Poppy Day

by Annie Murray

  ‘. . . heated for ten hours,’ Mr Stevenson was saying. ‘When they’ve cooled they’ll be picked up from here to have the fuse caps fitted. Now – have you got all that?’

  The detonators went into the drum looking dark and tarnished, and emerged as if reborn, a shiny copper colour. Next door the girls varnished them and stood them to dry on racks. Jess rather liked the new work, the fact that she was alone, the rhythmic rumbling of the drum.

  When they got home that evening, a letter had arrived from Bert. The Dardanelles had been evacuated earlier in the month and he’d been reposted to Mesopotamia, had had a bad dose of fever but was feeling better. Olive seemed as if a weight had been lifted from her, and was in a good mood. When Jess told her about the new work, she made a face.

  ‘’E put a dreamy so-and-so like you on doing that? Heaven help ’em – I just ’ope yer don’t send the whole place sky high!’

  Jess laughed, happy at her aunt’s warmth towards her.

  She settled into the work, in the ‘Danger Shed’ or what quickly became known as the ‘Rumbling Shed’, and managed it without mishap. She was happy in the job. But even working alone, she soon picked up the fact that there was discontent growing among some of the other women, through murmurings during the breaks or through Polly and Sis repeating the gossip.

  One morning when they got to the factory they found a group huddled round the entrance, arms folded, their faces defiant.

  ‘We’ve come out on strike,’ one of them said importantly. Vi was one of the older women at the works, the sort you didn’t tangle with and a natural leader. ‘We reckon we’d all be better off on piece work, so that’s what we’re asking ’im for, when ’e comes in.’

  Jess and Polly hesitated, but by the look of it, with everyone else out, they didn’t have much choice but to join in. The morning was damp and very cold. They stood in groups, their breath billowing like smoke.

  ‘Are they right?’ Jess asked Polly. She didn’t know what to think about it, but most of the women had years more experience of factory work than she did. ‘D’yer think we’d be better off? We don’t seem bad off now, compared with before.’

  Polly hunched her shoulders to raise her collar higher round her ears. ‘I dunno – it’s worth a try anyhow. They could’ve chosen a better day for it though.’ Her nose was pink with the cold, eyes watering in the chill wind and her skin yellow. Although among some of the ‘canaries’ the yellowness was a sign of pride, a sign of what they were doing for the war effort, Polly loathed it. ‘Makes me look really poorly and ugly,’ she complained sometimes, looking in the mirror. ‘Blasted TNT. I’m all sore and itchy round me collar from it an’ all. Maybe I should look for another job.’ But it suited them all for now, going off to work at the same place.

  Sis looked round at the crowd filling the yard. ‘Oh well – this makes a change from being in there, don’t it?’ she said cheerfully. ‘Ooh, I wonder what old Misery Guts is going to say when ’e gets in!’

  A few moments later Mr Stevenson came round the corner, the collar of his black coat up to keep the wind out, hat pulled well down to stop it blowing off. Though a quiet man, he had a strong presence and the women fell silent as he approached, all watching him. Jess felt her stomach tighten. It was only then it occurred to her that Mr Stevenson was a nice man and she liked him, didn’t want to make him angry.

  ‘O-oh,’ someone said. ‘’Ere we go!’

  Seeing them all standing there by the sheds he faltered for a moment. Jess saw the surprise, then concern register on his face, eyes scanning the sheds as he hurried towards them.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He looked over at the Rumbling Shed. ‘Has something happened? Is everyone all right?’

  He didn’t sound furious at all. Jess had expected him to lose his temper at the loss of time and order them all back to work. But then she saw by the way his gaze swept over the sheds that he was worried there might have been an accident.

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’ Vi moved forward, arms folded. She was a broad, muscular-looking woman with black hair on her top lip almost like a ’tache. ‘We’ve come out to ask yer to put us on piece work, like they’ve got over at Dalston’s. We ain’t happy with it being a fixed wage, like, and we’re all fast workers. We think we’d do better on piece work.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Mr Stevenson took his hat off and looked down, obviously considering this, his dark eyes scanning the muddy surface of the yard. His black hair blew boyishly down over his forehead. After they had stood waiting for a couple more moments he looked up at them.

