of the stalls.
He told me he's been given a delivery bike, got a little round
of his own. Said he wants to join the Army soon as he's old
enough - wants to be a hero.'
'Hero!' Dick snorted. 'Dunno what sort of a hero that
boy'd be! Look at the trouble he got those other poor little
tykes into - Jimmy Cross with one leg blown off, and that
Nash boy killed outright. I'd be glad to have my youngster
out of his way, I can tell you.'Now that the weather was better, Dick's health had
improved and he was able to get out into the back garden
and do some digging. The patch where Alice had grown
lupins, sweet williams and bunny-rabbits was now entirely
given over to vegetables and a couple of currant bushes.
Frank Budd, from number fourteen, had given Dick some
cabbage seedlings from his allotment, and he had already
harvested several pounds of new potatoes and baby carrots.
He had also managed to get some sticks for a row of peas
and runner beans.
'Dig for Victory,' he said, going out to the shed to fetch
his gardening tools. 'Well, at least I can be a bit of use
around the place.'
Polly was working almost full-time now as a WVS
volunteer. She still did some hairdressing, but it was mostly
during the evenings or on Saturday afternoons. For the rest
of the time she found herself carrying out a huge variety of
tasks - from organising salvage drives to collecting saucepans,
jelly moulds and kettles for their aluminium, to
sweeping up nuts and bolts from factory floors for re-use.
Every time the air-raid warning went, she hurried off to
present herself at the Emergency Centre, where she
collected her old ambulance van and prepared to dash off to
the site of the nearest bomb damage.
Often, the raid came to very little, with the planes
droning overhead on their way to London, Bristol or some
other city. But you never knew when the siren went whether
this would be such a night, or whether it was the beginning
of another ferocious attack. And you never knew if they
might jettison some leftover bombs on the way back. You
could never feel safe. Not until the 'Raiders Passed' - or, as
most people now called it, the 'All Clear' - sounded its
comforting wail.
Cissie and Alice too were doing their bit for the war
effort. Alice went to the Centre on the days after a raid andspent her time making tea and sandwiches. On other days
she and Cissie presented themselves at one of the two
communal feeding centres, where meals were provided for
all those who couldn't cook their own, or were unable to get
groceries from the shops. There wasn't much variety - just
soup at a penny a cup or a plate of minced beef and potatoes
at three or a time - but customers arrived in
droves, and when the tables and chairs were all occupied
they sat on the floor, the stairs and even outside in the street
to eat. The Centres were invariably sold out by one o'clock.
It did seem, however, as if the raids were easing off. After
the one on the night following Judy's departure to
Ashwood, there was a lull. People began to look and feel
better. It was almost summer, they were getting more sleep
and some of the bomb damage was being patched up. You
could almost think about smiling again.
Not that there was much else to smile about. The war was
looking bad in Europe. Yugoslavia and Greece had both
been overrun, with Allied forces having to be evacuated
from Greece and Crete - 'just like Dunkirk all over again,'
Dick said bitterly - and at home there had been devastating
raids on Plymouth, Liverpool, Newcastle and Bristol. At
this rate, there wouldn't be a city left in the whole country.
It wouldn't be worth invading.
Yet the fear of invasion was still very strong. All around
the coasts barbed wire was being put up along the beaches,
so you couldn't even go for a swim any more, and the Home
Guard was on permanent alert. The signal for an invasion
was the ringing of the church bells, so they were silenced on
every other occasion and Sunday mornings were quiet. You
didn't know how much you'd enjoyed hearing the bells till
they weren't there any more, Cissie remarked.
At Ashwood, Judy would have welcomed hearing anything
at all. She went for walks every day, wishing she could
hear the birds singing or the rustling of leaves and thewhisper of grass. She avoided meeting the village people or
even the other evacuees, knowing they would be embarrassed
by her deafness or even think there was something
'strange' about her. They probably think that anyway, she
thought sadly, noticing a small group of children cross to
the other side of the lane as she approached. They'll be
saying I'm mental, or a witch or something. She wondered
how many people in the past had become objects of fear or
derision simply because they were deaf, or frail in some
other way. Lonely old women, stuck in tumbledown
cottages because people were afraid to help them. Grumpy
old men, surly because they were hurt by their neighbours'
treatment of them.
Is this going to happen to me? she wondered. Suppose I
never get my hearing back? Am I going to spend the rest of
my life like this, avoiding people just because I'm afraid
they'll treat me like a leper?
The thought of Sean haunted her still. She grieved for
him, yet she had an uneasy feeling that her grief should have
been deeper. I loved him, she thought, twisting the little ring
on her finger. I ought to be even unhappier ... yet to her
dismay she could barely remember what he looked like. She
hadn't even a photograph to remember him by. The only
person in the family to own a camera was Dick, who had
had a box Brownie, lost in the bombing, and with film so
hard to come by he had never taken a picture of Sean. Judy
tried to capture Sean's face in her mind but it was elusive,
fading away every time she thought she had conjured it up.
Perhaps it was because they had known each other such a
short time; there were so few memories.
She stopped and leaned on a field gate. Another memory
came into her mind - a brief glimpse of a tall, fair-haired
young man in RAF uniform with a Spitfire badge on his
arm. Chris Barrett. She thought of his ready grin, the flash
of white teeth and the crinkling of blue eyes. She thought ofthe hour or so they had spent together trapped in the lift,
the easy conversation, the feeling of comfort he had given
her.
She thought of his kiss.
With an angry shrug, she pushed the memory away and
stared into the field where lambs were playing tag around
their mothers' stolid bodies. One jumped up on top of its
mother's back, and stood there for all the world as if it were
laughing at its playmates. Half a dozen raced off to a grassy
knoll and began to skip up to the top and then down again.
Another little gang began running races from one side of the
field to the other, and soon all had joined in, breaking off
after a few minutes to rush back to their mothers for a drink.
Judy watched them and laughed suddenly. I can't hear
them but I can still see them, she thought. There's still
plenty of joy to be had, and it doesn't help Sean or anyone
else to pretend it isn't there. And, with sudden energy, I don't have to be sorry for myself - I can still do things to
help. I'm fit and strong, and I shouldn't be drifting about as
if I'm on holiday. The WVS works even out here in the
country, and I ought to be doing something too. I'll find out
who's in charge.
She waved goodbye to the lambs and began to walk
rapidly down the lane back to the village. Mrs Sutton would
know, she thought, and went back to the farmhouse. The
farmer's wife was busy making bread, and looked up with a
smile.
'Had a nice walk?' She had learned quickly to shape the
words so that Judy could read them, and Judy nodded and
sat down at the table, watching her hostess's hands knead
the floury dough.
'I want to do something to help.'
Mrs Sutton shook her head. 'No, love, you go out and
enjoy the sunshine. You've done all the jobs that need doing
here. You go and get some roses in your cheeks.''No, I mean I want to do something more. In Portsmouth,
I was in the WVS. I helped in the raids. I want to do
something like that here.'
'But we don't have the raids here, love. Only the odd
bomb dropped by mistake, and that usually goes into a field.
Old Walter Hart had a couple of cows killed a while back,
but that's all.'
'But there must be something,' Judy persisted. 'I thought
of offering to help on the farm, but I really ought to see the
local WVS organiser. Do you know who she is?'
The floury hands paused. 'Well now, who would that be?
It was a Mrs Tupper who brought the evacuee children out
at the beginning of the war. She was WVS, or I suppose she
was, so she'd know. But I don't know where she lives, so
that's not much use to you.' She gazed at Judy, her forehead
creased, and then her expression cleared. 'I know who could
help you! The vicar - he'd be bound to know. Come to
think of it, I do believe Mrs Hazelwood herself's in the
WVS. There now!' She beamed. 'That's the answer. She's
bound to be high up. Why didn't I think of it before? I'll
just set this bread to rise and we'll go round to the vicarage
straight away.' She repeated her last words slowly and then
began to pound the dough again with vigour.
'No, I'll go by myself Judy stood up. 'I've got to start
being more independent - I won't be any use if I can't do
things for myself. And you're busy, anyway.' She touched
Mrs Sutton's arm. 'Thank you. I'll be back at dinnertime.'
The vicarage was a large Victorian house close to the
church. Its garden had been given over entirely to the
cultivation of vegetables, of which there were neat rows
already beginning to flourish. A large man, dressed in rough
working clothes, was working with a hoe, and as Judy
approached he straightened up and turned round. He was
well over six feet tall with a large, black, bushy beard and
moustache and to her surprise, she saw that he was wearing
a dog-collar.Judy looked at him and her heart sank. I can't even see his
lips, she thought, let alone read them. But his eyes looked
kind and she plunged into her explanation.
'I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Judy Taylor, I'm staying at
the Suttons' farm for a while. I'm in the WVS and
wondered if there's anything I can do to help while I'm
here. Mrs Sutton says your wife is the local organiser.'
Belatedly, she added, 'I'm afraid I can't hear what you say I'm
deaf. Bomb blast.'
The beard moved and she guessed he was speaking. 'I
can't read your lips either,' she added apologetically, and
was surprised to see that he was laughing. He reached out a
big hand and ushered her inside the house. Judy, slightly
disconcerted, found herself in a wide hallway, its floor
patterned with black and white tiles. An old coat-stand
stood near the door and there was a long settle that looked
suspiciously like a church pew against the wall. The vicar
led her through the door to her right, and she found herself
in a big room with a bay window overlooking the garden,
shabbily but comfortably furnished with a battered three
piece suite, a large cluttered desk and sundry other
mismatched chairs and small tables. The walls were lined
with bookshelves.
Mr Hazelwood spoke again and then pushed her gently
into a chair. He pulled a sheet of paper across the desk and
began to write on it.
You do the talking. I'll do the writing!
Judy laughed and nodded, feeling suddenly at ease with
this big man who looked more like a farmhand than a vicar.
She said, 'Well, it's just as I said. I work for the WVS in
Portsmouth, helping the Lady Mayoress. I was out on an
ambulance during the raid a fortnight ago, and we got
caught in the bombs. We were all deafened, but the others
got their hearing back. The doctor thought I needed a rest.
He says it should come back, but no one knows for certain.
Anyway, I just thought I ought to be doing something whileI'm here, and Mrs Sutton said that your wife runs the WVS
in this area.'
She does, he wrote, but is that quite what the doctor meant
by 'having a rest'?
'But I'm perfectly well,' Judy protested. 'I feel as if I'm
shirking. There must be something I could do.'
I'm sure there is. He paused and looked at her thoughtfully,
then seemed to make up his mind. She's out at the
moment, but she'll be back soon. Why don't you go and sit in the
garden until she comes back? I'll make you a cup of coffee.
Judy didn't much like the liquid Camp coffee mixture
that most people used. 'Water would be fine,' she said, and
he nodded and led her through to a big kitchen where he
poured her a cup of water. Carrying this, he opened the
back door and she found herself in a tiny garden that had
not been taken over for vegetables. There was a patch of
lawn with a pond filled with squiggling tadpoles which were
being attentively watched by a large black cat with huge
yellow eyes. The garden was bounded by a warm brick wall
with a flower border that seemed to sweep up to it like a tide
of colour, and in the middle was an gnarled apple tree
covered with deep pink blossom. It was a tiny patch of
tranquillity; a haven from the world outside.
The vicar indicated an old wooden seat under_ the tree
and Judy sat down and accepted the water. He smiled at her
and vanished round the corner of the house, and she leaned
back her head, closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the
sun on her face. After a moment or two, a furry paw
touched her knee and the cat jumped on to her lap. She laid
her hand on its sun-warmed back and smiled.
When she opened her eyes, a young man was sitting on
the grass watching her. Judy started and spilled some water
over the cat, which leaped off her lap and sat down a few
yards away, shaking its head indignantly.
The man spoke. He looked about the same age as Judy,
with dark hair brushed back from his forehead and very blueeyes under heavy black brows. He was frowning slightly and
Judy realised that he must have been speaking for some
moments.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I can't hear you. I'm deaf.'
'Oh,' he said, and looked nonplussed. Judy held out the
sheet of paper the vicar had given her, and he looked at it
and smiled. He took the pencil and wrote, I'm Ben
Hazelwood. You must be waiting for my mother.
Judy nodded. 'My name's Judy Taylor. I'm from
Portsmouth.'
He held out his hand and she shook it. His grasp was firm
and cool. They looked at each other for a moment, neither
quite knowing what to do next. His smile was rather wicked
and very "attractive, Judy thought. It seemed to light up his
rather dark face, which she suspected might be forbidding
when he frowned and lowered those heavy brows over the
bright blue eyes. But his mouth was wide and curled up at
the corners, so that he looked as if he were about to break
into a chuckle.
'Are you in the Services?' she asked and he twisted his
mouth wryly and shook his head.
I'm not old enough. I'm thinking about lying about my age
and volunteering!
'Not old enough?' Judy said in surprise, reading this. 'I
thought. . .' She stopped and blushed, and he grinned and
held up both hands, fingers stretched, then one hand and
only two fingers of the other. 'Seventeen? You look older.'
Eighteen in September. But I want to go before then. I want to fly.
'Fly?' She glanced up at the cloudless sky, remembering
the dogfights of last summer and the Battle of Britain that
had raged across the South of England. Pilots, many of
them barely more than boys, had been dying every day, yet
there seemed to be a never-ending supply of young men
willing to take their place. She looked at the youthful face,
noting now the signs of immaturity - the softness of hischeeks and lips, the eager innocence of his eyes - and
thought of him fighting in the skies, perhaps being hit, his
plane in flames, spiralling out of control. . .
The sudden vision shook her and she closed her eyes,
trying to push it away. When she opened them he was
watching her with some concern. She spoke quickly, at
random, 'What do your parents think about it?'
He grimaced. Haven't told them yet. Know I want to join
the RAF - don't know I'm thinking of volunteering. He looked
suddenly anxious and started scribbling again. You won't tell
them, will you?
Judy smiled and shook her head. 'No. I won't tell them.'
Ben looked up suddenly as if he had heard something,
and quickly screwed up the piece of paper and stuffed it into
his pocket. A moment or two later a tall, rather thin woman
came round the corner of the house. She was evidently
expecting to see Judy there and smiled and held out her
hand, saying something. Ben spoke to her and she nodded.
'Miss Taylor. I'm very pleased to meet you, my dear.'
She spoke carefully and Judy guessed that she would have a
clear, rather pleasant voice. 'I see you've met my son.'
Judy nodded. Mrs Hazelwood sat down beside her and
Ben went into the house, returning a few moments later
with a fresh sheet of paper. He smiled at Judy arid went
away again.
Ben's home from school at the moment, Mrs Hazelwood
wrote. He has a week for Whitsun. Tell me what I can do for
you.
Judy nodded. One of the things you missed when you
were deaf, she thought, was the more casual part of
conversation - the little asides that didn't really matter, the
humorous comments and quips, the remarks that made
chatting a pleasurable experience. When you were deaf, it
was so difficult for people to get across to you the
information they wanted you to have - either by slowly
mouthing the words or by writing them down - that theykept it to the bare minimum. It was like receiving a series of
telegrams.
'I'm in the WVS in Portsmouth,' she said. 'I work for the
Lady Mayoress. I thought perhaps there was something I
could do while I'm at Ashwood.'
Mrs Hazelwood's eyes rested on her for a moment. They
were a cool grey, set wide apart in a face that was made to
look more narrow by pulling back the silver hair into a
French pleat. She had a wide mouth too, rather like her son's, with a humorous curve to the lips, and her expression
was compassionate.
'Are you here for a rest?' she said carefully.
'Well - yes,' Judy said. 'But there's nothing wrong with
me. Apart from my ears, I mean. I'm not ill or anything.
Just tired and - and things have been a bit difficult lately.'
She felt her eyes fill with tears. 'I'm sorry.'
'There's no need to apologise.' The curved lips were easy
to read. 'I know just how difficult things have been in
Portsmouth. Was your home bombed?'
Judy nodded and bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears.
'In the first Blitz,' she whispered. 'We were in the shelter Mum
and Dad and Polly - she's my aunt, she's lived with
us since her husband was killed. We went to live with my
grandmother, and then Sean - Sean . . .' To her horror, the
tears spilled over and a huge sob forced its way up from her
throat. She put her head into her hands, appalled but unable
to control the weeping any more, and the sobs tore
themselves from her body; hard, painful sobs that wrenched
at her chest and shoulders and made her throat feel raw and
scraped.
'I'm sorry,' she choked.
She felt Mrs Hazelwood's hand laid gently on her
shoulders. It was firm and soothing, and a strength seemed
to flow from it into Judy's body. She found a large
handkerchief pressed into her hand and after a while thesobs eased and she was able to blow her nose and sit up. She
gave her hostess a faint, wobbly smile.
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that.'
'I've told you, there's no need to apologise. You're not
the first person to have wept in this garden.' The vicar's
wife glanced around the tranquil little haven. 'It's meant for
peace, but there are some griefs that have to be expressed in
order to find peace. Was Sean your sweetheart?'
Judy nodded, understanding only the last part of this
little speech. 'We only knew each other for a short while.
We wanted to get married, but there wasn't time.' She
looked down at the ring he had given her, with its tiny scrap
of diamond. 'I can't seem to believe he's gone. I keep
thinking about it, trying to imagine . . .' Her voice shook
again. 'He was at sea, like Polly's husband. It must have
been so awful.'
'Yes, it must.' Mrs Hazelwood's hand gave her shoulder a
final squeeze, then dropped gently away. 'It must be so
awful for so many people. For you as well.'
Judy shook her head at once. 'No - I've hardly suffered at
all. I wasn't hurt in the bombing, I've got somewhere to live
and my family are still there. I've been helping, until this
happened.' She touched one of her ears. 'I want to help
again. I need to do something - I can't just spend, my time
going for country walks and being looked after by other
people. It feels wrong. It feels wrong not to have suffered.'
Mrs Hazelwood looked at her thoughtfully. 'But perhaps
you need to be looked after for a while. There are more
kinds of illness than the physical ones, you know.' This was
a difficult sentence to read, and she wrote it down. Judy
flushed and she shook her head vehemently.
'I'm not mad! Just because I can't hear--'
'No, no, my dear, I didn't mean that at all.' She wrote
again. You've had terrible shocks. You need rest to get over
them. You mustn't feel guilty about that.
'I don't know if I feel guilty or not,' Judy said, 'but I doknow I want to do something to help. Please, isn't there
anything? I don't mind what it is.'
Mrs Hazelwood looked at her steadily, and then smiled. It
was a warm, friendly smile and Judy felt comforted by it. In
fact, she thought, she felt comforted simply by being here,
in this small, peaceful garden with its flowers and its
sheltering walls. 'I hope the vicar never grows vegetables in
here,' she said.
'I won't let him. It's a healing place, and that's just as
important as cabbages. Food for the soul,' the vicar's wife
said, and smiled again. 'Now, let's think what you could do.
Have you ever made scrim?' She laughed at Judy's blank
expression and wrote it down.
'Scrim?' The word still meant nothing. Judy shook her
head. 'I've never heard of it.'
'I don't suppose you have! Nor had we until the war
started. Come with me - I'll show you.'
Judy got up and followed her. Scrim! she thought.
Whatever can it be? But it didn't really matter. Whatever it
was, she was going to be doing something to help the war
effort. She was going to be able to feel useful again.Chapter Seventeen

'Scrim' turned out to be strips of dull green, khaki and grey
fabric which had to be woven into huge nets to make
camouflage material for the Army. The work was being
carried out in a large barn, where a number of women were
standing at wide wooden frames on which the net was
stretched. The fabric was laid out on the earthen floor and
they were painstakingly threading the strips through the
netting. They looked up and smiled as the two newcomers
arrived, and spoke to the vicar's wife, but in the dim
shadows of the barn it was impossible for Judy to read what
they were saying.
'It's not quite as easy as it looks,' Mrs Hazelwood said.
'You see, it has to look as real as possible so you have to fade
out the edges and make the corners turn so that there are no
sudden sharp lines. It's called "breaking shadow". Think of
the dappled light of sun falling through trees, and you'll
understand. It's rather dirty, tedious work, I'm afraid,' she
added apologetically, 'but we all take a turn at it. There are
other jobs to do as well, in between.'
Judy found that while she didn't catch all of Mrs
Hazelwood's words, she could read enough to understand
the gist. She stood beside an elderly woman wearing a
pinafore, with a strip of the fabric wound round her head in
a turban, watching to see how the work was done.
Mrs Hazelwood spoke to the other women and then
smiled at Judy and left the barn. She had evidently
explained Judy's problem and they didn't attempt to talk to
her, but gave her friendly looks and showed her what to do.One of them wound some fabric round her fair hair to keep
it clean, and in a little while she felt confident enough to join
in on her own section of netting.
As Mrs Hazelwood had said, it was dirty work. The air
was full of dust and fluff from the fabric, so that she found
herself sneezing every few minutes and soon understood
why they all wore turbans. It was also hard on the fingers,
which were soon sore from twisting the fabric through the
stiff, oily netting. Yet even so, the work itself was strangely
soothing. And you could take pride in weaving in the
subdued colours, making dappled patterns and shadows
here, a pool of light there. It's almost like painting, she
thought. We're making a picture. And we might be saving
soldiers' lives as well.
The other women were mostly elderly, one or two of
them sitting on chairs as they worked. There was one
enormously plump woman with swollen legs who could
have done few other tasks, and another who could only work
with one arm. It's a job for the weak and feeble - like me,
Judy thought, and she smiled. Anyone and everyone could
help the war effort in some way.
It was also a very sociable job. There was no machinery to
make a noise and she could see that the other women were
enjoying a good gossip and plenty of laughter. She sighed,
wishing she could join in, but she was beginning to get
accustomed to this sense of isolation now. Accustomed to
being deaf, she thought in dismay. And I'm only twenty
two. Am I going to be like this for the rest of my life?
For a moment, she was swept with the sense of desolation
that had also become painfully familiar - and then she took a
grip on herself. I am not going to give way to self-pity, she
told herself firmly. I'm fit and well and I'm working again.
Plenty of people are far worse off than me.
She picked up another strip of fabric and wove it into the
netting. This is a wood, she thought. It's a wood somewhere
in Europe, and there are British soldiers creeping through
the undergrowth. They're making dugouts to sleep in and
they need this camouflage netting to hide them and keep
them safe. Or they want to cover a tank or a lorry with it, so
that the enemy doesn't know they're advancing. They're
depending on me to make a really good camouflage.
Someone out in Germany or France is depending on me Judy
Taylor. They're depending on me to keep them alive and
it doesn't matter a scrap to them whether I'm deaf or
not.
By the time Mrs Hazelwood returned she had completed
a whole frame. Pleased with her work, she stood back to
admire it, just as an artist might stand back to assess a
painting, and Mrs Hazelwood smiled her approval.
'You've done well, my dear. Now it's time for a break. I
dare say Mrs Sutton will be expecting you back for dinner.'
'Goodness, is it that time already?' They came out into
the sunlight and Judy glanced up at the church clock. 'I'll
come back this afternoon and do some more.'
Mrs Hazelwood shook her head. 'No, I've got something
else for you to do, outside in the sunshine. Most people only
pop in for an hour or so, or even less, in between their other
jobs. Come back at two o'clock and you can help collect
sphagnum moss.'
Judy looked at her in bewilderment, totally unable to
make out the last two words, Mrs Hazelwood just smiled
and said, 'I'll explain when you come back,' so she smiled
back a little uncertainly and went off down the lane in the
direction of the farm.
'So you've been making scrim?' Mrs Sutton said, serving
her a helping of cottage pie. 'I've done a bit of that too. Filthy work, but it's got to be done. And are you going back
this afternoon?'
'Not to make scrim,' Judy said, watching her face
carefully to read the words. 'I don't know what I'll be doing.
I couldn't understand.'
The three children were back from morning school andsitting up at the table, watching the big dish of cottage pie
eagerly and squabbling about who would have the crispy
bits round the edges. Sylvie nudged Judy and said, 'Perhaps
you'll be digging up acorns. They did that last year, for
pigs.'
'Acorns?' Judy said in surprise. 'Why? Can't the pigs dig
up their own acorns?'
Mr Sutton, who was washing at the sink, laughed and
said, 'That's what the women said, but they were just told to
get on with it,' and Brian said scornfully, 'You don't collect
acorns in May, silly. Anyway, they got them all last year.
There won't be any more till after the summer. I expect it's
rosehips for making juice for babies.'
'Well, that just shows who's silly, then!' Sylvie retorted.
'There aren't any rosehips either, so yah boo!'
'That's quite enough of that,' Mrs Sutton said severely.
'We'll have none of that kind of language at the table,
Sylvie, if you don't mind.' To Judy, who had missed most
of this exchange, she said, 'Perhaps you're going to be
collecting moss. I've heard they use it for injuries. Put it on
cuts and bruises,' she added, demonstrating.
This time, Judy understood. 'It might have been moss
that Mrs Hazelwood said,' she said doubtfully, 'but they
don't really put it on people, do they? What good would that
do?'
'Don't ask me. It's a wonder what they can do, these days.
Why, the vicar himself told me they use spiders' webs in
telescopes and submarine periscopes and such, to give them
sightings. Spiders' webs! I wouldn't have believed it if
anyone else had told me. But he'd know, because he was in
the Army. Chaplain, he was.'
Judy gave up on all these complicated words, and
fastened instead on the mention of the vicar. 'I met their son
in the garden. Ben.'
'Oh, Ben!' Mrs Sutton face broke into a smile. 'Their
youngest, he is. Late baby - the others are all quite a fewyears older. In the Services, all of them - Ian in the Army,
chaplain like his father, Alexandra gone for a nurse, Peter in
the Navy. It must be a worry for the vicar and his poor wife,
but at least they know Ben's safe at school.'
Judy followed this carefully and decided to say nothing
about Ben's intentions. Brian, who had been concentrating
on his cottage pie, looked up and said, 'Is it true they use
spiders' webs for telescopes? Do they pay people to collect
them? I could get lots.'
'Yeugh!' Sylvie said. 'Don't you bring them indoors. I
hate spiders.'
'That's because you're a girl,' he said dismissively. 'All
girls are scared of spiders.' He grinned evilly and made a
spidery shape with his fingers, and Sylvie gave a little
scream and cowered away.
'That's enough, now,' Mrs Sutton said, and held out the
cottage pie dish. 'Does anyone want more of this? It's
macaroni pudding for afters.'
'Bags the skin!' the three children shouted in unison, and
she handed the dish to Mr Sutton, who scraped his fork
round the edges and cleaned out every last scrap.
Judy walked back to the vicarage feeling well-fed and
warmed by the cheerful company. The children were
certainly better off in the country, she thought. Milk
straight from the cow, home-made butter, home-baked
bread and fresh eggs such as were rarely seen in the shops in
Portsmouth. And peace. Freedom from the raids. Freedom
from the wail of the siren, the roar of aircraft, the thunder of
exploding bombs. Freedom from fear.
She took a deep breath of clean, country air, and
wondered if she really was going to spend the afternoon
collecting moss to put on soldiers' wounds.

It turned out to be true. With half a dozen other women,
some of them the same age as herself, Judy was directed to a
wood a mile or so from the village. The little group strolled

along the lane, laughing and joking, and although Judy
couldn't hear them she felt less left out than usual. They
smiled at her and one, a lanky, red-haired girl with freckles
and a ready grin, linked arms with her as they swung along.
She smiled back, feeling a little as if she were a foreigner
who didn't understand the language, but aware that they
were friendly.
After a while they left the lane and crossed two or three
fields. In the distance, Judy could see a church tower which
she thought must be at Bridge End. She wondered how
Stella and Muriel were getting along. She would have liked
to go and see them, but her deafness made it too difficult.
She still shrank from new situations and encounters.
The wood lay in a hollow, and in the centre of it was a
swampy area, with tussocks of tough grass and reeds
growing in shallow water. Judy could see the moss growing
in thick, soft cushions of bright green everywhere. She
looked at it with interest, wondering just why it was so
valuable.
'The moss has healing properties,' Mrs Hazelwood had
told them as they set off. 'It stops wounds from going septic.
We send it out to the troops.'
Everyone was wearing Wellington boots and they set
down their baskets on tussocks and began to work. It was
quite pleasant, Judy discovered, once you'd got used to
plunging your hands into the cool, damp cushions and
pulling them up to pack into your basket. It didn't take long
to fill them, and within an hour or so they were on their way
back, each swinging two tightly packed baskets. As they
crossed the fields, they paused to gather wool left on the
fences by sheep and crammed it in with the moss. Mrs
Hazelwood received them with approval.
'That's excellent. We'll have another moss-gathering
party tomorrow.' Most of the women had meals to prepare
for menfolk and children, the evacuees as well as their own,
so could only spare an hour or two each day. But it was

surprising how much could be achieved in a short time, Mrs
Hazelwood told Judy, inviting her in for a cup of tea before
returning to the farm. An hour or so making scrim in the
mornings, another hour spent gathering moss or wool in the
afternoon, and it all added up to a substantial contribution
towards the war effort.
She took Judy into the garden again. The sun was warm
and they took their tea to the seat under the apple tree. Mrs
Hazelwood talked carefully, facing Judy so that she could
read her words. She talked about her children -- Ian, who
had taken Orders and followed his father into the Army as a
chaplain, Peter who was a Lieutenant in the Navy, and
Alexandra who had volunteered as a VAD nurse and was at
present working at Haslar Naval Hospital in Gosport.
'It's good to have her so close. She comes home when she
can manage it, for her day off. But they've been so busy
during the last few months, with all the bombing. . .' She
fell silent and sat gazing at the black cat, who was stretched
out on his back in the sun, soaking up the warmth. 'I'm glad
to know they're all being useful, though,' she said at last.
Judy sipped her tea and thought how difficult it must be
for mothers like Mrs Hazelwood, knowing that their
children were in danger and unable to do anything to keep
them safe. She thought about Ben, who was as safe as
anyone could be at his school in Winchester, yet wanted to
leave that safety and take to one of the most dangerous of
occupations as an RAF pilot. How would the Hazelwoods
feel when he took that step, without even consulting them?
They'll be upset about it, she thought, but they'll be proud
too. And we all have to put our worries away in this war,
because it's got to be fought, to save the whole of Europe,
maybe the whole world, from tyranny, and none of us is
really safe.
A shadow fell across the lawn and Ben himself appeared,
tall and loose-limbed in grey flannel trousers and white,
open-necked shirt. He grinned at his mother, winked atJudy, and flung himself down on the grass beside the cat.
There were some extra cups on the tray and he poured
himself some tea.
Mrs Hazelwood stood up. 'I'll leave you to finish your
tea,' she said to Judy. 'And please come back tomorrow if
you'd like to do some more - but don't feel you have to.
You're here for a rest, remember.'
She walked away across the lawn, her skirt swaying
around her lean figure, and Judy watched her, thinking how
kind she was, how kind everyone was in this village. She
glanced at Ben uncertainly and he reached out a hand and
pulled her to her feet.
'Come for a walk. Or are you worn out from all your
moss-gathering?'
Judy shook her head. 'I feel I ought to be doing more.'
'Well, we'll take some baskets,' he declared, 'in case we
find something useful.' He led her across the garden to the
shed where the baskets were kept and handed her one,
taking another for himself. Side by side, they strolled off
between the green hedges.
A little way along the lane, Ben turned off to the left
down a track Judy hadn't noticed before. It was roughly
metalled and ran between hawthorn hedges frothed with
white blossom. The grassy banks beneath them were misted
with bluebells and here and there were patches of starry
white wild garlic flowers. Now and then the lane was shaded
by a spreading oak, ginger with new leaves just about to
burst, or a stand of tall elms crowded with rooks. There
were a couple of farm cottages, with small children playing
in the dust, and then the lane wound down a hill and forded
a river before climbing up out of the valley through woods
on the other side.
There was a narrow wooden bridge over the river, and
Ben crossed halfway and then sat down, swinging his legs
over the side. Judy joined him and they sat quietly for a
while, watching the brown water ripple beneath them.'I suppose there are birds singing,' she said thoughtfully
after a moment or two. 'Wish I could hear them.'
'You will,' he said, and she could tell by his expression
that his voice was firm, as if he knew that what he said was
true. Judy shrugged.
'I hope so. But nobody knows for sure. I might be deaf
always.'
He shook his head. 'You won't. You'll hear again. I know
you will.' He smiled, full of confidence. 'You've just got to
want it badly enough - you've got to believe it.'
Startled, she stared at him, and then, suddenly angry,
began to get to her feet. 'Don't say that. Don't you realise, I do want to hear again - I want it more than anything in the
world! But it's my ears - there's something wrong with
them, something damaged. Just believing isn't going to make
any difference.' She scrambled up, but Ben caught her hand
and drew her back down beside him.
'I'm sorry. Please don't go, Judy. I didn't mean to upset
you.' She looked into his face, reading only some of the
words but understanding his expression, and suddenly he
looked so young, so pleading, that she burst out laughing.
'All right. But please don't talk like that. It's silly.' She
sat down and looked at him again. 'You don't know, Ben.
You can't. Even the doctors don't know for sure. I could be
deaf for the rest of my life. And even if I am,' she paused, 'it
can't possibly matter to you.'
Ben opened his mouth and then shut it again. He looked
away from her, down into the brown, rippling water, and
she saw his mouth move, but he didn't look back at her to
repeat his words. She felt a sudden sense of frustration,
wanting to be able to talk to him, freely and naturally. I do want to be able to hear him, she thought with despair. I
want to be able to hear everyone. But wanting isn't enough.
Ben suddenly gripped her hand more tightly, indicating
something with his head. Judy followed his gaze and stifled
a little cry of delight. A bird was sitting on a branch a fewyards further up the river - a bird with brilliant, electric
blue wings and a flame-red breast. As Judy watched, it dived
into the water and reappeared a moment later with a small
fish struggling in its beak. It flew back to its branch, gave a
few quick glances around, and then disappeared into a hole
in the bank.
'A kingfisher!' Judy exclaimed. 'I've never seen one
before. It was beautiful. But why did it go into that hole? Is
it hiding?'
Ben shook his head. 'That's its nest. It must have young
in there.' He smiled his wicked, curving smile at her. 'Now
are you glad we came?'
Judy nodded, and felt the easy rapport between them
return. The moment of uncertainty had disappeared in their
shared pleasure. 'Yes, I'm glad. It's a lovely spot. Thank
you for bringing me. But I ought to be going back to the
farm now. I promised to help Mrs Sutton with the supper.'
He nodded and got to his feet, helping Judy up. They
stood facing each other on the narrow bridge for a moment,
then Judy turned away and walked back to the bank. Ben
caught her up as she bent to pick up the baskets they had
left on the grass. He laid his hand on her shoulder. 'You're
not cross with me, are you, Judy?'
'No. I'm not,cross.' Their eyes met again and she relaxed
and smiled. 'I'm not cross at all,' she said softly, and began
to walk back up the track.
Ben fell into step beside her. They did not speak again
until he left her at the gate to the Suttons' farm.Chapter Eighteen

