Poppy Day

by Annie Murray

  But soon after three in the morning, the baby arrived, long, mauve and shrieking.

  ‘Another lady of the house!’ Mrs Cooper told them. ‘Yer got a healthy little wench there, Poll – ’ark at ’er!’

  Jess cried. They all cried, standing in a snivelling ring round the bed until Polly, who was now quite composed, looked up and said, ‘What the ’ell’s got into you lot?’ and they all started laughing and crying at the same time.

  Mrs Cooper washed the baby in a basin and wrapped her carefully.

  ‘There yer go—’ She handed her over to Polly who took her confidently as if she was born to it. Her face was transformed – exhausted, dark under the eyes, but smoothed out and happy.

  Once Mrs Cooper had gone they sat round in the candlelight, listening to the baby’s tiny, fluttering breaths. Their sense of wonder filled the room like incense. Jess saw that Olive’s tough face softened at the sight of her first grandchild.

  ‘I wish Ernie was ’ere to see,’ Polly sighed tearfully.

  ‘Yer’ve good news to write and tell ’im anyway,’ Sis said. ‘And p’raps ’e’ll be home soon. Yer never know.’

  Polly smiled down at the little one nestling close to her. ‘I think I’ll call ’er Alice . . .’

  ‘No!’ The harshness of Olive’s tone cut into the serene mood, making Jess jump.

  ‘Mom?’ Sis looked round, startled.

  Olive lowered her voice. ‘No, Poll – not Alice.’

  ‘Why not for goodness sakes?’

  ‘Just not Alice. It’s . . .’ For a moment she couldn’t speak, as if the words had to be found from somewhere deeply buried. ‘Your grandmother was called Alice, if yer really must know. It’s unlucky . . . I won’t ’ave yer calling ’er that.’

  She sounded really upset at the idea. Jess’s eyes met Polly’s. Another of those areas of knowledge about their family that had been kept from them, about which Olive refused to speak, and almost violently resisted their asking.

  ‘Well awright – not Alice then,’ Polly said carefully. ‘It’s just I know Ernie likes it. What about Grace?’

  ‘That’s pretty,’ Jess said.

  ‘Lovely,’ Sis added.

  They looked at Olive. She nodded, reclaiming her dignity.

  ‘That’s a good enough name. I’ve nothing against Grace.’

  ‘Grace Violet – after Ernie’s mom. That’ll please ’er.’ She leaned down and kissed the child’s head. ‘So soft,’ she murmured.

  ‘D’you know what?’ Sis said. ‘I’m starving.’

  Polly looked up. ‘So’m I! My belly’s gurgling like mad!’

  They ate bread and jam in the bedroom at four in the morning, laughing like children on a forbidden picnic.

  Jess had the job of relaying the good news at work. The other women were overjoyed for Polly.

  ‘Tell ’er to stay home as long as she can,’ one of them said. ‘Old Stevenson’s quite good about that sort of thing.’

  That week, they had another inspection visit from the Woolwich Arsenal. A party of officers would arrive every few weeks to check the work, explode a few detonators and, as some of the women put it, ‘hang about poking their noses in everywhere.’

  Jess was hard at work rotating the handle on the drum when they came. She got quite a sweat up doing it now spring had arrived, and she wasn’t looking forward to the summer heat. The elastic holding her cap rubbed, making her forehead itch. She finished turning and stopped the machine, breathing hard, and wiped her face on her handkerchief.

  She heard voices in the varnishing section of the shed. She didn’t think much of this and carried on emptying the drum of the last of the detonators, when there came a bang from next door. She ran through to see what had happened.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she heard one of the other girls cry.

  One of the inspectors, a woman, was standing, stunned, blood pouring from the end of her finger down into her sleeve.

  Jess pulled out her handkerchief and gave it to the woman who wrapped it round her finger.

  ‘I’ll go for Mr Stevenson!’

  She ran out of the Rumbling Shed, her feet slapping across the yard, trying not to trip over the rubber overshoes, and wondering whether Mr Stevenson would be in the office or in one of the sheds with other inspectors.

  She knocked softly on the office door and immediately pushed it open. Mr Stevenson was sitting side-on to her, bent over on the chair, and for a moment she thought he was searching for something in the bottom drawer of the desk. But as he straightened up on hearing her, she saw that she had disturbed him sitting with his head in his hands.

