Poppy Day

by Annie Murray

  The cracking sound seemed loud as a bullet from a gun. She sat up, wide awake again, heart beating like mad. Silence, then it came again. Someone was throwing things at her window. There was a third rap on the pane as she crept across the floor.

  She could make out nothing through the pane, and, pulling at the sash, was surprised when the window opened easily.

  ‘Jess?’

  She could barely find the breath to answer. His voice, low and cautious.

  ‘Ned!’

  ‘Can yer come down?’

  ‘Wait – I’ll come to the back . . .’

  She fumbled into her cardigan, fingers almost useless, breath coming in snatches, whispering frantically to herself. ‘Oh my God, oh please . . .’ It was like a dream, speeding down the stairs in her bare feet, noticing nothing, neither the cold nor the dark. She unbolted the back door and saw the shape of him, faintly silhouetted in the doorway against the snow-covered yard. They both stood quite still. Jess could think straight about nothing, why he was here, what she might say, could only see him standing there where she’d never expected to find him.

  ‘Can I come in? Is it safe?’

  ‘The lady’s asleep – ages ago I s’pect.’ Jess stepped back and he stamped the snow from his boots as gently as he could before coming in. She took a candle from the cupboard, lit it and stood it in a holder on the table. Across its light they looked at one another in silence.

  At last he said, ‘Is it true?’ His face was fearful, tender.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Polly. She came this morning.’

  ‘Polly? Why did she . . .? I daint ask her to come and see yer, honest. I weren’t going to force yer . . . to interfere with your life when yer’d said yer didn’t want me . . .’

  ‘Jess – for God’s sake, tell me.’

  Slowly, she nodded.

  ‘A babby . . . you . . .’ He went to the back window, staring, for long moments, though there was nothing to see in its opaqueness. Softly, behind him, she started to cry. Eventually he turned round and stood watching her.

  ‘God, Jess – I feel like doing that too.’ Gradually, he came over to her. ‘I’m frightened to touch you because if I do I shan’t be able to let go of yer. What can I do? I can’t go on like this any more. I hate myself for it.’

  Not understanding, she looked up at him. ‘Why did you come then?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t stay away. When Poll came and told me . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘For heaven’s sake – come ’ere.’ He pulled her to him so fiercely she gasped, and feeling his arms round her, sank into them, crying wildly. He held her close, rocking and soothing her, one hand in her thick hair, pressing her head close to his chest.

  ‘It’s no good.’ He was near to tears himself, the tension inside him near breaking point. ‘I can’t go on with Mary – trying to be a good husband to ’er when all the time my mind’s with you, all the time I can think about you and nothing else. Being away and that – away from you – I thought I’d come to terms with it. But I can’t. I love yer so much, want yer so much, I’m frightened to death by it, and that’s the truth.’

  She looked up into his eyes, quieter now, almost forgetting to breathe when she heard what he said, the strength of feeling in it.

  ‘What . . . what d’yer mean?’

  ‘Mary’s got ’er mom. It’ll be bad for ’er, but she’ll manage. That’s if yer still want me, after what I’ve writ to yer . . .’

  ‘Want you!’ She pulled away from him, standing back, afraid. ‘You mean you’re going to . . . to . . .?’

  He gave a great shuddering sigh, afraid of the words he was about to say. ‘To leave Mary and come to you. I’ll have to tell ’er. Soon. Before I go. I don’t know what’s right any more except being with you. I know I love you, Jess. I can’t stay away from yer. I married Mary when I didn’t know how it was possible to feel, though I can’t blame ’er for that. But I’ve got to be with you. I knew if I saw yer again it’d be like this.’ Jess moved close to him. ‘D’yer mean it? You’d really . . .’ ‘Yes, love, I do. It’s all I can do, loving you.’ ‘And me,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all I can do.’ She put her arms round him and they held each other close, awed by what this meant, by the feeling between them which wouldn’t die, however hard they’d each tried to stamp it out.

