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.