  ‘The thing is, ladies—’ He spoke in a reasonable tone, and rather quietly so that some of the women moved closer to hear, leaning towards him. ‘I know every one of you is working very hard here – not much in the way of holiday time and so on . . .’

  ‘None at all, yer mean,’ someone mumbled behind Jess.

  ‘Sssh,’ Jess turned to them, without thinking.

  ‘Oi – who d’yer think you’re telling to shoosh? Think yer above the rest of us now yer over there, do yer?’

  Jess blushed, and stared straight ahead of her.

  ‘I do want to do what’s best,’ Mr Stevenson was saying. ‘But the problem is, we’re going to find that the amount of work coming to us varies from time to time. Sometimes you might be right about earning more on piece work – fractionally more anyway. Other times when things’re slower, it’ll be less. So if you stay on the regular wage . . .’ He looked round at them with genuine, disarming concern. He knew, and they knew, that they were now earning better than most of them had ever earned in their lives before. ‘You’ll be guaranteed that coming in every week instead of it going up and down – especially down.’

  There was silence for a moment as the women digested all this.

  ‘So ’ow come Dalston’s do it the other way?’ Vi didn’t want to give in too easily.

  Mr Stevenson shrugged. ‘Up to them, isn’t it? I’m just telling you what I think’s the best for you. So – that’s my point of view.’ They could tell that, for all the gentleness of his tone, he was not going to be argued with. ‘Are you in agreement?’

  Again Jess’s mouth leaped ahead of her. ‘Yes!’ she cried.

  Mr Stevenson almost smiled. The corners of his wide mouth twitched as Jess’s face went even pinker.

  Vi, after conferring with her neighbour, gave a nod. ‘If that’s the way it is, we’ll stick with the wage.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Stevenson said. He put his hat back on firmly and turned towards the shed that served as an office. ‘Good morning, ladies.’

  This was his way of telling them to get to work. A card had come from Ned to Iris’s saying he’d arrived in France and would write properly soon, and Jess tried to fill her time so that it would pass more quickly, keeping herself as busy as possible.

  On Christmas Day she went to see Iris Whitman, who was under the weather with a cold. Jess stoked up the fire for her, making her tea and pampering her as much as possible. She’d considered buying her a little bottle of brandy to help warm her up, but thought the better of it because of Iris’s religion. Iris had no desire to possess knick-knacks of any kind, so instead, Jess found her a nice second-hand blanket for her bed, and bought a few groceries to go with it.

  ‘Ooh,’ Iris was childlike with delight, her face rearranging itself into one of her rare and beautiful smiles. She spread the blanket over her lap, stroking the soft wool. ‘My goodness, they must be paying you well nowadays.’

  ‘They are,’ Jess beamed, warmed by Iris’s pleasure. ‘When I got my first wage packet I went and got my mom’s quilt back.’ She’d told Iris long ago that she’d pawned the quilt, though not the full reason why.

  ‘Well—’ Iris said, holding up her teacup as if it was a champagne glass. ‘Here’s to happier times. Pity we haven’t got something a wee bit stronger to toast ourselves.’

  Jess grinned. ‘I thought you’d most likely signed the Pledge.’

  ‘Oh no—’ I
ris was spooning extra sugar into her tea from the bag Jess had brought. ‘Why should I want to do that? Do you think of me as an immoderate person – someone who wouldn’t know when they’d had enough?’

  She seemed rather indignant.

  ‘Er – no, I don’t.’ Jess raised her cup too, to change the subject. ‘Different from last year, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Iris gulped the tea. ‘Yes indeed, dear. Best to be friends with your family, if you can manage it. Though that Ned of yours . . .’ Iris had taken to this particular phrase for talking about him. ‘He’s used to approval, isn’t he? Not easy, if you have to become a fighter all of a sudden. Rather different for you, of course. Seems to be more of a habit for you.’

  Jess laughed at Iris’s sharpness. ‘It’s one I wouldn’t mind breaking though, Miss Whitman.’

  One evening they were all sitting round at home. Ronny was asleep upstairs, Olive at the table thumbing through the paper, and Jess was sewing a soft little nightshirt for Polly’s baby, squinting in the poor light. Polly had her feet up on a little stool, yawning frequently. She didn’t have the energy to do anything much once she got home from work. Her belly was like a neat little football now and she sat stroking one hand over it. Jess looked at her, wistfully.