  Twenty

  A week later, at work, Jess began to be troubled by low, grumbling pains. On the walk home they became agonizing, and before reaching the house she had to stop, bent over with the cramps in her body and a sudden wetness. Looking down, she saw blood on the ground. Doubled up with the pain, she tried to make sense of what was happening to her. The red stain spread, melting into the snow. She made it home in fits and starts, legs soaked with blood.

  Inside the house she fell to her knees at the foot of the stairs, arms pressed into her as the pain tore across her. She heard herself moaning, as if it was someone else.

  ‘Jess?’ Iris clumped along the hall. ‘Whatever’s the matter, dear? Oh, my word . . .’ One hand went to her mouth.

  Jess was sobbing with pain. ‘The babby . . . it’s . . . I’m losing—’ She broke into an anguished moan. Whatever use was Iris going to be? ‘Oh help me!’

  But Iris Whitman, in her odd way, couldn’t have been a better person to be present at this time, Jess acknowledged after it was over. Unshockable, somehow detached from social conventions, she was calm and practical.

  ‘Miss Davitt will know – I’ll just be a moment, dear.’ She pulled herself to the door. It closed behind her with a waft of snowy air. There was a moment’s lull in the pain. Jess pressed her cheek to the cool lino. She couldn’t think about anything, only try to get through those moments, fighting the pain.

  Miss Davitt helped Jess up to bed. She was more flustered than Iris, but kindly.

  ‘Poor little thing,’ she kept saying. She pressed a pad of soft, folded cotton between Jess’s legs. ‘I’ve sent for the doctor – soon be here, dear. Oh you poor young thing . . .’

  Jess lay on her side, knees drawn up, biting on a folded corner of the sheet as the pains came and went. Sometimes it was so bad, she cried out. Iris sent Miss Davitt up with warm water for her to sip, but it made her sick. The two women hovered round. Jess heard them talking in low voices outside the door. She felt helpless and completely humiliated.

  ‘Ned,’ she whispered. ‘Oh Ned – our little babby . . .’ Her tears ran on to the pillow. For all the trouble and anguish the pregnancy had caused her, its failure was terrible. She could not give him a child, as Mary could. Mary was a proper woman. He’ll go back to her now, she thought. She has a child and I’ll have none. He won’t stay with me now . . .

  She managed to stop crying when the doctor came in, a thin, tired-looking young man with a sharp manner. Iris appeared behind him, which later, Jess saw, was a true act of friendship on her behalf, though at the time she gave it no thought.

  ‘So – miscarrying, then?’ The doctor didn’t look at her, but put his bag down on the end of the bed and opened it. ‘Let’s see if we can deal with it all here, shall we, not have to send you into hospital?’

  Jess nodded, frightened.

  ‘Much bleeding?’

  She nodded again. Miss Davitt had twice had to find replacement strips of stuff to stem the thick flow of it.

  The doctor examined her. His fingers prodding her stomach made her moan, she felt so tender.

  ‘So . . .’ he eyed her ringless finger. ‘Miss er . . .’

  It was Iris who spoke up. ‘Mrs. Mrs Green. Her husband’s in the army.’

  Jess felt a kind of love for Iris at that moment.

  ‘Well, Mrs Green. By the looks of what your losing, the miscarriage is a thorough one. You’ll need rest – several days, after the bleeding stops. Any problems – your temperature going up, or if the bleeding gets heavier, call me again. Otherwise you should be back to normal.’

  Miss Davitt saw him out and, Jess realized, must have paid him as w
ell.

  Iris stood by the bed looking down at Jess’s white face. Her pale eyes were watery.

  ‘Sad,’ she said. ‘Very sad. Whatever anyone else might say.’

  Jess’s eyes filled with tears again. ‘Thank you, Iris,’ she whispered.

  She lay in bed for a week, looked after by Miss Davitt, who prayed at her bedside, and Iris. Miss Davitt was a quiet presence in her flat, silent shoes. She was kind, effective and utterly reserved. Jess never got to know her any better, nor did she know what Miss Davitt believed to be the truth about her situation. One morning she placed on the chair by Jess’s bed a little glass containing a few snowdrops.