It really did seem as if the raids over Portsmouth were
easing. There were only four during May, spaced several
days or even a week or two apart, and they were light in
comparison to the savagery of the three Blitzes. Some
houses at Tipnor were damaged and the main railway line
put out of action, but many of the bombs fell into the sea
and there were only three people killed and just a handful
injured.
The Luftwaffe had not given up, however. Liverpool had
been cut off by seven nights of continuous bombing, with
fires raging uncontrollably throughout, the worst of all being
at the Bryant & May match factory. The city centre had
been reduced to rubble, and a ship loaded with bombs and
ammunition had been set on fire by a barrage balloon which
fell blazing from the sky; the explosion sank six other ships
and destroyed the dock area. A hospital had received a direct
hit, killing sixty staff and patients, and a hundred and sixty
children had died when their school shelter was bombed. By
the end of the week, almost fifteen hundred people had been
killed and seventy thousand were without homes.
London was attacked again. Under a cruelly bright
'Bomber's Moon', the heaviest raid yet left the House of
Commons, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London and
the Royal Mint in flames. Every main railway terminus was
out of action, over three thousand people were killed or
injured and a hundred and fifty thousand homes had no gas,
water or electricity.
'They're having a terrible time coping with the homeless,'the Mayoress told Polly as they walked out of the Royal
Beach into the sunshine a few days after the raid. She had
been asked to go to London for a meeting at WVS Head
Office in Tothill Street. The main railway line had been put
out of action and, since the trains weren't running, she had
decided to use the official car and asked Polly to drive it.
Polly was rather excited at the prospect. Driving a nice
car in daylight would make a welcome change from dashing through blacked-out streets in a converted van. She was
looking forward to seeing London, too - she'd only been
there three or four times, long before the war had begun,
when Alice had taken her and Cissie to visit a cousin.
Johnny had talked about taking her to see the sights, but
somehow," what with Sylvie's birth and the miscarriages
later, it had never happened. Now some of those sights were
gone for ever, she thought, and others might not last much
longer.
The Lady Mayoress was still talking about the problem of
the homeless in London. 'They don't seem to have foreseen
such a situation, you see. They expected far more people to
be killed - over six hundred thousand were estimated, I
believe - and in the event there have been only twenty
thousand in London and forty thousand in the entire
country. Well,' she caught herself up and gave Polly a wry
look, 'one can hardly say only, but still it's nothing like as
many as were expected. Whereas they did nothing to plan
for the homeless, and they already number over two million.
It's a terrible problem.'
'And not all of them as lucky as us, with relatives to go
to,' Polly said. 'Whatever will happen to them all?' She
opened the passenger door of the car and the Mayoress got
in. Polly cranked the engine and as it hiccuped and then
purred into life she slid into the driver's seat.
The Mayoress sighed. 'I really don't know where they'll
all go. That's partly what this meeting is about. It seems a
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 heart-breaking.
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
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.
'Copped it two or three times, back in March. There was
craters there you could've dropped a house into, and there
was some damage round the back of the building, too. You
gotta hand it to Their Majesties, they didn't let it scare 'em
off. Been out round the bombed areas every day, they have,
talking to people and shaking their hands. Not just London,
neither - Liverpool, Plymouth, anywhere that's been hit.'
'They came to Portsmouth,' Polly said. 'We saw them in
our offices and then all the WVS workers went out to one of
the hospitals and met the Queen there. She's lovely. She
told us that sunshine would come again.'
'Well, she was right. It's come today, for a start,' Joe
Turner said, looking at her, and Polly felt her cheeks blush
slightly. 'Let's cut across Green Park now and go down Pall
Mall.'
'You seem to know London very well,' Polly said as they
crossed the park and made their way through a maze of
streets. 'Is it where you grew up?'
''S right. Whitechapel, that's my old stamping ground.''Does that make you a Cockney? I don't know much
about London,' Polly confessed.
'Well, not far off. I reckon you can hear Bow Bells on a
good day, with the wind in the right direction. I don't live
there now, though.' He closed his mouth, as if he didn't
want to say any more, and Polly fell silent. After a few
minutes they came to Pall Mall. 'This is where all the posh
people hang out. Or used to - most of 'em have gone now,
got places out in the country.' He fished an old chain watch
from his pocket. 'Tell you what, I'm getting a bit peckish how
about a bite to eat at the Corner House? They do a
decent dinner there.'
Polly nodded. 'Mrs Cousins told me that. She said it was
the sort of place a woman could go to on her own.'
'Well, so it is, but I hope you ain't going to do that.' He
kept her hand pressed firmly between his arm and his body.
'It ain't every day I gets a nice young woman to step out
with. And I'll get you back to Tothill Street afterwards in
good time to pick up your boss.' They continued along the
wide road and then through to Trafalgar Square and
Charing Cross. Joe Turner was walking more slowly now,
and Polly wondered if his leg pained him. Perhaps we
shouldn't have come so far, she thought, but didn't like to
say so. She knew from Dick that men could be very funny
about admitting to a weakness.
Charing Cross railway station was closed as, it seemed,
was every other big station in London, and all the way
around Polly could see signs of the massive Blitz. Fires were
still smouldering, buildings destroyed, rubble blocking the
roads, cars crushed beneath a weight of fallen masonry, and
yet amongst it all life was struggling to continue as normal. People were coming out of offices and shops, dressed in
their working clothes, as if it were any other lunchtime. And
many of them were heading for the imposing white building
of the Lyons Corner House.'It's enormous!' she said, staring up at it. 'Is it all one
restaurant?'
''S right. You've heard of Corner Houses, haven't you?
And the Nippies - the waitresses there? They're famous,
they are.' They joined the queue and moved slowly towards
the big doors. 'I'm surprised your mum never brought you
here when you come up to see the sights.'
'We couldn't afford restaurants. We always took a few
sandwiches.' They were at the doors now, and as they
passed through they were met by a smiling young girl who
showed them to a table. Polly sat down, feeling rather awed.
She had seldom been to a restaurant and thought that Mrs
Cousins was wrong. She would never have had the nerve to
come in here on her own.
'Mind, they used to be really grand before the war
started,' Joe Turner told her. 'Big glass chandeliers, they
had, and a gipsy band playing -- almost as good as the Cafe
de Paris, they were. And they always had a decent menu,
see, not too pricey. So that ordinary people like you and me could come in.' He gazed around for a moment. 'Had to take
all that away-, of course, in case of bomb damage. You
couldn't have glass flying all over the place, getting in the
soup.'
Polly stared at him, then caught the twinkle in his eye and
laughed. 'I never know whether you're being serious or not,'
she said, picking up the menu.
'Oh, you'll know when I am.' He glanced at her for a
moment. 'But it ain't very often, so don't look so worried.
Now, what're you going to have? You're only allowed one
protein per meal, if I remember rightly.'
They both chose shepherd's pie and peas. The peas might
even be fresh instead of tinned, he said without much hope,
but in any case it would be good. They might not be able to
get all the best ingredients now, like they used to, but
whatever it was it would be well cooked and the Nippy whoserved it would have a smile on her face and wouldn't keep
them hanging about.
'That's why they're called Nippies,' Joe said. 'But I
dunno how much longer they'll last. A lot of them are going
into the Wrens and ATS and that now. If the war goes on
much longer, we'll all have to queue up and help ourselves,
like in a blooming canteen!'
Polly laughed. 'Oh, I'm sure there'll still be plenty of
women who'll want waitressing jobs. It won't seem like
going out if you have to carry your own tray.' Their own
Nippy arrived at that moment and set their plates down
before them. As Joe had expected, the peas were tinned but
the mashed potato was good and the gravy rich and tasty.
Joe had asked for a glass of beer as well, while Polly stuck to
water, and they settled hungrily to their food.
This is the first time I've been out with a man since
Johnny died, Polly thought - the first time I've been out
with anyone except Johnny. Yet somehow there seemed to
be nothing awkward about it, nothing to make her feel
uncomfortable. Of course, it hadn't been arranged, it wasn't
a proper date or anything like that, and she didn't suppose
she'd ever see him again. To her surprise, the thought of
never seeing him again seemed disappointing. He's a nice
man, she thought, the sort of man I could be friends with.
But of course, she couldn't be -- he was a married man. And
she still felt herself to be a married woman.
'D'you reckon you'll be coming up to London again with
your boss?' he asked, once again seeming to read her
thoughts. 'I mean, if she's going to come to meetings
regular, she might want you to drive her, same as today.
Only, I was thinking, if you could let me know, we might do
this again. Have a bit of a walk together, and a bite to eat. If
you felt like it, I mean,' he added quickly.
'Well. . .' Polly felt flustered. 'I don't know. I mean, I
don't know if the Mayoress - she's never said anything
about it before, she usually comes on the train. And anyway,
won't you be back with your regiment?'
He shook his head. 'No chance of that.' He glanced down
at his leg, stuck awkwardly out from the table. 'Told you I'd
got a gammy leg, didn't I? Well, to tell you the truth, it ain't
my leg at all. Well, it is mine - they give it me, see? At the
hospital.' He caught her glance and nodded. 'Wooden one.
The other one got shot off just below the knee. They won't
want me back on service, that's the truth of it. Pensioning
me off.'
'Oh,' Polly said blankly. 'Oh Mr Turner, I'm so sorry.
That's awful.'
'Well, it weren't much fun,' he admitted. 'And the name's
Joe. I'd take it kindly if you'd call me that.' He looked at her
and his face crinkled. 'And I'd like to call you Polly, if you
wouldn't mind.'
'No,' she said, 'I wouldn't mind at all.' He reached his
hand across the table and she took it. They shook hands
formally, as if they'd only just met, and then both laughed a
little. 'But what will happen now? I mean, what will you
do?'
'Oh, they'll find me things to do,' he said. 'Polish up the
knocker on the big front door, that sorta thing. Just for the
minute I'm still with my old boss, doing for him, but when
he goes overseas again he'll get a new batman. I'm training
up a new young chap now. Can't let the Colonel go back
with no one to shine his buttons up for him.'
'I'm really sorry,' Polly said inadequately. 'You must be
very disappointed. Were you in the Army before the war
started?'
He nodded. 'Enlisted as a boy, went through the ranks,
finished up as Sergeant. I was in the regimental band trumpeter.
Give you a tune one day, if you like.' He winked.
'Thought I might get a place in a dance band, bit of the old
Glenn Miller stuff - "Moonlight Serenade", that sorta
thing.''Oh, I love Glenn Miller,' Polly exclaimed. 'I like
Ambrose, Joe Loss - all those sort of bands. We have the
wireless on at home whenever they're on. I live with my
sister and her husband,' she added, 'and my niece, Judy.
And when we were bombed out we went to live with Mum.
It's a bit of a squash but it's better to be all together.'
'Yes,' he said, 'it must be.'
There was an odd note in his voice and Polly gave him a
curious glance. For once, he didn't meet her eyes but stared
down at his empty plate, scraped almost clean of gravy and
potato. Before either of them could speak again, the Nippy
was at their side, swiftly removing the plates and asking if
they'd like pudding. 'There's tapioca or plums and custard.'
'I'll have the plums,' Polly said, and Joe nodded in
agreement. He looked up at last and grinned at her.
'We seem to have the same tastes. Music, food . . .'
'Same tastes as a lot of other people, then,' Polly said, a
flicker of panic making her voice come out a little sharply. 'I
dare say nearly everyone in the country likes Glenn Miller and
Lyons wouldn't put shepherd's pie and plums on the
menu if they didn't think a lot of people would like them.'
'Ouch,' he said. 'Sorry - talking out of turn.'
'No, I'm sorry,' Polly told him, feeling ashamed of her
sharpness. She gave him a smile. 'You're right, it, is nice to
meet someone who seems to like the same sort of things as
you do. But. . .' she hesitated.
'But don't expect anything to come of it,' he said quietly.
'No, I don't. I don't think we can expect anything at all
these days. You've only got to look around you and see all
the bomb damage to know that. Here today, gone tomorrow,
that's what they say, ain't it - and they never said a truer
word. Never.' Once again there was that strained note in his
voice. He looked at her, his face suddenly grave, the crinkles
no longer of laughter, and said, 'Look, Polly, there's
summat I want to tell you. I know I might be talking out of
turn again, and I want you to know I wouldn't do this in theordinary way - let out all my business to someone I've only
just met. But somehow - well, it's as if we've known each
other a long time. That day we met on the train - I felt it
then, a bit. I was sorry you got off so soon. And then,
bumping into you again today - well, it seemed to me as if it
was meant. I don't feel as if I want to let this chance go by
me.'
He stopped as the Nippy appeared again and set two
bowls of plums and custard in front of them. Polly stared at
him. Her heart was beating fast and she cast a panic-stricken
glance around the restaurant. 'Mr Turner--' she began.
'Joe . . .' But he raised one hand to stop her.
'Let me have me say out, Polly. If you don't like it, you
can get up and walk out, and I swear I'll never bother you
again -- but just let me say it. Please.'
His dark brown eyes were fixed on her face, like those of a
big, anxious dog. Polly couldn't help smiling at him, and he
grinned back, but the grin faded quickly and his eyes were
serious again. When he spoke, his voice was husky.
'Maybe I oughter told you before, only it ain't summat I
talks about a lot.'
'We've only really known each other a couple of hours,'
Polly pointed out, thinking how strange that seemed.
'You've hardly had time.'
'Well, I know, but you told me about your old man,
didn't you? I could've told you then.' He paused. 'It's the
same for me, see. I lost my missus. Early on in the war November
thirty-nine. So - so I know what it's like.'
Polly gazed at him. The crinkles were all of pain now, a
pain she understood all too well. She put out her hand and covered his. 'Joe, I'm so sorry,' she said softly. 'I'm ever so
sorry. What happened?'
'It was in the blackout,' he said heavily. 'When it first
started. There wasn't no lights allowed at all. Cars and buses
were going about in the pitch dark, and you know what
London's like for fogs - it was a real pea-souper. Couldn'tsee your hand in front of your face. Anyway, my Rosie, she
had to go out one night, round to her mum's; the old girl'd
been poorly for a week or two and took a turn for the worse.
Rosie told the woman next door she was worried about her
and made up her mind to go round and see if she was all
right, settle her down for the night. Only she never got
there. Knocked down by a car, she was, two streets away.
Banged her head, never knew nothing about it - that was the
only comfort.' He stared at their hands, still clasped
together on the table. 'Never knew nothing about it.'
'Oh Joe,' Polly whispered. There was a long pause. Then
she said, 'Where were you when it happened? Were you
away?'
He nodded. 'In France. Couldn't come back, neither, not
straight off. They got me back first chance they could, but it
was all over by then. Her sister had done everything, the
funeral and that, and the nippers were out in the country.'
'Nippers? You mean you've got children, too?'
'Two boys,' he said. 'That's where I was going the day we
met on that train. They're down in Devon, smashing place,
right on the edge of Dartmoor, think they're on a flipping
holiday. Well, it hit 'em hard, losing their ma like that, I
won't say it didn't, but you know what kids are, they get
over it better than we do. Nine and seven, they are,' he said
with a touch of pride in his voice. 'Billy and George. Couple
of scallywags, too.'
'And what about your wife's mother?' Polly asked, trying
to take all this in. 'What happened to her? Did she get
better?'
He shook his head. 'Rosie was right. She was poorly.
She'd had a bit of a stroke a day or two before, only they
didn't realise it, see, and she wouldn't hear of getting the
doctor. But when she heard what had happened to Rosie,
she had another one and they had to take her into hospital.
She died a couple of days later. So that was two funerals
poor Annie had to sort out. She had 'em both buried in thesame plot,' he added. 'It was all over by the time I come
home.'
'It must have been dreadful,' Polly said, shaking her head.
'Dreadful.'
'Well, it wasn't a bundle of laughs,' he said. 'But I had
the boys home for Christmas - that was when I got leave and
Annie and her hubby had us round there for the day,
and it wasn't too bad. They didn't really want to go back to
Devon after that - a lot of nippers didn't go back, there was
nothing much happening over here then - but Annie
couldn't have them and I wanted them out of the way if
London did get bombed. And I had to give up me quarters,
too. So they went back to Meavy, down in Devon, and I
went back to France, and the next time I come home to
Blighty it was on a stretcher with half me leg blown away.'
The Nippy appeared beside them again and looked down
at their pudding bowls. 'Is there something the matter with
the plums?'
Polly jumped and looked guilty. 'I'm sorry, I'd forgotten
all about them.' She picked up her spoon, not feeling in the
least like eating but guiltily aware that good food mustn't be
wasted. The Nippy looked anxious.
'Only there's a lot of people waiting for tables.'
'We'll be finished in a minute or two.' They spooned
plums rapidly into their mouths, scarcely tasting their
sharpness, and it was not until they were out in the street
again that they resumed their conversation. By now, Polly
had regained some of her composure. She turned to her
companion and tucked her hand into his arm again.
'It's a terribly sad story, Joe. I'm really sorry. But I'm
glad you told me, all the same.'
'I just wanted you to know.' He looked down at her and
seemed about to add more, then changed his mind. 'I'd like
us to be pals, Polly, and pals ought to know the big things
about each other.'
'Yes.' They walked in silence for a moment or two. Theywere going down Whitehall now, past the great offices of the
Government. Soon they would be back in Tothill Street; it
was nearly time for the meeting to end. They would have to
say goodbye.
'I dunno about you,' he said, 'but I ain't got so many pals
I can pass up the chance of another one. So what d'you say?
Keep in touch, shall we? Meet up now and then? Write to
each other?' His fingers were big and warm about hers and
she found herself wondering again what it would be like to
be hugged by him. 'Will you say yes to that, Poll?'
Poll. It was as if she had always known him, as if he had
always called her that. She nodded, smiling, and his face
broke into a big, crinkly grin, his eyes almost disappearing
amongst the wrinkles. He flung his arms around her and
hugged her tightly.
It was just as she had known it would be. Warm and
comforting. Strong. It was all that she had been missing,
ever since Johnny went away.
But he was not Johnny. He never would be. And she
would never be Rose.
Polly and Joe walked in silence for the rest of the way, past
Downing Street where Mr Churchill lived and worked, past
the Cenotaph with its list of men killed during the Great
War of 1914-1918, and back to Parliament Square where
the tower of Big Ben still rose proudly over the bombed
House of Commons. They were sobered by both the
devastation they could see on every side, and by the story
Joe had told, which seemed to bring that wider devastation
down to ordinary human terms - the anguish that had been
suffered by so many people since this war had begun. It
didn't matter whether you were killed by a bomb or by
simply walking down the street in the blackout, Polly
thought, it was the war that had done it. And her heart went
out to the big man beside her, with his crinkly, humorousface and his stoical acceptance of the tragedies he had
suffered.
Yet she knew that however stalwart he seemed, deep
down he was lonely and bewildered. Her hand was still
tucked through his arm, as if he were the stronger, but she
could sense that deep need for comfort. I understand it
because I feel it too, she thought. We're two lonely people
who have met and think we could be friends - and so we
could be. But neither of us is ready for any more than that.
Perhaps we never will be.
They came to the WVS Headquarters and rang the
doorbell. It was Edna Cousins herself who came to answer
it, and she stared at them in surprise, her eyebrows lifted.
'Well, you don't need to look so flummoxed, our Edna,' her brother admonished her. The and Mrs Dunn are old
acquaintances. Bumped into each other in the park, we did,
and been up to the Lyons' Corner House for a bite of
dinner, and me being a gentleman I've walked her back
here.'
'Where you were coming anyway,' Mrs Cousins told him,
unimpressed by his claim. 'Well, trust you to find yourself
some nice company. Don't you take no notice of him, love,'
she said to Polly. 'He's full of blarney, that one. Our mum
had an uncle who came from Ireland, that's where we
reckon he got it from.'
'Don't be daft, Uncle Pat wasn't no relation to us, he was
only our uncle by marriage to Auntie Margie and she had no
more Irish blood in her than this door. Speaking of which,
are you going to let us in or ain't you? This foot of mine's
had enough, if you want to know the truth.'
'Come on, then.' They walked into the hallway and Polly
glanced about a little anxiously, afraid that she might have
kept the Mayoress waiting. But the door to the meeting
room was still closed and she could hear the murmur of
voices within. Joe disappeared into the cloakroom and she
followed Mrs Cousins through to the kitchen, where she
had evidently just finished washing up after the midday
meal. Polly felt a pang of guilt.
'Look at that mountain of crocks! I ought to have stayed
and helped you.'
'I told you, you've done your job and you've still got to
drive back to Portsmouth. Now, how d'you fancy a cup of
tea? I've got the kettle on for them in there and I dare say
you're ready for one after your walk. Specially if you've had
to put up with him nattering on,' she added, with a
humorous glance.
Polly hesitated, then said quietly, 'He told me about his
wife. It must have been dreadful.'
'He never did! Well!' The cook sat down suddenly,
looking upset. 'He don't talk about it much,' she said. 'I
wish he would, sometimes, it'd do him good to let it out, but
he was always one for keeping cheerful -- well, we were
brought up that way, all of us. I'm surprised he'd tell
someone he's only just met.' A small frown creased her
brow and she looked very like her brother. 'But didn't he
say you already knew each other?'
'Well, not really. We met on a train a few months ago.'
Quickly, Polly recounted the story of their meeting. 'I
wouldn't say we knew each other.'
Edna Cousins's eyes rested on her thoughtfully. 'Well,
there must be something, to make him come out with it like
that.' The kettle started to whistle and she got up and began
to make the tea. 'You don't want to take no notice of what I
says about him,' she said over her shoulder. 'That's just the
way we go on. If you've got any brothers, you'll know what I
mean.'
'I haven't,' Polly said. 'But I've got a sister, and she's got
a son and daughter, so I know what you mean. And I know
how he feels too,' she added in a rush. 'I lost my hubby,
early in the war. It knocks you sideways, but you've got to
carry on. You've got to do your best for the war, for their
sake.''That's right,' Edna said. 'The hard thing for our Joe is
that there don't seem to be nothing he can do, not with his
foot. He says he's no use to the Army any more. It's daft - a
man who can walk the distance he's walked today could do
any amount of jobs - but he's a soldier, see; he wants to go
and fight - that's what a soldier does, he says - and that's
what they won't let him do.'
'But other jobs are as important,' Polly said. 'There must
be hundreds of things he can do.'
'Try telling him that,' the cook said, and began to pour
milk into a row of cups already set on a big tray.
They heard Joe's footsteps coming along the hall then and
the conversation ceased. Polly took the tray into the meeting
room and found the Mayoress at the head of a long table
with a dozen other women around it. They thanked her for
the tea and the Mayoress told her that the meeting would be
over soon and she would be ready to go back to Portsmouth.
Polly went back to the kitchen, where she found Joe and his
sister drinking tea and talking about his boys in Devon.
'Bit different to Blighty, where they are,' he said. 'Little
village, it is, proper picture postcard place -- church, pub,
village green with a big old oak tree, and a lot of little
cottages all round. You go up the lane a bit and you're out
on Dartmoor.' He pulled a face. 'Don't fancy it meself, big
wide open spaces like that with hardly so much as a tree in
sight, and all them rocks, but the nippers think they're in
paradise. Do what they like, see - roam about making dens
and playing cowboys and indians, and nobody to tell 'em to
bu-- shove off and play somewhere else. Don't reckon as
they'll ever want to come home, once it's all over.'
'Don't be silly, Joe,' Edna said. 'You know they wanted to
stay with you after Christmas.'
'Yeah, but they went back and had all that snow, didn't
they, and since then there's been all the lambs getting born,
and I don't know what else, and I reckon they've got their
feet well under the table with that woman what's lookingafter them. She's a widow,' he explained to Polly. 'Never
had no nippers, so she treats 'em like they're her own.
Stands to reason they'd rather stop with someone like that
than come back to their dad with his foot blowed off and no
proper job to do, nor even a decent home for them.'
Polly looked at him in dismay. It was the nearest he had
come to appearing sorry for himself. Before she could speak,
however, his sister said sharply, 'Now you know it's no use
talking like that, Joe. It doesn't matter how good Mrs
Ellacombe is, she isn't their mum, nor ever will be. Blood's
thicker than water and they'll want to come back to their
dad once it's safe. It's like you always say -- this evacuation's
like holiday for them, and nobody wants to be on holiday for
ever.'
There was a small silence. Polly glanced at Joe and
wondered if the widow Ellacombe had ideas of becoming the
boys' stepmother. No doubt she knew of the tragedy of their
mother's death, and if she found Joe a congenial companion
when he went to visit them she might well have allowed the
thought to cross her mind.
The kitchen door opened and the Mayoress appeared.
She smiled round at the little gathering and said to Polly,
'We've finished the meeting and I'll be ready to leave in
about ten minutes. I just want a word in the office first.' She
disappeared and they heard her go into the room where all
the typewriters were still clattering away. Polly got up and pushed her chair under the table.
'I'll get my coat. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Cousins.' She
hesitated, not knowing quite how to say goodbye to Joe. He
stood up too and held out his hand.
'Good luck, Polly. And mind you remember what we
said, eh? Keep in touch.' He fished in his pocket and drew
out an envelope. 'Look, here's my address. Or you could
send a letter here, care of Edna. And tell me your address I'll
write it down.' He tore the back off the envelope and
found a stub of pencil.'It's number nine, April Grove,' Polly said, feeling a little
embarrassed under Edna Cousins's gaze. 'Portsmouth,
Hants. And - and if you're ever down that way, mind you
call in. There's usually someone in.'
They nodded at each other, smiling a little uncertainly,
and then shook hands. Polly thought wistfully of the hug
they had shared so spontaneously out in the street, for all
the world to see, but in here it seemed different. She saw the
same thought in his eyes, and then they heard the
Mayoress's footsteps approaching again and the moment
passed.
He came out of the front door with them, helped both
women into the car and then stood on the steps to wave
farewell. His sturdy figure, looking suddenly lonely as he
leaned on his stick, was the last thing Polly saw as she
turned the corner.
'He seems a very nice man,' the Mayoress remarked as
they drove slowly through the streets, still blocked with
rubble and smoky from the fires that still burned. 'Have you
known him long?'
'No,' Polly said. 'Not very long.' But, somehow, she felt
that she had.Chapter Twenty

It was nearly a fortnight before the next raid on Portsmouth,
and then it was almost laughable compared with what had
gone before, with just a few bombs being dropped into the
sea at Spithead, injuring no one and causing no damage
except, perhaps, to the fish..'Bombing sprats and herrings
now!' Tommy Vickers said scornfully when Cissie met him
in the street. 'I reckon we've seen 'em off, don't you?'
'I don't know, Tommy.' Cissie shivered, despite the
warmth of the sunshine. 'I wouldn't put anything past that
Hitler. They say he's developing a secret weapon something
worse than anything he's used before.'
'The only secret weapon Hitler's got is fear,' Tommy told
her. 'And it hasn't done much for him so far. All right,
we're frightened - every time the air-raid warning goes, my
backbone turns to ice - but we don't let it stop us doing
what we got to do. And I reckon we're doing the same for
the Germans anyway; our lads are bombing them to bits
every night, same as he's been doing to us.'
Cissie nodded. She couldn't feel glad about that, though.
They were ordinary people, she thought, people with homes
and families just like in England. Kiddies in their prams, old
folk like her mother, men like Dick who were still suffering
from the First War. They didn't deserve to be 'bombed to
bits' any more than the people at home.
Jess Budd felt the same. She had invited Cissie down to
number fourteen to tea once or twice, and when Cissie went
into the cosy little back room, crowded with Jess's piano
against one wall, two armchairs beside the fire and a squaredining table in the middle, she found several other
neighbours there too - Jess's sister Annie Chapman, from
the end of March Street, Tommy's wife Freda and, since it
was early closing day, white-haired old Mrs Seddon who
kept the little shop on the corner of October Street. The
women all had some knitting to do - nobody sat down these
days without a piece of work in their hands. Maureen Budd,
who was nearly two years old, was playing on the rug in
front of the fireplace with some coloured bricks that had
belonged to her brothers.
'Your boys getting on all right out at Bridge End?' Freda
asked, and Jess nodded.
'Seem to be. I didn't think they'd take to it, mind, living
with a vicar our Tim's never been one for church, couldn't
ever keep still long enough - but Mr Beckett seems to have
a way with boys. Girls too,' she added. 'Stella and Muriel
have settled down well, in spite of everything.'
'Didn't your Polly take them out there?' Annie asked
Cissie, passing her a plate of broken biscuits that Mrs
Seddon had brought over.
'Yes. She liked the old man, and his housekeeper - she's
the one that looks after them really. Treats the vicar like
another boy, so Polly said.'
Jess smiled. 'That's what he is, I reckon. I knew him a bit
when I was there, right at the beginning. Always riding
round on that old bike of his, dressed up in his cassock like a
great big bat. And sometimes, when he took the early
service, you could see he was still in his pyjamas underneath!
But he's a really kind man, and sort of wise too, if you
know what I mean. I always felt he understood a lot more
than he let on. And you could tell him anything - he'd never
be shocked or think you weren't worth helping. He's a real
Christian, I suppose.' She sounded half embarrassed. Most
of those present went to church, if not every week, but none
of them would have felt easy in discussing their beliefs. It
was almost as bad as talking about sex, or cancer.'And how about your Judy?' Mrs Seddon asked. 'I always
remember her popping into the shop as a little girl, when
you came round to see your mum. Such a dear, polite little
soul, holding out her ha'penny and asking for a cone of
lemon drops. Not like some of the children these days,' she
added, and they all knew who she was thinking about.
Micky Baxter, who lived almost opposite the shop, hardly
knew the words 'please' and 'thank you'.
'Well, you know she's out at Ashwood, with little Sylvie,
at the moment,' Cissie said. 'We're hoping the change will
do her good, and some fresh air and country cooking. They
say you can even get butter out there! But of course, that
can't help her hearing. I don't know if anything can.'
'It's a crying shame.' Annie Chapman, who had an
opinion on everything, spoke forcefully. 'Terrible thing to
happen to a young girl. And not long after her young man
had died too. I don't know what the world's coming to.'
'Nor do I,' Jess Budd said. She looked down at Maureen,
who had built a rather lopsided castle with the bricks. 'Little
children being bombed - and it's not just here, it's over
there too. I mean, they may be German, but they're still
kiddies. It doesn't seem right to me, and even Mr Churchill
himself can't tell me it is.'
'It's war,' Annie said a little sharply. She was,worrying
about her daughter Betty, who was a Land Girl out near
Bishop's Waltham, and getting more friendly with a young
man than Annie and her husband Ted liked. The young
man was called Dennis and there was something funny
about him; neither of them could understand why he was
working on a farm, when most young men of his age were in
the Forces. Ted had wondered once or twice if he was a
conscientious objector and told Annie in no uncertain terms
that young Betty needn't think she could bring him home if
that was the case, because he wouldn't have him in the
house. Annie couldn't argue with him, partly because Ted
was going through a bad patch at present himself, and partlybecause she agreed with him. Instead, she lay awake at
night, going over it all in her mind and not even telling Jess
about her suspicions.
There was a ring on the doorbell and Peggy Shaw's voice
called out. A moment later she was in the room, looking
flushed and excited. 'You'll never guess what's happened!'
She looked round at them all. 'Our Gladys is getting a
medal! The British Empire Medal! It's for what she did the
night of the big raid, when the Royal Hospital got blown up.
Can you credit it - our Gladys with a medal, presented by
the King himself!'
The others stared at her. 'Well, that's a turn-up for the
book, and no mistake,' Annie said at last. 'Someone in April
Grove getting a medal! You must be ever so pleased, Peggy.'
'I am.' Peggy sat down on one of the dining chairs and
took the cup of tea Jess had poured out. 'Thanks, Jess. Yes,
I am pleased, and proud as Punch. So's Bert. But our
Gladys doesn't seem too thrilled about it.'
'Why ever not?' The other women stared at her.
'Well, you know she got a bit knocked about - broken
arm and that - and I suppose she's still a bit shocked. But
she says she doesn't deserve it. Says there were plenty of
others did things just as brave - your Polly for one, and
Judy,' she said to Cissie. 'And she says it's Graham
Philpotts that ought to be given it, because he didn't even
need to be there, he was just helping her, and he got killed.
She's really upset about that.'
'Well, I think she deserves it,' Annie said staunchly, 'and
so do our Olive and Betty. They were talking about Gladys
yesterday, when Betty came down from Bishop's Waltham
for her day off. And look at it this way - they can't give everyone medals, so those that do get them are getting them
on behalf of all those others that deserve them. It's
Graham's and Polly's and Judy's medal, just as much as it's
Gladys's, but she happens to be the one that's been picked
out. That's all it is.'Peggy nodded. The flush had faded a little and now she
looked worried. 'The other thing is, she's made up her mind
to volunteer. Wants to go into the Wrens. She says it'll
make up a bit for getting Graham killed. My Bert's none too
pleased, but what can you do? They've all had to sign on
anyway but they don't actually have to go into the Services
till they're called up. But Gladys wants to go now. And on
top of that, young Diane's gone and got herself a job at
Airspeed - says she wants to learn to fly, of all things!'
'Fly?' Jess echoed. 'I shouldn't think she's got much hope
of that - why, she's barely sixteen, surely. They're not going
to take young girls as pilots.'
'I dunno,' Peggy said with a sigh. 'I dunno what they'll
do. Everything seems turned upside down now.' She looked
down at the toddler on the rug. 'Sometimes I wish mine
were all this age again. At least you could have a bit of a say
in what happens to them and what they do. What with
Gladys and Diane, and our Bob away in the Army, I just
wonder what it's all about. It's not the life we wanted for
them, Jess. It's not at all.'
'I wonder if anyone ever does have the life their parents
want for them,' Jess commented sadly. 'Look at us. We had
to go through the First War and now, just when we're
getting on our feet, along comes this one to mess it all up
again. And there's not a thing we can do about it. It's out of
our hands.'
Mrs Seddon looked at the little group of women with
their sad faces. She too had been through the Great War,
and could remember even further back, to the Boer War and
other conflicts of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
'What we have to realise,' she said in her soft voice, 'is that
this is life. All these things that go wrong - little things at
home and great things overseas, squabbles in the family and
quarrels between nations -- they're part of life, they happen
over and over again. They always have and they always will.
The important thing, I think, is not what happens to us, butwhat we do about it.' She paused and the women gazed at
her. 'The young people are rising to the occasion, just as
we'd want them to,' she said. 'It might not be what we
wanted for them - but they're acting in just the ways we
would have hoped. I think you can all feel proud - of your
children and yourselves.' A little pink in the cheeks, she
held out her cup. 'Is there any more tea in that pot, Mrs
Budd?'
The little tea-party broke up soon after that. The women
rolled up their knitting and left to start preparing tea for
their husbands. Mrs Seddon, who was a widow, went off
saying that she was going to change the window display not
that there was much to display these days, but a new jar
of sherbet lemons had come in this morning and she wanted
to give it pride of place. She crossed the road to her door,
and Cissie, Freda and Annie Chapman walked up the street
together.
'That was nice, what Mrs Seddon said, wasn't it?' Cissie
said. 'She's a lovely old lady. All the kiddies love her, you know.'
'Well, she's part of April Grove, isn't she,' Annie said. 'I
can't remember a time when she wasn't there in that little
shop, weighing out biscuits and sweets and dried fruit. I
wonder sometimes how she manages to make a living, now
that everything's on ration. But I reckon she's right, you
know, about all this being a part of life. Wars always have
happened and I don't suppose they'll ever stop happening.
Look at what they said about the last one - the "war to end
all wars", they called it. And here we are again, barely
twenty years later, worse than ever. Not that the youngsters
seem to mind all that much. Our Betty's having the time of
her life out in the country, even though the work's hard.
Her dad and me wonder sometimes what she gets up to out
there.'
'I think a lot of the young women are getting the sort of
freedom they'd never have had otherwise,' Freda agreed.'Our Eunice is the same, proper let off the leash she is, in
the ATS. If it hadn't been for the war they'd have all
stopped at home, under their parents' eyes, till they got
married. Now you don't know what they're doing.'
'And some of them aren't getting the lives they thought
they'd have,' Cissie said quietly. 'Look at our Polly, a widow
at thirty-five. And Judy, deaf at twenty-two.' She looked at
Annie Chapman. 'And what about your Olive? It must have
been ever so hard for her to say goodbye to her husband
only a day or two after their wedding.'
The others nodded soberly. There was no making sense
of it all, they agreed. They came to Alice Thomas's front
door and said goodbye. Cissie went indoors and found Dick
sitting in his usual chair, his latest rag rug spread over his
knees.
'I dunno as I'll be able to go on with this much more in
the hot weather,' he said, looking up. 'It's like having a
blanket over me. Have a good natter?'
Cissie nodded and went through to the scullery to start
getting tea ready. 'Gladys Shaw's getting a medal,' she
called. 'The British Empire Medal, it is, for what she did in
the raids. She says she doesn't deserve it, that there's plenty
of others did just as much, but she'll have to go and be
presented with it all the same. And Peggy says she's going in
the Wrens now.'
'Peggy Shaw? She's too old, surely!'
'Not Peggy, Gladys. And Diane, their youngest, she's got
a job at Airspeed, wants to learn to fly.'
'They'll never let her. What is she, sixteen? Mind you,
she's always been the flighty one!' Dick laughed at his joke
and rolled up the rug. 'I've had enough of this, Cis, it's
making my eyes go funny. What's for tea?'
'I thought we'd have sardines on toast. I got a tin
yesterday.' Cissie came in and looked at him a little
anxiously. 'You feeling all right, Dick?'
'More or less. I'm just a bit hot. And it's all thesedifferent colours, dazzling me. I dunno who's going to get
this one, but they'd better like bright colours.' He grinned
again and Cissie laughed too but put her hand on his
forehead. 'It's all right, Cis, I haven't got a temperature.'
'No, but all the same . . . It's not long since that
pneumonia, Dick. You've got to be careful.'
'Careful!' he said. 'I don't know how I could be any more
careful than I am now. All I do is sit in this chair all day
making blinking rugs and listening to the wireless.'
'You go for a walk every day.'
'Yes, up to the end of the street and back. Well, I tell a
lie, this morning I walked all the way up to the newsagent's
shop. That Alice Brunner, she's looking a bit better these
days. Gave me a nice smile, she did. I reckon that girl of
hers told her to pull herself together.'
'Joy's a big help to her mum,' Cissie said, 'and Alice has
had a lot of worry, with Heinrich being taken away like that.
I ask you!' she went on indignantly, coming through the
door and waving a bread-knife. 'Interning a man like
Heinrich Brunner who's been in England and running his
own business all those years! As if he was a spy. It's
criminal. And then sending him off on that ship and getting
him torpedoed. It's no wonder poor Alice nearly had a
nervous breakdown.'
'Well, you needn't stab me to death because of it,' Dick
said, pretending to cower in his chair. 'But you're right, Cis,
it was a bad do. There must have been hundreds like
Heinrich Brunner, been living here for years not doing no
harm to nobody, and all put in prison like common
criminals. It was like a sort of panic'
'They've let a lot of them out now,' Cissie said, goin
back to the scullery. 'But that doesn't help men like poor
Mr Brunner, who got killed on that ship.'
She went on getting the tea ready. Presently, Alice came
in from her own afternoon spent helping at the loca
Clothing Store, and then Polly arrived. She had beenworking at the salon, cutting and setting hair. With no raids
for a fortnight, and then just a few bombs dropped in the
sea, it seemed almost as if normal life was beginning to
return.
'There's another letter for you, Poll,' Dick said, nodding
at the mantelpiece. It had come by second post, not long
after Polly had left for the salon, and Cissie and he had
indulged in some conjecture about it before placing it
behind the photo of Terry in his naval uniform. Letters
weren't all that common unless they were from Sylvie out at
Ashwood or Terry, somewhere at sea, and this wasn't from
either of them. It bore a London postmark, and it wasn't the
first to have arrived in the last couple of weeks.
Polly took it and blushed. 'I'll just slip upstairs and
change out of this skirt and blouse,' she said, trying to
sound casual, and Dick winked at Cissie who had come
through from the scullery.
'Reckon she's found herself a fancy man?' he asked in a
whisper.
'Well, I don't know. That's the third, isn't it? But I never
thought she'd be interested again, not this soon after losing
Johnny.'
'It's eighteen months or more,' Dick pointed out. 'And
she's not old, Cis.'
Cissie pursed her lips. 'Well, I wouldn't object myself,
but you know what Mum is like about second marriages.
She wouldn't like it if Polly got serious about another man.'
'Yes, but that's just being old-fashioned. People aren't so
strict these days, and with so many men getting killed--'

