Poppy Day

by Annie Murray

  Every week throughout the winter, Mary travelled out to visit him in the convalescent home. She brought in photographs of Ruth, with her hair waving round her mischievous little face. He smiled when he saw them, a little uncertainly, but when she said,

  ‘She’s a lovely little thing,’ Ned agreed, yes she was. She talked lightly to him, getting him used to her being there, herself getting used to him again, told him about what Ruth had been doing, things she’d got up to as a baby, and as an older child, toddling around. She told him news of her mom, the family, as if he was still part of it, and he seemed to listen with interest, pleasure sometimes. She was, she thought, being as saintly and patient as it was possible to be, in the circumstances. She knew Jess had been to see his family, had been told to keep away. So she, Mary, was the one with a chance. He would come to his senses and come back to her.

  As the weeks passed though, she began to get impatient. It would take time, she knew, but as 1917 turned into 1918 and she was still visiting Ned in the convalescent home, nothing seemed to change. He smiled when he saw her, listened to her, talked a little about his injury, the ward routine, all little everyday things. But never did he show the emotions she’d hoped for, the remorse, the begging her for forgiveness and asking for her to have him back. And she was afraid to ask, for fear of his reply. She was in fear of him, a little, for all that he was wrong, because he had the power to hurt her so badly. At least though, she thought, he’s not turning me away. He’s used to me being around.

  Soon after he came out of the home and was at his parents’ she went to see him. She found him sitting bent over the table in the back sitting room, writing. He looked different. He had been to the barber’s and his hair, which had grown in hospital, was now cropped short again. Startled, she realized it was the first time she had seen him fully dressed since his return and suddenly felt intimidated. Before, sitting there in pyjamas, he had been defenceless like a child. She’d stood over him and been able to pity him. Now he was fully a man again: tall, stronger, a soldier, the man who, in spite of his dutiful nature, had felt such overwhelming desire for another woman that he had left her, his wife.

  He turned as she came in and she saw him swiftly close the pad of paper he was writing on and arrange a smile for her on his face.

  ‘So – yer out,’ she said, stupidly. She felt gawky and awkward, like a young girl asking to be wooed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s – well – it’s good, ain’t it?’

  His hand was spread on the writing pad as if he was afraid of her looking into it.

  ‘I’ve brought someone to see yer,’ Mary said softly. She stepped out into the hall where Mrs Green was holding Ruth’s hand. She was squatting down with her finger pressed to her lips and Ruth was copying her game of being quiet, keeping her presence there a surprise.

  Ned’s mom led the little girl into the room.

  ‘Now, love – this big man here is my little boy – yes, he is! And you won’t remember him because he’s been away fighting in the war. But this is your Daddy, Ruth.’ Eyes on Ned’s face, she led the child over. ‘Come and say hello to Daddy.’

  Ruth came over to him, led by Mary, one finger in her mouth, walking with a child’s shy, dragging steps until she was right up close. She was a leggy child with wide grey eyes and thick, wavy hair cut level with her chin. Ned thought of the night she was born, remembered that he had had strong, protective feelings towards her and Mary and he tried to summon them up in himself now.

  He told himself he should smile at her, and commanded the muscles of his face to bend for him. The smile was achieved and now he knew everyone was waiting for him to speak. Ruth was standing, wide-eyed, at his knee.

  ‘Hello, Ruth.’ She rocked slightly from side to side, body half-rotating, feet planted firmly, plucking at the back of her skirt with the other hand.

  She removed the finger and said, ‘’Ullo.’

  Suddenly he could no longer stand the child’s stare, the naked enquiry in her eyes. Unlike the others she was not careful with him, not in a conspiracy to keep him calm. She gazed right into him, looking for a father, wanting to know from him the meaning of ‘father’.

  Ned put his hands over his face. ‘Please. I can’t. Take her away.’

  He heard her being taken out of the room, pacifying promises of cake and ‘never minds’ and ‘Daddy hasn’t been very well – you’ll see him another time when he’s better . . .’ His hands were trembling. When he moved them away from his face his fingertips were moist from the cold perspiration on his forehead.

  He pulled his chair close to the table again and with desperate haste opened the writing pad. With fast, hard strokes of the pencil he finished the note.

  Dear Jess—

  I’m out of hospital and at home. I’ve got to see you – please. Can you meet me Sunday p.m. – at Iris’s? No – I’ll wait in town, by Nelson’s statue, from 2 p.m. Please come – please.

  Ned

  Before they could come out of the kitchen he limped quickly to the hall, pushing the note into an envelope. The door slammed behind him.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Mary,’ Mrs Green was distressed at the scene she’d just witnessed. She stroked Ruth’s hair as the child sipped a cup of milk. ‘’E’s just not ’imself. I thought ’e’d be over it by now.’