  ‘Surprising what grows, even in the depths of winter,’ she said, when Jess thanked her. She was touched, tears welling again, as they seemed to so easily in her low state. For hour after hour she looked at the flowers’ delicate white, their shading of green underlying the petals. Her mind was hazy and unfocused. The bleeding slowed, but she was weak. She felt scoured and empty.

  Iris was much noisier, unable to climb the stairs without the rhythmic thump of her crutch, sometimes an exclamation of ‘Ooops – oh dear me!’ as she almost lost her balance, or a little argument with Miss Davitt about her going up there when there was someone else to help.

  But Jess liked it when Iris came up and sat with her, found her smell of old wool comforting. She didn’t say much, often, but she gave off a sympathy of the sort that didn’t tut and cluck about how sorry she was, which made Jess just want to cry again. It was something more fundamental. A feeling that she understood about Ned, about love and loss. She went straight to the heart of things.

  ‘Anyone else would have put me out on the street,’ Jess said to her one day. Iris sat on the chair by her, holding the glass of snowdrops. Her crutch was propped against the wall, and a wedge of winter sunshine was brightening the room. Outside, the snow was beginning to thaw.

  Iris was silent, just held her head to one side in a considering way.

  ‘People are cruel,’ Jess said.

  ‘God sent you to me.’

  Jess thought about this. Iris said odd things. But it felt true.

  ‘Cruelty is part of life, remember,’ Iris said. ‘What about his wife? She must feel life is cruel.’

  Iris had met Ned, the day before his leave ended. He had gone to Mary, to tell her. When he came back he was in a bad state, agitated, full of shame. They explained to Iris, but even then, hadn’t told her about the child. Perhaps she had guessed in any case.

  ‘The way it feels, it should just be between me and him,’ Jess said. ‘But nothing’s like that, is it? Not really private. Things always bring in other people.’

  She thought a lot about her father during those long, dreamlike days. His love for Louisa which, as she understood it, had been so strong, so exclusive that it could scarcely encompass the love of a child as well. For the first time she really wondered what her mother had felt for him. That embrace, that private moment she had come upon that time. It was his face she saw, which wore that expression of completion, of bliss. Louisa’s face had been turned away from her.

  Gradually she felt stronger. She could sit up and eat, then go downstairs. Going outside seemed a possibility.

  I’ll have to write and tell him about the babby. The thought weighed on her, filling her with dread.

  When Polly came, she was full of remorse.

  ‘Oh Jess – if we’d only known! You going through all that with no one round yer!’

  ‘I’m awright.’ Jess patted her hand, trying to smile. ‘Iris and Miss Davitt have been good to me. And I feel better now.’

  At first Polly was wary with Iris.

  ‘No need to worry,’ Jess told her. ‘She knows everything and she’s been ever so kind.’ She saw Polly watching Iris when she came into the room, could tell she was thinking how odd she was, wondering how Jess could confide in such a person. Seeing her through Polly’s eyes, Jess noticed again what a mess Iris looked, how peculiar and badly fitting her clothes were, her patched old skirt like a sack on her, the enormous, stained blouse and garish blue shawl. Jess had simply got used to her, her looks and strangeness, and grown fond of her.

  When they were alone Polly said, ‘Mary’s been round. If she sees yer she’ll kill yer, the state she’s in.’

  ‘You didn’t tell ’er . . .’ Jess half got to her feet in alarm. The thought of Mary turning up on her doorstep on top of everything else was too much.

  ‘No. Even Mom kept quiet. But yer can’t blame ’er, Jess. She’s got a child to bring up and you . . . Well, you ain’t, now, ’ave yer? I mean ’e should really do the right thing and go back to ’er.’

  She looked across at her cousin. Jess’s hair was loose, lying thick on her shoulders. She had folded her arms, hugging herself, and was crying quietly.

  ‘Oh Jess!’ Polly went to her, kneeling to hold her close. ‘You don’t ’alf get into some messes, you do! Why don’t you think for ’alf a second before yer do things?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Jess sniffed. ‘I never meant – I mean I just . . .’