'Ssh.' Cissie put her finger to her lips. Alice was coming
in from the outside lavatory, already beginning to tell them
about a woman she'd had in the Clothing Store that
afternoon, trying to exchange a tattered old jacket for a good
three-piece suit. Cissie gave Dick a warning glance and went
back to the scullery where she was spreading margarine onbread and getting out a new pot of jam from the store Alice
had made last summer.
When Polly came down in her old skirt and blouse, they
all sat down round the table. Cissie set the plates of sardines
on toast in front of them and looked at her sister, hoping for
some remark about the letter. But Polly didn't mention it.
Instead, she said, 'I had that Ethel Glaister from number
fifteen in for a perm this afternoon. What a cat she is!
Doesn't have a good word to say for a soul. Seems to think
she's too good for April Grove or anyone in it.'
'Dunno why she goes on living here then,' Dick
remarked. 'If she's so posh, why doesn't she move up to
Hilsea or somewhere?'
'Oh, she says they were just going to when the war
started, and then of course everything stopped. Her hubby
was in the Territorials and he went straight off into the
regular Army. Honestly, you'd think he did it just to spite
her.' Polly giggled. 'I dare say he was glad of the excuse to
get away! It must have seemed like a dream come true to
him when war broke out.'
'Polly! That's a terrible thing to say,' Cissie reproved her,
but the others were laughing and she had to smile. 'Well, I
can't say I'd like to live with Ethel Glaister for long. How
did you do her hair, Poll?'
'Oh, the latest fashion of course - Marcel waves. And I'll
tell you something else.' Polly leaned over the table and
glanced from side to side as if there might be a spy lurking
behind a chair. 'That hair of hers isn't really yellow at all!
It's practically grey! We have to touch up the roots every six
weeks to stop it showing through.'
'Dyed. Well, I always suspected it,' Alice said disapprovingly. 'You know, I sometimes wonder about Ethel Glaister
and where she goes off to every afternoon in her smart suit
and high heels. Now I wonder even more. If you ask me,
she's no better than Nancy Baxter.'
'Well, you'd better not say so,' Polly advised her. 'Youcould get into trouble. And don't any of you dare tell anyone
about her hair. I'd get the sack if Mrs Carson knew I'd let
out something like that about one of the ladies.'
'Why?' Dick asked. 'It's not that bad, surely. Plenty of
women dye their hair.'
'Not decent women,' Alice retorted, but Polly shook her
head.
'It's because they don't want people to know they're
going grey. Women like Ethel Glaister who think they're
smart and glamorous,' the family hooted with laughter,
'they like people to think it's natural, see? So that everyone
thinks they're younger than they really are.'
'As if it mattered,' Alice said in disgust. 'We've all got to
get older. It's nothing to be ashamed of. If you ask me,
people like Ethel Glaister haven't got enough to do. Ought
to come down the Clothing Store of an afternoon with me
and do a hand's turn to help. That'd take her mind off being glamorous.'
The evening passed quietly with a game of whist, and at
nine o'clock they switched on the wireless to hear the news.
No matter how quiet it might have been in Portsmouth,
there was always news of some terrible event somewhere
else. A bombing raid on another city, a battle in Africa or
the Mediterranean, a ship sunk by a U-boat in the Atlantic.
'What was that?' Cissie gasped, her hand at her throat.
They stared at her, then at each other. Polly opened her
mouth but Dick gestured to her to be silent. In horror, they
listened again to the newsreader's words, and then the
bulletin ended and Dick reached out a slow, trembling hand
and turned the knob.
'I can't believe it,' Alice whispered, her face as white as
paper. 'HMS Hood, blown up and sunk in just four
minutes. There can't be anyone left alive, there can't be.'
'Our Terry,' Cis whimpered, covering her face with her
hands. 'He said it was the best ship in the whole of the
Fleet. Dick' blindly, she reached a hand out to herhusband, 'Dick, our Terry's been killed. Our Terry's been
killed.'
'We don't know that, love.' But his voice was shaking and
tears were trickling down his cheeks. 'We don't know it for
sure. They haven't said everyone was killed. There might've
been survivors.'
'When it was blown up and sunk in four minutes?' She
shook her head. 'How could anyone have lived through that?
Oh Dick.' She began to cry, while the others wept as well.
Despite Dick's words, they all knew that Terry's chances
were very low. Even if he had survived the explosion, how
could he have lived more than a few minutes in the icy
waters off Greenland where the battle had taken place?
People said you froze to death almost at once. And none of
the family had any faith in the Germans having picked up
men in the water. That's what they were supposed to do,
but would they have done it?
There was little sleep that night in number nine. Cissie
could not stop crying. Every time her sobs eased a little, she
thought of the news announcement, or some little reminder
of her son, and started all over again. She took his photo
down from the mantelpiece and wept afresh, stroking his
laughing face with her fingertips. 'It's the only one we've
got,' she sobbed. 'All those pictures of him at school and
that lovely one that photographer took of him out at
Southsea, with that parrot on his arm, we lost all those in
the Blitz. And all his toys and things, his Meccano and his
comics that he wanted saved - they've all gone. We've got
nothing left. It's as if he never existed.'
'Of course it's not, Cis.' Polly, her own eyes red and
swollen, tried to comfort her sister. 'It'll never be as if he
never existed, never. We'll all remember him all our lives,
and so will lots of other people. All the neighbours who
knew him, and Dick's brother and his family, and Jean
Foster.'
'Jean!' Cissie lifted her face and stared at her. 'She'll haveheard the news too. Oh, poor Jean - he was talking about
asking her to get engaged, last time he was home. I'll have to
go round and see her.'
'Tomorrow.' Alice, looking grey and weary, came in with
a cup of cocoa for them all. 'Drink this, Cis. It'll make you
feel better and help you to sleep. Come on, now, it's no use
making yourself ill. And like Dick said, we don't know he's
dead. Miracles do happen.' She sighed and Polly, glancing
at her, knew that in spite of her words, she too had almost
given up hope. 'Drink it up and let's go to bed,' she said
gently.
Still sobbing, Cissie managed to drink her cocoa and the
family gathered up the cards that had been lying forgotten
on the table and prepared for bed. One by one, they went
outside to the lavatory, washed at the sink, cleaned their
teeth, each going through the motions like an automaton.
Then Cissie and Dick went slowly up the stairs and Polly
and her mother were left alone.
'She's taking this very hard,' Alice said, shaking her head.
'Not that you can blame her. That's three good men we've
lost at sea in this family. Three good men! Where's it going
to end, Poll?'
Polly shook her head. 'I don't know, Mum. But I tell you
what - I think we'd better get our Judy back home, don't
you? It's the only thing that'll help Cis through this, having
her back. It's a shame, because I think it's doing her good to
be out in the country, but I reckon it's the best thing to do.'
'You're right,' Alice said. 'And I wouldn't be surprised if
she turns up tomorrow without even being sent for. I bet
she's packing her bags at this very minute.'Chapter Twenty-One

It was not Judy who arrived next day, however. It was
somebody else who turned up, quite unexpectedly, on the
doorstep of number nine.
After all her crying, Cissie had fallen into a deep sleep
and woke late, heavy-eyed and feeling as if she'd been crying
even in her dreams. Dick had slept badly, tossing and
turning as his mind filled again with the horrific memories
of his own war experiences. He was pale and shaky when he
stumbled downstairs to find Polly making tea and Alice
sitting at the table, looking shrunken and grey in an old
dressing-gown.
'Dick, you look like death warmed up,' Polly said, and
then closed her eyes. 'Oh, I'm sorry - I could bite my
tongue off sometimes. Have a cup of tea, and take one up for
Cis. Is she awake yet?'
'Just stirring.' He rested against the door to the staircase.
'Tell you the truth, Poll, I don't feel too good at all. Don't
tell Cis, though. She's got enough to upset her.'
'Don't feel too good?' Polly stopped with the teapot
raised and looked at him closely. 'What is it? One of your
attacks?'
'No, it's not like that. Just sort of tingly, and I've got a
sort of ache--' He stopped as they heard movements from
above, and opened the staircase door to call up: 'You stop in
bed a bit longer, Cis. I'm just bringing you a cuppa.' To
Polly, he said, 'I don't suppose it's anything much. Shock,
probably, and I didn't sleep too well.'
'I don't suppose any of us did.' Polly handed him a cupand went through to her mother. 'Here you are, Mum.
Drink that down. It's hot, if nothing else. We're nearly out
of tea again. I'll go up the street in a minute, see if there's
anything in the papers.'
She looked through the cupboards to see what they could
have for breakfast. There was half a packet of cornflakes, the
end of a loaf that was going stale, some dried egg and some
margarine and the pot of jam they'd started yesterday.
Normally they wouldn't dream of having jam for breakfast,
but this was her mother's own blackberry and apple, made
last autumn with blackberries from Hilsea Lines, and Cissie
was especially fond of it. It wasn't that a slice of bread and
jam would make up for losing Terry, Polly thought, that
would be daft, but a little treat at a time like this couldn't do
any harm. She lit the grill to make toast and put some
cornflakes in a bowl. Cissie could have breakfast in bed.
Dick came treading down the stairs again. He looked as
grey as Alice, and was breathing heavily. Polly glanced at
him and wondered if he could after all be heading for an
asthma attack. It wasn't all that long since his pneumonia,
and shock could bring it on. It looks as if I'm going to have
to look after the lot of them, she thought, glancing from
Dick's ashen face to her mother's. While I'm up the street
getting the papers, I'd better ring up and let the office know I won't be able to go in today.
She went to the telephone box first, searching for pennies
for the call, and then walked along to the newsagent's. Alice
Brunner's daughter Joy was there, sorting the papers. Polly
looked at the headlines: sink the bismarck.
She read the report beneath. It was the Bismarck which
had presented such a serious threat to Allied shipping that a
flotilla of ships had set off from Scapa Flow in pursuit of HMS Hood, Prince of Wales, King George V, Victorious and a
number of others. It was the Bismarck which, with just one
shell, had sunk the Hood, penetrating the weak armour of its
sides and striking the store of ammunition within to causethe huge and devastating explosion that had destroyed the
ship and killed almost fifteen hundred men. Few, if any,
could have been saved.
Now the hunt was on in earnest for the killer ship. The
order had gone out - she was to be sunk at all costs. And
that meant more men killed, Polly thought, trudging back
down October Street with an armful of newspapers and a
heavy heart. More young men like Terry and Johnny and
Sean. And it wouldn't bring even one of them back. Not
one.
Nobody had been able to eat much breakfast. Cissie had
come downstairs, saying she couldn't stop in bed, and after
they'd washed up, feeling as if nothing was really worthwhile
doing but not knowing what else to do, she and Dick
set off to see Jean Foster, who had been Terry's sweetheart
since they'd been at school. Jean had worked in the
Landport Drapery Bazaar, in Guildhall Square, but since
the bombing the shop had re-opened in several different
places in town, and now she was in Lake Road. Since they
would pass it on the way to her home, they called in there
first to see if she had come to work.
Jean was serving a customer. She looked a little plumper
than when they had last seen her, during Terry's Christmas
leave, but her clear skin was glowing, her brown hair
springing with natural curls and her pretty face smiling as
she talked to the customer. Cissie and Dick looked at each
other in dismay.
'She doesn't know,' Cissie mouthed. 'Oh Dick, we've got
to tell her ourselves.' Her lips trembled. 'I don't think I
can.'
'I dunno what else we can do, love.' Dick half turned
awkwardly, as if to slip out again, but at that moment Jean
glanced up and saw them. She hesitated, looking embarrassed, and then finished giving the customer her change
and came over.
'Mrs Taylor! Mr Taylor - I didn't expect to see youhere.' She looked flushed and embarrassed and they gazed at
her silently, taken aback by her manner. 'I don't know who's
told you,' she went on quickly, 'but I haven't done anything
wrong. We'd been going steady for a long time, and what
with Christmas and Terry going away, and us never
knowing when we'd see each other again, well. . .'she tilted her chin a little defiantly '. . . it just happened, that's all, and
there's nothing anyone can do about it now, I've written to
tell Terry and--'
Dick interrupted her. 'We don't know what you're talking
about, Jean. We just came to see if you'd heard the news. It
was on last night. Haven't you heard?'
The girl stared at them. She seemed to notice their
swollen eyes for the first time and her colour faded.
Nervously, she said, 'News? What news? I haven't heard no
news.'
'The Hood,' Cissie said in a dry, aching voice. 'She's been
sunk. D'you mean to say you hadn't heard? It's all over the
papers.'
Jean turned white. 'The Hood? Sunk? But - oh, no.' She
reached out a hand and laid it against the wall, swaying a
little. 'But - Terry - isn't he all right? Wasn't he saved?'
'We don't know,' Dick said quietly. 'We don't think he
could have been. The ship went down in four minutes.'
'Four minutes?' The ashen white turned to a sickly green
and Dick stepped forwards quickly to catch the girl as she
crumpled. He staggered beneath her weight and the shop
supervisor noticed what was happening and came quickly
across to help. Between them, they got Jean on to the chair
put beside the counter for customers. Cissie pressed her
head down to her knees while Dick steadied her and the
supervisor hurried off for a cup of water.
'Drink this.' She held the cup beneath Jean's lips. 'Just a
sip or two. It'll make you feel better.' They all watched
anxiously as Jean sipped and took a couple of shudderingbreaths. The supervisor looked at Dick and Cissie. 'Has she
had bad news?'
Cissie nodded. 'We all have.' Her eyes filled with tears
again. 'The Hood,' she said, chokingly. 'On the news last
night.'
The woman nodded. 'I heard it. It's in the papers this
morning. Terrible.' Her eyes sharpened. 'You mean,
someone was on it? Someone Jean knew - was fond of?'
'Our son was one of the crew,' Dick said hoarsely. 'And
Jean and him - well, they've been going steady ever since
they left school. He was hoping they'd get engaged, the next
time he got leave.' He looked down at the girl's bent head.
'We'd have been pleased. We're fond of Jean - we'd have
been proud to have her as a daughter-in-law.'
The supervisor's eyes softened. 'Oh, I'm so sorry. That's
dreadful. But Jean never said. She's been just the same as
usual this morning, a bit quiet, but then she has been just
lately. Missing her sweetheart, naturally. I'd no idea.'
'I don't think she knew,' Cissie said. 'That's why it was
such a shock to her when we told her just now.'
'The poor girl. And you as well.' The woman hesitated,
then glanced down at the bent head. 'Jean,' she said kindly,
'when you feel well enough, I think you'd better go home
for the rest of the day. We can manage without you. Take
the rest of the week off and come back on Monday, when
you've had time to get over the shock. I know just how you
must be feeling.' She said quietly, 'I lost my brother a few
months ago, so I do understand.'
Jean looked up at last. Her face was like parchment, her
eyes like bruises against the yellowish-green tinge of he
normally rosy cheeks. She looked at them all with a dull,
hopeless stare and said in a flat voice that seemed to have
been drained of all feeling, 'You don't understand, Miss
Browning. Nobody does.' Her eyes went to Dick's face and
then to Cissie's. 'It's not just Terry, you see. I'm in trouble
anyway. Bad trouble.' She took a deep breath, as if gatheringcourage, and then said in a rush, 'I'm expecting. I'm in the
family way. And now Terry's never coming back, I don't
know what to do.' Her voice wavered and cracked, and she
broke into a storm of crying. 'I just don't know what I'm
going to do!'
Locked behind her wall of silence, Judy had no idea what
had happened.
She had gone to bed early the night before, just as the
family was sitting down to listen to the nine o'clock news. It
was one of the most frustrating times for her, watching their
faces and wondering what was going on in the world. They
would tell her, of course, Mrs Sutton either mouthing the
words carefully or writing them down on a scrap of paper but
she was sure they didn't tell her everything they heard.
It was too laborious, too much trouble. She had formed the
habit of going outside to sit under the apple tree, watching
the sky deepen from soft blue to deep purple, streaked and
patterned with glowing crimson as the sun dipped below the
wooded hill. Tomorrow, she would read the newspaper to
find out what had happened; tonight she would sleep in
peace.
On this night, however, it was dull and there was a drizzle
in the air. Judy had been making scrim almost all day and
had come home tired and dirty. While the family were
listening to the wireless, she shut herself in the scullery for a
good wash, and then went straight up to bed, calling her
goodnight through the half-open door. She tiptoed into the
room she shared with Sylvie, checked that her niece was
asleep and properly covered, and then slipped into bed.
She had been here for a fortnight now, and it seemed like
home. Although she missed her family, the Suttons had
been so kind that she felt almost as if she had found a second
family, and the cottage and the countryside around were like
a balm to her unhappy soul. It was a balm she had needed
desperately. The loss of first her brother-in-law and thenher fiance had struck at her heart, the bombing of her home
had left her feeling lost and disoriented, and her deafness
had been a final cruel blow. Over and over again she told
herself how lucky she was - she still had her parents, her
sister, her little niece and her grandmother, her brother
Terry was serving on one of Britain's greatest ships, she had
been able to come to this peaceful village and stay with these
kind people - yet she could not rid herself of the deep,
searing loneliness of her silent world. If only I could hear
again, she thought. If only ...
It was strange that the one person with whom she felt
completely at ease was Ben Hazelwood, the boy who seemed
so much older than seventeen, who had taken her down to
the river and shown her a kingfisher and told her she would
hear again. She had seen him again several times over the
next few days. He had come to the farm and sat with her
under the apple tree in the orchard, looking intently into her
eyes as he talked. With him, she had felt her pain begin to
ease and the scars in her mind begin to heal.
He had gone back to school in Winchester now, but he
had written to her and she had written back. It was strange
to strike up so close a friendship with a boy still at school,
yet he didn't seem so young, and in any case there were boys
not much older serving at this moment in the Armed
Forces. If Ben got his way - and she felt sure he would - he
would soon be one of them.
Her mind drifted to another young man whose eyes had
looked into hers as he talked, who had held her for a while
with his magnetism. Chris Barrett, the Observer who spent
his time on the roof of the Royal Beach searching for enemy
aircraft, and who had sat with her on the floor of the lift, his
arms around her in comfort; who had kissed her to the
sound of cheers as the lift arrived at the eighth floor. She
thought of the way she had treated him after that - hiding in
a cupboard when she saw him coming, pushing past him in
the corridors, snapping his head off when she'd met him onthe steps. I wasn't very nice to him, she thought. And I
really think all he wanted to do was say sorry. Polly said in
her letter that he's asked after me two or three times and
wanted her to send his good wishes to me. I really ought to
send mine back, just to show no hard feelings. It wasn't his
fault the lift arrived when it did. He was a nice chap. And it
was a lovely kiss . . .
She lay in bed, thinking of Chris and thinking of Ben
until, smiling a little, she fell asleep.
There was no time to read a newspaper next morning. It
was always busy then, because of the milking, but today one
of the cows was having difficulty calving and Judy was sent
down to a neighbouring farm to get help. She came back to
find that Sylvie had been sick and was back in bed, looking
pale and miserable, so she ate a hasty breakfast and went up
to look after her. The newspaper, brought from the station
by a neighbouring farmer, was tossed into a corner where
Mrs Sutton dropped a bundle of washing on top of it, and if
the wireless was on at all Judy didn't hear it. She didn't even
wonder what the news might have been. It was always the
same anyway, she thought, sponging Sylvie's face gently.
Bombing, and more bombing. Deaths, and more deaths.
There were believed to have been just three survivors from
the Hood.
'Three mothers will be happy, at least,' Alice said as Polly
switched off the wireless after listening to the one o'clock
news. 'But I don't think our Cis'll be one of them. I mean, I
know one of those boys could have been our Terry - but you
know what they say. Things go in threes. First your Johnny,
then Sean and now Terry. It seems like fate, somehow.'
Polly nodded. She didn't really believe in superstition and refused to throw spilled salt over her shoulder, or avoid
the cracks in pavements, but now she had the same feeling
as her mother, that it wasn't likely that Terry was one of the
three who had survived that terrible blast. For one thing, heworked in the engine rooms so he would almost certainly
have been below decks when it happened. Terry wouldn't
have had a chance.
'At least it must have been quick,' she said, trying to find
a crumb of comfort. 'He wouldn't have known anything
about it. He wouldn't have been floating about in the sea for
hours.' Like Johnny, she thought. Like Johnny and,
probably, Sean.
Alice nodded, but the comfort wasn't enough to stop her
face crumpling again and the tears welling up in her eyes.
'Our Terry,' she said, choking on his name. 'It don't seem
possible, Poll. He was always so full of life, so bright and
breezy all the time. I can't believe all that's gone. I can't
believe we'll never see him again.'
'Oh Mum.' Polly moved to put her arm round her
mother's shoulders. She was as thin as a bird, she thought,
feeling the tiny bones beneath her hands. She's getting
smaller, I'm sure. 'There's still a chance,' she murmured.
'He could have been one of those saved.'
'No,' Alice wept, shaking her head so that the grey hair,
not yet properly brushed and pinned up that morning,
straggled across her brow. 'No, he's not. We'd have heard, you know that. If they know there's three saved, they must
know their names and they'd have sent someone round.
He's gone, Polly, and we've got to face up to it. But it's so
hard.' She broke down in a storm of sobs. 'Oh Poll, it's so hard, losing all our men like this. It's so cruel.'
Polly could not speak. The tears were pouring down her
cheeks and she was holding her mother now as much to gain
comfort as to give it. For some time they clung to each
other, weeping as if their hearts were broken, and then at
last Alice gave a sniff and felt for a hanky. She blew her nose
hard, drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked at her
daughter with wet but determined eyes.
'Well, we can't sit here piping our eyes all day, Poll.
We've still got to do our jobs, same as usual. Cis and Dick'llbe home any minute for their dinner, and we haven't even
done the potatoes.' She glanced at the clock. 'Look at the
time! Wherever can they be?'
'They were going to see Jean.' Polly frowned anxiously. 'I
hope Dick hasn't had an attack. He hasn't been looking at all
well lately, and what with the shock and upset and
everything . . .'
'That would just about put the tin lid on things.' Alice
wiped her eyes again and then looked up in relief as the
doorbell shrilled. 'Oh, that'll be them now. Go and let them
in, Poll.'
'But they'd have a key.' Her heart thumping with anxiety,
Polly hurried to the front door. Something had happened,
she was sure of it. Then a new thought occurred to her.
Judy - it must be Judy, rushing home as soon as she had
heard the news. She opened the door, a smile of welcome
battling with the grief still pulling at her face.
For a moment, she did not recognise the man who stood
there. She stared at him as if at a stranger, half-recognised,
dimly remembered. It seemed a lifetime since he had played
any part in her thoughts. Blankly, she shook her head.
'Well, Poll,' Joe Turner said, his crinkly face spread all
over with delight, 'don't you know me no more?'Chapter Twenty-Two

