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