  Mary dried her tears. ‘I dunno what ’appened to ’im over there,’ she said. ‘’E’s like a different person. But I’ve waited this long, Mrs Green. I want him back and I know he can be a good father to Ruth – like the Ned I used to know. I’ll stand by ’im. After all she soon vanished out of sight as soon as there was any trouble, daint she? ’E’s got no one else now – ’e’s got to come back to me.’

  Thirty-Five

  That Friday, Peter Stevenson woke to hear a bird singing outside his window. There were only a few days of February left and that morning felt light and springlike. Sunshine came strained through the thick weave of the curtains. It was early and the house was quiet, David not yet awake. He closed his eyes again, still half inside a dream, a pleasing one, though he couldn’t remember it now, its images flickering elusively in his head. He turned on his side and out of old habit stretched out his arm to the left to embrace Sylvia, hard with desire for her. The cold of the empty bed shocked his hand. Sleep tricked him so often. Waking alone, no warm female body beside him, still gave him moments as raw and terrible as in the early days after her death. He brought his outstretched hand up and laid it over his eyes, letting out a low groan.

  By the time he had eaten breakfast and Mrs Hughes was there, bustling round David, insisting he ate all his boiled egg because her chicken had laid it especially for him, Peter felt better. Light was pouring in dust-laden bars through the window and his early morning phantoms receded. But there was still the thought of Sunday, long and empty before him. Often he and David went to see his mother, but today, somehow he couldn’t stand the thought. He longed for other company, something difficult to achieve for a rather reserved man so busy working long hours, and with a young son to care for. But today the need of it was on him like an itch.

  ‘Tell you what, Davey—’ He was excited suddenly. ‘How would you like to see Ronny again? D’you remember – the little lad you played with on the picnic, in the stream?’

  David smiled slowly, and nodded.

  ‘I’ll see if he’d like to come out with us on Sunday – how about that? Just for a play in the park. That’d be a change, wouldn’t it?’

  Cycling to work, the idea grew in him. He could ask all of them if necessary – Sis, Polly, Grace. So long as Jess could come. He’d be grateful for the others being there. He knew she was spoken for, and nowadays he felt nervous in her company, afraid his own feelings towards her were obvious, that he would make a fool of himself. He hoped the difference in their age would stop anyone suspecting how he felt. She could bring a whole crowd if she liked – so long as she was there and he could see her and be near to her. He found himself whi
stling as he came closer to the works. She’d be on her way too – he was moved by the thought of Jess and himself travelling towards the same spot.

  ‘Silly fool,’ he said to himself, wheeling his cycle round to its spot by the wall. But the very thought of her made him happier.

  As he turned to go and start work he saw Jess and Sis turning in through the gate and his heart began to thud rapidly. Her expression caught his eye, because she was laughing, looking pink and radiant. She always stood out among the other women, not just in his enamoured eyes, but because it was a long time since she had worked in the filling sheds and her skin had returned to its natural, healthier colour. And today she was all smiles. She leaned towards Sis and another of the girls and said something and they all laughed.

  He didn’t speak to her until later, enjoying the anticipation of seeing her, but all morning the thought of asking her made his stomach flutter with nerves, however much he told himself he was being ridiculous. Eventually he told himself, casually, it was time to have a look in the Rumbling Shed, see everything was working as it should be . . .

  He found Jess filling the drum with fresh sawdust and humming to herself. She didn’t notice him for a moment and he stood watching her profile, the upturned mouth, pink cheeks. She looked animated, happy, even working here on her own. Her expression was no longer drawn and tense as it had been over the past months. She seemed to glow.

  Something’s happened, he saw, and had a sudden cold sense of foreboding. Whatever he felt for her, however much tenderness, however much he would do anything for her, he saw in that moment that it was hopeless. Her mind, her whole being was centred elsewhere. He was invisible to her.

  Somehow this enabled him to speak to her more calmly.

  ‘Er – Jess?’ She turned, smiling.

  ‘I just wondered if you and the girls – your cousins – would fancy a walk out on Sun4day. My David’s a bit short of pals and he and little Ronny got on so well – I wondered if you’d all . . .?’

  ‘Sunday?’ Her forehead wrinkled for a second, then a smile of vivid joy spread across her face. ‘Oh no – not Sunday. Sunday’s busy. Sorry . . .’ She spoke abstractedly and he sensed enormous excitement pent up in her. ‘Maybe another week?’

  ‘Yes, course,’ he said with overdone cheerfulness. ‘It doesn’t have to be this week – any time’d do.’