Joe's first reaction, on hearing the news, was to leave
immediately. Polly had asked him in, embarrassed because
the house was in a 'state' - nothing yet done, breakfast
things still piled by the sink, Alice's bed in the front room
not yet made - and he'd realised at once there was
something wrong. It had needed only a few words to tell
him what it was.
'Blimey, that's a facer and no mistake,' he said, staring
from one to the other. 'No wonder you looked at me as if I'd
just fell down from the moon. Here,' he turned towards the
door. 'You won't want me around. I'll get out of your way.'
'No!' Polly reached out a hand involuntarily. 'No, don't
rush off, not after you've taken the trouble to come all this
way. Stop and have a cup of tea at least.'
'Well. . .' He hesitated. 'Maybe I could do something to
help. Not that there's much anyone can do at a time like
this, but -- you know, I could take a message somewhere, do
a bit of shopping, whatever you like. Go and get you some
fish and chips for your dinner. Anything. Just say the word.'
Polly looked at him. 'Well, there is something you can do.
It's Cis and Dick. They went to see Terry's girlfriend, Jean
- she works at the Landport.' She realised that this meant
nothing to him. 'In a shop. Only they've been gone hours
and we're getting, worried. Dick's a bit of an invalid, you
see; he gets asthma and he's only just got over pneumonia
and we're afraid he might have had an attack. I was thinking
of going to look for him, but I don't like leaving Mum.' She
gestured at the old woman, who seemed to have lost all hersprightliness and sunk into a small, crumpled heap of
misery. 'She's taking it very hard,' Polly whispered.
'I'll go,' he offered. 'Just tell me where. Only, I don't
know Portsmouth at all, see, never been here in me life.
Where do I start looking?' Then he grimaced. 'Come to
that, who do I look for?'
'Oh dear, you don't even know what they look like, do
you? So that's no good.' Polly went out to the scullery and
filled the kettle. 'You'd better have a cup of tea anyway - we
all will. And I was just going to start doing some potatoes
for dinner. You'd better stop and have a bite with us.' He
had followed her and stood leaning against the door-jamb.
She looked at him regretfully. 'I'm sorry you had to find us
all at sixes and sevens like this. It's just been such a shock,
you see, and now with Cis and Dick not coming home I
hardly know what I'm doing.'
'That's all right,' he said quietly. His crinkly face was soft
with compassion. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped
forwards and held out his arms. Polly stared at him. Her
mouth drew itself down at the corners, her lips trembled
and her eyes filled once again with hot, stinging tears.
Without being aware that she had moved, she found herself
leaning against his chest, her face against his shoulder,
weeping as he held her close, weeping as she had not wept
since Johnny had died. 'Oh Joe,' she sobbed, holding him
tightly.
'There,' he murmured, stroking her back with a big,
warm hand. 'There, there. You have a good cry, Poll, you
just have a good cry. Let it all out - that's right. It'll do you
good. And now you sit yourself down by your mum and I'll
make that tea. I'll peel the spuds as well, and get you a bit of
dinner, and then if your sis hasn't come back we'll think
what to do next. You need someone to look after you. You
all do.'
He led her back into the other room and pushed her
gently into Dick's armchair. Polly sniffed, and blew her noseand wiped her eyes, and looked at him gratefully as he
placed a cup of tea beside her. 'You don't have to do all that,
Joe.'
'Don't see why not,' he said. 'I come all this way to see
you, I ain't going to turn round and go without making
meself a bit useful. Unless you wants me to, of course,' he
added quickly. 'You've only got to say the word, if that's
what you'd rather.'
'No. No, I don't want you to go.' She gave him a watery
smile and he grinned at her and went back to the scullery.
Polly looked at her mother. Alice had recovered a little
and was sipping her tea. She gave her daughter a quizzical
look, almost like her old self.
'I must say, he seems a nice feller, Poll - but who is he?
You never mentioned no Joe Turner before.'
Polly blushed, aware that Joe could hear everything they
said. 'I met him that day I went to London with the
Mayoress, Mum. His sister's the cook at WVS Headquarters.
I said if he ever came down to Pompey he ought to
come and see us, and I suppose that's what he's done.'
'Hm. Come down special, just for a cup of tea?' Alice
gave her a sideways glance. 'And I dare say that's where
those letters have been coming from too, is it? The ones you
don't say nothing about?' Then she seemed to remember the
trouble they were in and her face crumpled again. 'Not that
it seems to matter much now,' she said despondently.
'Nothing seems to matter now.'
'Oh Mum . . .' But whatever Polly had been about to say
was lost in the sound of the front door being opened, and
voices as Cissie and Dick came into the passage. The two
women looked at each other with relief, and Polly jumped to
her feet.
'Cissie! Dick!' she cried as they came through to the back
room. 'Wherever have you been? We've been so worried.'
She caught the expression on their faces and stopped.'What's happened now? What's the matter? Is it Jean? Is she
ill?'
Cissie sat down on the nearest chair, as if her legs refused
to hold her up any longer. She leaned her elbow on the table
and supported her head in her palm. She heaved a huge sigh
and Dick stood beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder,
although he too looked grey and shocked. Polly stared at
them in alarm. 'What's happened? Tell me what's happened!'
'Not
ill, as such,' Cissie said, shaking her head. 'We had
to take her home from the shop - she fainted when we told
her the news. But it wasn't just that that made her faint,' she
added bitterly, as Polly gave a little exclamation of pity.
'And I don't reckon it was the first time she done it,
neither.' She raised her eyes and looked at her sister. 'The
silly girl - the silly, silly girl - she's gone and got herself into
trouble. She's expecting, Poll. She's expecting our Terry's
baby - and what's she going to do now, I ask you! What in
heaven's name does she think she's going to do now?'
In the first few moments after Cissie's announcement, Polly
forgot all about Joe, still out in the scullery. It was only
when a sound of swishing water made them all look round
that she remembered he was there, presumably .peeling
potatoes. Her hand to her mouth, she went swiftly out and
brought him through.
'This is Joe Turner,' she announced to her bewildered
sister and brother-in-law. 'He - he popped down to see me.
From London.' She could feel her face flooding with scarlet.
'We ran into each other when I went up with the Mayoress
that time.'
'Popped in?' Dick echoed, his glance taking in Joe's
rolled-up sleeves and the potato peeler in his hand. 'From London? But what the flipping heck is he doing in our
scullery?'
'I was just helping with the dinner,' Joe explained. 'Polltold me about your lad - I thought I'd give a bit of a hand.
But you don't want me now, I can see that. Right, I'll be
off' He looked at Polly. 'Some other time, eh?'
She stared at him, distressed, and then turned to Cissie. 'I
asked him to stop for a bite to eat, him having come all that
way. But now . . .'
'It don't matter,' Joe said, shrugging into the jacket he'd
slipped off when he began work. 'I can see you're in trouble.
I just wanted to help, but if there's nothing else I can
do . . .'
'No,' Dick said, his eyes hard and suspicious. 'There
isn't.'
The women looked at him in surprise. Polly flushed
again, and began, 'There's no need--' but Cissie interrupted
her.
'Wait a mo.' She looked at Joe. 'It's a lot to ask, but if you
really wouldn't mind . . . It's our Judy - my daughter. She's
out in the country, and we don't know if she's heard about
the ship. You see, she's deaf.'
He nodded. 'I know. Polly told me.'
'Well, we ought to let her know. I meant to send a
telegram while we were out, but we went to see Jean first
and then when she told us about her trouble -' Cissie
coloured, embarrassed first by the trouble itself and then by
the realisation that Joe must have heard her blurt it out,
'well, it went right out of my mind. But if you wouldn't
mind doing that for us, I'd be really grateful. I'll give you
the money,' she added, reaching for her purse.
'Don't you worry about that,' Joe said. 'And I tell you
what, I won't send a telegram - I'll go out there meself, on
the train. I dare say she'll want to come home, and she'll
need someone with her, 'specially with her being deaf and
all.' He looked at Polly. 'Ashwood, isn't it? Give me her
address and I'll go straight away.'
'Oh, but you can't,' Polly began, glancing from him to
Dick, who was still looking unfriendly.'Don't see why not. You write out a note for her, so she
knows I'm kosher. Look, I got nothing else to do. And don't
worry about the fare, we'll sort all that out after. The main
thing is to let her know what's happened and see what she
wants to do.' He buttoned his jacket and found the cap he'd
been wearing, while Polly scribbled a hasty note. She
handed it to him and he held her hand for a brief second, his
eyes meeting hers. 'Don't you worry, Poll,' he said quietly.
'She'll be all right with me.'
The door closed behind him and they all stared at each
other. Dick sat down heavily beside his wife and Polly sank
back into the armchair.
'Well!' he said. 'And who was that, might I ask? Coming
in here, taking over, saying what's to be done and all. Well,
Polly?'
'You needn't look at me as if I'd done something wrong,
Dick Taylor,' she said with asperity. 'Joe's a decent man.
His sister's Cook at the WVS Headquarters in London--'
'I don't care if his sister's the Queen of England,' Dick
broke in. 'What I want to know is, who is he, and what's he
doing here in my house?'
'My mother's house,' Polly reminded him sharply, getting
to her feet. 'Just because you're Cissie's husband . . .'
'Look, I may not be much cop as far as you're concerned,
but I'm the man around here and I'm head of the family!'
Dick's voice rose. 'And I don't much like coming home and
finding some other bloke what I've never seen before nor
heard of, making free with my kitchen - all right, your mother's kitchen. I don't say there's anything wrong with the
bloke, I don't say that, I just don't like it, that's all.
'Specially when we got our own private family business to
talk about. You don't know what he might have heard
before we knew he was out there. And now he's gone off to
fetch our Judy from the country, for all the world as if he's
one of the family himself. It's all too quick, that's what it is,
and I don't like it.''Dick,' Cissie begged, 'don't upset yourself She cast an
anxious glance towards Polly. 'You know what he's like
when he gets upset.'
Polly bit her lip and sat down again. She knew very well
what happened when Dick got upset. He didn't lose his
temper often, but he could blow up quite unpredictably, and
then he would be quite unreasonable, keeping a row going
for hours and only ending it with an asthma attack. Over the
years, they had all grown accustomed to fending off any
situation which might cause an outbreak, but the present
troubles were too great to be ignored.
'Let's forget about Joe,' she said quietly. 'He's a decent
man and he just wants to help. I'll tell you about him later,
but we've-got other things to worry about now. Tell me
about Jean. Is it true what you said? Is she really expecting?'
Cissie nodded miserably. 'She said it happened the last
night he was on leave at Christmas. You know he stopped
over at their house because they were out late. She said they
just couldn't help it. He was going away, and they didn't
know when they might see each other again, and they
wanted to get engaged - they wanted to get married but
there wasn't time. And they were there in her mum's front
room, saying goodnight, and everyone else had gone to bed
and - and . . .' She started to cry and Dick's hand moved on
her shoulder. 'Oh Polly, it was just the once, she swears it
was just the once.'
'But once is enough,' Dick said grimly. 'And you can
guess who did the leading on.'
'Dick, we don't know that.'
'Don't we? Look, our Terry was a decent boy. We always
brought him up to know right from wrong same as we did
our Judy, and when he went off to join the Army I had a
talk with him. Keep yourself decent, I told him, and you'll
never have no trouble. I know what it's like when these
young chaps get off in a gang in foreign parts. There's a lot
of temptation and--''But Terry wasn't in foreign parts,' Polly said. 'He was
home with Jean.'
Dick glared at her and she remembered suddenly that he
was fifteen years older than she, and had known her as a
little girl. Perhaps he still thought of her that way. 'There's
no need to get clever, Polly,' he said heavily. 'The facts
speak for themselves. Our Terry's dead, and young Jean
Foster's carrying his baby, and it don't matter which way
round you look at it, they been daft and done wrong, both of
them. But I know what it's like to be a young bloke going off
to war, and I know it don't take much to--' He closed his
mouth abruptly. 'Well, never you mind. I just know it
wasn't all our Terry's fault, that's all.'
'I don't see as it matters whose fault it was,' Alice said
suddenly, speaking for the first time. 'What we've got to
think about now is what we're going to do about it.'
There was a short silence. They looked at her, and then at
each other, Cissie was the first to find her voice.
'Do about it, Mum? Why, what can we do about it? It's
for Jean to make up her mind about that. It's her baby. Not
but what we won't do what we can to help, of course,' she
added. 'I mean, we'll make it a few clothes and that sort of
thing, we can't let it go naked. But I dare say she'll get it
adopted, won't she? There's not much else she can do.'
'Get it adopted?' Alice stared at them. 'Your grandchild?
My great-grandchild? The first I'll have - maybe the only
one I'll ever have? Get it adopted?'
They were silent again, astonished by her outburst. Then
Polly said in a reasonable tone, 'But what else can she do,
Mum? I mean, she can't keep it, can she, not without a man
to stand by her. How could she afford to? And what would
everyone say? You know what it's like for a girl in her
position.'
'I know what people would say,' the old lady said grimly.
'I know it wouldn't be easy for her. But she's not the first
one to have a baby born the wrong side of the blanket andshe won't be the last, neither. And I reckon there'll be a lot
more kiddies like this before this lot's over. Children who
won't ever know their daddies, but still need their mothers and their grandparents and great-grandparents too,' she
added forcefully. 'Why should they have to go to strangers
when they've got a family already? Why shouldn't they be
with their own family, with the people who'll love them just
because they're their own flesh and blood? Don't they have
no say in the matter - don't they have no rights? And don't
the rest of the family have no rights neither? This is our
Terry's baby,' she said, fixing them all with a brilliant stare.
'Our Terry's. It might look like him. It might be him all
over again. We've found out about it only a few hours after
we've heard about Terry. Doesn't it seem to you as if it's
meant? How can you talk about giving it away?'
The silence this time was longer. They glanced at each
other uneasily. Dick was staring at the table, his lips tight,
his jaw clenched. Cissie was crying again, silently, the tears
running down her face. Polly felt a huge lump in her throat,
a lump that wouldn't go away.
'But Mum,' she said, trying to talk past it, 'it's going to
be so hard for Jean. You know what people are like. They
won't talk to her. They won't have anything to do with her.
How's she going to manage?' She glanced at Cissie. 'What
do her own mum and dad think about it? What do they say?'
'People forget,' Alice said before Cissie could answer.
'They might cross the street when they see her coming at
first, but they'll get used to it. And babies bring their love
with them. Once it's born and she's pushing a pram, people
will want to stop and look at it. They might be funny at
first, but they'll come round.'
'Not all of them,' Cissie said. 'Some people will stay
funny all their lives.'
'Well,' Alice said, 'they're not worth bothering about
then. They'll only be people like Ethel Glaister down the
road and who takes any notice of her?'They had to smile at this. Nobody liked Ethel Glaister,
who had a sharp word to say about everything and made no
bones about letting folk see that she thought herself better
than they. But Cissie's smile faded quickly and she frowned.
'I still don't see what we can do about it, Mum. It's for
Jean and her mum and dad to work out. It's not really our
business, is it?'
Alice thumped her wrinkled hand on the arm of her chair
and spoke forcefully. 'Of course it's our business! Isn't that
just what I've been trying to say? It's our baby too - our flesh
and blood. We can't just stand by and let it be given away to
strangers. It's our Terry's little boy or girl. Think about it!'

They stared at her. Polly thought about the baby, still a
tiny being curled up in its mother's womb. She thought of
how it would look after it was born -- streaked with blood
and mucus, screaming its way into life and, later, bathed and
wrapped in soft white clothes, sleeping peacefully in its
mother's arms. She thought of it as a toddler, running about
with its fingers into everything. Looking like Terry had
looked. Laughing like Terry had laughed, crying as he had
cried.
'Mum's right,' she said, feeling the ache of loss in her
breast even though just an hour ago she hadn't even known
of the baby's existence. 'If it's Terry's baby, it's ours too.'
She hesitated. 'What I don't understand is why nobody
knew. I mean - it was Christmas, wasn't it? And now it's
May. That's five months. Isn't she showing?'
'Well, she's just started to,' Cissie admitted. 'But you
know Jean, she's a plump little thing and if you don't have
any reason to suspect anything, you'd just think she was
putting on a bit more weight. Her mum was beginning to wonder, I think, but it would've been another couple of
weeks before she could be sure.'
'And how did she take it?' Alice asked. 'Her dad wasn't
there, I suppose, so they'll need to talk it over when he
comes home from work, but how did her mum seem?''Well, what d'you think? She was proper upset. I thought
she was going to hit Jean for a minute. Then she started to
cry, and Jean started again, and --'
'And you joined in,' Dick said. 'I had to go and make
them all a cup of tea,' he told Alice. Me. In someone else's
kitchen and all. Couldn't get no sense out of any of 'em, so I
said to Cis we ought to come away and leave 'em to it. Say
what you will, Ma, it's their business more than it's ours.
It's Jean who's in the family way, and it's them who'll have
to decide what to do about it.' He set his jaw grimly.
Alice took no notice. 'We can still put our point of view.
We'd better go round there one evening and talk it over.
And we'd better make it soon, in case they turn her out.'
'They wouldn't do that,' Cissie said. 'Not Mrs Foster.'
'Mr Foster might,' Alice said with a glance at Dick. Then
are harder about these things. And Mrs Foster always struck
me as one who'd set a lot of store on what the neighbours
say. They might not turn her out as such, but they might
send her to one of them homes for unmarried mothers,
where they can stop until the baby's born. And you know
what happens then. They give the babies up and never see
them again.' She drew in a ragged breath and her eyes filled
with tears. 'I don't want that to happen, Cis, I really don't.
It's as if it's meant - finding out about it the very day we lose
our Terry. I can't bear to think of losing his baby without
even setting eyes on its dear little face.'
Cissie and Polly began to cry again in sympathy. They
moved to sit together, their arms about each other as they
wept for Terry and for the baby he had left behind, the baby
he had not even known existed.
Dick stared at them. There was a lump in his throat too,
and an uncomfortable feeling that he was the outsider, the
one who didn't fit in, the one who had let himself down in
some way. I've only said what any other bloke with a sense
of decency would say, he told himself rebelliously. The girl
probably did lead Terry on. It was in her house it happened.And it is for her and her mum and dad to sort out. They
probably won't thank us for interfering if we do go round
there.
And yet, he couldn't ignore the pictures conjured up by
Alice's words. Like Polly, he had seen the baby in its cot,
the laughing toddler staggering about the room. He had also
seen the boy that Terry had been, that his baby might
become. The schoolboy, his socks down round his ankles,
kicking a ball along the street, the twelve-year-old riding an
old bike, the sixteen-year-old out at work, on a Dockyard
apprenticeship perhaps, turning into a young man . . .
'Blimey,' he said in disgust, surveying the women. 'It'll
be like a blooming swimming pool in here in a minute. I
suppose I'd better go and make another cup of tea.'
Judy was out in the orchard with Sylvie when Joe Turner
arrived. The little girl was feeling better and had managed
to eat a piece of dry toast for her dinner, and was now lying
on an old blanket in the shade of the apple tree. Its new
leaves whispered above her, and she had fallen asleep while
Judy sat beside her on a cushion, darning socks.
She looked up at the click of the gate, wondering who the
stranger was who was standing there with Mrs Sutton. He
was stocky, with a face that looked as if someone had
screwed it up in a ball and then tried to iron out the creases.
But she could see that it was a friendly, good-humoured
face, even though just at present it looked grave. The
farmer's wife too was looking upset, and Judy felt a sudden
pang of dread.
'What is it?' she asked, and started to scramble to her feet.
'What's happened?'
'This is Mr Turner,' Mrs Sutton said. 'He's come to see
you, Judy.'
'To see me? But why?' Judy stared from one to the other.
Joe Turner produced a letter and she looked at it uneasily.
'What is it? What's happened? Have they had another raidin Portsmouth?' She felt herself shrink away from the note
as if by not reading it she could push away whatever
dreadful news he had brought. 'Has Grandma's house been
bombed? Has - has anyone been hurt?'
'No!' She could see just how forceful the word was, and
felt her body sag with relief. But his face was still solemn.
'Not anyone at home, anyway.' He nodded at the letter.
'You'd better read it. I'm sorry.'
'That's right, love,' Mrs Sutton said. 'Read the letter.'
Slowly, Judy reached out to take it. It was addressed in
her aunt's writing and began by introducing Joe Turner as a
friend. You can trust him, Polly had said. And then, as if
she found the words difficult to write, came the news that
had brought Joe to Ashwood. The news of HMS Hood.
Judy stared at the words. They blurred and danced in
front of her eyes, and the orchard and the grass and the
sunshine seemed to fall away into darkness. She shook her
head, feeling sick and frightened, and found a cup of water
pressed to her lips. Mrs Sutton must have brought it with
her, knowing she would need it. She sank down again on the
cushion and reached a hand out to Sylvie, who was still fast
asleep. Her tears beginning to fall, she whispered, 'Let's go
somewhere else. I don't want Sylvie to see. She'll be
frightened.'
The others nodded and Joe Turner helped Judy to her
feet. She found her legs shaking, and leaned upon him as
they went softly from the orchard. Sylvie would probably
sleep for an hour or two yet, and would not be alarmed to
find herself alone when she woke. They went into the cool,
dim kitchen and Mrs Sutton shifted the kettle on to the hot
plate.
'I can't believe it,' Judy said in bewilderment, staring at
the letter. 'Our Terry. It's awful.' She shook her head and
looked at Mrs Sutton. 'I went to bed early last night, before
the news. Did you hear it? Did you know the Hood had been
sunk?''Well, yes, I did,' the farmer's wife confessed. 'We both
heard it. But we didn't know your brother was on board. All
we knew was that he was in the Navy.' She spoke slowly and
clearly, so that Judy could follow her, and wrote it down to
make sure. 'I'm so sorry,' she added in shaky handwriting,
and tears fell on to the paper.
'Our Terry,' Judy said. 'Oh, I don't think I can bear it!'
She bent her head and burst into tears, sobbing wildly. 'It's
not fair! First Johnny, and then Sean - and now Terry! It's
just not fair!'
'Judy, Judy.' She felt Mrs Sutton's arms around her and
her head was drawn down on to the warm cushion of her
bosom. A comforting hand stroked her hair and another,
harder and hornier but just as comforting, patted her hand.
She could feel the vibrations in the woman's body that
meant she was speaking, and although she couldn't hear the
words, she knew what they must be. 'Poor love. You poor,
poor love. There, there. Cry it out, now, cry it out. Poor,
poor love.'
At length, with no more tears in her for the time being,
Judy hiccuped into silence. She screwed up the third of the
hankies Mrs Sutton had pressed into her hand, and gazed at
it through swollen eyes. Then she looked up at the two who
watched her so sympathetically.
'I'll have to go home. They'll want me there.' "
Mrs Sutton nodded. 'I thought you'd say that. Mr
Turner here says he'll take you back as soon as you like.'
She glanced at the clock. 'There's a train in an hour -- you
can pack your things while I get some tea ready for you.
And you can take some fresh eggs and butter back for your
family. I dare say they'll be glad of them. I'll put in a few
slices of bacon as well.'
Judy barely followed this, but understood that she was to
go and pack and that Joe Turner would take her back to
Portsmouth. She looked at him doubtfully and he gave her
his crinkly grin. 'Go on, love. I'll wait for you here.' Heseemed to realise why she was doubtful and added, 'I'm
friend of your Aunt Polly's. Met her in London when si
come up to WVS Headquarters a couple of weeks back. My
sister's the cook there.' He followed Mrs Sutton's example,
and wrote the words down and Judy read them, nodding.
'Are you sure you want to bother? I could manage on my
own.'
He laughed. 'Well, I can't stop out here, can I! I've got to
go back to Pompey, so I might as well see you safe back
home. Anyway, I don't reckon me and Polly would be
friends any more if I didn't.' He saw that she hadn't
followed this and said gently and more slowly, 'You go and
get yourself ready, love. We'll go back to Portsmouth
together.'
Judy gave in and went upstairs. She stood at the door of
the room she had shared with Sylvie, the room that had
become so familiar and so dear. The walls were distempered
a sunny yellow, there were yellow curtains flowered with
blue at the window and yellow cushions on the low, deep
windowsill. It was a room that seemed filled with sunshine
on even the dullest of days, and here, as she had sat on that
windowsill gazing down into the orchard, she had found
comfort and healing. Now she was to leave it and go back to
the grey, ruined streets of Portsmouth, and she felt torn
between a desire to see her family again and a longing to stay
here for ever.
She crossed the room and looked down into the orchard.
Sylvie was still asleep on her blanket under the apple tree.
How many times have I sat under that tree in the past two
weeks? Judy thought. By myself, with Sylvie - and with
Ben. She thought of the tall, dark-haired boy with his bright
blue eyes beneath the heavy brows. They had shared an easy; understanding, a ready friendship, and she had found it
difficult to believe that he was only seventeen. He seemed so
much older, so much more mature. He felt it himself too,with his restless desire to leave school and join the RAF. He
was ready for manhood.
She turned her mind away from that disturbing thought
and lifted her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe.
Then she took her few clothes from the cupboard and
drawers and began to fold them on the bed.Chapter Twenty-Three

During their light meal of sliced ham, early lettuce and
beetroot, Judy noticed that Joe Turner seemed uneasy, as if
there were something else on his mind. He said nothing,
however, until Judy had made her tearful farewells and
Sylvie, who had come in yawning and hungry after her
sleep, had accompanied them to the station where they
could catch the train back to Portsmouth. The little girl
clung to her aunt, begging to be allowed to go back to
Portsmouth with her, and Judy had been in tears yet again
as she gently unwound the small arms from around her
neck.
'You're better off here. We're still getting raids - it's not
safe. And you know you're happy here with the Suttons and
the other children.'
'I'd rather be home with you and Mummy,' Sylvie said
mutinously.
'You will be,' Judy promised, hoping it was true. 'Once
all this bombing's over you'll come back straight away, I
promise.' Her words were lost as the train arrived, huffing
to a stop beside the platform. 'I'll have to go now, Sylvie. Be
good for me, won't you? And look after Cavalier.' Cavalier
was the farmyard rooster, so named for his spectacular
feathers. She gave Sylvie a final hug and then turned away
quickly, dashing the tears from her eyes. I don't know where
they all come from, she thought, but I wish I could smile as
much as I cry.
Joe opened the carriage door and helped her up into an
empty compartment, following with her case. He pulleddown the window so that she could lean out and wave
goodbye to Sylvie, then the train gathered speed and surged
out of the station. In another moment the platform was out
of sight and Judy sat down and heaved a trembling sigh.
Joe Turner looked at her. 'You all right, love?'
Judy nodded. He had such an expressive face, she found
him easy to understand. 'I suppose so. It's just a bit much to
take in. A couple of hours ago I was sitting under the apple
tree darning socks without a care in the world -- well, not too many anyway,' she amended, thinking ruefully of Sean and
her deafness. 'I suppose I was used to the ones I had! And
now, here I am on my way back home, and -- and I've lost
my brother.' Her voice trembled. 'Oh dear, I'm going to
start crying again. I'm sorry.'
'It's all right, love.' He handed her a large khaki
handkerchief. 'You cry all you want. You've been through a
lot.'
'So have other people,' Judy wept. 'It's no worse for me
than it is for Mum and Dad - or Polly, or Grandma. We've
all been through the same.'
'And you've all had a good cry,' he said. 'It's natural.'
Judy gathered control of herself, glad that there was no
one else in the compartment. She gazed out of the window
at the fields and woods, thinking how strange it was" that war
was being waged less than a hundred miles away - not much
further than it was from Portsmouth to London - yet here it
seemed so peaceful, and so lovely. 'Why do people have to
hate each other?' she asked. 'Why do they have to fight?
Why can't people just live peacefully together, like we used
to?'
Joe shrugged. 'Not for us to ask that, love,' he said. 'It's
up to them that lead us.' He hesitated and then said
carefully, 'You'll need to prepare yourself for another bit of
news when you get home.'
Judy stared at him. 'Another bit of news? Why, what elsehas happened?' Her eyes sharpened. 'You said everyone was
all right.'
'They are, love. They're all fine - well, as fine as can be
expected, in the circs. But there's summat else - look, it
ain't for me to tell you. I just thought you ought to be
prepared, that's all.'
'I can't follow all this,' Judy said despairingly. 'You'll
have to write it down. Oh, I hate being deaf!'
He looked at her sympathetically and felt in his pockets
for paper and a pencil. But all he had was the train tickets,
and neither of them had anything to write with. They gave
up and sat helplessly gazing at each other. Something else?
Judy thought. What can it be? Oh, I wish he hadn't said it!
And yet, she knew that it was better for her to be prepared.
It would make it easier for the family to tell her.
The train rumbled on through Botley and Fareham, and
then along the top of the harbour. Judy stared out at the
expanse of water stretching away to the south, and thought
of Terry's last leave. She had seen the great ship he was on,
and stood on the Sallyport to watch it sail away through the
narrow neck of the harbour. Now it was at the bottom of the
sea, somewhere off Greenland, and only three of its great
crew of almost fifteen hundred men would ever return.
Judy stared at her mother in disbelief. 'Jean Foster's having
a baby?'
Now, more than ever, she hated her deafness. To have to
stare at people's mouths as they spoke, unable to understand
any but the most obvious words, or wait while they wrote
things down, pausing as they wondered how to spell the
words - all that was bad enough. But now, with everyone
talking at once about these new events, so important to them
all, turning to each other and speaking too quickly for her to
follow, was nothing short of agonising. I wish I'd never gone
back to that building, she thought bitterly. It didn't do any
good, and we nearly lost Polly as well.'What are you saying?' she asked loudly, so that they all
stopped talking and turned to her. 'What's the use of me
coming back if you won't even tell me what's going on?' Her
shock and distress over Terry, the hurried return home and
now the news of the baby had left her shaken and on edge,
ready either to burst into tears all over again or to lose her
temper completely. 'Don't I matter any more?' she went on,
aware that she was shouting. 'Can't anyone even be bothered
to look at me when they're talking? I feel as if I'm in a glass
jar - I can see your mouths moving, but all I can hear is a
sort of woolly sound. I can't make out any words, and I feel
so left out, and it's awful. Awful!' Temper and tears came
together then, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing
wildly. 'You don't know what it's like! None of you knows
what it's like!'
'Oh, Judy!' Arms came around her and hands patted her
back. Over her head, Cissie and Polly looked at each other.
'She's right,' Polly said in a low voice, although there was
no danger of Judy's overhearing her. 'We do leave her out,
and it's not fair. Terry was her brother and she's just as
upset about it all as we are. We've got to do our best to help
her.'
'It's not that I don't want to,' Cissie said in distress. 'I'd
do anything I can to help her. But I can't help just saying
what comes into my head, and I forget to look at her all the
time.' She tightened her arms around Judy's bent shoulders.
'To be honest, I wonder if it was a bit selfish to ask her to
come home. I want her here, I really do, but maybe it was
better for her to be out in the country. She seemed to be
settling down so well out there.'
'I think she'd have come whatever we said,' Polly said.
'Joe told me it was the first thing she said, that she'd come
home. She said we'd need her.'
She sighed. Joe had refused even to stop for a cup of tea
after delivering Judy at the door. 'You've got your own
troubles,' he'd told her on the doorstep of number nine.'You don't want strangers around. I'll be in touch.' And
then he'd gone, limping away up the street and turning at
the corner to wave a cheery hand, and she realised that she
didn't even know what he was going to do next. Would he
get a train back to London, or was he staying somewhere in
Portsmouth? She had followed Judy indoors feeling frustrated.
'And
so we do need her,' Cissie said. 'I need her, and so
does Dick. We all need her.' She put her hand under Judy's
chin and lifted the wet, swollen face, speaking slowly and
clearly. 'Judy, we're all glad you've come home. We need
you here. Do you understand that? We need you.'
Judy drew in a ragged breath and nodded, trying to smile.
'OK, Mum. Sorry. It's just - well, it's all been such a
shock.' She twisted her lips ruefully. 'It must have been an
awful shock for you too, hearing that from Jean. What's she
going to do?'
'We don't know yet. We only found out this morning.'
Cissie shook her head wonderingly. It seemed as if an age
had passed since they had spoken to Jean in the shop. 'Your
grandma thinks we ought to help her to keep the baby.'
'Keep it?' It was a moment or two before Judy fully
understood what she was saying. 'But how could she, all on
her own? What about her parents?'
Alice had been writing on an old envelope, and passed it
to Judy. She read the words aloud. 'It's Terry's baby, and
there'll never be another one. It's my great-grandchild. I don't
want it to go to strangers. Oh Gran,' she said. 'Oh Gran, of
course you don't.'
Dick spoke up from his corner. He had been silent during
the halting conversation, retreating there after first greeting
Judy with a brief kiss. 'That's all very well. But it's not easy
for a young woman on her own with a little 'un.'
'You don't have to tell me that!' Alice's voice was sharp.
She had not yet forgiven him for his assumption that, in herhouse and her kitchen, he was the master. 'I brought up two
on my own after my hubby died. Of course it's not easy!'
'Yes, but they were the right side of the blanket,' Dick
retorted. 'Not by-blows, like Jean's is going to be!'
For a moment, it looked as if the quarrel would break out
again. Alice and Dick glared at each other, while Judy stared
at them in uncomprehending astonishment. Then Cissie put
both hands on their shoulders and spoke with unusual
firmness.
'Now, you needn't start that all over again! We had all
that out before our Judy got here and she didn't come all
this way to watch you two squabbling. Just you calm down,
Dick, you'll make yourself ill getting your rag out like that,
and we've got enough on our plates without having you back
in hospital. And while I'm thinking about it, you might say
sorry to Polly for the way you behaved to Mr Turner. I'm
sure he never wanted to intrude on family problems, and
he's been a real help, going out to fetch our Judy and all, but
from the way you acted, anyone would have thought he'd
come to pinch all the family silver. Supposing we'd got any
to pinch,' she added, and Dick, who had been staring at her
in astonishment, suddenly laughed. 'There,' she said,
smiling, 'that's better.'
'Well, I suppose you're right, Cis,' he said, and looked
over at Polly. 'Sorry, Poll, but I didn't know what to think
when I found him here, and what with the shock over Terry
and then Jean, I was knocked all of a heap . . . And I'm sorry
to you too, Ma,' he went on, turning to Alice. 'You're right,
we ought to give the girl a hand. It's not the time to start
argufying over things that can't be altered.' He glanced at
Judy, who was once again watching them in bewilderment.
'And here we are, leaving our Judy out again. Don't worry,
gal, we haven't forgot you. We're glad to have you home
again.'
'I've been thinking,' Polly said. 'Judy and Jean are pretty
good friends. Why don't we ask her to go round and have atalk? Tell her what we've been thinking, see if we can do
anything.'
'That's a good idea,' Alice said at once, and when they
conveyed this idea to Judy she nodded.
'I will, if she wants to see me. She might feel awkward,
though.'
'Not with you. You've known each other all your lives.
You were in the same class at school.'
'I mean, because of me not being able to hear,' Judy said,
but they shook their heads and Polly said she would let Judy
use the writing-pad she'd been saving for writing to Sylvie.
'AH right, I'll go round tomorrow. It's too late now.'
'You're right,' Alice said, looking at the clock. 'It's almost
nine o'clock. Time for the news.'
They looked at each other. It was on last night's news that
they'd heard of the sinking of HMS Hood. Only twenty-four
hours ago!
'It seems like a lifetime,' Polly said soberly, and the others
nodded. This time last night, they'd been more or less
happy, thinking that Terry was still alive. Now, knowing
not only that he must be dead but that he'd left his
sweetheart pregnant, everything had changed.
Nobody had the heart to switch the wireless on for
tonight's news. They'd had enough of news for a while,
Polly thought as she went out to the scullery to make cocoa.
Enough for a long time. In fact, if she had her way she'd
never listen to the news again.
You couldn't just ignore it, though. You had to know
what was going on. You had to care about other people as
well as yourself, or why should they care about you? And
even if you'd never wanted the war in the first place, even
though nobody had asked your opinion nor listened if you
gave it, you were still a part of it all. You had to stand by
what was right.
And that went for what was happening in the family too.
You had to stand by what was right - and Gran was rightabout this. Jean Foster's baby - Terry's baby - was a part of
their family, a part that would be all they had left of Terry
himself. What was done was done, and they would all do
their best by the girl Terry had loved, and the baby she
bore.
What's done is done, Polly repeated to herself. Who
knows? Maybe in the end we'll be glad of it.
Judy went round to see Jean Foster the next evening,
thinking that she would probably have gone to work as usual
in the morning. She found her friend looking wan and red
eyed, picking listlessly at a plate of boiled fish and mashed
potatoes.
'Perhaps you can talk some sense into her,' Mrs Foster
said, leading Judy past a door leading to a front room that
looked like a furniture shop showroom, with a three-piece
suite daintily attired in lace antimacassars and a small
occasional table with china figurines arranged upon it. She
took her into an almost equally tidy back room. 'Done
nothing but cry her eyes out, she has, ever since she heard,
but I've told her, it's no use letting it all get on top of you.
You've made your bed, my girl, and now you've got to lay
in it,' she said to her daughter in a sharp, exasperated voice.
'And it's no good piping your eye all day over what can't be
mended.'
Judy heard none of this but could tell from Mrs Foster's
expression and gestures what sort of thing she was saying.
She gave Jean a sympathetic smile and touched her ears.
'I've brought some paper for you to write on. It makes
things easier. Could we go up to your bedroom or
somewhere, so we don't disturb everyone else?'
'Oh, don't mind me,' Mrs Foster cried. 'Jean doesn't tell me what she's doing. Nor her dad, neither. Well, go on
then,' she snapped, seeing that Judy had not understood. 'I
don't mind doing the washing-up, I'm sure, seeing as you've
got company.'Judy followed the other girl up the stairs. Mr Foster was
a foreman in the Dockyard on a good wage and the Fosters'
house was larger than Alice's, with three bedrooms and an
indoor lavatory (which Mrs Foster called the WC) and
bathroom. It had nice front rooms too, with rounded bay
windows, and a little patch of front garden. Jean's room was
at the back, overlooking a larger garden with a patch of
lawn, and a small, neat vegetable plot, together with the
inevitable Anderson shelter. I bet they've got proper chairs
and a table down there, Judy thought, with a fresh white
tablecloth every Sunday!
The girls sat down on Jean's bed, rumpling the bright
green satin bedspread, and Jean drew in a deep breath and
burst into tears. Judy put her arm around her shoulders, but
her own grief overtook her and they wept together for
several minutes, mourning the brother and the sweetheart
who had been taken from them. I seem to have been here
before, Judy thought, remembering the pain of losing Sean,
and she held Jean tightly against her, scarcely knowing
whether she did so to give comfort or to receive it.
'I did love him,' Jean sobbed. 'I really did. I still do! It
wasn't just being wicked, like Mum says. We couldn't help
it - we loved each other. He was going away, and we just
couldn't bear it. We had to do what we did.'
'Jean, I'm sorry, I can't hear you,' Judy said gently. She
rummaged in her bag for the writing-pad. 'Write it down. It
doesn't matter what it is - just write it down. I get so fed up
with people only putting down bits of what they're saying,'
she added with feeling.
Jean wrote down what she had said, and then added, It
was only once. But I wish now it had been lots of times - so
there! and looked at Judy with an expression that was half
apologetic, half-defiant.
Judy grinned despite her unhappiness. 'I'll tell you
something, Jean - I wish me and Sean had done it, too! He
wanted to, I know, though he wouldn't ask me. We'd onlyknown each other a little while, and Mum and Dad nearly
hit the roof about our getting engaged. But now - well, I
wish we had. Just so that he could have had that to
remember.' And me, too, she thought. I'd like to have it to
remember as well.
'You wouldn't,' Jean said tonelessly. 'Not if you'd found
yourself in the mess I'm in now.' She scribbled the words
quickly and handed the pad to Judy again.
'No, maybe not. But that's why I've come to see you.
Mum and Dad and Gran - and me and Polly too, come to
that - we've been wondering what you're going to do. Have
you thought about it yet?' She made a face. 'That's a daft
thing to say - you can't have been thinking about anything
else since you realised.' Involuntarily, her glance drifted to
Jean's stomach, beginning to show a swelling beneath her
loose dress.
'I haven't, actually,' Jean confessed, and wrote down her
next words. 'I tried to push it out of my mind. I suppose I hoped
it would go away! Stupid, but that's how it was.
'But now your parents know, what do they think you
should do?'
Mum was all for turning me out straight away! Dad
wouldn't let her, though. He said if I went, he'd go too. Jean
looked apprehensive, as though she thought it might really
come to that, and Judy remembered that Jean Foster had
always been the apple of her father's eye. So Mum stopped
saying it, but she's hardly spoken to me since. I don't know what
I'm going to do.
'That's why I've come round. We want you to know that
you can always live with us, if it comes to it. I don't know
where we'd put you, mind,' she added with a grin. 'You
might have to sleep in the Anderson! But Gran said we'll do
whatever we can, for Terry's sake, and because the baby's
her great-grandchild and she doesn't want it going to
strangers.'
Once again, Jean dissolved into tears. 'Oh Judy, I don'tknow what to say. I didn't think anyone would want
anything to do with me. I thought I'd be sent away, and
have to give my baby up.' Unconsciously, her hand moved
protectively to her stomach. 'I mean, I knew if Terry could
come home it would be all right because he'd stand by me,
but I didn't know how long he'd be away. This horrible
war's going on and on and it doesn't look as if it's ever going
to end, and I was so scared. I thought, What'll happen to me
if he doesn't come home? And then yesterday, when I found
out he wasn't going to -- well, I just didn't know what I was
going to do. And Mum's been so awful - we had such a
terrible row last night over it - and I've been missing Terry
so much, and now I'm never going to see him again, and and
. . .' The storm of weeping overtook her again and she
sobbed uncontrollably.
Judy held her tightly, not needing to hear the words, her
tears once more mingling with the frightened girl's. As the
weeping eased again, she said, 'Look, Jean, you don't have
to worry any more. We'll stand by you, since Terry can't.
We're your family now too. It's your baby, and you've got
to decide what you want to do, but whatever you decide,
we'll help you.' She hesitated. 'If you want to give it up for
adoption, we won't stand in your way, but we don't want
you to do that. It's our Terry's baby as well as yours, and we
want it to be part of our family.'
Jean wiped her face and blew her nose. She looked at
Judy gratefully and attempted a smile. 'Thanks, Judy. It's
really helped, having you come round. And I don't want to
give my baby away either. It's just that, I don't really know
how I'll manage. How am I going to be able to keep it? How
can I afford to? There's so much a baby needs - a pram and
a cot, and lots of clothes and nappies - and how could I go
to work with a baby to look after? How can I earn a living
for us both?' The tears were falling again as she picked up the pencil. How am I going to manage, Judy?
'We'll work it out,' Judy promised, managing to followthe gist of Jean's tearful questions. 'We'll all put our heads
together, and we'll work it out. I'm sure Mum and Gran
will help, and I expect your mum'll come round, once she
gets used to the idea. Anyway, just remember this, Jean you're
not on your own. We're all going to help you.' She
wondered if she ought to say it, then added quietly, 'I
almost wish it had happened to me, in some ways. I'd like to
have something of Sean to remember him by - his baby, a
part of him. As it is, all I've got is a ring and a few
memories, and even those are starting to fade.'
It '$ better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at
all, Jean wrote with shaking fingers. I just wish it didn't hurt
so much, Judy - having loved and lost. I wish everything didn't
seem so hopeless.
'It's not,' Judy said, wondering if she believed it. 'There's
always hope, Jean. That's what Gran says. While there's life,
there's hope.' She touched her friend's stomach wonderingly.
'That's where our hope is - in there. Your baby.
Terry's baby. Our baby.'
'Hope,' Jean said, also touching her stomach. 'That's
what I'll call it - if it's a girl. Hope.'
Judy looked at the name, written on a single sheet in the
writing-pad. Hope. It was an unusual name but a good one.
Perhaps this baby would be a turning point for them all. A
new life, to make up for the one that had been lost.
'I'll tell them at home,' she said. 'They'll like that. It's
what we all need, Jean. Hope.'Chapter Twenty-Four

