spoke firmly. ‘Jean, I do not expect you to work all day long.
If you’ll just help out a bit in the mornings with some
cleaning - light cleaning - and doing the vegetables for
lunch, that will be quite enough. I mean it.’
‘But it’s not enough! I know it isn’t. A great big house
like this,’ Jean waved her hand at the sprawling Victorian
house, built in an age when vicars were expected to have
large families. ‘It needs a lot of looking after. And I’m
supposed to be working for my keep. Just doing a bit of
sweeping and peeling a few potatoes isn’t enough for that.’
‘Well,’ Mrs Hazelwood hesitated. ‘If you really want to
do more, you could take over the ironing. The vicar needs a
clean shirt every day, and there’s his dog-collars and his
surplices - there always seems to be a mountain of ironing
waiting to be done. But I don’t want you to stand for long
periods. You can sit on a high stool to do it, and you must
promise me that you’ll stop at once if you feel tired or your
back starts to ache.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Jean promised. ‘I quite like ironing anyway.
And I thought I might look after the ornaments in the
morning room as well. All those lovely pieces of china - I’d
really enjoy dusting them. That’s if you’ll trust me not to
drop them,’ she added hastily.
Mrs Hazelwood smiled. ‘Of course I trust you, my dear.
And I’d just like to say how much the vicar and I enjoy
having you with us. You seem to have fitted in so well - it’s
hard to believe you’ve only been here a week. And with Ben
gone, the house would seem so empty.’
Ben had written already from his RAF training camp, and
seemed to be enjoying it very much. He had written to Judy
as well, telling her rather more than he told his parents, and
she read his letter two or three times and then put it in a
drawer beside her bed. He seemed so young, she thought, so
young to be a pilot and risk his life. She thought of her
brother Terry, only a few years older and dead already. Ben
was a bit like a younger brother; she hoped he would
survive. Surely some of them must. Or would the war just
go on and on until there was nobody left to fight?
There had been more raids on Portsmouth and Polly
wrote to tell her that a huge bomb had fallen in Torrington
Road, not far from September Street, and buried itself
beneath a house. The bomb disposal squad had come to
defuse it and announced that, although it was now safe, it I
couldn’t be moved. There just wasn’t time, when there were
so many other bombs all over the city. It wasn’t a danger to anyone so could be left where it was for the time being,I wouldn’t like it, though, Polly had written. Imagine knowing there was a bomb under your floor! I mean, how do they know for certain it’s safe?
Towards the end of the month Hitler invaded Russia. He sent in three million troops — three million! Judy thought in
astonishment - and kept only six hundred thousand to cover
Europe and North Africa. Even that sounded a lot. Mr
Churchill immediately proposed an alliance with Russia and
Stalin accepted. It seemed very strange, when you remembered
that Russia had once been on Germany’s side, but this
war seemed to grow stranger and stranger as time went on.
Friends one day, enemies the next, and then the whole lot
ganging up on someone else. Like children in a playground,
Judy thought, only these games were much more dangerous.
Now that she was out in the country, she felt her anxiety
begin to diminish again. The peace she had known when she
was here before stole over her heart again, and the panic that
never seemed far away when she was in Portsmouth
receded. She felt ashamed, thinking of all those she had left
behind to face the bombing and the dangers, and threw
herself even more whole-heartedly into her voluntary work.
‘You could help with the pie scheme,’ Mrs Hazelwood
suggested when Judy went to ask what she could do. ‘We
always seem to need volunteers for that.’
‘The pie scheme?’
‘Yes. It’s called the Hampshire County Pie Scheme and
it’s approved by the Ministry of Food. A baker in Romsey
makes the pies and we pay him threepence-ha’penny each.
The public pays fourpence, so we make a ha’penny profit,
which we pay into our bank account and then send on to
Winchester. We’re allowed to deduct our expenses postage,
telephone calls and so on. We can order up to three
hundred pies a week, but if we need more we have to apply
for the baker to be permitted extra fat and meat.’
‘But what happens to the pies?’ Judy asked when she had
digested this information, conveyed by a mixture of clear
speaking and written notes. ‘Who has them all?’
‘Oh, all sorts of people. Land Girls, farmers, villagers, old
people who can’t manage to cook a meal any more. The pies
are very much appreciated, I can tell you. We collect them in the mornings when they’re baked and take them all
around the village and quite a long way into the outlying
countryside. It helps the rations along and saves people
cooking at lunch time.’
‘Lunchtime’ to Judy had always been ‘dinnertime’, when
she was used to having the main meal of the day. She could
see that it would be helpful to farmers’ wives not to have to
cook a large midday meal for all the farmworkers, and would
save their having to return to the house from distant fields.
‘So would you want me to take pies round?’ she asked a little
doubtfully. ‘I mean, I don’t really know the area that well. I
might get lost and wouldn’t be able to find my way back,
what with all the signposts being taken down and not being
able to ask, the way. And I’m not sure how many pies I could
carry on my bike.’
‘No, we wouldn’t expect you to do that. We use one of
the vans in the car pool. But if you could just take over the
paperwork?’
A few hours later, Judy found herself poring over a large
box filled with forms and letters. ‘I can see why you always
need volunteers for this,’ she said ruefully, and Mrs
Hazelwood looked a little apologetic.
‘I know. It’s dreadful, isn’t it, all that paperwork just for a few pies. But the Ministry insists, and I suppose they know
best.’ She glanced at the heap of letters. ‘You wouldn’t think
there was a paper shortage, would you!’