  ‘I know.’ Polly smiled into her face. ‘Yer just can’t help yerself. I don’t know – I’ll go grey early having you around! At least though . . .’ She hesitated. ‘You ’ain’t got the babby to worry about no more.’ Seeing that this made Jess cry even harder, she said, ‘I’m sorry, but you know what I mean, and eh – maybe our mom’ll let yer come home now?’ Ned sat at a scratched table, a thin pad of blank paper in front of him. For their leisure time they had been given the use of the Parish Rooms in Boldmere, a suburb near Sutton Coldfield, and around him was a buzz of conversation from the other lads, someone plinking out a tune on the old piano. He sat with one elbow on the table, cheek resting on his upturned hand, staring across the room, seeing nothing.

  ‘Yer coming out for a pint?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Eh, Ned? A pint – yer coming?’

  ‘Oh—’ Ned roused himself. ‘No, ta Jem. Not tonight.’

  ‘What’s up, pal? Not bad news? Your missis ain’t playing you up, is she?’

  ‘No. No – you go. I’ll stop ’ere tonight.’

  ‘Awright – please yerself.’

  Ned watched his two pals go, joking together, to the door. He picked up his pen.

  Dearest Jess,

  I’m so sorry to hear . . .

  He tore the sheet of paper from the pad, screwed it up, sat twisting the pen round between his fingers. Had it been true? Doubts nagged at him. Had she told him she was expecting to make him leave Mary? But no – no. That night, the night he’d gone to her and they’d lain together she’d taken his hand, placed it on her belly, and he’d felt it, the unmistakable little rise in it, spongy but definite. And that wouldn’t be like her, to lie to him. A wave of tenderness passed through him.

  16.1.’15.

  Dear Jess,

  I got your letter today. Your news about the baby has knocked me for six and I’m sorry you’ve been so poorly. I hope you feel better now. Don’t feel badly about it, love. It’s not your fault, you’ve been under a lot of strain. We’ll have other children, you and me, won’t we?

  I know why you’re frightened of what I might do now you’re not in the family way, but don’t be. I love you with all my heart and I’m coming back to you. I said so, didn’t I? It wasn’t just the baby that made me decide. It would’ve happened in the end because I can’t do without you.

  No time to write more. My mom and dad deserve a letter. But I wanted to tell you not to worry, because you’re everything to me, whatever else.

  Your very loving,

  Ned

  16.1.’15.

  Dear Mom and Dad . . .

  Again, he sat for a long time, turning the pen round and round. Imagining his parents at their table, eggs in front of them, the morning post propped by the teapot. Reading his letter. His father’s incomprehension, his mother crying. Slowly he began, honestly, trying to explain what to them would
be inexplicable.

  ‘Jess – there’s someone to see you.’

  Jess had been lying down upstairs. It was Sunday afternoon and she was gathering her strength to go back to work next day, worrying in case she’d lost her job from being off sick. She hadn’t even heard the knock on the door.

  From the top of the stairs she saw Olive looking up at her from the hall. Jess stopped and laid a hand on her chest.

  ‘Oh – Auntie!’

  ‘Go in the front room, dear,’ Iris said, clump-clumping her way through to the back.

  Jess led her aunt into the chilly front room, and they stood looking at one another in the grey light from the window. Olive was wearing her best Sunday frock. She still had her hat on.

  ‘So. Yer better then?’ Her voice was gruff.

  ‘Yes, ta.’

  Olive walked to the fireplace, stood on the little mat, eyeing the ash in the grate. Jess looked at the thin twist of hair low on her neck. For a moment the only sound was Olive’s harsh breathing.

  ‘I didn’t want yer bringing a babby into my ’ouse.’

  ‘I know, Auntie.’

  ‘No – yer don’t. Yer don’t know, and yer don’t need to.’ She turned, her expression terrible. ‘I could spit on yer, Jess, that I could, for what yer’ve done. Ned . . . were a good lad before you come along.’ Her mouth twisted bitterly to one side. ‘I s’pose ’e’ll go back and patch things up with ’er now, if ’e’s got any sense, though that seems to ’ve flown out of the window from what ’e used to be like. You’re a – a – disgrace, the pair of yer. I can’t even say what you are . . .’ She made a despairing gesture with her hands, holding them up, then letting them drop.