  ‘What is it?’ He looked dazed, she thought, as if trying to remember who she was.

  ‘There’s been an accident. One of the inspectors.’

  He ran ahead of her, his long stride far outstripping her, the First Aid box clenched under one arm.

  The woman was still standing, ashen-faced, trying to staunch the flow of her blood.

  ‘A chair – please,’ she said. It was only as Mr Stevenson examined her that Jess saw the tip of her finger had been blown right off.

  The girls told Jess afterwards that the woman had been examining one of a new range of tiny detonators which they had been processing of late, which was placed in a fuse cap to explode a larger detonator.

  ‘She picked up this one, and she must’ve seen summat on it – looked like a hair. Anyroad, she went and took off this brooch she ’ad on and started prodding at it to get it off – I mean I should’ve stopped ’er, but I couldn’t believe my eyes! The thing just went up in her hand!’

  Afterwards, when they’d gone, Mr Stevenson came and spoke to Jess. ‘I should’ve been there myself really. I’d’ve been able to stop her.’ He shrugged. ‘But there it is. I can’t think why she started messing about like that. You did well fetching me so promptly.’

  ‘That’s awright.’ Jess smiled shyly.

  Something resembling a smile fleetingly passed across his face as he walked away.

  ‘Oh—’ he turned. ‘Those overshoes’ll need a clean up.’

  That evening, when Jess thought back on the day she remembered the expression on Mr Stevenson’s face as he looked up at her in his office. She sensed, without knowing the cause, that what she had witnessed was a moment of private desperation.

  10th Royal Warwicks

  2.6.1916

  Dearest Poll,

  I’m happy to hear you’re recovering well and our little Grace is coming along. We’ve drunk to her health a few times, I can tell you! I’m sad at the thought of how long ’til I see her but what you’ve said gives me a picture. My eyes, has she? Quite a thought that. Give her kisses from her loving dad for me.

  Weather’s warm here – a nice change from sleeping in the wet and snow. The mud’s drying out at long last. We’re still as lousy as a load of old rooks – one favourite pastime is burning the so-and-so’s off our clothes with a candle! Good bunch of lads here though.

  We moved on again in the last few days and much talk of build-up to what’s ahead. Not sure what we’re in for but it feels like high time to give them a good pounding – we’re ready after waiting all this time.

  I’m being used as a delivery boy at present, better than all the waiting. You know me, I like to be on the go. Up and down the trenches with supplies day and night. We bought a pig off one of the farms nearby a couple of days ago. What a feed that was, I can tell you. One nearby’s got a cherry orchard. Next it’ll be . . .

  The door flew open and Polly jumped. Grace stirred at her breast.

  ‘I won, I won – I got the Lucky Potato!’ Ronny shrilled into the room with the natural ecstasy of a three-year-old who’s just acquired a stick of sugar-pink rock, no charge.

  Polly swallowed her irritation at being interrupted and smiled. ‘You get the Lucky Potato number? Lucky old thing, ain’t yer?’

  Ronny already had the wrapping off and was going at the end, cheeks hollowed with sucking.

  ‘Ke
ep yer quiet for a bit any’ow.’ She looked across and saw Olive’s face, felt a moment’s terror clutching at her innards. Ernie! No, it couldn’t be – she had his letter in her hand . . .

  ‘Kitchener’s dead. Drowned. Ship went down off the Orkneys.’

  ‘Oh—’ Polly sighed with relief, then saw it was indeed awful news. General Kitchener, hope of the nation. ‘Oh Lor’,’ she said.

  Olive went to the mantel, picked up the brass moulding of Kitchener’s head and leaned it face to the wall.

  Ned had passed some of the winter of 1915 on a quiet part of the Western Front, firstly around Suzanne, camped in the grounds of the Chateau, but also later spent a month in the appalling trench conditions of the front line at Maricourt. Now summer was here and the war had moved on once more. Jess still collected his letters from Iris, who said, ‘Here you are dear,’ with some pleasure whenever there was one. Jess was touched by her loyalty to her and Ned, when she could have been bitter on her own behalf.