  ‘Is ’e kicking?’

  Polly nodded. ‘Got ’is feet under my ribcage and ’e don’t half thump about.’

  ‘Let’s ’ave a feel . . .’ This was one of Sis’s favourite pastimes at the moment. Polly took her sister’s hand and laid it in the right spot. Sis waited, leaning forwards solemnly, long hair falling over one shoulder. She looked sweet, and was always the most carefree of them, although her young man, Perce, had now joined up as well.

  ‘I can’t feel . . . ooh yes, there! Oh, and again! Blimey, Poll,’ she laughed. ‘Getting a belly like a cow on yer – I ’ope it goes down after!’ Sis had the kind of laugh that made everyone want to join in and even Olive looked round and smiled rather dryly.

  ‘You just shurrup—’ Polly whacked at her and Sis dodged. ‘Wait ’til it’s your turn.’

  Jess watched, forcing herself to smile, but her feelings were very mixed. How did it feel when the baby grew that big? When you could really tell there was a robust life in there? She knew things were infinitely easier for her than they would have been with a child of her own, that her loss was really for the best, but that little person who had inhabited her was like a shadow that still followed her. An unseen ghost. Who would it have been?

  Polly gave another huge yawn.

  ‘Go to bed, why don’t yer?’ Sis said.

  ‘When I’m ready.’

  Polly sat back with a disgruntled expression. She was used to being the bossy elder sister: she wasn’t having Sis telling her what to do. And she felt tired and vulnerable. Her ankles were swelling up in the evenings and her back ached. She wanted Ernie. Sometimes, just for a second, she envied Jess. Losing a babby was a terrible thing, but at least she didn’t have to have it and bring it up on her own with a war on, not knowing if its father was ever coming home. She tried to push away such wicked thoughts, but she hadn’t reckoned with the way carrying a child made you feel so tired and uncomfortable and at the mercy of everything. So old, suddenly.

  ‘I s’pose I’d better get up there before I end up spending the night down ’ere.’

  She was just hoisting herself out of the chair when Olive made a strange, involuntary sound. A gasp or moan, it was hard to tell. Her back was to them, head bent over the paper. Everyone looked at her.

  ‘What that, Mom?’ Sis looked over her shoulder at the paper.

  Olive had one hand over her mouth, as if to stop any further sound escaping.

  ‘Deaths . . .’ Sis read. ‘What’s up – is it someone we know?’

  Polly and Jess both moved in closer.

  As if reluctant, Olive slowly moved her finger to a name on the page.

  ‘Arthur Tamplin, seventy-two, of South Road, Erdington,’ Polly read, slowly. ‘January the ninth. Leaves wife, Elsie and four children. Well who’s that then?’

  All eyes were on Olive. Without meeting their gaze she said, ‘Your grandfather.’

  Polly straightened up, wincing at the pain in her back.

  ‘But we ain’t got a grandfather – I mean, we never have had one. They’re dead, you’ve always said – ain’t they?’

  ‘Well they are now,’ Sis said.

  Polly frowned furiously at her.

  ‘Four children,’ Olive murmured. ‘I don’t s’pose ’e ever knew about Louisa passing on . . .’

  ‘But why . . . whose . . .?’ Polly couldn’t get a whole sentence out.

  ‘My father, that was. Gone now then. Well, well.’

  The loathing in her voice was barely concealed. Jess’s eyes never left her aunt’s face. Their grandfather.

  ‘But I thought ’e’d been dead years. Didn’t you think ’e was dead, Jess?’

  ‘I s’pose – yes,’ Jess said. There’d never been any mention. But then she’d barely managed to get Olive to talk about the family at all. It was just as if they’d never existed. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘So ’e was living just nearby and we never even met him! Why the hell not – didn’t yer get on or summat?’

  Olive stood up, closing the paper, pressing her hands down on it.

  ‘After our mother died – Louisa’s and mine – our father remarried. ’E didn’t want us and ’e threw us out. It were his sister, Bella, brought us up, in Sparkbrook. So no – I never went and saw ’im after that. Why should I? I weren’t wanted.’

  Jess watched her aunt, full of pity.

  ‘Well, how old were yer when she died?’ Polly’s tone was still harsh, as if she felt cheated.