'I might have known you'd come home with some fancy
ideas,' Dick said disgustedly as they sat round the supper
table that evening. 'Hope! Trouble, more like. It isn't going
to be as easy as you all seem to think, not for young Jean
anyway. A baby costs money, and it goes on costing money.
How's a girl like Jean, working in a shop for - what? Fifteen
bob a week? - how's she going to be able to afford to bring
up a nipper? I mean, if they'd been married she'd have had a
pension, but as it is she can't expect nothing from the Army,
nothing at all. And we haven't got the means to help her
out.'
The women looked at each other. They knew Dick was
right: his own income was a war pension, and Cissie had had
to take in dressmaking for years to make ends meet. It was
easier once Terry and Judy were old enough to leave school
and go out to work, and Terry had been sending money
home regularly since he joined the Army, but now that
would stop. Alice too had only her small pension. There
wasn't anything left over for a baby.
'Well, we're going to have to do something,' Polly said
with determination. 'Like Gran says, the baby is part of our family, and if Jean wants to keep it, we've got to help her. I
don't mind chipping in a bit. There's always something I
can go without.'
'Well, I dunno what it is, then,' Dick said. 'We're going
without just about everything already.' He sighed. 'If you're
all so set on it there's nothing more I can say, is there? I
never had much chance with three women lined up againstme, anyway. You'd better tell young Jean to come round
here for tea on Sundays.' A thought struck him. 'I bet her
mum doesn't go much on all this, does she? I remember her
as a girl at the dances down the Oddfellows -- stuck-up
piece, she was. What did she have to say about all this?'
He looked interrogatively at Judy and she stared back
blankly. Polly mouthed at her, 'Mrs Foster. What did she
say?'
'Oh, Jean's mum,' Judy said, and made a face. 'Jean says
she's been awful. They've had a really bad row over it, and
Jean thought she was going to turn her out, but her dad
wouldn't let her. I don't know what she'll say about Jean
keeping the baby, though. I can't see her letting them stay
there.'
'No, nor can I,' Cissie said. 'And she won't have the same
feeling about it that we have. After all, Jean could have other
children, in wedlock. But if she does keep the baby, it might
spoil her chances of getting married at all.'
Polly sighed. 'What a problem. I don't know what to
suggest. We really haven't got room for her here, we're like
sardines as it is.' She stood up and started to gather the
plates together. 'Let's clear this away and listen to the news.
Perhaps they'll have caught the Bismarck by now. That
might cheer us up a bit.'
The pursuit of the German ship was the topic on
everyone's lips. It had become an ogre in everyone's minds,
a symbol of the terror that stalked the world. It was as if
nothing more could be achieved until it had been hunted
down and destroyed. To the family in number nine, as to so
many other families in the country, it seemed a personal
retribution - a just reprisal for the terrible loss they had
suffered - yet the need was almost as great to those who had
not known any of the crew. The Hood represented
something vital to the national sense of strength, and its loss
must be balanced by an equal loss to the Germans.'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,' Dick said grimly.
'That's what it is. And a ship for a ship.'
'And a thousand mothers' sons for a thousand mothers'
sons,' Cissie said sadly. 'I don't know, it seems wrong to me,
looking at it that way. The whole thing about war - leaders
like Hitler sending ordinary young men to do his dirty work
for him and the rest of us having to join in and send ours to
stop them - well, it doesn't seem Christian to me.'
'But there've always been wars,' Polly said. 'The Bible's
full of them. It's full of talk about God smiting people
down.'
'Well, I can't understand it,' Cissie said. 'But there, I
suppose it's not for folk like us to understand, we haven't
got the education. We just have to do as we're told. And
send our lads to be killed,' she added bitterly.
The wireless began its burbling warm-up and a moment
or two later the announcer's voice came through. 'This is
the nine o'clock news, and this is Alvar Liddell reading it.
The hunt for the German battleship Bismarck goes on as she
evades the British Force sent to engage her. There has been
more heavy fighting on the island of Crete which was
invaded three days ago by almost five hundred Junker
transport planes bringing thousands of paratroopers. Lord
Louis Mountbatten's ship HMS Kelly has been reported
sunk, together with her sister ship HMS Kashmir. Many of
the survivors, including Lord Mountbatten, were rescued
by HMS Kipling, after being machine-gunned in the water.
More fighter aircraft have been delivered to the besieged
island of Malta, which has been under heavy attack from the
Luftwaffe. HMS Ark Royal and HMS Furious between
them brought a total forty-eight Hurricanes. German High
Command is believed to be building up a massive attack
force on the Russian Front. There were no reports of air
raids over Britain over the past twenty-four hours . . .'
'That's one bit of good news anyway,' Alice said as they
switched off the wireless and stared at each other.shouldn't think they had enough planes to raid us anyway.
They seem to be everywhere!'
'It's terrible,' Cissie said, 'Lord Mountbatten being
machine-gunned in the water! And all those poor souls on
Malta. I heard yesterday that they're just living in holes in
the ground, frightened to come out. And Crete - they can't
leave our boys there, surely? They'll have to go and get
them out.'
'It's another Dunkirk,' Dick said. He shook his head. 'I
can't see how we can beat them this time. They've been
getting ready for it for years, while we've been shutting our
eyes to what's been going on.'
'Well, I believe in Mr Churchill,' Alice said staunchly,
'and if he says we'll win, I reckon we will.'
Dick looked at her gravely. 'I'm not sure that's what he
has said, Ma,' he said in a quiet voice. 'He's said we'll fight
them. He's said we'll fight them on the beaches and in the
streets and in the hills. He's said we'll never surrender. But
I don't think he's ever said we're going to win.'
The Bismarck was sunk two days later, after a desperate
chase across the Atlantic, pursued by over a hundred ships.
She was finally caught a few hundred miles off the coast of
Brittany and hit, first by torpedoes from the Ark Royal, which destroyed her steering gear, and then by shells fired
from the numerous ships which were closing in upon her. In
the end, defiant to the last, the German Commander
ordered that she be scuttled, and the great ship turned over
and sank, with the loss of over two thousand men.
Britain breathed a sigh of relief. The seas were a little less
dangerous now, even though there were still plenty of
enemy ships patrolling them, but it was mainly a sense of
justice that caused them to celebrate. An eye for an eye. A
tooth for a tooth. A ship for a ship . . .
'It's just like children squabbling in a playground,' Cissie
said privately to Polly, but they didn't repeat thesesentiments to others. April Grove was full of people
stopping to congratulate each other on the victory, and you
didn't want to be thought either a 'conchie' or a Fifth
Columnist. It only needed some busybody like Ethel
Glaister to hear you saying something like that, and you
could find yourself in prison!
All the same, Cissie couldn't help feeling glad that the
men who had killed her Terry were now themselves dead,
even though she knew that in Germany there were a lot of
mothers suffering the same grief as herself. It doesn't make
sense, she thought. How can I be glad and sorry both at the
same time? But then, nothing about war really made sense.
Jean Foster came round to see them the day after the Bismarck had been sunk. She was pale, red-eyed and
nervous, obviously both grieving for Terry and in a panic
over her own situation. She looked a different girl from the
pleasant, smiling shop assistant Dick and Cissie had seen the
day before. She also looked plumper, as if her figure were
blossoming by the day, and she told them she was sure some
of the neighbours were beginning to look at her a bit funny.
'Mum says I've got to go away before they notice,' she
said, 'but where can I go? And what shall I do for money? I
don't know what I'm going to do, I don't really.' She sat on
one of the dining chairs and stared at them all fearfully. 'I'm
ever so sorry, Mrs Taylor, for bringing all this trouble on you. I never meant - me and Terry, we just - well, we never
thought that just once . . .'
'It only takes once,' Dick said grimly. 'And we brought
our Terry up to know right from wrong.'
'Well, I know right from wrong too, Mr Taylor.' Jean's
cheeks flushed. 'We both did. But he was going away the
next day, and we loved each other so much. We just
couldn't help ourselves.' She began to cry again. 'I know
what you think of me - I know what everyone'll say, that
I'm a hussy and a trollop and all the rest of it - but we
couldn't help it, we couldn't, and I tell you what, I'm glad wedid it. I never meant it to be like this and nor did Terry, but
I'm glad all the same. At least he was happy when he went
away, and I made him happy.' She lifted her chin and gave
Dick a challenging stare. 'He said so. And I'm glad.'
There was a short silence. Dick flushed too but he let his
eyes drop. He glanced down sideways into the empty
fireplace and his jaw clenched. Cissie watched him, biting
her lip, afraid that he was going to give way to a burst of
temper, and Alice seemed to square her shoulders as if she
too were ready to join in the fray. Judy, unable to follow
their words, glanced anxiously at Polly, who gave her a
small smile, as if to say that she thought Jean had got the
better of the angry man.
Dick took a breath. He turned his eyes back to Jean's
defiant face.
'All right, young lady,' he said stonily. 'So you're glad.
You're going to look after yourself then, are you? You won't
come looking for help from no one else?'
Jean's defiance faded a little. 'I'm not saying that, Mr
Taylor,' she said. 'I'd do that if I could. And maybe I will, if
I can find a way. Maybe I can get a job somewhere, where I
can have my baby with me. I thought it was only right to
come and see you, but I'm not asking for help from anyone
who doesn't want to give it,' she added with a flash of spirit.
'If you don't want me round here, just say so and I'll go. It
was only that Judy said you and her mum would like to see
me.' She began to get up. 'If you don't, I'll be off.'
'No! No, don't go.' Cissie looked at her husband. 'Dick'll
be the one to go if he doesn't want you here, won't you,
Dick? You can take yourself out for a walk if you don't want
anything to do with young Jean, but just remember what
Mum said - this is our Terry's baby, come what may, and
our grandchild, and there's never going to be another, not
from Terry. All right, they did wrong, but it's Jean who's
got to carry the can, and with our Terry not here to stand by
her - and he would have done, you know he would - thenwe've got to do it in his place. So you'd better make up your
mind: are you going to stop here and give the girl some
support with the rest of us, or are you going to make
yourself scarce?'
Their eyes met. The others watched them, knowing that
Cissie rarely opposed Dick like this. Partly because she held
to the view that a wife must love, honour and obey, just as it
said in the marriage service, and partly because she had
always been extra careful with Dick owing to his illness, she
always tried to steer clear of arguments. But this time she
was standing firm, and they could all see that there would be
no moving her.
Dick saw it too. A look of wary admiration came into his
eyes and he seemed to settle back in his chair. He wasn't
giving in too readily, though.
'All right,' he said with a shrug. 'Have it your own way.
You always do, anyway. Bloke doesn't have a chance in a
house full of women.' It was an old war cry, spoken usually
in jest, and they looked at each other a little uncertainly and
then decided to ignore the touch of bitterness in his tone
and take it as one now. They smiled and Cissie leaned across
and patted his knee.
'That's better,' she said, and gave him her loving smile.
'Now we can start to think what to do next.' She turned to
Jean and asked tentatively, 'How about your mum, Jean?
How's she taking it now?'
Jean lifted her shoulders hopelessly. 'She's either going
on and on at me or she's not speaking to me at all, and I
don't know which is worse. All the usual things: always
brought me up to be decent, what will the neighbours say,
never be able to hold up her head again in public . . . And
then she starts to cry, and she won't let me say anything, of
even touch her, and after that she goes out to the kitchen
and won't speak to me. She won't even let me help get
dinner ready. It's as if she's pretending I'm not there - don't
even exist.'There was a note of real pain in her last words and Polly
experienced a moment of insight into the girl's frightened
mind. Poor little mite, she thought compassionately. She's
lost the man she loves - and Judy and me both know what that feels like - and on top of that she's in the worst trouble
a girl can be in, without any chance of her chap standing by
her, and her own mother's trying to make out she doesn't
exist. She doesn't know where to turn.
She went swiftly across to Jean and put her arms around
her. 'Well, you exist here,' she said firmly, 'and we'll help
you all we can. Now, what we've got to do first is think what
you want to do, and then see how you can do it. That's the
best way, isn't it?'
'Trust you, Polly,' her mother said admiringly. 'You
could always see right to the nub of things.'
'Well, being in the WVS helps,' Polly admitted. 'You get
used to solving problems. Now, what do you want most,
Jean - apart from what we all know you can't have,' she
added hastily as Jean's eyes filled with tears. 'We've all got
to face up to not having our Terry back again.'
'I want to keep my baby,' the girl whispered. 'Terry and
me were going to get married the next time he came home.
It would have been all right then, and we'd have been a
family.' She raised anguished eyes to Polly's face. 'I can't
lose our baby as well as Terry. I can't.'
'No, you can't,' Polly said. She looked around at the
others. 'You can all see that, can't you? She can't give the
baby away. And we don't want her to. It's Terry's.'
Nobody spoke for a moment, and then Judy said a little
plaintively, 'I wish somebody'd tell me what you're all
saying.'
As if it were a relief, they all began to talk at once, and
Judy shook her head helplessly. 'It's no use! You know I
can't hear you. Write it down, someone - please. Oh,' she
clapped her hands over her ears, 'it's awful not being able tohear. You just get left out of everything, and I'm fed up with
it!'
'Judy, I'm sorry,' Polly said, and found some paper.
Hastily, she wrote a brief account of what was happening,
finishing with the words, and we 're going to help Jean all we
can. Judy read them and nodded.
'That's all right, then. So what are we going to do?'
'That's what we've got to decide,' Polly said, remembering
to look at her and speak clearly. Judy could still not
lip-read a great deal, but could usually manage to pick up
the gist, as much from the speaker's expression as from the
carefully articulated words. Polly looked at Jean, who was
controlling her sobs and wiping her eyes on an already
sodden handkerchief. 'Now then, Jean. You want to keep
your baby. What we've got to do is work out how you can
do that.'
Jean nodded. 'But I don't see how,' she whispered. 'If
Mum says I've got to go, and you can't have me here, what
am I going to do? There's nowhere else I can think of
'Are you sure your mum won't come round? It's early
days yet, and it must have been a shock for her.' Cissie
spoke kindly, but with some feeling for the other mother. It
had been a shock for her, to know that Terry had gone
against his upbringing, and it was all the worse when it was
a daughter, who would carry the evidence of her wrongdoing.
'What about your dad?'
'Oh, Dad's all right. He's upset, I know he is, but,' she
glanced at them apologetically, 'he's more angry with Terry
than he is with me. He hasn't said too much about that
because of Terry being killed, but I know he is. I've told
him it was just as much me as him,' she added.
Dick cleared his throat. 'Well, I can understand that. I
know how I'd feel if some bloke had taken advantage of one
of my girls and then left her in the lurch.' There was an
immediate outcry from all except Judy and he raised one
hand. 'All right, all right, I'm not saying that's what ourTerry did, but I can understand Mr Foster thinking that
way. Any father would.'
'So you agree we've got to do what Terry would do if he
was here?' Cissie challenged him. 'You're ready to stand by
and help Jean?'
Dick glowered for a moment, then said, 'I've already said
so, haven't I? Course I will!' He glanced at the girl. 'I won't
say I'm pleased about what you've done,' he said heavily,
'and if our Terry was here I'd give him the rough edge of
my tongue. But there's no doubt he'd have stood by you and
married you if he was here, and since he isn't nor ever will
be,' a flicker of pain twisted his lips but he went on with
determination, 'then we'll look after you and the baby as
best we can. Only it's like Polly says, we've got to work out
how to do it. I don't see how we can have you here, not
without someone having to sleep out in the shed!'
The little flash of humour made them all smile and eased
the tension. Cissie went out to the scullery to make some
tea, and Polly said, 'How are you feeling in yourself, Jean?
Have you been to a doctor yet?'
Jean shook her head. 'I've felt really well. To tell you the
truth, I never even realised what had happened till I'd,' she
glanced at Dick and blushed, 'till I'd missed twice. Then I
started to wonder, but I still didn't think it could.be true. I was never sick, or anything like that. I did feel a bit tired for
a while, but that passed off and I felt better than ever. And
then when I missed again -- well, I felt too scared to go to a
doctor. I suppose I didn't want to know it was true.' She
looked round at their faces. 'It is true, though. I know it is,
and soon everyone else will know as well.'
'Well, there's nothing we can do about that.' Polly spoke
briskly. If there was one thing she'd learned during her
service with the WVS it was that problems were best solved
by looking at them straight in the face, without emotion. 'If
you're going to keep this baby, everyone's going to know
anyway, and the sooner the better if you ask me. They won'thave so much time to wonder and gossip, and they can start
getting used to the idea. I tell you what, Jean, you're not the
first girl to be caught like this and you won't be the last. I
reckon there'll be plenty more in the position you're in, with
a baby whose father's never coming home. As for those folk
who look down their noses and cross the street when they
see you coming, well, all I can say is, good luck to 'em and it
makes more room on the pavements for the rest of us!'
Everyone else laughed. Judy looked at them and opened
her mouth in exasperation, but Polly cut in swiftly. Tm
sorry, Judy, I can't write it all down. We're just saying we'll
do all we can to help Jeanie, that's all.'
'But you laughed,' Judy said. 'You all did. You made a
joke and everyone else laughed, and I don't know what it
was. It's the worst thing of all,' she added, 'not knowing
what jokes are. I never get anything to laugh at now.'
There was a brief silence. Then Polly wrote down some
words quickly and Judy read them and flushed with anger.
She bit her lip, and then sighed and nodded.
'Sorry, Poll. You're right, I'm getting sorry for myself.
And it's Jean we've got to be thinking about.' She turned to
Jean. 'Look, I was wondering - if you want to go away,
maybe we could ask Mrs Sutton to have you for a while.
She's our Sylvie's foster-mother, out at Ashwood. I've just
come back from there and she's ever so nice.' She looked at
Polly. 'What d'you think?'
'Well, it's an idea,' Polly said. Cissie came in with the tea
and passed cups round. 'Judy just suggested Jean might go
out to the Suttons'.'
'I know, I heard her.' Cissie sat down again. 'But would
Mrs Sutton want her? Not that she'd be nasty at all,' she
added quickly. 'I mean, I haven't met her myself but Judy
and Polly both say what a nice woman she is. But she's
already taken our Judy in, and I don't know that we could
ask her to take Jean. She's not running a convalescent home,after all. And she couldn't do it for nothing. Where would
the money come from to pay her?'
'And Jean would have to sleep in with Sylvie,' Polly
added dubiously. 'She hasn't got another spare room.'
Jean sipped her tea. She was looking better now, the
colour back in her cheeks, although her eyes were still
swollen. It would be a day or two before that went down,
Polly thought, even if she didn't cry any more, and she
probably would. 'What about your job?' she asked suddenly.
'Do they know why you haven't gone in to work today?'
Jean nodded. 'Well, they know about Terry, of course,
because that's where I was when Mr and Mrs Taylor came
to tell me. And I think Miss Anstruther must have realised,
when I fainted. She's passed one or two remarks lately about
my figure. I needed a new black frock for working in the
shop, and I had to have a bigger size. She's been putting two
and two together for a week or two now, I think.'
'What will she do? Will she let you go on working there?'
'I don't know,' Jean said miserably. 'She might if I was in
the office or the stores, but I don't know about serving the
public. It gives the shop a bad name, see.'
'Perhaps she'll let you change over to something else.'
'But I couldn't work in the stores because of lifting
things,' Jean pointed out. 'And I don't know anything about
office work. I can't type, and I don't understand invoices and
they're not going to teach me, are they, not when they
know I'll have to leave soon anyway.'
'But you're going to need a job afterwards,' Polly said.
'Will she take you back then?'
'I don't know,' Jean said again. 'And anyway, I'll have the
baby then, won't I? I don't know what I'll be able to do.'
They gazed at her, beginning to realise the difficulties of
her situation. Then Judy was struck by an idea.
'But you'll be eligible for evacuation! If you've got a baby,
you can go out to the country. You can go to Ashwood, if
there's anyone who can take you in, and Mrs Sutton willhelp look after you, and you can see Sylvie too. I know
you've still got to pay the billeting money,' she added
doubtfully, 'but can't you get National Assistance or
something?' She looked at Polly. 'They'll know at the office,
won't they?'
'Of course they will. And even if there isn't anything
official, the WVS will help. It's what we're for. One of the
things we're for, anyway. Look, I'm going in tomorrow, I'll
find out whatever I can and come straight round to your
house to tell you, Jean. That's if it'll be all right to do that,'
she added, remembering Mrs Foster's attitude.
'It'll be all right,' Jean said. 'I still live there, after all. At
least, I suppose I do.' Her mouth creased. 'I don't think Dad
will let Mam turn me out that easy.'
'Poor Jean,' Cissie said after she had gone. 'It's only when
you start to think about it that you realise what a terrible
position she's in. In a lot of ways, it'd be easier for her to
give the baby away and start afresh.'
'And could you have done that?' Polly demanded. 'Given
Judy or Terry away, just because it wasn't convenient to
have them? I know I wouldn't ever have parted with my
Sylvie, no matter what it cost to keep her. And now I've had
to part with her anyway,' she added sadly, thinking of the
months it had been since Sylvie had lived at home and
wondering how many more months, perhaps even years, it
would be before she could return. 'But at least she's still
mine.'
Cissie glanced at Judy and her eyes filled with tears.
'You're right, Polly. I know it would have torn me to bits to
let my babies go. But this is different, isn't it? We didn't
have the problems Jeanie's got.'
'It'd still hurt her just as much,' Polly said. 'Maybe even
more.'
They were silent for a while. Cissie gathered up the cups
and took them out to the scullery. Judy joined her there and
said, 'I'll do these, Mum, and then get the supper ready.You go in with the others. You've got a lot to talk about and
I'm not much use at that, the way I am.'
'Judy, don't talk like that! Of course you're useful. Why,
it was you who suggested Jean could be evacuated.' But
Cissie knew that Judy was right. It was too difficult to
include her in discussions between several people, and you
couldn't write down everything. She laid her hand on her
daughter's arm. 'I know how hard this is for you, love,' she
said, speaking slowly. 'It's horrible for you. I just wish there
was something we could do about it.'
Judy gave her a wry smile. 'Well, the doctor said it might
come back all of a sudden, so perhaps it will. She said a
sudden loud noise might do it -- or a shock -- or just nothing
at all. I might wake up one morning and be able to hear all
the rude things you're saying about me!'
Cissie laughed, even though she felt more like crying - a
sensation that was becoming all too familiar these days - and
went back to the others. Polly and Alice were discussing the
possibility of Jean's being evacuated, while Dick listened.
He was looking grey again, Cissie noticed, and breathing as
if it hurt.
'Are you all right?' she asked, and he nodded impatiently.
She folded her lips and made up her mind to keep an eye on
him. The last thing they wanted now was for Dick to be ill
again. They had quite enough on their plates, without that.
'Well then,' she said, sitting on one of the straight-backed
dining chairs and looking around the room. 'Let's start
making plans. We're going to have a new baby in the family,
and I for one want to make sure we're ready to welcome the
poor little mite as we should!'Chapter Twenty-Five

When Polly arrived at the Royal Beach next morning, she
went straight to the Lady Mayoress's office and asked to
speak to her. The Mayoress was busy with a list of all the
personnel of HMS Hood, trying to arrange visits to all the
families who lived in Portsmouth, but she stopped what she
was doing to listen to Polly's story.
'Jean knows they did wrong,' Polly finished. 'But I think
it's understandable, madam, and I don't suppose they're the
only ones, not by a long chalk. It was just Jean's bad luck to
get caught.'
The Mayoress nodded. 'Poor child. She must be in a
terrible state, hardly able to grieve properly over losing her
sweetheart because of the trouble she's in. Well, it won't
help anyone to be judgemental over it, Polly. What we have
to do now is think how best to help her. You say she's
determined to keep the baby?'
'Yes, madam, and we want to help her. It's our Terry's
baby, you see - none of us wants it to go to strangers.'
'You realise that the baby itself will face difficulties as it
grows up? There's a terrible stigma to being illegitimate.'
'I know, madam.' Polly flushed at the use of the word
they had all avoided. 'But there's going to be such a lot of
kiddies without fathers, we thought perhaps after a while
nobody will think too much of it. I mean, they'll just think
he was lost in the war. As he was. And Jeanie could call
herself Mrs, couldn't she? It's not against the law, is it?'
'No, although she couldn't use it on legal documents.
Well, those are problems for the future. So long as you're all
aware of them.' The Mayoress tapped her teeth thoughtfully
with her pencil. 'Now, you've suggested the idea of
evacuation. I think that would be a good idea, if only for the
girl's own safety and that of her child. And she'll certainly
be eligible.'
'It's money that's the problem,' Polly ventured. 'She
doesn't think she'll be able to keep her job at the Landport,
you see, and we haven't got much to spare. I don't know
about her own family, but if Mrs Foster isn't willing to
help .. .'
'I expect she'll come round,' the Mayoress said. 'Mothers
usually do, especially once the baby's born. It's fathers who
are usually the problem. But I think we can find some help
for her in one of our funds, and I'm sure she'll be entitled to
National Assistance. The people to ask about that are the
Citizens' Advice Bureau. The Misses Kelly will know,
although I believe they're snowed under with requests for
help.' She sighed. 'One Bureau in a city that needs at least
five! If only we could have a little respite - just time to get
ourselves properly organised. We seem to lurch from one
crisis to another.'
Polly had heard a great many complaints about this. The
townspeople of Portsmouth were forever grumbling about
the Council offices being 'all the way out at Southsea' and
the Citizens' Advice Bureau practically unfindable. They
seemed to have no idea how difficult it was to run a city in
wartime, especially one that had been bombed as heavily as
Portsmouth. You never knew what was going to happen
next, what new situation would face you, what needs there
would be. She thought of the plans the authorities had made
to treat the injured and bury the dead -- hundreds of
thousands of them - when what they should have been
planning was how to help the homeless. But how could they
have known that? There had never been a war like this in
the entire history of the world. No country had been

subjected to these massive and sustained air raids. Nobody
had known what the effects would be.
'Nobody knew there was going to be a war,' she said,
trying to comfort the other woman. 'Nobody knew we were
going to have to do all this.'
'But we should have done! We were warned enough. Mr
Churchill himself tried to warn us, and what happened? He
was laughed at. Treated with scorn. Now he's leading us,
and we all realise at last what a great leader he is - but we
could have lost him, you know, Polly. We could have
thrown away the only man who seems able to reach the
people, to touch our hearts and to give us strength to carry
on.'
She sighed again, her face creased with worry, and then
seemed to pull herself physically together. With a brisk lift
of her head, she looked up at Polly and said, 'Well, we must
get on. We'll do whatever we can to help your brother's
fiancee. And we have a lot of other tasks this morning too,
but before you go, tell me about Judy. How is she now?'
'I'm not sure really,' Polly said, pausing in the doorway.
'She came home as soon as we told her about Terry, of
course. I think it did her good, being in the country - she
looks a lot better - but she still can't hear anything much,
and it's making her so miserable. She feels left out of
everything. She's been working out there though, making
camouflage, and collecting moss for soldiers. It heals their
wounds, apparently. I'm not sure I'd want a lump of dirty moss slapped on a cut, mind you, but they say it really helps
to heal them.'
'Well, I'm sure it will be good for her, working out in the fresh air. When is she going back?'
'Oh, she's not. She wants to stay at home now. She says
she'd like to come back to work if you'll have her.'
'Have her? I'll be delighted. Tell her to come in as soon
as she feels ready and we'll find work for her to do. Andnow,' the Mayoress drew a pile of papers towards her 'I
really must attend to these. Thank you for coming in, Polly.'
'Thank you, madam.' Polly withdrew. Evidently there
was going to be no driving for her to do that day, so she
began to collect tasks from the other women in the office
and then went to her desk.
Judy was planning to fetch Jean and bring her out to
Southsea that afternoon. Before beginning on any of her
tasks, Polly started to investigate the help that Jean could
ask for, and the possibilities of evacuation.
If she could go out to Ashwood, or Bridge End, where
there were already people they knew, Polly was sure she
would find kindness and warmth. Country people, in her
experience, were more likely to accept you for what you
were and not what they might think you ought to be. There,
with people like the Suttons, she would be able to grieve
properly for Terry and look forward to the birth of her baby
- the baby called Hope.