  15th Royal Warwickshire Battalion

  10th June 1916

  My dearest Jess,

  A few days’ rest and clean-up once more, so time to write. I hope you’re all right, all of you, and Polly’s little one?

  Things got very lively here Sunday. Such a pounding the trenches in parts are all knocked for six and quite a few losses of our lads. At the same time it made you feel full of it, somehow. Never felt anything like it before. Shook me after, when I thought about it and roll call was—

  There was a sharp jerk of the pencil, scraping a line across the page.

  That’s some silly sod in the barn behind me. Shooting rats, I’d take a guess, made me jump. Anyway – we’ve had a memorial service. Poor lads. But don’t worry about me. Everything’s all right and it’s very pretty round here now spring’s come. Birds in the hedges. Larks over the fields, rooks. A couple of the lads are good on naming birds so I’m picking up some knowledge. I wish I could show it all to you – without the company we’ve got watching out for us in the trenches over the other side, of course.

  Did I tell you they’ve made me a Corporal? Going up in the world, me. I wouldn’t mind being a Sergeant and giving some of the orders for a change.

  There’s talk of us moving on soon. We’re being trained up for something big though none of us know exactly what yet. There’s a feeling about. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.

  I’ve been wondering, when I get home leave, whenever that will be, if you and I should go and see my family together and try to put things right a bit. Let them see you as you are. It’d be an ordeal for you but let’s plan to do it. Or am I mad even to think of it? If the war wasn’t on we’d have had to sort it out somehow and we can’t just go on as we are forever.

  Will close now. I think of so many things to tell you but when I come to write them I can’t remember. Send my regards to Miss Whitman – and Polly and all. To you my love, as ever, missing you,

  Ned

  Jess folded up the letter, gazing at the pale grey lines on the cheap paper. His hands had touched it, sealed the envelope. She pressed the paper to her face and breathed in, searching for some trace of him. She felt as if she was always living in the future when he’d be home, all her energy directed towards that. Now she was earning better she was saving a little money every week so that month by month it grew: her nest-egg for their future life together.

  She sighed walking home from Iris’s house in the warm evening, the letter in her pocket. It was hard to admit to herself but she also felt a bit disappointed. The parts of his letters which she longed for, apart from his news, were his expressions of affection for her, his feelings pouring out. They warmed, fed her. But they were never enough. He felt so distant and she needed to see him, to be reassured constantly of his love. It seemed to her he was being drawn farther and farther away into the companionship of men, the clutches of the war, and she even had to strain to see his face in her mind.

  Just let this war be over soon, she thought. Let them all just come home. Let us be able to live properly, not wasting our days waiting for life to begin.

  Twenty-Four

  That morning, the first weekend in July, Jess and Polly said they’d take Grace and Ronny out while Olive went to church. Perce, Sis’s sweetheart, was home on leave and she was spending every moment she could with him.

  The two of them set off for Calthorpe Park, both in summer frocks, Ronny skipping back and forth along the pavement. Mrs Bullivant had let Polly use her old pram, which had served for most of her children and she hadn’t parted with it. It was a deep, clattering contraption which had come to them with patches of mould on the hood and dirt and cobwebs inside, but Polly had cleaned it up as best she could.

  Jess smiled as the wheels went clunking round. ‘She don’t seem to take any notice of the noise.’ Grace’s tiny, mauve-tinged eyelids had fluttered closed almost the moment they started moving.

  ‘Nah,’ Polly peered over adoringly at her. ‘It rocks ’er to sleep. Any’ow, she was playing about that much in the night, she ought to be tired out!’

  They decided to cut through the back, past the sweet factory on Vincent Parade. Further along, outside the houses, a man had wheeled out his hurdy-gurdy and they stood with the crowd, letting Ronny go to the front to watch the monkey on top of it, with his little fez falling down over one eye, prancing along the top on his bony legs to the tinkling tune. Ronny giggled and jumped, copying the monkey’s old man gestures.

  ‘Bless ’im,’ Polly said. There was a wistful note in her voice as she watched him.

  ‘Poll – don’t snap my head off – but who is Ronny’s dad?’ Jess spoke nervously in a low voice, wondering if she’d get an answer this time.

  Polly carried on staring ahead, eyes on her little brother. ‘Hand on my heart, Jess, I don’t know for sure.’

  ‘But – I mean, the colour of his hair . . .’