‘I should think this is the reason why there’s a paper
shortage,’ Judy said grimly, beginning to sort through. ‘It’s
worse than Portsmouth Corporation!’
The pie scheme was meticulously recorded. First, there
was a letter telling Mrs Hazelwood that approval had been
given for Ashwood to be a part of it, and explaining the
prices. Enclosed with this had been the forms for making
out monthly returns which must be sent in together with the
bakers’ receipts and paying-in slips (in duplicate). Then
there was a paying-in book (in triplicate) which must be used every time money was paid into the bank. There was a
licence for the baker to make meat pies, listing the
ingredients he was permitted to use and a large number
(including such items as syrup, table jellies and crystallised
fruits) which could not by any stretch of the imagination be
found in meat pies. Some of them Judy had not seen since
before the war; some, like soya flour, she had never even
heard of.
Well, it was probably meant to cover all contingencies,
not just meat pies. She turned to the next letter, which
appeared to be a stern reproof to someone for not enclosing
the baker’s receipt with the previous return. This was
followed by an equally severe reminder that on no account must the baker be asked for pies beyond the number for which he was licensed, and then a request that another form
be completed to show the number of pies distributed each
week during the eight weeks of April and May. The weeks
were numbered one to eight (that’s clever! Judy thought
sarcastically) and the pies should be entered in the column
headed subs, meals (what did that mean when it was at
home?) and no other entry was required, other than a
signature. Judy tried hard but could not think of any other
entry that the unfortunate filler-in might be tempted to
make. On the other hand, she thought, maybe I can.
The correspondence went on. Someone had noticed that
some months had five weeks and there was a letter about
this. A form had been sent out to ask for an overdue return
- there must have been quite a few, Judy thought, for them
to make a special form about them - and a somewhat
plaintive note that not so many pies had been distributed
during the previous month. Were the people who received
them less keen on the pies? Was there something wrong
with the pies? Perhaps it would be better to have pies only
twice a week instead of three times, or even just on Fridays.
Returns would, of course, still have to be made and the
money paid in as usual. Oh, and a shilling too much had been paid in last week and could the sender please deduct
this amount next time. By the time Mrs Hazelwood came in
again with a cup of coffee Judy’s head was spinning and she
felt that she never wanted to see a meat pie again in the
whole of her life.
‘Listen to this!’ she said, barely acknowledging the coffee
and biscuit that had been placed beside her. ‘Just listen! You
have entered i/- as Petty Cash and instead of deducting it from the ha’penny levy of Ł1.$.6d you have added it on and paid in pounds .6.6d, which of course is 2/- too much, and there is also the //- paid in excess last month, so that altogether you appear to have paid in 3/- too much. Perhaps you will be good enough to
adjust this when you next pay money in to the Pie Account. Someone,’ she said, looking indignantly at Mrs Hazelwood, ‘has spent time — precious, valuable time — working out
what’s been paid in and what hasn’t and where it should
have been instead. It must cost more to do that than they
ever get back in profit. Why do they bother? And look - just look at this return. It’s worse than an exam. It’ll take half the afternoon just to fill it in, let alone add this and deduct that, and get it all right! And it doesn’t matter how often they
write,’ she went on, scrabbling amongst the papers, ‘or what
the letter’s about, it always ends up with / enclose a few
monthly returns. What do they think we do with them all, eat them? Or maybe they think we put them into the pies.
Honestly, I can see why nobody sticks this job for long.’
Mrs Hazelwood was almost helpless with laughter. She
sank into a chair and wiped her streaming eyes while Judy
continued to stare at her indignantly. Then Judy’s lips
began to twitch and she began to giggle. She turned the box
upside down and tipped the papers out on to the floor.
‘There! That’s what I think of that! Still, I suppose it’ll
have to be done, or the poor people who buy these pies will
have to go without. But honestly, Mrs Hazelwood, is it
really doing any good?’
‘Well, it isn’t as successful as it was expected to be,’ the
vicar’s wife admitted. ‘But even if only one person who
needs pies gets them it will be worthwhile. And who knows
what the poor woman who writes these letters feels about it
all? If she believes she’s doing useful work towards the war
effort, then it’s good for her, isn’t it?’
Judy managed to get the gist of this and bent to scoop up
the papers. ‘I suppose so. But if they make all this fuss and
write all these letters about a few pies, how on earth do they
manage to run a war? Anyway, I’m sure we don’t need all
these letters now, Mrs Hazelwood. Is it all right if I throw
the old ones away?’
‘I should think so. But don’t just put them in the bin, will
you? They are official correspondence and we ought to
dispose of them carefully. You’d better put the important
ones into a box and store it in a cupboard somewhere, and
then take the rest down to the end of the garden. Mr
Honey’s having a bonfire.’
Judy drank her coffee and sorted through the papers
again, setting aside those she considered worth keeping
(including the monthly returns) and piling the others on her
desk. Then she set off to the end of the garden, where the
ancient man who came in three days a week to tend the
vegetables was stoking up a bonfire of prunings and spring
clippings.
‘Ah,’ he said when Judy approached. ‘Come to have a bit
of a warm, have ‘ee?’ He laughed uproariously while Judy
smiled politely, having no idea what he had said. He saw the
papers in her arms. ‘Want to put them papers on the fire?’
‘Yes, please. Shall I throw them on now?’
He shook his head decisively. ‘No, that’ll do no good,
they’ll just scorch round the edges if you puts ‘em on in a
pile, see, and then drift about all over the village in the
wind.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Secret papers, be
they?’
‘Not really; no,’ Judy said, catching on to the last phrase.
‘
‘But they’ve got to be disposed of.’ She made to throw them