Crete had fallen and, as Dick had predicted, there was an
evacuation not very different from that of Dunkirk. Fighting
on the island had been bitter, but the German invaders had
been too powerful and the Royal Navy had been sent in to
bring out as many men as possible. This time, many of the
Allied soldiers who were killed or rescued were from New
Zealand and Australia. Once again, there were stories of
heroism and suffering and, once again, there was grieving
over men who had been lost.
'I can't bear to think about it,' Cissie said. 'Mothers in
Australia and New Zealand feeling just as bad as me and all
the rest of us who've lost their boys. Wives like you, Polly,
and girls like our Judy. Kiddies like Sylvie.'
'Don't,' Polly begged. 'It's no good going on like that,
Cis. It just makes you feel worse. You've got to try and
think about other things.'
'Other things?' Cissie was pale and drawn. Her eyes weredull and her hair lank and straggly, with signs of grey. 'How
can I think of other things? I've lost my boy. The boy I
carried for nine months inside me, and fed with my own
milk, and loved and looked after -- he's gone, Polly. I'm
never going to see him again. He's never going to come
through that door again and say, "Hello, Mum," and sit
down at that table and eat the food I've cooked for him. He's
never going to ask to scrape out the bowl when I've made a
cake, or take the last roast potato, or bring in the coal or--'
'Cissie! You've got to stop this or you'll make yourself ill.'
Polly cut in across the rising voice and put her hands on her
sister's shoulders. 'Look, I know what you're going through
- I've already lost my man, remember? And I've had to send
my little girl away to strangers, not knowing when I'll be
able to have her with me again. I'm upset about Terry too we
all are. But we've got to carry on. Going over it all, over
and over again, won't do any of us any good. It won't bring
him back. What we've got to think about now is the living.
The rest of us here - the things we can do to help. And Jean
and her baby,' she added in a low voice.
Cissie stared at her and then seemed to sag. She turned
away and sank into a chair.
'I know, Poll. I know all that, but it just comes over me.
I've got to cry for him. I've got a right to cry for him - he
was my boy. I never expected him to die before me. I
thought he'd still be alive when I went myself. I thought
he'd always be here - a part of my life, a part of me. It's not
what you have children for,' she said, looking up at her
sister. 'Seeing them go off to war, knowing they've died,
hundreds of miles away, not even able to be with them at the
end. It's not what you ever think of. Not when they never
meant it themselves. It's different if they went into the
Forces beforehand, but when they've been conscripted . ..'
'I know,' Polly said. 'I know you've got to grieve for him,
Cis. You always will -- that's never going to stop. It's theworst thing in the world, losing a child, but you can't let it
get on top of you.'
'But I feel I want to. Just for a little while, Poll. I feel I
want to let go and let it all wash over me.' Cissie put her
head into her hands and rocked to and fro. 'I just want to
cry and cry and cry, and there doesn't seem to be time. There's always so much to do, so much to worry about, and
I can't even have time to grieve properly over my own boy.
It doesn't seem fair.'
'Well, I think we've got to stop thinking about what's
fair,' Polly said ruefully. 'Nothing's fair, these days. In fact,
I wonder whether it ever was. There's always been unfair
things happening, Cis.'
On the last day of May, there was another raid on
Portsmouth. Two houses in Tipnor were completely
destroyed and a number of others badly damaged. Once
again the fire engines were out and the bomb disposal squad called in, but the residents had reached safety in their
shelters and nobody was hurt. Instead, the WVS found
themselves back at their old task of handing out food and
hot drinks to people who were homeless, giving them
clothes from the Lady Mayoress's Clothing Store, and
searching for places for them to live.
The newspapers were full of the scandal of the Jewish
internees who had fled from Hitler's regime and been taken
to Australia almost a year earlier. Polly read it and thought
of her words to Cissie, that nothing seemed to be fair. But it
doesn't have to be this unfair, she thought angrily. People
don't have to be this cruel to each other.
'Those poor souls!' she said indignantly. 'Kept down
below decks like slaves in a slave ship, and when they got to
Australia all their luggage was taken away from them and
they were treated like criminals. And these are the people
we're supposed to be fighting for! I don't understand it, I
really don't.'
'What it boils down to,' Dick said, 'is that there's goodand bad in most countries. And I don't know what it is, but
nobody seems to like refugees. It doesn't matter how bad
they've been treated in their own countries, nor how much
we say they ought to be helped, nobody seems to want them.
It's not even as if Australia was crowded with people, like
we are here - there's space enough for all.'
'I don't think it was the Australians that did this, though.
It's the British soldiers who were in charge of them who've
been court-martialled.' Polly sighed and folded the newspaper.
'I've had enough of reading this. It's all misery,
wherever you look. Who wants to go to the pictures?'
The cinema was only partially an escape, though, for
between the two films -- the 'big' picture that everyone went
to see and the 'little' picture that you saw whether you
wanted to or not - they sandwiched the Pathe Pictorial
News. This showed a resume of the week's events with,
inevitably, most of it about the war. The news you had
heard on the wireless over the past few days came
dramatically to life as you watched shots of soldiers
marching in the desert, ships at sea and bomb damage.
Sometimes you saw the bombs actually falling and exploding,
and people clambering over the wreckage afterwards as
they searched for their family, friends and belongings. The
scenes were all too familiar to Portsmouth folk.
All the same, it was good to go and be entertained for a
few hours and the whole family went to see George Formby
when he came to the Odeon to put on a fund-raising show
for air-raid victims one afternoon. He sprang on to the stage
with his ukelele, singing his cheeky songs 'When I'm
Cleaning Windows' and 'Sitting in the Maginot Line', and
had them all laughing within seconds. They were still
laughing as they came out into the sunlight after the show
had ended, and returned home feeling better than they had
since before Terry's death. Even Judy had enjoyed it.
Polly had received another letter from Joe Turner. He
was still working in the offices at Whitehall, although he wasvague about what he was actually doing. She thought of his
rueful words - 'polishing up the knocker on the big front
door' -- and wondered what a man with only one foot could
do, apart from such menial tasks. He had been down to
Devon again to see his boys and said they were well and
happy, spending all their spare time either helping around
the farm or out on the moors playing cowboys and Indians. They'll forget they were ever Cockneys, he wrote wryly.
Polly thought about Joe as she went about her tasks. She
could hardly believe that another man could be important to
her after Johnny's death, and she reminded herself that he
had offered her nothing but friendship - a shoulder to cry
on, a helping hand when she'd needed it. Yet how many
friends, especially ones so newly made, would have done all
that Joe Turner had done? He'd come all the way from
London to see her, and he'd been a real help in their time of
trouble, making cups of tea, doing the veg and going out to
fetch Judy home. And when he'd held out his arms to her
and hugged her against him, she'd felt a deep, warm
closeness between them that she hadn't known since Johnny
had gone away. For a moment, it had been like coming
home.
But since then, he seemed to have cooled off. His letter
was no more than a letter that any casual friend or
acquaintance might have written - pleasant, friendly, chatty.
No more than that. No mention of another visit.
Perhaps seeing me at home made some sort of difference,
she thought. Perhaps I was different from what he'd
thought. Perhaps since he's been down to Devon again and
seen that Mrs Ellacombe who's looking after his boys, he's
got more interested in her.
It didn't matter. He was a man she'd met briefly a couple
of times, had a pleasant day with and who'd been helpful to
her family when they were in trouble. That was all there was
to it. Probably he wouldn't bother to write again. She
decided to put him out of her mind.Judy had had a letter too. Hers was from Ben, still at
school in Winchester. He wrote of school activities lessons,
exams, sports -- with impatience. Only a few more
weeks to go, he wrote, and I can leave for ever. He had already
applied to join the RAF and expected to be called up almost
as soon as the school holidays began. Judy wondered what
the Hazelwoods would say about that. She was sure that Ben
hadn't mentioned his plans to his parents.
It was strange, she thought, that a boy of eighteen could
go to fight in a war without asking his parents' permission,
whereas he couldn't get married, vote or even stay out late
without it until he was twenty-one.Chapter Twenty-Six

Life was still a lonely, silent affair for Judy. She spent her
days working in the Clothing Store, keeping a check on
what garments they had. It was even more important now,
for on the first day of June, clothing rationing was
announced and people weren't so ready to give away
unwanted items. Instead, they would have to take old winter
coats to bits to make new ones for children, cut down frocks
that had got too tight round the bodice to make skirts, and
unpick jumpers that had gone at the elbows to make
pullovers or gloves. There were complaints, of course -- Ethel Glaister was especially bitter about the new rules
against pleats and frills -- but it was just one more thing to
put up with. In fact, Alice remarked, it probably didn't hit
the people of April Grove as hard as the smarter ones who
lived in better streets and had bigger houses. They weren't
used to make do and mend, while for April Grove folk it
had always been a way of life.
However, apart from the clothes rationing and a series of
raids, including one night when it was announced that there
had been more alarms than on any other since the beginning
of the war, June did bring a few items of good news. The
first was when the news ran round the Clothing Store that
the Lord Mayor had been knighted in the King's Birthday
Honours list.
'You mean he'll be a Sir?' Judy asked when this had been
explained to her by Laura, who was also working in the
store. 'Instead of Lord Mayor?'
'No, he'll still be Lord Mayor, but he'll be "Sir" as well.And the Lady Mayoress will be "Lady", even after she stops
being Lady Mayoress. Isn't it smashing!' Laura finished
sorting a pile of children's jumpers and set them aside. 'It
just shows that the King thinks a lot of him. It's for services
to Civil Defence.'
'I've never known a knight before.' Judy's ideas of
knights of the realm were mostly gained from a hotchpotch
of children's stories, and legends from St George to King
Arthur. She tried to imagine the Lord Mayor in armour and
failed. 'Will he have to wear special clothes and go to
Buckingham Palace and all that?'
'Well, to be knighted, I suppose he will.' Laura didn't
know much about it herself. 'I don't suppose he'll be all that
different the rest of the time.'
The Evening News was full of the new appointment and
recounted messages of congratulation from all over England
as well as running an article on all the many things the
Mayor and his wife had done to help the city and its people
during the hardships of the past two years. But even this
news couldn't compete for long with the war itself, and it
seemed almost like a deliberate insult when the Luftwaffe
came again that very night and dropped high explosive and
oil bombs on several of the city's military establishments,
including the RAOC camp in Copnor Road where a number
of soldiers were killed. The families in April Grove huddled
in their shelters, hearing the bombs explode frighteningly
close, and dreading the thought of being made homeless
again. I couldn't bear it, Cissie thought, not a second time,
and reached for her husband's hand. Alice, too, looked
fearful by the flickering light of the hurricane lamp, and all
three were thinking of Polly and Judy, out together in the
ambulance. I don't know how our Judy stands it, Cissie
thought, nor our Polly, not after what's already happened to
them. They're brave as lions, the pair of them. They ought
to be knighted too, only they don't knight women, but theyought to get medals at least. All those girls and women
ought to get medals.
However, despite the damage and the tragedy of the
RAOC camp, there was not much more damage in the area
and April Grove lived - as Granny Kinch put it, standing at
her door as usual in her steel hair curlers - to fight another
day.
'We're bound to get some good news soon,' she said
staunchly. 'Bound to. Old Hitler can't have things all his
own way.'
And her words were proved true only two days later,
when Jess Budd came down the street in a state of high
excitement, almost dragging little Maureen along by one
hand, and reported that Heinrich Brunner had come home.
'I saw him out in the street first,' she told Cissie, who was
scrubbing the front doorstep. 'I never even recognised him!
He's gone ever so thin, and his hair's grey and he's got these
shaggy whiskers, and he looks as if he's been sleeping rough.
I did think he looked a bit familiar but then I thought he
was some old tramp that I might have seen before. And then
he came into the shop. Alice and Joy were both there,
marking up the papers, the trains were late and half the
paper boys hadn't turned up and Alice was saying how
they'd all be late and people would be complaining - and they looked at him for a minute as if they didn't recognise
him either! And he looked as if he hardly knew where he
was. And then he said, "Alice, don't you know me?" and we
all realised who he was. Well, you should have seen Alice
Brunner's face! She looked as if the sun had come out just
behind her eyes. And then he sort of swayed a bit and she
came round the counter like a flash of lightning and caught
him, and he said, "It's me, Alice, it's Heinrich, I've come
home," and they all started crying . . .' Jess wiped her own
eyes and her voice broke a little '. . . and I came away. I
don't think people will be getting their papers till teatime
today, if they get them at all!''Well, isn't that wonderful.' Cissie stood up with her
scrubbing brush in her hand, gazing at Jess. 'That's really
good news. It was never right, putting people like Heinrich
Brunner in prison. I mean, what harm would he do? He'd
been in England for years. And poor Alice has had a hard
time running that shop by herself
'I know. Mind, I'm not sure as he's going to be much
help to her, not to start with anyway. He looks as if he's
going to need a bit of looking after himself. But I don't
suppose she'll mind that. Just having him back is going to
make all the difference.' She pulled Maureen away from
Cissie's bucket of water. 'Leave that alone, Maureen. We're
going to see Auntie Annie now and tell her. D'you know,
Cissie, it's really done me good, seeing something nice
happen for a change!'
It's done me good, too, Cissie thought, picking up her
bucket and going back indoors. I just wish it could have
been my Terry. It was three weeks now since the Hood had
been sunk, and her secret hope that he might have been one
of the three men saved had been dashed. Yet she still
couldn't rid herself of the feeling that he might yet come
back. A mistake might have been made. There could have
been four survivors. One might have been taken prisoner by
one of the German ships. Or he might somehow have
managed to reach Greenland or Iceland and been saved by
Eskimos who were even now taking care of him in some
isolated igloo . . . During the daytime, she knew that none of
these miracles had happened, but as she lay awake at night
or sat in the Anderson listening to the drone of aircraft or
the 'crump' of an exploding bomb, anything seemed
possible. Miracles did happen. Look at Heinrich Brunner.
Everyone had thought him lost in the torpedoing of the ship
that had been transporting him and other internees to
Canada. Now here he was, returned from the dead. If it
could happen to him, couldn't it happen to Terry?
'Heinrich Brunner's come back,' she said to her motherand Dick as she went into the back room. 'He came down
September Street looking like a tramp, Jess Budd said, and
nobody knew him at first. Alice Brunner's over the moon,
she's shut the shop for the day and left the papers in a pile
outside for people to collect for themselves, and Jess Budd
says she's sent up a tin of salmon she's had put by, for their
tea.'
'I don't suppose poor Mr Brunner's seen tinned salmon
for months and months,' Alice said, beaming. 'Well, what
lovely news. It's like an answer to all our prayers. He never
ought to have been taken away in the first place. I thought
he was gone for good.'
'So did Mrs Brunner. She's been looking terrible just
lately, letting herself go and leaving the shop to young Joy to
manage. She'll buck up now.'
'Well, I don't know as it's something to get all that fussed
about,' Dick said from his corner. He had started on a new
rag rug but the canvas had slipped off his knees and was
lying on the floor. 'Whether he was a spy or not, they had to
intern all the aliens just in case, it stands to reason. You
can't trust foreigners, not at a time like this.'
'But Mr Brunner wasn't a foreigner! He's been in
England for twenty years.'
'He's a foreigner,' Dick stated. 'He's a German. He's got
a German name and he speaks with a German accent. You
can't get round that.'
Cissie opened her mouth to argue, then glanced at her
mother and folded her lips. When Dick was in this mood,
there was no reasoning with him. He knew Heinrich
Brunner as well as they did, he'd been in and out of the
newsagent's shop ever since he'd first come to April Grove
to court Cissie, he'd laughed and joked with the man and
watched young Joy grow up from a baby. She knew that
deep down he agreed with them, but his mood lately had
been growing more and more morose. It was as if no matter
what you said, he had to take the opposite view.It's all been too much for him, she thought, going out to
the scullery to empty her bucket and start on the next chore.
It's getting him down, all of it, the air raids, the shortages,
and then his illness. He couldn't even get any rest from the
bombing in hospital. It was enough to send anybody
crackers.
Not that Dick was crackers! He was just miserable.
Depressed and miserable -- and who could blame him?

Jean was six months pregnant now and beginning to show.
Nobody could be in any doubt about her condition and the
supervisor at the shop had told her that she'd have to leave.
'It's not decent, not with mothers bringing their children
in, and you getting more and more obvious, without even a
ring on your finger. You'd better take a week's wages and go
now.'
Jean had stared at her, shocked and hurt. 'You mean
straight away? Without even time to say goodbye?'
'I don't suppose anyone wants to say goodbye to you
anyway,' the supervisor said brusquely. 'You're an embarrassment,
the way you are. A lot of people would have given
you your cards before this.'
Jean turned and ran out of the shop. She saw some of the
other assistants staring as she hurried past, and one girl put
out her hand to stop her. But Jean shook her head and
pushed past, the tears streaming down her face. I'll never go
there again, she thought, never. I'll never buy anything in
that horrible place again, not as long as I live.
On the pavement, well away from the door, she stopped,
wondering what to do next. The thought of going home and
admitting she'd been sacked was unbearable. She'd have to
do it eventually, of course, but not now, at only half past
nine in the morning. Her mother would have enough to say
as it was, when she found out, and Jean didn't want to spend
the entire day listening to her recriminations.
She wandered through the streets, wiping away her tears,and after a while found herself outside the church hall that
was being used for one of the Lady Mayoress's Clothing
Stores. Glancing through the open door, she caught sight of
Judy sorting a pile of clothes, and as she hesitated Judy
looked up and saw her.
'Jean! Whatever are you doing here?' She hurried out into
the sunshine, gazing at her friend in concern. 'What's the
matter? You look awful. Come in and sit down - I'll get you
a glass of water.' She guided Jean to a chair and pushed her
into it, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a cup
which she held to Jean's lips. 'Here. Sip this. It's - it's not
the baby, is it?'
Jean shook her head. 'No, she's all right.' She was quite
certain it would be a girl. 'Kicking me to death as usual!'
She laid her hand on her stomach. 'Judy, I've been given the
sack.'
'What?' Judy stared at her and Jean bit her lip. For a few
minutes she had forgotten that Judy couldn't hear. She
repeated her words more carefully and saw by Judy's face
that she understood. 'The sack? But why? Because of the
baby?'
Jean nodded. 'I'm too embarrassing to have in the shop
any more. I knew it would happen, of course, but I didn't
think it would be like this.' Her voice shook and tears
brimmed over again. 'She was so horrible to me, Judy. Said
I wasn't decent and that nobody would want to talk to me.
She wouldn't even let me say goodbye to the others. And
now they'll all know, and nobody will want to speak to me
and - and I don't know how I'm going to tell Mum, she'll
start going on at me all over again, and Dad will be upset,
and - and I just don't think I can bear it, Judy. I don't know
what I'm going to do.' She put down her cup and leaned
forwards, sinking her face into her hands.
Judy didn't need to hear to know what Jean was saying
and feeling. She knelt beside the distraught girl, putting her
arms around the shaking shoulders and drawing her close.
'It's all right, Jean. It's all right. Everything's going to be all
right. We'll stand by you - all of us. We'll look after you.
Don't worry. Don't be frightened. You've still got us. We're
your family now, too, and we won't let you down.'
'Oh, Judy.' The weeping girl turned and buried her face
against Judy's shoulder. 'It's so awful. I never thought it
would be like this. I never thought it would lead to all this
trouble, and people hating me and not wanting to know me.
And Terry would never have wanted me to do it if he'd
known. We just didn't think, we wanted to love each other
so much, it seemed so right and natural at the time - and
now he's gone and he's never coming back.' Her words were
lost in a series of hiccuping sobs.
'Sssh, ssh, it'll be all right.' Judy held her close,
murmuring comforting words. One of the other volunteers
came over and looked questioningly at her, and she shook
her head. 'It's all right, thanks. I can manage. I know her.
It's all right, Jean, we'll look after you. Don't worry, it's
going to be all right, I promise.'
Gradually, the sobs eased. Judy found a hanky and
pressed it into Jean's hand. Jean wiped her face and blew her
nose, then drew in a shaky breath. She looked at Judy.
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here, making a scene.'
'Don't be silly.' Once again, Judy could guess at what she
was saying. 'Look, you just sit here and rest for a bit. I've
got to finish this job and then I'll take you home. My home,'
she added firmly as Jean began to protest. 'You know Mum
and Gran and Polly are all on your side as well as me. Dad
too,' she added with slightly less conviction. Dick seemed to
veer from one point of view to another these days, for no
apparent reason. 'And you know we've written to Mrs
Sutton to see if there's anywhere in the village you can stay.
Why, there might be a letter there now, for all we know.
Anyway, you've got to stop worrying. Everything's going to
be all right.'
She went back to her work, hoping that what she had saidwas true. However much the family rallied round to help,
Jean's path was not going to be an easy one to tread. Being
an unmarried mother, even in wartime when quite a few
young women were finding themselves in the same position,
was no picnic. There were plenty of people all too ready to
criticise, plenty who would turn the other way or cross the
street to avoid speaking to the girl whose sin was so obvious.
And having to manage on your own, with no breadwinner to
support the family, was so difficult that not many girls even
tried. They gave their babies up for adoption, hoping that
the new family would be able to give the child all that they
couldn't provide, and then got on with their lives and tried
to forget.
I don't know how you could forget though, Judy thought
as she went back to sorting children's clothes. I don't know
how you could ever forget having a baby.
When Polly came home from the Royal Beach that day she
found the whole family waiting for her, with Jean ensconced
in Dick's armchair, looking pale and red-eyed. She stopped
in the doorway.
'What's up? What's happened?'
'It's all right, Poll,' Alice said quickly. 'Nothing's wrong.
Well,' she glanced at Jean, 'nothing too serious, anyway.
Jean's been put out of her job, that's what it is. It's not as if
it wasn't expected.'
'Put out? Oh Jean!' Polly crossed the room quickly and
took the girl's hands. 'Didn't they even give you proper
notice?'
Jean shook her head. 'Miss Browning told me I was
getting embarrassing and I'd better go. She said she'd give
me a week's wages, but I was so upset, I just rushed out. I
suppose I'll have to go back for my cards.'
'One of us will do that,' Polly said firmly. 'You don't have
to go anywhere near the place again. Spiteful old cat!'
'I don't know why she was so nasty,' Jean said woefully.'She seemed to understand at first, when we first heard
about Terry. She was so nice. But since she found out about
the baby . . .'
The others glanced at each other. 'Well, you're going to
have to put up with a lot of that,' Alice said reasonably.
'You've got to get used to it. It's the baby I'm sorry for.'
She stopped and bit her lip, and Jean looked up at her in
dismay.
'You mean people will be nasty to her as well? My baby?
But it's not her fault.'
'Some people will be,' Polly said. 'There's always some
people who take every chance of being spiteful. But you
don't have to worry about them. Remember what we used to
say as kiddies? "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but
names will never hurt me!" That's what you've got to
remember. And I think there's going to be more than one
girl in your position before this war's over, so we're all going
to have to be a bit more understanding. Anyway, that
doesn't matter now. What we've got to do now is decide
what's going to happen next.'
'We've been talking about that,' Cissie said. 'We think
she ought to go out to Ashdown straight away. You said she
could be evacuated, didn't you, Polly? And there's a letter
for you here, look, with an Ashdown postmark. Maybe it's
from Mrs Sutton herself with some news.'
'You mean you've been sitting here all day and never
opened it?' Polly snatched the envelope. 'Honestly, I
wouldn't have minded.' She tore it open and scanned the
sheet of paper inside. 'Yes, it is! She says she's been talking
to the vicar's wife -- Mrs Hazelwood - about Jean, and Mrs
Hazelwood says she can go there.' She lifted her head and
looked at them with sparkling eyes. 'To the vicarage itself.
Isn't that kind of them!'
'The vicarage?' Jean repeated doubtfully. 'Oh, I don't
think - I mean, I hardly ever go to church. Do they knowabout me?' She touched her stomach. 'Do they know about
the baby?'
'Of course they know about you. That's why she's offered
to have you.' Polly glanced round and caught sight of Judy,
sitting in the corner trying to follow the excited chatter. She
passed the letter across. 'Read this, Judy. Isn't it lovely?'
'Yes,' Judy said, but there was a tinge of uncertainty in
her voice. 'Yes, it is. But - I don't understand. They've
already got a houseful, with Mr Hazelwood's old parents
and two Army officers billeted there. The only other room,
is Ben's. What's he going to do when he comes home from
school?'
Jean stared at her. 'You mean they haven't got room? I
can't stay there?'
'Of course you can,' Polly said. 'Mrs Hazelwood says so,
doesn't she?' She looked at Judy. 'Didn't you say he wanted
to go into the RAF?'
'Yes, but he hadn't even discussed it with his parents.
And he's not old enough. I don't understand.' She looked at
the letter again. 'Mrs Hazelwood says Jean can go out as
soon as she likes.'
'Then that's all right,' Polly said, and turned back to Jean.
'Is that what you want to do? Go out to Ashwood straight
away?'
Jean nodded. 'Yes, but it would help if someone could go
with me. I mean, I don't know anyone there and--'

'I'll go with you,' Judy said, before anyone else could
speak. They weren't even sure whether she had understood
Jean's plea, or whether she was still speaking her own
thoughts. She looked at the letter in her hand and then at
Jean. 'I'll go with you. I can introduce you to everyone. I'm
not much use here, after all.' And as they all looked at her,
opening their mouths to deny it, she added, 'It'll be nice to
see them all again anyway.'
Then, to herself she added, And I can find out what's
happening to Ben.Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jean and Judy travelled out to Ashwood the next day. The
Fosters had been taken aback and not very pleased to find
that the whole thing had been discussed and decided
without their presence, but as Jean had said, they'd made it
clear that they didn't approve anyway, so what was the
point? 'You'd rather I gave my baby away,' she said,
wrapping her arms across her stomach. 'You'd rather I went
away and had it and then came back and pretended it had
never happened. Well, I am going away and you can pretend
that if you want to, but I won't be coming back. Not until I
can bring my baby with me.'
Mrs Foster had looked angry and told Jean that she
wasn't going to be told what to do in her own house, and if
that was the way she felt she'd better pack her things and go.
And when Mr Foster tried to reason with her she had
turned on him asking how Jean could possibly keep the
baby, what would they live on and what, oh what would the
neighbours say when they saw her walking down the street
pushing a pram?
'That was what finished it for me,' Jean said, her face
white. 'My own mother putting more store on what spiteful
cats like Mrs Barrow next door and Mrs Parry over the road
think than on what happens to her own daughter.' She
looked at Cissie. 'You're my mum now, Mrs Taylor. You're
my family.'
Cissie looked as if she might begin to cry, and Dick
cleared his throat and said gruffly, 'You didn't ought to talk
like that, Jean. They're your mum and dad and nothing canchange that. But we'll do what we can for you, all the same.
And I reckon it'll be better for you when you get out to
Ashwood. There's no need for folk there to know what's
happened. No need to know you're not married, I mean,' he
added, glancing away from Jean's plump figure.
'No, there's not,' Alice said. 'And if you've got a ring on
your finger, they won't even wonder. Here.' She pulled the
gold ring from her own finger and held it out. 'Wear that.
That'll put paid to any gossip. You can just tell them the
truth about what happened to Terry, and nobody will ask
any more questions.'
'Mum!' Cissie exclaimed, and Alice looked at her
defiantly.
'All right, our Cis, you needn't look like that. It's not
your dad's ring. It's your gran's - my mum's. I've had it on
me finger since the day she died, but now I reckon it'll do
more good passed down the family to Jean. I was going to
offer it to Terry anyway, so she'd have had it if he'd lived.'
Jean took the ring and stared at it. It was thin, its edges
soft with many years of wear, but it was still bright. Her
eyes filled with tears. 'I can't take this, Mrs Thomas.'
'I've told you, I'd have given it to Terry anyway.'
Nobody knew if this were really true, but Alice's look dared
them to question it. 'Now, put it on - never mind if it feels
like a lie. You and Terry were married in the sight of God,
that's how I look at it, and you're one of the family now.
And no more calling me Mrs Thomas, neither. I'm Gran to
young Judy here and I'll be Gran to you as well, all right?'
'Yes, Mrs - Gran,'Jean said, and her voice broke. 'Thank
you. Thank you very much.'
Jean spent the night in Judy's bed, while Judy slept on
cushions on the floor, and next morning they all walked
down to the little halt, carrying the two suitcases that held
all Jean's belongings, with a few clothes pushed in for Judy.
She was going to stay a few days, just to see Jean settled in,
she said, but after the train had pulled away Polly remarkedto Cissie that she wouldn't be surprised if the girl didn't stay
on. 'She's never properly settled back home, you know. She
seems to feel left out of things so much. It was different out
in the country, where there's not so many people anyway. I
reckon she felt easier there, somehow.'
'I thought she might have got her hearing back by now,'
Cissie said. 'The last doctor she saw said there was nothing
really wrong with her ears. It was to do with the blast - a
sort of shock.'
'I can tell you what it is,' Dick said. 'It's nerves. It's like
she doesn't want to hear any more.'
'Dick!' Cissie said. 'How can you say that? Of course she
wants to hear! It's awful for her, being deaf. Anyone can see
that.' a
'I don't mean it's deliberate. She can't help it. But it's like
we had in the First War - shell-shock. That night it
happened,' he looked at Polly, 'there was a lot of noise,
wasn't there? Explosions and ack-ack and planes going over,
all that sort of thing.'
'Of course there was. And buildings crashing down, and
flames crackling and roaring - no end of din. But--'
'And then you were buried and she thought you were
dead. Well, I think she was deafened to begin with, same as
a lot of people are when bombs drop, but it didn't wear off
like it usually does because she found out that if she was
deaf she didn't have to hear all those things that reminded
her of when she thought you'd been killed.' He stopped.
'You don't have to stare at me like that. I just think that's
what it is, that's all. I've thought so all along, to tell you the
truth. And you know what she's always been like about
being shut in small spaces. Well, I reckon that was what it
felt like to her then. Shut in, and all that din going on round
her.'
'Dick!' Cissie said again. 'Wherever did you get all them
ideas?'
'I heard a talk about it on the wireless. This what d'youcall 'em, psychologist, he was talking about nerves and what
we used to call shell-shock, and the way he explained it, I
thought, That's what's happened to our Judy. Only it was
just after that I got pneumonia so I never got a chance to say
nothing, and I didn't think you'd believe me anyway. But I
think that's what it is, all the same.'
'I suppose it might be,' Polly said thoughtfully. 'But if it
is, will she ever get better? I mean, if there's nothing
actually wrong, and she doesn't know she's doing it, how
can she ever stop? I can't see her believing it, Dick. She'd be
ever so upset if you told her she could hear if she wanted to.
She'd think you were saying she was putting it on.'
'That's why I've never said nothing,' he said. 'And I
don't know what would make her better. Maybe another
shock, but I don't know what sort. Bombs'd only make it
worse.'
'Rest and peace and quiet, that's what'll help her,' Alice
said firmly. 'I don't know if Dick's right or not, but I do
know they're what our Judy needs most. I hope she does
decide to stay out in the country. It's the best thing for her,
whichever way you look at it.'
Judy thought so too, as the train chuffed to a halt at
Ashdown station. She stood up and got Jean's suitcases
down from the rack, then helped her drag them out on to
the platform. They stood for a moment breathing in the
fresh, warm air, and Jean smiled.
'It's lovely,' she said, turning to face Judy so that her lips
could be read. 'I can hear birds singing - oh, Judy, I'm
sorry!' She put her hand to her mouth. 'I never meant--'
'It's all right.' Judy wasn't sure what she'd said anyway,
only that it was clearly something to do with hearing. She
picked up the cases. 'Come on. It's not far to walk.'
'Well, you can let me carry one of the cases then.' Jean
took the lighter one and they strolled along between the
leafy hedges. There had been primroses and violets here afew weeks ago, Judy reflected, and bright, sunshiny
celandines. Now the grass had grown and a froth of wild
parsley on both banks almost met across the narrow way, so
that it was almost like walking through a shower of foam.
Small birds were dustbathing in shallow potholes, and a
rabbit scuttled into a hole as the two girls rounded a corner.
Above them, the sky was a deeper blue than it had been in
the spring, and the sun hotter. You don't notice the seasons
half as much in a town, Judy thought, yet here everything
seems to have changed in just a few weeks.
The vicarage garden had changed too. The big vegetable
patch was flourishing, with rows of lettuces already big
enough to pick, and runner beans climbing vigorously up a
row of tall poles. A shorter row was bushing out with peas
and there were several furrows of potatoes which had
already been dug over, and a line of feathery carrots. Judy
looked at them enviously. Some of the men in April Grove
had allotments and grew vegetables like these but Dick had
never been strong enough to do heavy gardening, and in any
case until they'd moved to Alice's house they'd lived too far
away. Except for a few things Alice and Cissie had planted
in the small garden at the back of the house, the Taylors
were dependent upon vegetables from Atkinson's, the
greengrocer's in September Street.
'You're going to eat well here,' she said to Jean. 'It'll be
good for you and good for the baby.'
She opened the small wicket gate into the patch of garden
that the Hazelwoods had kept for relaxation. Here too the
flowers had grown and the apple trees had lost their blossom
and now bore small green fruits. Beneath the one where she
had been sitting on the day that she had first met Ben, there
was a deckchair and at the sight of it, Judy stopped short.
'Ben!'
The lanky figure stretched in the chair stirred. A pair of
dark, rather heavy brows lifted enquiringly and bright blueeyes met hers. The wide mouth spread into a curling grin
and Ben unfolded himself and came to his feet.
'Judy! I thought you were never coming.' He pulled her
into his long arms and hugged her tightly.
Judy, laughing, expostulated, 'Ben, don't be silly. What
are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at school? Oh, it is
good to see you.'
He let her go, making a rueful face. 'Well, that puts me in
my place. Shouldn't you be at school, indeed! Just when I was
hoping to impress this lovely lady you've brought with you.' 'I don't know what you're saying but I'm sure it's ridiculous,'Judy said firmly. 'Ben, this is Jean Foster. She's come to stay here for a while. But we thought -- well, I
thought you'd be away at school. I thought she'd be having
your bedroom.' She stopped, feeling her face turn pink, and
Ben laughed.
'Well, so she can.' He spoke clearly so that she could
understand. 'I'm leaving today - that's why I was hoping
you'd arrive this afternoon. I didn't want to miss you.'
'Leaving?' Judy stared at him. 'Going back to school, you
mean?'
He sighed. 'There you go again. No, I've left school. I've
joined the RAF.' Excitement broke out over his face. 'I'm
going to train to be a pilot, Judy! A pilot!' He spread his
arms and tilted from side to side, like a small boy playing
Spitfires, then flung his hands skywards. 'I'm going to be up
there, flying my own aeroplane and doing my bit for the war
at last!'
Judy stared at him. Even when the words escaped her, it
was easy to understand what Ben was saying, and how
pleased he was to be saying it. But Judy couldn't feel pleased
for him. A cold fear settled round her heart. Not another
one going off to be killed, she thought. Not another boy like
Sean and Terry and Johnny, setting off full of hope and
courage, to die in some horrible way without ever having
really had his chance at life. . .