  ‘I’ve told yer, I dunno. I can’t think of anyone we’ve ever known who it could be. It was a mistake, that’s all. I don’t dare ask.’

  ‘There’s a lot of things none of us dare ask.’

  ‘She’s ashamed of it. She ain’t that sort of woman . . .’ Polly trailed off, turning red, as she realized what she was saying, and to whom. She called Ronny to her and they walked on down the road in the sun.

  ‘Sorry, Jess – I daint mean . . .’

  ‘I know what yer meant.’ Jess was stung, her cheeks flushed pink. ‘I know what yer all must think of me. But it’s as if there ain’t nothing yer can ask Auntie about. She’s a closed book: the family, our grandmother. Why shouldn’t we know about ’er? I mean, I barely had my mom for any time – I want to know about everyone else.’

  ‘Well you try asking ’er then!’

  ‘I can’t, can I? She’s funny with me all the time – nice as pie one minute, huffy the next. I only have to do one thing wrong . . . Yer never know where you are with her at the best of times, but after what I’ve done – sometimes I think she can’t stand the sight of me, and other times she’s awright . . . But Polly, ain’t she ever talked to you about our grandma?’

  Polly’s brow crinkled. ‘The only thing I can remember is, she was marvellous at baking – bread and that. Mom used to say that sometimes.’

  Jess took Ronny’s hand as they crossed the road into the park. ‘Well there must be more to know than that.’

  Polly breathed in the flower-scented air of the park. ‘We ought to come in the afternoon. There’ll be a band.’

  ‘I’m going over to Iris.’

  ‘Yes – course. Oh Jess . . .’ Polly linked an arm through her cousin’s, both of them pushing the pram together. ‘Never mind our mom. She don’t seem too bad at the minute. Let’s just make the best of today, eh? It’s lovely in ’ere.’

  They chose a place to sit, legs stretched out comfortably, and Ronny found another little boy to play with, tumbling on the grass together and chasing one another. Jess and Polly turned their faces up to the sunlight, talking
intermittently. Nowadays their favourite talk always began, ‘when the war’s over . . .’

  ‘I want to go and live in the country.’

  Jess snorted. ‘You? That’s a laugh!’

  ‘Get a little house, bring our family up where the air’s better. Cleaner, like where you grew up. Don’t you want to go back?’

  ‘Yes, I s’pose so. All I can think of at the moment is getting Ned back safe.’

  Polly watched her cousin’s thoughtful face, her brown eyes fixed on the trees at the far side of the park. Jess’s sweet looks, her tendency to stare dreamily ahead, gave her an air of vulnerable impracticality which sometimes made Polly want to shake her. But she knew that Jess was much tougher and more determined than she looked.

  ‘I reckon you’d do anything for ’im though, wouldn’t yer?’

  Jess nodded. ‘I feel ever so bad about Mary, though. I think about ’er a lot, how she’s getting on. She must hate me so much.’ She was silent for a moment, looking at the pram. ‘Mrs Bullivant carried nearly all her babbies in there, didn’t she?’ Their neighbour had had nine children. ‘Now there’s five at the Front, Stanley already dead. What was ’e – seventeen? It’s frightening, Poll.’ She turned, looking her cousin in the eyes. ‘Life’s like paper on the fire – gone, fast as that. I could’ve married Philip if I’d wanted just an arrangement, no feelings to speak of. If we’ve done wrong, me and Ned – well there’s no if about it, we have – it’s because we love one another and we want to spend our lives together. Is that wrong? Is it?’

  A few nights later Polly lay in bed with Grace tucked beside her. Grace had finished feeding and was sleeping in the crook of her mother’s arm, Polly curled beside her so that her face was close to the child’s, hearing the sweet sound of her breathing.

  Polly was in the half-wakeful, alert sleep of early motherhood. She stirred, moving carefully to ensure Grace’s safety beside her, and woke, opening her eyes suddenly in the dark. A moment later a sensation passed through her as if an icy wave had sluiced over her body. She pulled herself up and sat hugging her knees, teeth chattering, her hands and feet as cold as if she had walked the streets in midwinter. But worse than the cold was the terror that took possession of her, a fear that made no sense but which turned her body rigid, filling her with a terrible certainty.