  Olive’s expression became guarded. She seemed to calculate in her head. ‘About twelve or thirteen, I think. Yes, thirteen. Louisa would’ve been ten or eleven.’

  ‘So were there any more of you? Any other cousins or missing relatives we ain’t been told about?’

  ‘Poll—’ Sis said softly. She had tears in her eyes. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘No. No others.’ Olive moved from behind the table and thrust the newspaper into the fire. Jess saw that her hands were shaking. Sis went and stood beside her as the paper caused a brief blaze, but didn’t touch her.

  ‘It wouldn’t’ve gained yer nothing if yer’d met ’im.’ She turned, including Jess as she spoke. ‘None of yer. Some things are best left dead and buried. Now I don’t want to talk about this no more.’

  ‘But—’ Polly began, but was silenced by the look on her mother’s face.

  Twenty-Three

  Polly worked all the day her baby arrived. That morning she was flushed in the face, the picture of health in fact, even with her jaundiced skin. She was also very restless and talkative.

  ‘You got the chats today, ain’t yer?’ one of the older women said, grinning at her. ‘That’s a sign the babby’s on the way, that is.’

  ‘I ’ope so,’ Polly grimaced at her swollen belly. ‘Be glad to get shot of it now, that I will.’

  The timing was perfect. Soon after she got home the pains started.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Olive said, ‘’Ere we go.’

  Jess saw that despite her gruff attempts to seem matter of fact about it, Olive was nervous, and flustered. Jess felt her own stomach turn with dread at the sight of Polly as she sat by the window, face screwing up with pain. She remembered that pain, the agony which had spelt loss for her. It was going to get a lot worse. They had to keep Ronny away from Polly as he kept worriting at her.

  ‘Come ’ere,’ Jess said, feeling sorry for him. He couldn’t understand what was happening. To Olive she said, ‘Shall I take ’im to fetch Mrs Cooper?’

  ‘D’yer think yer need ’er yet?’ Olive was laying the table, the forks all upside down.

  ‘No, I’ll be awright for a bit. You ’ave yer tea. I don’t fancy none just yet.’ Polly sat back with a sigh and Jess went and rearranged the cutlery, getting
Ronny to help her. His freckly face, topped by the carroty hair, was only half visible above the table.

  ‘I’ll go and ’ave a lie down for a while.’ Bent forwards, Polly carefully went to the stairs.

  ‘You shout if yer need anything, won’t yer?’ Sis said. She touched her sister’s shoulder nervously. ‘Never mind, Poll – soon be over now, won’t it?’

  None of them had much appetite, except Ronny who tucked into pie and potatoes, oblivious of what was going on. Olive tried to behave as normal, but after a few mouthfuls, laid her fork down. They were all quiet, listening for sounds from upstairs.

  ‘Ooh Mom – it’s exciting!’ Sis said, all aquiver. ‘I can’t eat – shall I go and see if she’s awright?’

  ‘Leave ’er. We’d soon hear if she wasn’t.’

  As they finished there was a wail from Polly and Sis and Jess rushed upstairs, Olive panting behind them.

  ‘I must’ve gone and wet myself!’ she cried, mortified. ‘I dunno how – I never meant to – oh!’ She was seized by a severe pain.

  ‘That’ll be yer waters,’ Olive said, nodding her head at Sis to run down the road for Mrs Cooper. ‘Yer awright – that’s natural. Should get yer on the way that should. Jess and me’ll give yer a clean bed. We’ll get Ronny down for the night after.’

  From then on things happened quickly. Mrs Cooper was a cheerful little lady with fading blonde hair who talked non-stop, so much so that at the height of her pain, when Mrs Cooper was gassing unstoppably on, Polly croaked,

  ‘Can’t yer just bleeding well shurrup for a bit?’

  The lady seemed not the least offended.

  ‘Everyone likes to curse a bit when it comes on bad,’ she said. ‘They don’t remember a thing about it after.’

  ‘Well I bloody sodding well will!’ Polly yelled.

  Jess watched her cousin writhing around. It was all so ungainly and undignified and she trembled at the odd sounds of pain she made. She wondered if Polly minded them all in and out but she didn’t seem to care. They took it in turns to keep an eye on Ronny downstairs. He was wide-eyed and full of questions. Sis had a hard job getting him to go to sleep as the night wore on.