Ben had turned to Jean and was shaking her hand,
obviously welcoming her to the vicarage and Jean, who had
been standing shyly by, was flushed and smiling as she
responded. Judy wondered how much he knew about her
condition. Had his mother and father discussed it in front of
him? Did he know enough to notice that she was pregnant?
She watched them a little sadly, the boy who was about to!
risk his life and the girl who had lost her sweetheart. It all
seemed so peaceful and innocent, standing in the sunshine
in this tranquil garden, yet the shadow of death was
reaching out to them both.
'What am I doing, keeping you standing out here?' Ben
exclaimed, picking up both suitcases. 'Come in and we'll
find Mother. She'll want to make you a cup of tea or a glass.
of lemonade or something. It won't be real lemonade, of course,' he went on, striding off towards the French
windows. 'We can't get lemons now, although I did hear a consignment of oranges has arrived in Southampton. But
the stuff we make with those crystals isn't too bad.' He went
on talking as he led them through the cool house, but fori
once Judy didn't feel left out. She looked about her, glad to
be back here, glad to be at Ashdown, glad to be with Ben.
I've missed them all while I've been back in Portsmouth,
she thought with some surprise. I've missed the peace and
quiet. And then she caught herself up in surprise.
How could a deaf person say that she missed the peace
and quiet?

Back at the Royal Beach, Polly was kept busy with a variety
of jobs. Sometimes she found herself driving round the city
all day, delivering messages or packages, at others she was in one of the Clothing Stores, or on another day she might be
driving the Lady Mayoress or some important visitor.
There were no more trips to London, however, and Joe Turner didn't seem to be likely to visit Portsmouth again.
Polly had tried to put him out of her mind, but withoutsuccess. There was nothing special about him, she told herself- he was no oil painting, he was several years older than she, and he was a widower with two sons to bring up.
Yet his face was friendly, his eyes warm and his presence
comforting. She could not forget how he had taken her into
his arms to comfort her, and how she had felt as if she had
come home. Oh Johnny, she thought, would you mind very
much? Would you be very hurt if I found someone else to
love? It wouldn't make any difference to you and me - I
could never forget how we loved each other. But there are so
many years ahead, so many years to spend alone, and if I
could just have the sort of comfort Joe Turner gave me, it
would make the years so much easier to bear.
And then she shook herself. Joe Turner had never given
her any reason to suppose that he wanted or would offer
anything more than friendship. And look at the last time he
came here - flung headlong into a family crisis, sent off into
the countryside to fetch home an unknown girl, and one who couldn't even hear him when he talked to her? He
wasn't likely to risk that again!
Deep in thought, she mounted the steps to the Royal
Beach and jumped, startled, as someone touched her on the
arm. She looked up and recognised the young Observer who
had been stuck in the lift with Judy.
'Hello, you're Chris Barrett, aren't you?'
'That's right,' he said, 'and you're Mrs Dunn - Judy
Taylor's aunt.'
'Polly,' she said, smiling at him. 'I feel we're almost
family after what happened to you and Judy.'
He looked rueful. 'I'm never going to hear the last of that.
It would start at just that moment! I never meant to
embarrass her, you know, Mrs Dunn. I didn't even mean
to make a pass - it just happened. We were talking, and
then--'
'It's Polly. Please.' She hesitated. 'I think you should
forget about that. It wasn't really that important, after all.''I know.' He lifted his shoulders. 'I suppose I ought to
put Judy out of my mind - I know she's engaged - but
somehow, I can't. How is she, Mrs Dunn? Is she all right?
Will she get better?'
Polly stared at him. 'Better? You mean her ears? Well, we
hope so, but nobody really knows. But - what was that you
said about her being engaged?'
'Well, she is, isn't she? She was wearing a ring anyway,
that day in the lift.' He stared at her, a small frown creasing
his brows. 'She said she was going to tell me about it - we
were going to go out together, but it was the Sunday of the
big raid and I had to stay on duty. And after that - well, she
wouldn't see me again. And I've been away for a while, on a
training course. When I came back, I didn't know what to
do next.'
Polly remembered Judy coming home a few days before
the raid, different somehow, her eyes brighter and her face
more alive than it had looked for weeks. Was that because
she had made a date with Chris Barrett? Was it then that she
had moved Sean's ring over to her right hand? Had she been
going to tell Chris about the young Irish sailor?
But if so, they had never had their date and she had never
told him. Polly remembered the young man's attempts to
come and see Judy in April Grove, and her refusal even to
go to the door. Perhaps she had regretted agreeing to see
him. Or perhaps she really did believe he would no longer
be interested in her. And then she'd moved the ring back
again.
'Judy was engaged,' she said, making up her mind. 'But
her fiance died - he was lost at sea around the time of the
first Blitz. I expect that was what she was going to tell you.'

He gazed at her. 'So we could have gone out together.
She wasn't being disloyal or anything. But why won't she
see me again? What happened to make her decide not to
have anything more to do with me?'
'It's not just you,' Polly said gently. 'She's had a badtime. That's why we got her to go out to the country -- for
some peace and rest. You see, she's not as strong as she likes
to think. She has this terrible fear of being shut in.'
'I know,' he said. 'She was scared stiff in the lift, but she
tried hard not to show it. I thought she was really brave.'
'She is, but in the Blitz that night we were trapped in a
building with high walls all around. It was terrible -- there
was a woman dying, we were trying to get her out and then
the building was bombed again - we thought we weren't
going to get out at all. Judy was a heroine, she saved me. I
wouldn't be here now if it weren't for her, but afterwards
she seemed to go right down. The doctors say there's
nothing wrong with her ears, nothing physical. And my
brother-in-law thinks it's like shell-shock. It's as if she
doesn't want to hear, as if she's shut everything out - the
noise and the fear, everything.'
'But that's terrible,' he said. 'She's shut herself into a
worse space than ever.'
'I know,' Polly said. 'That's why we're so worried about
her. But out in the country - well, she seems more able to
manage. She seems stronger.'
Chris nodded. Then he said, 'D'you think she'd see me if
I went out there? D'you think she'd send me away?'
Polly looked at him. His fair, open face was troubled. She
said carefully, 'I think you ought to leave her for a while,
Chris. She needs time to get over Sean. She needs the peace
and quiet of the countryside, with no more complications.
Perhaps in a few weeks, if you still feel the same . . .'
'I'll still feel the same,' he said. He met her eyes candidly.
'I think a lot of Judy, Mrs Dunn - Polly. The first time I
saw her, I thought, That's the girl for me. That's the girl I
want to marry.' He paused. 'I don't know if she could ever
come to feel anything for me, but when we were in the lift it
was as if there was something between us, something
special. So, I'd like to try again. I'd like to see if there is a
chance. And I'm ready to wait.'

'And suppose she's deaf for the rest of her life?' Polly
asked. 'It isn't easy, you know, for anybody.'
'She'll still be Judy,' he said simply. 'She'll still be the
girl for me.'Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jean settled into the vicarage more quickly than anyone had
thought possible. The arrangement was that she would have
her board and lodging in return for whatever household
duties she could manage, and Mrs Hazelwood found herself
continually remonstrating with her for doing too much.
'You're not supposed to slave from morning till night, my
dear. You're expecting a baby - you ought to be putting
your feet up.'
'I did.' Jean was cleaning the French windows with a
screwed-up newspaper. 'I was out there in the deckchair for nearly an hour. Then I noticed the glass was all smeary
where the cat was trying to get out to chase the birds, and
once I'd started--'
'Once you'd started you decided to clean every window in
the house.' Mrs Hazelwood took away the newspaper and
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 £1.$.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
on but the old man caught her arm.
'I told 'ee, not all in a heap. Put 'em on one be one, look,
like this here.' He took a letter and crumpled it in his fist,
throwing it into the heart of the fire where it caught and
quickly burned away. 'See? That's the way you wants to do
it.'

'All right.' Judy began to follow his example, screwing up
each letter separately and throwing them into the flames.
Well, that should keep the country's secrets safe, she thought, dusting her hands off and watching the last paper
shrivel to nothing. I wonder what vital task I'll be asked to
do next.
She stood for a moment watching the fire revert to its
normal fare of twigs and dried grass clippings. To her
surprise, she was feeling better than she had for some time.
It's being out in the country again, she thought. The war's
still on and we're all still as anxious about it, but it isn't the
only thing there is. In the towns and cities, where you live in
fear of bombing all the time, where you can't put your head
out of doors without seeing the damage, it seems to be the
only thing that matters. But out here, where you can see
trees coming into leaf and vegetables growing and where an
old man can spend his afternoon with a bonfire -- out here,
you remember what life is all about. And it isn't about war
at all, not really. It's about peace.
Mr Honey was leaning on a gnarled stick, watching the
flames. He feels it too, she thought. He's seen war himself
he must have been through the Great War - and he knows
that it's peace which is important. He knows the truth.
He turned suddenly and looked into her eyes. For
moment, as their eyes met, they were in perfect accord.
Then Judy smiled at him and turned, going back to the
house to see what she might do next to help, in however
small a way, so that England might once again be at peace.Chapter Twenty-Nine

As the summer continued, Jean and Judy became closer than
ever. Always friends, they were now more like sisters. And
so we would have been, Judy thought, if Terry had lived.
She was now working on several different tasks for the
local WVS. As well as the pie scheme, which seemed to have
settled down since she had sorted out the paperwork, she
had gone back to making scrim and going out on the
sphagnum moss parties. Jean came too, although her figure
was now making it difficult for her to bend easily, and they
took bottles of lemonade and a few sandwiches and made a
picnic of it.
'I never thought I'd like it in the country,' Jean said,
sitting on a fallen tree and unwrapping the sandwiches. 'I
always thought it was just trees and fields, with nothing to
do.' She lowered her voice and glanced around to make sure
that nobody was listening. 'And I thought country people
were all a bit stupid. But they're not. They're nice.'
Judy's lip-reading skills had increased, particularly with
people she knew well, and she understood most of what Jean
was saying. 'They're just different,' she agreed. 'They've got
more time, that's why they seem slow. But they're not
stupid. They just know different things.'
Jean nodded. 'The children like it here, too -- most of
them. They've settled in really well.'
There were a number of evacuees in Ashdown. Judy's
cousin Sylvie and many of her schoolmates were scattered
around the village and attended classes in the local school,
sharing it turn and turn about with the local children. Therehad been some difficulties with this arrangement to begin
with - the local children resented the newcomers coming
into their classrooms and using their desks - but when they
realised that the new timetables meant they only had to
attend for half the day, they soon saw the advantages. Over
the months, the two factions had become warily friendly,
although the evacuees still tended to band together. It was
only natural, Mrs Sutton observed, for kiddies to stick with
their own.
The children from the April Grove area, being from a
different school, were at Bridge End. Judy went over to see
Stella and Muriel Simmons so that she could report back to
Polly and Mrs Budd. Tim and Keith Budd were there as
well, and the four children were busy picking strawberries in
the vicarage garden when Judy arrived. They looked happy
and occupied, and Judy was able to write a cheerful report
to her aunt. She saw some of the other children from the
April Grove area too - Brian Collins, living on a farm,
Sammy Hodges who was staying with a young widow, and a
cluster of others. They were wary of Judy at first, finding
her deafness difficult to cope with, but once Tim had told
them she had been in a bombing raid they looked at her with
more respect.
'Wish I could've been in Pompey in the raids,' one boy
said enviously. ''S not fair, being sent out here where there's
nothing happening. I could help, I could. I could watch out
for Jerries and put out incendiaries.'
Judy also went to visit some refugee families who were
staying in the village. The invasion of the Low Countries a
year before had brought thousands over to England, and
they too had to be billeted. There were a number in a large
country house nearby, and Judy spent one or two afternoons
a week there, helping in the kitchens. It was just another job she
could do without having to talk to people.
I wonder if I'll ever be able to hear again, she thought
wistfully. Here in the country, people seemed to have moretime to listen to her and try to communicate their own
thoughts. Yet she was still miserably aware of how isolated
she was, especially in a crowd. Apart from her work, she
spent almost all her time alone, or with Jean or Sylvie.
Much of this time, she spent thinking of Sean. He
seemed very far away now, as if he were slowly receding into
the distance. She tried to recapture the sound of his voice or
the look of his face, but her memory was patchy and the
harder she concentrated the more difficult it became to
picture him. We didn't know each other long enough, she
thought sadly. There aren't enough memories. Oh Sean . . .
Another face came more readily to her mind - a fair, open
face with glinting blue eyes and a laughing mouth. Irritated,
she tried to push it away, but the memory of the two hours
she had spent in the lift with Chris Barrett were sharper
than any of those she had tried to recapture of Sean. She
could recall every word of their conversation, hear every
laugh as he tried to cheer her up and feel again the comfort
he had given her as he slipped his arm around her to drive
away her fears. And she could remember the kiss. The only
kiss they had ever shared. The only kiss, she thought sadly,
they ever would share, for she had refused to see him when
he came to the door after that terrible raid, and by now he
would have forgotten all about her.
By now, he would be kissing some other girl.

As it happened, Judy was wrong about Chris. He was not
kissing some other girl. As he stood in his wooden turret on
top of the Royal Beach peering incessantly over the Solent through his binoculars to watch for enemy aircraft, his
thoughts were not of other girls, but of Judy herself, and he
was growing more and more impatient.
'How long's it going to be before she gets better?' he
demanded. 'I saw her aunt again this morning and asked
her, and she says there's been no change. It doesn't seemright, a lovely girl like that deaf for the rest of her life. Can't
they do anything for her?'
Spud Murphy shrugged. 'No good asking me, mate. I
dunno nothing about it.'
'Well, I'm getting fed up with it,' Chris said. He stared
moodily out across the glittering sea towards the Island. 'We
were going to go out together. I reckon there was a good
chance for us - we got on all right when we were stuck in
that lift.'
'So we all noticed!' Spud said with a grin.
'I thought there was something really special about her,'
Chris went on, ignoring him. He had come in for so much
ribbing over that episode that he barely noticed it now. 'You
know how you do, sometimes? I thought she was a real
smasher.'
'Yeah, but that's months ago now. If she'd wanted to see
you she'd have let you know. If you ask me,' Spud advised
from a store of experience which comprised a different
girlfriend every week, 'you oughter forget her and find
yourself some other little popsie. There's plenty around.
Come to the dance over on the Pier on Saturday, why don't
you? I'll fix you up with someone.'
'No thanks. I don't want to be fixed up with someone. I
want to see Judy again.'
Spud eyed him. 'Well, if it's that bad, why don't you do
that? Go out and see her. Talk to her. Tell her how you feel.
And if she can't hear you, tell her some other way.' He
winked. 'I'm sure you can think of something!'
Chris put down the binoculars and stared at him. Then
he took Spud's pencil to take his turn at writing the log and
said, 'You're right, Spud! It's not very often you're right,
but you're right this time. That's what I'll do. I'll go out to
wherever it is she's staying, in the country, and this time I
won't take no for an answer. I'll make her see me. If she's
not interested after that, I'll leave her alone - but at least I'll
have tried.''Atta boy!' Spud said, grinning. He picked up the
binoculars and trained them on the view. 'Hey, look! What's
that coming in over the Island? Is it a Dornier or a Heinkel?'
Chris grabbed the glasses back. He stared for a minute,
then punched his friend on the arm.
'You twerp! It's a bloody seagull!'

The summer was hot and long, as if to make up for the
bitter winter. In July, it was declared that London had just
had the sunniest day of the century - almost sixteen hours
of it. If there hadn't been a war on, it would have meant
long, lazy afternoons on the beach at Southsea or walks on
Portsdown Hill. The harbour would have been filled with
sailing dinghies and yachts, and the Solent would have been
a mass of white sails, especially during Cowes Week when
the big yacht races were held and you felt you could almost
walk across to Cowes on their decks, without getting your
feet wet. But all that was just a memory. The last time the
Solent had been filled with little boats was during the
Dunkirk evacuation, and it was now grey warships that
forged their way through the Channel.
But the war was still very much on. The air-raid sirens
were still sounding, although the raids weren't as heavy as
before. The end of June and beginning of July saw
thousands of incendiaries showered on the city and on
Portsdown Hill, starting a blaze of gorse fires, and a number
of high-explosive bombs were dropped into the sea off
Stamshaw. In August it was announced that tunnels had
been driven deep into Portsdown Hill, beneath the chalk
pits, and three thousand people would be given tickets.
Mothers with children, and people without their own
bunked shelters would get first choice. Jess Budd, who had
her baby Maureen at home, was entitled to go, and so was
Nancy Baxter, who had Micky and Vera, but Jess said she
was happy with the Anderson, and Nancy had her own
reasons for not wanting to be stuck in a tunnel all night.Everyone was wondering if America would come into the
war. Already their aircraft were patrolling the North
Atlantic, searching for U-boats, and their forces had joined
British and Canadian troops in Iceland to help its defence.
All young American men of twenty-one and over were
compelled to register for the 'draft' and it seemed as if they
might be preparing to join the Allies. Yet still they held off.
The Japanese threat was one they didn't want to confront,
and it was feared that if they declared war on Germany it
would open the way for fighting in the Far East.
'It's all so complicated,' Cissie complained. 'The Japanese
are attacking China now. I mean, what do they have to do
with it all? Why make it all worse?'
'That's just what they want to do, isn't it?' Dick said,
blowing his nose. The summer weather helped his chest but
now he had hay fever and hardly dared venture outdoors to
enjoy the sunshine. 'They reckon if they go into China now,
while we're all busy in Europe and Africa, nobody will be
able to stop them. And they don't like the Yanks having all
those bases in the South Pacific, either. It's a bit too close to
home for them.'
Cissie was reading the local paper. 'The Evening News says we've got to register for new ration books, by the end of
this week, or we won't get them. What would someone do
who didn't know, or forgot? Would they just starve to
death?'
'Nobody'll be able to forget, with notices up everywhere
and the paper putting in these big adverts,' Polly said. 'And
the WVS and Citizens' Advice Bureau are helping people
who can't manage on their own.' She lay back in her chair
and closed her eyes. It had been an exhausting day, filled
with irritating tasks that never seemed to get done properly.
She had been sent on several errands, delivering messages to
people who weren't there, meeting others who didn't arrive,
searching for documents that had mysteriously disappeared
and answering innumerable questions from Portsmouthresidents who had trekked complainingly out to the Royal
Beach only to find that the Council office they needed was
in a different building, as often as not one that they'd passed
on their way. Polly could understand their frustration but
wished they could in turn understand the difficulties the
Corporation had faced in finding and setting up new
premises after the bombing of the Guildhall. We had to start
from scratch, she thought, and we still haven't got it all
organised, but they just won't accept that.
'There's a letter here for you,' Cissie said, handing her an
envelope. 'Looks like it's from your friend Mr Turner.'
Polly took it and turned it over. Joe had written a few
times and she'd written back, but their letters had been no
more than the letters of friends - brief descriptions of their
lives, mention of more important events, a joke or two.
They were pleasant to receive, but didn't seem to be going
anywhere and once or twice lately Polly had wondered if
they were worth going on with. Yet she knew that she would
miss having him in her life, however tenuously. So long as
he was there, she had a small hope that one day things might
change.
She opened the letter and gave an exclamation. Cissie and
Dick both looked at her, and Alice popped her head round
the scullery door. 'What's going on? What's our Poll
squeaking about?'
'It's that Joe Turner,' Dick said. He still harboured a
strange disapproval of the man his sister-in-law had met,
and there was a grumbling note in his voice whenever he
mentioned him. 'Been writing to her again.'
'Oh.' Alice came right into the room, wiping her hands
on her pinny, and they all gazed expectantly at Polly. She
looked up and met their eyes.
'Well, I don't know what you lot think you're staring at!
I've had letters from Joe before.'
'Yes, but you haven't looked like that before,' Alice said
shrewdly. 'Come on, what's he say?''Like what? I don't know what you mean,' Polly said,
blushing.
'Like a young girl who's just come in from her first date,'
Cissie laughed. 'Come on, Polly, out with it!'
She gave them a look of exasperation. 'There's no privacy
in this family, none at all. Everyone wants to know everyone
else's business. Well, if you must know, he's coming down
to Pompey again and wants to take me out to tea, and that's
all. Nothing out of the ordinary in that, is there? Nothing to
make a song and dance about?'
'Well, I wouldn't have said so,' Alice said, 'but it's not me
who's looking ten years younger all of a sudden. More's the
pity,' she added, touching her grey hair.
Polly laughed and shook her head. 'You're awful, all of
you. Look, Joe and me, we're just friends, that's all. I can be
pleased a friend's coming to see me, can't I, without you
turning it into something more than what it is?'
'Well, maybe we are and maybe we're not,' Cissie said.
'Time will tell. So when's he coming, Poll?'
'Next Tuesday,' she said, looking at the letter again. 'He's
coming down on the afternoon train and staying overnight.'
'Where?' Dick broke in. 'I hope he's not expecting us to
put him up here. I hope you've told him we haven't got
room, Poll.'
'Of course he's not expecting to stay here. He's been here,
hasn't he? He knows what the house is like. I don't know
where he's staying, he doesn't say. He just says he'd like to
take me out to tea and maybe to the pictures or for a walk or
something.' She raised her eyes again. 'There's no harm in
that, is there? You don't think you ought to come too, Dick,
just to make sure he doesn't take advantage of me?'
'There's no need to talk like that,' he began, his colour
rising, and Cissie intervened hastily.
'Now, don't you two start getting all aeriated. Dick's just
concerned about you, Polly, you know that. He doesn't
mean anything by it.''Well, he doesn't have to be concerned,' Polly said
resentfully. 'I'm not a young girl and he's not my father.
I've been a married woman--'
'And now you're a widow,' Dick said. 'And I've got a
responsibility towards you, Polly. You're living in my house.'
he caught Alice's sharp movement and amended his words
hastily '-- all right, it's not my house now, but you were
living in my house till we got bombed out, and that gives me
a responsibility. I took it on when Johnny died and I'm not
taking it lightly.'
There was a silence. Then Polly said in a tight voice,
'You don't have to remind me I'm a widow, Dick. I
remember it every day of my life. And you don't have to
take responsibility for me, either. I'm not a child, I'm thirty
six years old, I'm doing responsible work and I can take
responsibility for myself, thank you very much. And if you
don't like it,' she rose to her feet and looked down at him
with a glint of challenge in her eye, 'maybe it's time for me
to find somewhere else to live!'
She marched out of the room and they heard her feet
going up the stairs. For a moment or two there was
complete silence and then Cissie turned on Dick, her eyes
filled with angry tears.
'There!' she said furiously. ''Now see what you've done!
And you needn't start coughing and sneezing neither,
because you've brought it on yourself and just for once I'm
not sorry for you. Not a bit sorry!'

Judy was walking home from the big house where the
refugee families were living, having spent the afternoon
preparing vegetables and making pastry for their evening
meal of meat and vegetable pie (more vegetable than meat),
when she paused on the hill above the railway cutting, and
sat down in the shade of an oak tree.
The sky was cloudless and the air stirred by only the
faintest of breezes. Below, deep in the cutting, the railwaylines shimmered in the heat. The grass had grown long and
in the fields the corn was a deep gold, almost ready to
harvest. Bees hovered over the mauve and cream globes of
clover, and Judy watched them wistfully, knowing that the
air must be filled with their humming. I wish I could hear
them, she thought. I wish so much that I could hear
them . . .
A movement caught her eye and she saw a train pull in at
the station. The ancient station master came out of his office
and someone in the guard's van threw a few parcels on to
the platform. Two or three passengers alighted: a man in a
suit, a woman with several shopping bags, and a tall young
man in RAF uniform.
Judy watched." She saw the woman drop one of the
parcels and the young airman stoop to pick it up. He handed
it back to her, then took two of the bags to carry. They
walked out of the station and along the lane, talking
animatedly.
I wonder who he is, Judy thought. For a moment, as he
had first alighted, he had reminded her sharply of Chris
Barrett, and her heart had skipped a beat. Surely not ...
But as she saw him walking along with the woman, carrying
her bags, she dismissed the thought. It must be someone
from the village, come home on leave. Her heart sank a little
and she shrugged away the brief disappointment. I don't
want it to be him anyway, she told herself sharply. I don't
want it to be anyone I know.
The two had disappeared between the hedges that
bordered the lane. Now they appeared again, directly below
her, and she could see their faces clearly. The woman was a
spinster who lived at the other end of the village with her ,
elderly mother. And the young man 'Chris!'
she breathed, and her whole body turned cold and then flushed with warmth. 'Chris . . .'

'I didn't know if you'd want to see me,' he said. He'd lookedup and seen Judy at the same moment, almost thrusting the
bags back at the spinster in his haste to come racing up the
hill. He saw the incomprehension in her face and repeated
slowly, enunciating his words. 'I -- didn't -- know -- if -- you'd - want - to see - me.'
'So why did you come?' He'd caught her hands, his whole
face glowing with delight, and she withdrew them quickly.
She felt a turmoil of strange emotions -- pleasure at seeing
him, wonder that he should have bothered to come, dismay
and embarrassment at her own condition. I didn't want him
to see me like this, she thought, and then came anger that he
had caught her unawares and she hadn't had time to hide.
'Why didn't you let me know?'
'And what would you have done?' he asked simply, and
then said more slowly. 'You would not have seen me. You
would have hidden away. Like you did before. Wouldn't
you?' He looked at her accusingly.
Judy understood. She met his eyes and said, 'Yes.'
'But why?' His frustration showed in the crease of his
brows, the brightness of his eyes. 'Why don't you want to
see me, Judy? What have I done?'
'It's not you. It's me. I'm deaf Chris. I can't hear you. I
can't hear anyone - or anything.' She waved her hand at the
trees, the hedges, the railway. 'There could be al), sorts of
sounds - trains coming, birds singing, cows and sheep,
people in the lane - but I can't hear a thing. It's just a sort of
mushy sound all the time. It's horrible.' She paused and
stared at him. 'It's horrible for everyone else too. Having to
speak slowly, having to make sure I can see them. Even
then, most of the time I can't understand them. Some
people don't open their lips much, they don't make any
shape at all with their words - I shall never understand
people like that. And they have to write it down for me, and
then I can't read their writing or they can't spell the words
and then they're even more embarrassed. You don't know
what it's like, Chris. Nobody knows what it's like.'
'Isn't there a sort of sign language?' he asked doubtfully.
'I'm sure I've heard of something.' Once again, forgetting
already, he had spoken too quickly and Judy looked at him
in exasperation.
'You see? You see how difficult it is?'
Chris bit his lip and repeated his words, determined to be
understood, and Judy shrugged.
'Yes, I think so. But I don't see what use it is. It's no use
just me learning it, is it? Everyone else would have to know
it too.'
'I'd learn it,' he said quickly, and Judy shook her head.
'It's no use, Chris. I don't know why you bothered to
come. You'd better go back.'
'No!' He was angry now. 'I came because I wanted to see
you. We had a date, remember? We were going to go out
together - have a walk, talk to each other, get to know each
other.' Once again, he saw her look of incomprehension, and
was forced to speak more slowly. 'We had a date, Judy. I've
come for my date.'
Judy's eyes met his and the penny dropped. 'You said
more than that,' she said dully. 'This is another thing that
happens. People can't be bothered to talk properly to me.
They just talk in a sort of shorthand. It's not like proper
talking at all.'
Chris stared at her. Then he caught both her hands in his
again and shook them. 'Judy! You've got to stop feeling
sorry for yourself!' Her eyes flicked up at him again,
shocked by the fierceness of his grip and the anger in his
face. 'Stop feeling sorry for yourself he enunciated, watching
her eyes to make sure that she understood. 'Deafness isn't
the end of the world. You're young - you're pretty - / think
you're beautiful - and there's nothing else wrong with you.
Being deaf isn't the worst thing that can happen to you.' He
waved at the countryside about them, then put his hands to
his eyes. 'Suppose you were blind. Suppose you couldn't seeall this? Suppose you couldn't walk anywhere without
someone to guide you?'
Judy understood his meaning. She looked down at their
hands, then around at the banks. They were thick with
ragged robin and campions, guelder roses and a froth of wild
parsley. Queen Anne's Lace, Mrs Sutton called it. She
looked at the ash trees just breaking into leaf, later than all
the other trees, and caught a glimpse of a thrush sitting on a
branch, its beak open and its throat swelling as it sang the
song she knew she would never hear again.
'It would be awful,' she agreed quietly, 'but it's not as
awful as being deaf. People take trouble with a blind person.
They look after them and talk to them, and they tell them
things they can't see. When you're deaf, people only care for
a while, and after that you're left alone. You can't take part
in any conversations. You can't listen to the wireless and
laugh when they laugh. You can't be part of the family any
more, not in the same way. You're just a nuisance.'
There was a long silence. Chris looked at her as if he
didn't know what to do next. After a while, he said in a low
voice, 'I care, Judy. I care a lot. I'd like to look after you,
and I wouldn't leave you out of things.'
'You wouldn't be able to help it,' she said. 'Look at the
Suttons - they're really kind, but they can't help leaving me
out. They've got things to talk about - the farm, the war,
village things - they can't just look at me all the time they're
talking. It's the same with everyone. I don't mean they don't
care,' she added, frowning as she tried to explain. 'I don't
mean they're deliberately unkind. But they just can't do it.
Nobody can. It's just too difficult.'
Again, they were silent. Then Chris said, 'But won't you
let me try, Judy? Won't you at least let me try? May I come
and see you sometimes - take you out? We could learn the
sign language - we could talk then.'
Judy hesitated. She looked at the fair, open face, the
anxious blue eyes, the mouth that could curl so easily into a

grin, the lips that had kissed hers. For a moment, she longed
to say yes, to see the face light up with joy, the eyes dance,
the mouth break into a laugh. She yearned to be in his arms
and to be kissed again as he had kissed her in the lift.
She took a deep breath and then shook her head.
'No. Please, Chris, don't ask me. I can't see anyone, not in
that way. It's too hard. All the repeating and the writing
down and the misunderstandings and the worry of it all. I
can't do it. I just can't.' She pulled away and began to walk
quickly along the lane. 'I'm sorry, Chris. I'm sorry we ever
met. I'm sorry we agreed to have a date. I'm sorry you've
come all this way. Please - just go away now. Forget me.
There are plenty of other girls -- girls who can hear what you
say. Go and ask one of them out.' She was aware that he was
close behind her and turned swiftly to face him. 'Go away, Chris,' she said, and pointed down the embankment towards
the railway line. 'Look. There's a train "coming - you can
catch it now and go back to Portsmouth and forget you ever
saw me. Go on. Go away.''
He stood his ground. 'Tell me that's what you want me to
do,' he said and then shouted at her in his frustration. 'Tell
me! Tell me you want me to go away!'
Judy's eyes filled with tears. She looked into his face and
said, 'There, you see? That's what it's like. That's what it would be like.' And then she turned and walked away from
him.
This time, Chris did not follow her. He knew there was
nothing more he could say. Burning with shame, his head
bowed, he walked back to the station where the train was
just pulling in. The station master stared at him.
'Quick visit,' he said. 'Didn't she want you, then?'
Chris gave him a furious glare and climbed aboard the
train without answering. He dropped into the seat and gazed
morosely out of the window. As the train pulled out of the
station, he could just see the lane and there, between the
froth of Queen Anne's Lace, the figure of a young womanwalking slowly and doggedly up the sloping lane in the
opposite direction.
Chris stared at her, willing her to turn. If she does, he
thought, I'll get off the train at the next station and come
straight back. And this time I won't take no for an answer.
But Judy did not turn. Not until the train was almost out
of sight and Chris had given up and slumped back into the
seat. At just that moment, as she came to the crest of the
slope, she paused and looked back and, as the train
disappeared round a bend and into a wood, she lifted her
hand and waved, even though her eyes were too full of tearsChapter Thirty

Joe came straight out to the Royal Beach to meet Polly from
work. She walked down the steps to see him standing on the
other side of the road, near the entrance to South Parade
Pier, and she paused for a moment, her heart skipping a
little. He was leaning on the railing, staring out to sea, and
she had a moment or two to observe him. She came slowly
down to the pavement.
There was nothing special about him, she though
nothing at all. He was just an ordinary man, a friend, con
to see her and take her for a cup of tea. Nothing more than
that. He was certainly not in the least like Johnny, the
laughing young sailor who had swept her off her feet and
married her and promised to spend the rest of his life with
her. He wasn't tall or handsome, he probably wasn't all that
clever - but then, neither was she. I don't know what I'd do
with a man who was clever, she thought.
And yet -- there was something about him that quickened
her heart. Something that reached out to her, something to
which she responded. And when he turned and saw her
standing there, the way his face lit up told her that he felt it
too. And that what they shared - or could share - was not at
all ordinary.
'Polly!' He crossed the road swiftly, limping a little, and
she ran towards him. They met in the middle and hesitated,
neither knowing quite which way to go next. A trolley-bus
coming towards them sounded its horn and Joe gripped her
arm and hurried her back to the pavement on the pier side,and then they stood looking into each other's eyes and
laughing.
'Blimey, I thought he was going to run us down!' Joe
said. 'I bet he felt like it, an' all! How are you, Polly? It's
good to see you again, by golly it is.'
'It's good to see you too, Joe.' She smiled at him, and saw
the warmth in his dark brown eyes. This is what's special
about him, she thought. He's so warm, so good-hearted.
You can see it in his face. It wraps itself around you, like a
lovely blanket. Impulsively, she put both hands on his
shoulders, stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
Joe looked startled and she saw his skin colour. 'Blimey,
Poll, I didn't expect that. That's a real welcome, that is.
Thanks.' He tucked her hand into his arm and turned to
walk her along the promenade. 'Where's a good place for
tea?'
'There's a cafe a bit further on.' They strolled along the
top of the beach, arm in arm, lifting their faces to the
sunshine. Once again, Polly had that sensation of being at
home. 'How long are you down here for, Joe?'
'Just a day or two.' He hesitated. 'I've got summat to tell
you, Poll. That's why I came. I wanted to see you - to tell
you face to face, like. Then I'm going on down to Devon to
see my boys.'
'What?' She stopped and looked at him, pierced by
sudden anxiety. 'What is it? What's happened?'
'Don't look like that, love. It's nothing bad - at least, I
don't think it is.' He grinned at her. 'But there's summat I
want to ask you as well. I meant to leave it till later on, but
now I've started I might as well come out with the lot.'
They stopped and she felt him take a deep breath. 'D'you
reckon you could get a day or two off, Poll? I mean, right
now? Day after tomorrow, perhaps?'
'A day or two off?' she repeated in bewilderment. 'I
might be able to. Now that all the new ration books have
been issued we're not quite so pushed, though there'salways a lot of work to do. But why? What do you want me
to do? You're not asking me to go to Devon with you, are
you?'
'That's right,' he said. 'I want you to meet my nippers. I:
want them to meet you.' He sighed and rubbed a hand over
his face. 'I'm doing this all the wrong way round Look,
what I want to tell you is, I'm being moved. My bloke, the
one I've been batman to, is going overseas with the
regiment, I can't go - I've asked enough, I've told him a tin
foot's as good as any other for polishing up his kit, and
better if it comes to being shot again - but it's not on. So
I'm coming down to Pompey - well, Gosport really - to St
George's Barracks. Looks like I'll be there permanent. And
that mean's we'll be able to see a bit of each other. If that's
what you want,' he added anxiously.
'You're coming down to Gosport? You'll be just across
the harbour!' A flicker of excitement ran through her. 'Joe,
that's lovely! Of course we'll be able to see each other.
But--'
'It's more than that,' he interrupted, taking her hands and
gripping them tightly. 'See, it's like this. I've never been
what they call a ladies' man. Even when I was a youngster, I
was never one for clicking with the girls. I met my Rosie and
that was it, we both knew straight off we were right for each
other, and I never bothered with no one else.' He looked
down into her eyes. 'I felt the same when I first saw you,
Polly. That first time on the train, I felt it then. I didn't
think it would ever come to anything, of course, 'cause I
didn't think I'd ever see you again. But I just knew that you
were someone I could get along with. I knew you could be
special.'
Polly stared at him. Her heart was beating fast. She
whispered, 'I think I felt it too, Joe. But I couldn't - it was
too soon after Johnny.'
'I know. And I hadn't long lost my Rosie neither. It just
seemed too soon, like you say. But when we met again, well,I reckoned maybe there was summat in it. Summat meant.
And then, when I come down and you were in all that
trouble, I thought, Better back off a bit, Joe Turner, she
don't want you muddling things up. So that's what I did. I
just wrote to you like a pal, just to try to keep the door open.
But now, seeing you again, I don't reckon I want to back off
any more. And if I'm going to be down here permanent, I
want to know if you feel the same. If there's any hope.
'Cause I don't think I could manage to see you regular just
as a friend. I know I'd want more than that, and if it's never
going to be, well, we'd be better not to start. Sorry,' he
finished, 'I haven't put any of that the way I wanted to, and
if you want to tell me to go to hell you'd better say so. I
know I'm not the bloke your hubby was, nor ever will be.'
'No, you won't,' Polly said quietly, looking down at his
hands. 'But you don't have to be, Joe. You're you - and
that's all that matters now.' She lifted her eyes. 'I can't say
for sure what's going to happen to us, but I'm willing to give
it a try. Can you take it like that, Joe? No promises - just
hope?'
'Hope,' he said, smiling at her. 'I like that, Polly. Hope.
And will you come down with me to see the boys? It's
important, see. They're mine, and if I'm going to be seeing
someone regular . . .'
'You might be putting someone else into their mother's
place,' Polly nodded. 'It's a test, isn't it? If they don't like
me, or I don't like them . . .'
'I didn't think of it like that,' he said. 'I just wanted you
to see them, and I wanted them to see you. It's not a test.'
'But you'll feel better about it if we all like each other,'
Polly said. She thought for a moment, and then nodded. 'All
right. I'll ask the Mayoress tomorrow if I can have time off.
I'm sure it will be all right. And now,' she looked at him
with a teasing smile, 'what about that cup of tea you
promised me?'
'Tea?' he exclaimed, and she saw with a little leap ofdelight that his face had suddenly lost its creases, the lines of
worry had gone from his brow and he looked almost like a
boy again, the boy he had been when he first met his Rosie,
and as laughing and merry as Johnny had been when she
first knew him. 'Tea? It's not tea we oughter be having now
- it's bloody champagne! Pardon my French,' he added with
a guilty look, and Polly laughed and took his arm again,
leading him across the road.
'Tea will do for now, Joe. And the way I'm feeling, I
think it will taste like champagne anyway. Oh Joe,' she drew
him to a stop, right in the middle of the road, 'I am glad we
met that day on the train!'
A honking noise made them both jump and they looked
round to see a trolley-bus approaching, its driver glaring
down at them. Joe pulled her quickly out of its way and they
scurried across to the pavement, almost convulsed with
giggles.
'It was the same flipping driver!' he panted as they
reached the kerb. 'Blimey, he must think we're a couple of
lunatics!'
'I feel like one,' Polly said, laughing up at him. 'I don't
know what it is about you, Joe, but when I'm with you,
that's exactly how I feel!'
Jean was growing bigger and heavier by the day. She still
did as much as possible in the house, but Mrs Hazelwood
insisted that she rest. 'Are you sure this baby's not due until
September?' she asked worriedly, looking at Jean's bulging
stomach. 'You couldn't have got your dates wrong?'
Jean shook her head. 'It can't be. It was just after
Christmas we -' she blushed '- well, it was only the once
anyway. I've never -- it was the first time I ever . . .'

'All right, Jean, I understand. But I think it would be a I
good idea to get the midwife in to have a look at you, just
the same. She'd be coming in a week or two anyway.'
The midwife was a middle-aged woman, thin as a strand of wire, with iron-grey hair and a beaky nose. She gave Jean
a quick examination, felt her stomach all over and gave a
sharp nod. 'Nothing wrong there. Going to be a big lad,
though. Might be a week or two early.'
'It's not a lad,' Jean said. 'It's a girl.'
'Oh, and how d'you know that? Done the wedding-ring
test, have you?' Her glance strayed to Jean's left hand and
Jean felt thankful for the wedding ring Alice Thomas had
given her.
'The wedding-ring test?'
'That's right. You tie the ring to a bit of cotton and
someone holds it over your belly to see which way it swings.
If it goes backwards and forwards it's a boy, if it goes round
in a circle, it's a girl. Do it now, if you like.' She took Jean's
hand and made to pull off the ring.
Jean snatched her hand away. 'No! I don't want to. I
don't want to take my ring off- and anyway, it's a girl.' She
stared defiantly at the midwife. 'I don't need to do any tests
at all. I know it's a girl.'
The midwife shrugged. 'Hoity-toity!' she sniffed. 'Well,
have it your own way. But if it's a girl, it's a mighty big one.
You'd better get yourself decent again. I'll come back in a
fortnight, see how you are.'
Jean watched her go, half-annoyed, half-frightened.
Later, telling Judy about it, she said, 'I didn't like her much.
I don't really want her there when the baby's born.'
'You'll have to have her though, won't you?' Judy asked.
'I mean, suppose something goes wrong? And if the baby
really is going to be big . . .'
'Oh, I know I'll have to have her. And I expect she's all
right really. Mrs Hazelwood says she's delivered any
amount of babies round the village. I just didn't like her
much.'
'Well, never mind,' Judy said comfortably. 'It's weeks
away yet, anyway.'
They were sitting on a blanket and some cushions in thegarden, beneath the apple tree where Judy had first met
Ben. The small green apples which had followed the
blossom were growing fast and some were beginning to
redden. By the time Jean's baby was born they would be
ready to pick and eat, and Mrs Hazelwood said they were
good keepers. A heavy crop would see them right through
the winter.
Ben had almost completed his training as a pilot. He
wrote to Judy once or twice, his letters enthusiastic, his
desire to get into the air throbbing through every line. She
read the letters a little sadly, wondering how long he would
survive once he did. So many young men were being killed
in the air, some of them on their first mission. She prayed
that wouldn't "happen to Ben. He was so young, so ardent,
so full of life. And he had told her once that she would hear
again.
I wish I could, she thought. I wish I could, just for him.
Just to hear his voice. I've never heard his voice.
There were so many voices she had never heard. And
even those she knew well were beginning to fade. Maybe
even if I did get my hearing back, she thought, I wouldn't
know them. They could come up behind me and speak Jean,
or Mum and Dad, Gran, Polly, Chris - and I wouldn't
know who they were. I'd have to learn them all over again.
The thought of Chris brought back the memory of that
last meeting, when he had told her not to be sorry for
herself. Judy had walked away from the train that day
feeling hurt and angry. Why shouldn't I be sorry for
myself? she had wondered. I'm entitled to be . . . But slowly
she had begun to see the sense of his words. She began to
realise that she had changed during the past few months.
Locked in her own, silent world, she had forgotten that
other people had feelings too, forgotten that they had
problems as great as hers. The old man who lived in a
tumbledown cottage down the lane and crept about, too
crippled with arthritis to be able to draw a bucket of waterfrom the well, his hands too gnarled and stiff to cut a slice of
bread. The woman in the broken-down hovel who had four
children under seven and whose husband had been killed at
Dunkirk. The Hazelwoods, afraid of losing their youngest
son. Polly, widowed at thirty-five. Her own parents, losing
Terry . . . But I lost him too, she argued, and then reminded
herself sharply that this was exactly what she was doing
wrong. Always looking for her own griefs and sorrows,
dismissing those of other people.
I'm sorry, Chris, she thought sadly. You were right, and I
was wrong. And she regretted, bitterly, that she had sent
him away. He won't come back now, she thought. Even if I
wrote and begged him - he wouldn't come back now.
'Judy!'
Jean grabbed her arm and Judy turned quickly. At the
look on her friend's face, she gasped. 'What is it? What's
wrong?'
'I don't know. I got this sudden pain.' Jean's face twisted
again and she bent and pressed both hands to her back.
'Is it the baby? It can't be, surely.' Judy was on her feet,
glancing wildly towards the house. 'It's much too soon.'
'She said it might come early.' The pain seemed to have
faded and Jean was breathing quickly. 'But it was in my
back, not my stomach. It's gone off a bit now anyway.' She
lay back on the cushions. 'I suppose it was just a twinge.'
'It looked as if it was more than a twinge.' Judy sat down
again, looking at her doubtfully. 'Do you think I ought to
fetch someone?'
'Not yet. It takes hours and hours for a baby to be born.
There's no one to fetch, anyway. The vicar's gone to Bridge
End and Mrs Hazelwood's at the WI meeting. And
everyone else is out in the fields, haymaking.'
Jean understood only the shaking head and the words
'WP and 'haymaking' but they were enough. Anyway, Jean
looked better now. Perhaps it had been no more than a
twinge. She'd had a number of aches and pains by nowher back hurt if she walked too far or tried to do too much
work, she had heartburn after meals, and she'd had a fierce
stabbing pain down one leg that Mrs Sutton said was
sciatica. It was caused by the baby lying on a nerve,
apparently. There must be other nerves the baby could lie
against, especially now that it was getting so big.
'Ouch!' Jean exclaimed, her face contorting again. 'Oh no,
no, no.'
'What is it?' Judy was on her feet again, thoroughly
alarmed. Jean was half sitting, half lying, leaning one elbow
on the cushions, the other arm held tightly over her stomach
as she rocked with pain. 'Oh Jeanie, what's happening? I'd
better get someone.'
'No!' Jean reached out a hand to stop her. 'Don't go
away! Don't leave me!' She pulled at her skirt and stared
down in horror at the blanket. 'Look!'
Appalled and frightened, Judy looked down and saw a
dark stain spreading over the rug. 'What is it? Whatever is
it?'
'It's my waters,' Jean said, forgetting to look Judy in the
face as she spoke. She remembered and raised her head. 'My waters. They've broken.'
Judy gazed at her helplessly. 'I don't understand.'
'It means the baby's coming.' The pain seemed to have
receded, and Jean lay back again, breathing heavily.
'I'll have to fetch someone.'
'No! Don't go! It's coming now -I can feel it. Oh!' Jean's
voice rose to a scream and she fell back and flailed wildly
with her arms. 'Oh Judy, Judy, Judy - it hurts so much!
Aaaah! Aaaaaaah!'
Judy knelt beside her, terrified. She had never seen a baby
being born, had no idea what happened. She had been only
ten years old when Sylvie was born and had not even known
that Polly was expecting a baby until the day it happened.
What she knew about 'the facts of life' had been gleaned
gradually over the years from other girls, equally ignorant,much of the knowledge distorted, and although she now
understood about sex she still had very little idea how the
baby that had been conceived would actually be born. Jean
herself didn't know very much more.
'What shall we do?' Judy asked when the pain faded
again. 'How quickly will it come?'
'I don't know.' Jean's face was white and beaded with
sweat. 'Oh Judy, it hurts so much. People say it can go on
for hours - even days. I don't think I'll be able to stand it.'
Tears came into her eyes. 'I'll die. I'm going to die.'
'No!' Judy's terror pierced her voice. 'No, you're not
going to die, Jean, you can't. I'll have to get someone--'
'It's starting again!' Jean clutched her arm, digging her
fingers in like talons. Her nails bit into Judy's bare flesh. 'Oh
God - here it comes - ah - aaah -- aaaaaah!' I can't do it!'
she yelled, twisting frantically on the blanket. 'I can't bloody
do it! Aaaaaaaah! Aaaaaah! Aaaaaaah!'
Judy put her hands on the writhing body and tried to
hold her still. One of Jean's hands was still gripping her
arm, the other flailing in the air, beating on the ground,
pulling at her own hair. Judy reached across and grabbed it,
holding it tightly, trying to calm the desperate girl. She
could hear none of Jean's cries but knew from her face that
she was making a lot of noise. Perhaps someone will hear,
she thought. Perhaps she's shouting loudly enough for
someone to hear and come.
'What shall we do?' she asked when the pain subsided.
'What do we have to do?'
'Better get my knickers off. It's got to be able to come
out, and they're soaking wet anyway.'
'Out here?' Judy was scandalised. She looked around the
garden. It was in full sight of the vicarage, and anyone
passing by could look over the wall. She forgot for a
moment that she had been praying for someone to do just
that.
Jean threw her a scornful glance. 'I don't care if we're inthe Lord Mayor's parlour! I'm having a baby. Judy - quick,
it's starting again. Get them off. Oh . . .' The two girls
scrabbled frantically and dragged off the sodden garment,
tossing it out of the way. They were just in time. The pain
came again, a fresh wave even stronger than before, and Jean
lay back, crying out again, reaching for Judy's hands. As
Judy caught them in hers, she realised that something else
was happening. Jean was using all her strength to tense her
body, arching her back so that the swollen stomach rose like
a whale, her screams now as much groans of effort as cries of
pain.
Dimly, Judy remembered hearing the phrase 'bear down'.
You had to 'bear down' when you were having a baby. She
had had no idea what it meant, but now she thought she
understood. 'Bearing down' was pushing, pushing the baby
out, and you did it when the pain gripped you, when it was
at its fiercest. She knelt beside the twisting, screaming girl
and spoke in her ear.
'That's it, Jean. That's it. Bear down. Push. That's right.
Keep going, keep trying.' She risked a quick glance beneath
the rucked-up skirt and caught a glimpse of a mass of fair
pubic hair and something else -- something swollen, like a
massive growth, protruding from Jean's body. For a
moment she stared, horrified, and then Jean relaxed as the
pain faded, and the growth drew back inside. In that second,
she realised what it was.
'It's the baby! I can see its head! Oh Jean, Jean, I can see
the baby's head!' Beside herself with terror and excitement,
she gripped Jean's hands. 'Jean, the baby's almost born! I can see its head!'
'I don't want it!' Jean yelled. 'I don't want it any more! It
hurts too much! It bloody well hurts!' Take it away! Take it away! I don't want it! Oh - oh - ohhhh!'
'You do want it. You do. Oh, please let someone come, let
someone come soon.' Judy was crying now, gripping Jean's
hands as the wave of pain rose once more. 'Oh Jean, keeptrying, just keep trying. It'll be over soon. It's coming soon,
I know it is, and it'll all be over and you'll have a lovely little
baby girl - or maybe a boy, you wouldn't really mind if it
was a boy, would you - and - and - oh Jean, Jean, that's
right, bear down, push hard - it's coming now, I can see it.'
She wrenched her hands from Jean's grasp and caught at her
thighs, parting them so that the baby's head could push its
way out. It was clear now, a round, hard little ball, wet and
dark and slimy, and as Jean screamed she saw it surge
suddenly forward, thrusting itself out into the world - head,
shoulders, body and legs - and Judy reached out and caught
it in her hands, a thrill juddering through her whole body as
she felt the warm, slippery, squirming flesh. A baby, she
thought wonderingly, a baby, and I'm the first one ever in
the whole world to hold it. But there was no time for
wonder. With the baby came a rush of water and blood, and
she lifted it clear and saw to her horror that there was
something else - a thick, twisted rope that was attached to
the baby's stomach and seemed to disappear back into Jean's
body. At that moment the baby began to cry, its mouth
opening to a square in its tiny red face, and Judy stared at it
in wonder.
'Is it all right?' Jean was leaning up on one elbow,
panting. She stared down at Judy and reached out one hand. 'My baby? Is it all right? Is it a girl?'
'Yes.' Judy gave a quick look to make sure. 'Yes, it is. Oh,
Jean, you've got a little girl. But there's this thing, this sort
of rope . . .'
'It's the cord. Let me hold her.' Jean reached out her
arms and Judy, a little doubtful as to whether the cord
would reach, laid the baby on her mother's breast. She
dragged the cushions from where they had been flung and
heaped them behind Jean's back, and Jean rested against
them, smiling. For a moment they stayed there, recovering
their breath, gazing in wonder at the baby, so small and sonew, already turning its face into its mother's breast, seeking
the nipple.
'She's beautiful,' Jean whispered. 'Oh Judy, she's so
beautiful.'
Judy, looking at the crumpled red face, peaceful now, at
the hair plastered wetly against the little skull, at the naked
body that was grey with slime and flecked with blood,
thought that beautiful was perhaps an odd word to use. And
yet it was the right word. It was exactly the right word. And
then she caught her breath as she realised what else had
happened.
'Jean,' she whispered disbelievingly.
Jean turned her head and met her eyes enquiringly. Judy
went on, with a voice that trembled, 'Jean, I can hear. I heard
the baby cry. I can hear what you're saying to me. I can hear
birds singing - and the leaves rustling - and people calling
to each other in the hayfield. Jean - / can hear again.'Chapter Thirty-One

It was only a few moments after that when help began to
arrive. Someone had heard Jean's final scream and was
hurrying down the lane. Mrs Hazelwood had come back
from the Women's Institute meeting. In seconds it seemed
that Jean was surrounded by people, people who knew what
to do. The midwife was called. There was a flurry of activity
as the afterbirth was expelled, and then the midwife arrived,
clucking as she saw what had happened, and the cord was
cut and tied. Jean was lifted and carried into the house,
where she and the baby were both bathed, and by the time
Judy saw her again an hour or two later she was in bed, the
baby dressed in a fresh white nightgown and cradled in the
crook of one arm.
'Thanks, Judy,' she said, smiling sleepily. 'I don't know
what I'd have done without you.'
'I didn't do much. I didn't know what to do.' The miracle
of her hearing seemed almost as great to Judy as the miracle
of new life before her. 'Oh Jean, I'm glad I was there. I'm so
glad. It was awful - but it was wonderful too. She's a lovely
baby.' She smiled. 'You were right. It is a girl.'
'And I'm calling her Hope, just like I said.' Jean was quiet
for a moment, gazing at her baby and stroking her head
gently. 'You'll let everyone know, won't you? Mum and
Dad, and your family. They'll be surprised she's so early.'
'But she's all right, isn't she? It doesn't matter about her
coming so soon?'
'Well, she's very small. I'll have to take a lot of care of
her. But the midwife says she'll be all right. And MrsHazelwood is going to get the doctor to come and make
sure.' Jean looked at her. 'And you really can hear, Judy?'
Judy nodded. 'I can hear just as well as I ever could. I
think Dad was right, you know - it was a shock that stopped
me hearing, and it's a shock that's brought it back again. A
nice one, though.' She smiled and touched the baby gently
with one finger. 'And I wanted to hear again so much - just
to hear her cry.'
Jean was almost asleep and Judy tiptoed out of the room.
She went into the garden and sat down on the old bench,
and began to think of all the people she must telegraph
about the new arrival.
The warm late-summer sky was deepening into evening.
The sun was going down beyond the wall and the woods,
casting an apricot glow on the old stones and lighting the
first few golden tints of autumn in the trees. A blackbird was
singing at the top of the tree, and Judy tilted her head,
listening to it. Next to the baby's cry that had been her first
realisation that she could hear again, and she thought it
must be the most beautiful sound in the world.
I'll have to go back to the farm soon, she thought. And I'll
have to decide what to do next. Everything's different now the
baby's here and Jean's so happy with her, and I can hear
again, I can do all the things I did before. But - will there
still be a place for me, back in Portsmouth? I've been happy
here in the country, as happy as I could be while I was
locked away in that silent world. Will I be able to go back?
She listened again to the blackbird's song and decided to
put away all her worries until tomorrow. Just for now, she would be content to sit here, watching the sun set and
listening to the sounds she had thought never to hear again.
Just for now, there was no better place to be than here under
the apple tree, where Hope had been born.
For a few days, all was quiet at Ashdown. Judy had sent off
telegrams to both families and her mother had written backat once to both her and Jean. Cissie had never been much of
a letter-writer and these must have been awkward letters for
her to write, Judy thought, reading the rather stilted
congratulations to Jean. However pleased she must be to
have a grandchild, you couldn't get around the fact that
Hope was illegitimate and that life was never going to be
easy for her or her mother. And nobody could forget that
Terry, the baby's father, Cissie's only son, was dead, had
died even before he knew she was on the way. I expect they
hoped the baby would be a boy, she thought, a boy who'd be
like Terry, and they haven't even got that.
Polly wrote too, rather more warmly. She had set aside
her own feelings about the rights and wrongs of it all, and
poured out all her sympathy to Jean, the sympathy that
came from having lost her own husband and knowing what
it was like to be a woman alone with a child to bring up. But
you have a family who will help you through this, she wrote, and we'll always stand by you and your baby. She added that
she would be coming out to see them all as soon as possible she and Joe.
Joe was at St George's Barracks by now, and he and Polly
had been down to Devon to see the boys. They were living
in a small cottage with the widow who 'looked after them as
if they were her own'. Polly was secretly relieved to find that
she was a comfortable woman in her fifties who was friendly
with a local farmer - he was there when she and Joe arrived and that she clearly took the view that the boys had been
loaned to her for an indefinite period but would one day be
going back to their father. She had set a tea such as Polly
had not seen for years - salad with thick slices of real ham,
hard-boiled eggs, a mound of potatoes, a loaf of bread fresh
from the oven and stewed plums with rich, yellow clotted
cream.
// seems awful to think of all those poor people in Leningrad,
starving to death, Polly wrote to Judy, when we had all that
put in front of us. But it doesn't do them any good for us not toeat it, does it? And there are people in our own cities who aren't
a lot better off- not starving, but not well-fed either. I feel a bit
guilty about them too.
Mrs Ellacombe had given her some eggs and a jam jar full
of clotted cream to take back to the family, but it wasn't the
food that interested Polly, most about the visit. She'd been
nervous about meeting Joe's sons, she didn't mind admitting
it to Judy, but thank goodness there hadn't been any
problem at all. They'd been out playing on the moor when
she arrived and came in muddy and dirty, carrying baskets
of blackberries, their shirts hanging out of their shorts and
their socks down round their ankles just like any other little
boys, and had flung themselves at their father, obviously
thrilled to hits to see him again.
They'd been a bit shy with Polly at first, but once they'd
found out she drove an ambulance during the raids and had
seen lots of bombs falling, they had pelted her with
questions and obviously thought her a fitting friend for their
father. / don't suppose they think any further than that, she
wrote, and there's no need to for a long time yet. Me and Joe
want to take things slowly. We 're not in any hurry. But it was
clear to Judy that they both knew perfectly well where they
wanted their relationship to go, and she folded her letter
wistfully, thinking sadly of the young Observer she had sent
away and wondering what would have happened, had she let
him stay.
There was a strange feeling of expectation in the air
Everyone was waiting for America to decide to come into
the war. Japan seemed to be making preparations, and
American patrol ships were being attacked off Iceland
Britain was bombing major cities such as Hamburg while
German troops were invading Russia. There was a shared
belief that, however bad it was now and however much was
happening, there was worse to come.
Yet nothing could take away the joy that Hope had
brought with her. She was well-named, Mrs Hazelwood saidas she wheeled out the old pram and set it under the apple
tree. You could swear she was smiling, even at two weeks
old - surely such a lovely, happy expression couldn't be just
wind! - and she hardly ever cried. When Jean was allowed
out of bed to come and sit with her in the garden, it was like
the beginning of the world itself - a woman who had given
birth, at peace with her child.
Judy was with her one afternoon at the beginning of
September, the month when Hope should have been born.
She had been making scrim all morning. She'd scrubbed her
hands and face but there were still traces of dark green and
brown dye on them and even though she'd been wearing a
turban there was still dust in her hair.
'I sometimes think I'll never be clean again,' she said
ruefully. 'I'd much rather collect sphagnum moss, or even
acorns - it'll be time for them again soon.'
'I ought to be doing something too,' Jean said, stirring
restlessly. 'I'm sick of being treated like an invalid.
Honestly, I feel better than I ever have in all my life - just
getting rid of that huge bump and not getting backache or
heartburn any more is wonderful, but the midwife says I
mustn't do too much. And of course Hope needs a lot of
attention. She's so tiny.' She touched the blanket that had
been spread over the baby to keep her warm, even though
there wasn't a chill in the air. For the first few days of her
life, Hope's smallness and premature birth had caused a
little anxiety, but she had made up her birthweight again
and was obviously thriving. 'But I don't know what I should be doing. I can't put upon the Hazelwoods for ever. And
I'm not doing any real war work.'
'You could always make scrim!' Judy joked. The charm of
weaving camouflage had quickly worn off and she now
loathed the job as much as the other women did. 'But you'll
be helping Mrs Hazelwood again, like you did before, won't
you? Didn't they say you could stay on after the baby was
born?''Yes, but it's not fair to expect them to keep me and Hope.' Jean sighed. 'I don't know where else I could go,
though. Not back to Pompey, that's for sure!'
'You still haven't heard from your mum or dad, then?'
Jean shook her head. 'Nor likely to, I reckon. They've
washed their hands of me, just like Mum said they would.'
She paused, then said, 'Judy, there's something I want to
ask you.'
She sounded a little diffident and Judy looked at her in
surprise.
'What is it?' she asked.
'I'd like you to be Hope's godmother. Mr Hazelwood says
she ought to be christened in a few weeks. I want it done
here at Ashwood and I'd like you and Polly to be
godmothers. You can't be related to her in any other way,'
she went on sadly, 'and you'd have been her aunts if Terry
and me had been married. So - will you?'
'Oh Jean, I'd love to.' Judy's eyes filled with tears. 'But
we still are her aunts, Jean.' She grinned suddenly. 'And
Polly's her great-aunt! I wonder if she's thought of that? It
sounds so old, doesn't it! Who will you ask to be godfather?'
'I thought I'd ask Ben.' Jean blushed a little. 'You know he
came home last weekend and he seemed to just fall in love
with her. And we got on well too,' the blush deepened, 'and
as the Hazelwoods have been so kind to me - well, it seemed
a good idea . . .' She floundered to a stop and Judy laughed.
'It is a good idea! And Ben'll be a good friend to you
both.' She eyed Jean, wondering about that blush, but
before she could say any more she heard voices and they
both looked up to see Mrs Hazelwood coming through the
French doors and into the garden. There were two other
people with her, and at the sight of them Judy gasped and
Jean turned pale; but before either of them could say
anything, one of the newcomers came forward, speaking in a
quick, high voice as if she were embarrassed and upset and
happy all at once.'Jean!'
'Mum!' Jean sprang to her feet. 'Mum, I didn't think
you'd come. You didn't write.'
'I didn't know what to say.' Mrs Foster stopped a foot or
two away and the two gazed at each other, neither knowing
quite what to do next. 'I did try. I tried a few times, but the
words just wouldn't come out right. And then your dad said
why not just come here and see you, so we got on the train and
here we are.' She moved towards the pram and looked
down at the sleeping baby.
'She's called Hope,' Jean said, putting her hand on the
baby's blanket.
'I know. Judy told us in the telegram. Oh Jeanie.' Mrs
Foster bent closer. She touched the blanket, drawing it away
from the baby's face, and stared down at her. Tears began to
slip down her cheeks and she whispered in a breaking voice,
'Jeanie, she's so lovely.'
She turned suddenly and caught her daughter in her
arms. Jean, who had been standing a little stiffly, crumpled
against her and the two held each other close, sobbing. Mr
Foster cleared his throat and came forward to look down
into the pram, and Judy saw that his eyes too were bright
and wet with tears.
'She's been breaking her heart over this,' he murmured.
'Thought we'd lost our Jeanie for good and it was all her
fault. I said to her, "You're the girl's mother, she'll want to
make it up" -- but she was that upset, she made up her mind
that Jeanie wouldn't want to know. It took a lot for her to
come out here.' He reached out a hand and touched the
baby's face with the tip of one finger. 'Hope,' he murmured.
'Our Jean's baby. Our granddaughter. Well, what a little
peach you are. What a little beauty.' He turned to his
daughter. 'Come here, girl, and give your dad a kiss.'
Judy caught Mrs Hazelwood's eye. The vicar's wife
nodded to her and they both tiptoed back into the house.
'They'll need to be alone,' Mrs Hazelwood said. 'I'll takeout some tea in a little while. I think things will be all right
now.'
'Yes,' Judy said, and glanced out through the French
windows at the little group under the apple tree. 'I think
they will.'
Once the Fosters had been to see their daughter and new
granddaughter, Judy felt more at a loose end than ever.
There was plenty to do, for they were making desert scrim
now, the colour of sand, and instead of black and green their
hands were stained with pink and brown. The sphagnum
collecting was still going on and there were blackberries and
mushrooms coming along. Nothing could be wasted; even
though the country fresh food was more plentiful than in
town, anything that couldn't be produced locally or had 'to
be imported was just as strictly rationed. And even some of
the local foods were under threat. The Suttons were
desperately anxious about their cows, many of whom would
have to be slaughtered when winter came because no grain
was being imported and there would be no feed for them.
'That means a shortage of milk and butter and no cream
at all,' Mrs Sutton said. 'And the hens'll have to go too,
though they can live on scraps - if there are any.' She
sighed. 'I don't know what we're all going do, I'm sure. I
don't know what the world's coming to.'
Judy went out into the orchard and looked up at the apple
trees. The fruit was swelling and ripening now, little globes
of gold and scarlet amongst the leaves. She thought back to
the first time she had stood under these trees, when they had
been smothered in pink and white blossom, its scent strong
enough to waft through her open window at night. So short a time ago, and yet so much had happened. The bombing that
terrible raid in which Polly had been trapped in that
collapsed building - her deafness - Terry's death - Jean's
pregnancy and now the birth of Hope. All in a few months.
And the war was not vet over. It was clear now that itwould go on for months, maybe years. If America came in,
and Japan attacked, what would happen then? Like Mrs
Sutton, she didn't know what the world was coming to.
Other things had happened too, she thought. Sean had
died, and she'd met Chris Barrett. Chris, who had come out
here to Ashdown to find her. Whom she'd sent away
because she was deaf and couldn't hear his voice.
What a stupid reason, she thought, suddenly and
savagely. What a stupid, stupid reason!
A sound made her turn. Mrs Hazelwood was coming into
the orchard. She smiled at Judy and came over to her.
'Mrs Sutton told me you were here.' She was carrying a
folder and some papers. 'There's something I want to ask
you, Judy. Can we sit down for a moment?'
Judy led her to the old seat that stood against the wall
where it could catch the last of the evening sun. Mr Sutton,
who seldom rested, occasionally sat here with a glass of cider
after the day's work was over. 'What is it? What's happened?
Is Jean all right - and the baby?'
'Yes, yes, they're both well. And Jean's starting to work
again in the house and helping with some of the local war
work as well. I've told her she can stay as long as she likes -- we're glad to have her - and I think that's what she's going
to do,' Mrs Hazelwood said. 'No, the reason I came was to
ask what you were going to do now, Judy. I've thought just lately that you seemed a little uncertain - as if you felt that
now you had your hearing back, you ought to be doing
more.'
'Well, I do.' Judy met her eyes. 'And I should, shouldn't
I? I'm fit and healthy - there's nothing wrong with me now.
I ought to be doing my bit, same as everyone else my age. I
mean, I don't mind making scrim - not more than anyone
else does, anyway - but I ought to be doing something more
than that.'
'And have you thought what that might be?' the vicar's
wife asked quietly. She tapped the folder on her lap. 'I havea few suggestions to make, if you haven't made up your
mind. The women's Services - you may well be called up
soon anyway, and it's better to volunteer so that you have a
choice. But the WVS can always find a place for young
women like you, energetic and capable, and if you feel you'd
like to stay here with us, I can certainly offer you plenty of
work. Perhaps you'd like to think about it.'
Judy gazed at her. She looked around the orchard and up
into the rippling leaves of the tree, lit by its gleaming fruits.
She thought of the devastation of Portsmouth, the nights of
fear and destruction, the terror of thinking Polly dead and
the nightmare of her deafness. She thought of Sean and
Terry and Johnny, all dead, and then of Chris, who was still
alive.
'No,' she said slowly, and then again as certainty grew in
her mind, 'no, Mrs Hazelwood. Thank you, but I can't stay
in the country. I love it here - I hope I'll come back to see
you all, lots of times, when peace comes. But for now, I've
got to go back. I've got a job in Portsmouth, with the Lady
Mayoress. There's work for me to do there. And - and
there's someone I have to see as well.'
There was a small silence. Then, with the thought of
Chris filling her mind and warming her heart, she added
quietly, 'That's where my life is - in Portsmouth. That's
where I belong.'