  Jess could barely contain herself on Sunday. She didn’t give the others a chance to ask where she was going, though she knew Polly would guess. Once dinner was over she tore along the road into town, setting off far too early, but unable to sit still any longer. Ever since Ned’s note had arrived – at Olive’s house this time – she’d moved round in a cloud of happiness and anticipation. He was out – free! He was asking – begging, almost, to see her. He’d written ‘please’ twice at the end of the letter. She was moved by the urgency of this. Her body quivered with excitement and longing for him.

  The Bull Ring, usually teeming and loud with the raucous shouts from the market stalls, was a peaceful place to meet on a Sunday, when instead, it became a place for people to go to church at St Martin’s, its spire a landmark at the lower end of the street. The statue of Nelson was a little further up and usually attracted hawkers and street musicians trying to earn a few pennies, and was a meeting place for lovers and friends. Today though it was deserted, except for an old man, asleep with his mouth open, leaning against the railings.

  Jess waited. Pigeons toddled round her, some making half-hearted attempts to take off and fly. Mostly they just stalked aimlessly back and forth across the filthy cobbles pecking at odd leftovers of food on the ground. Jess looked up at the church clock. A quarter to two. Despite the plea in the letter she was so afraid he wouldn’t come.

  Limping, with his stick, up Spiceal Street, Ned saw her before she caught sight of him. She was dressed much as she had been that time she came to the hospital: black coat, a glimpse of her rich purple skirt showing where it fell open at the bottom, white blouse at the neck. Her neat little felt hat. He stopped. She was looking down at her feet. He willed her not to look up for a moment, to give him time to locate his feelings, to gather himself. Again there came the sense of utter familiarity, her wide, pretty face, the shape of her, her way of standing. How lovely she was! She was the one, if anyone, who could restore him, bring him properly back to life.

  Help me, was his silent plea to her. Please help me.

  And then she saw him, moving slowly towards her, supporting himself with a stick, dressed in the blue uniform issued to soldiers recovering from wounds, with a coat over the top. His eyes were fixed on her and she walked forward a couple of paces, her breath catching, unsure for a moment. Then she saw the corners of his mouth turn up.

  ‘Ned! Oh Ned!’

  She ran down to him, her arms held wide to embrace him. He dropped the stick, his arms came round her and she was laughing, crying, nuzzling against him, so starved was she of the feel and smell of hifm.

  ‘Oh Ned, at last – at last!’ She turned up her face towards him and closed her eyes as his lips met hers, the moment she had waited for all these months, years. They stood locked together.

  But she was eager fto talk, beaming up into his face. ‘You’re here – oh God, you’re really here!’

  She saw him smiling back at her, as she drank in the sight of him, his face, thinner now, the thick, wavy hair, the eyes that she so loved looking down into hers, flecked pebble-grey in the sunlight.

  ‘It’s so good to be out of that hospital, and out of ’ome too for that matter.’ He bent to pick up his stick, then took her arm. She was relieved to hear that he sounded more normal, more like the old Ned.

  ‘How’s yer leg now?’

  ‘Pretty good.’ They made their way slowly up the road, no particular destination in mind. The light was hard and bright, casting sharp shadows. ‘I reckon it’ll be just about back to strength before long.’

  She looked up at him sharply. ‘You mean . . .? They ain’t going to send you back, are they?’

  ‘Dunno. S’pect so.’

  She tried not to feel deflated, chilled inside by the offhand way he said it. So much time has passed, she told herself. I don’t know what it’s been like for him out there. It takes time to get used to someone again. She squeezed his arm, smiling up at him.

  ‘Saw about your medal – in the paper. Ooh, we was ever so proud of yer! “Courage under fire.” So – does it feel nice to be a hero?’

  ‘No!’ He spoke more harshly than he intended. As he did so, an image of his friend Jem, the dead Jem, sitting beside him in that trench with a bullet hole in his head, flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes for a second. ‘No,’ he said more quietly. ‘It weren’t like that, Jess.’

  This conversation seemed to be turning into a quicksand. She struggled to say the right thing. ‘I’m sure you were brave though.’

  ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘There ain’t no heroes and there ain’t no cowards. Yer a coward one day, a hero the next and yer never know yerself which it’s to be. I just didn’t notice I’d been hit.’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she appealed to him.

  Ned stopped. They were at the bottom of New Street.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jess. I didn’t mean to be short with yer.’

  Ignoring passers-by, he pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth, and Jess responded, full of relief and desire for him. Her young body came alive at the feel of him close to her. She ran her hands up and down his back. Then he released her.

  They strolled round town arm in arm, talking of this and that, unsure where to begin.

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been in ’ere,’ he said. ‘Bit of a mess, ain’t it? Any bombs come down here?’

  ‘No. They bombed a few times but they missed – kept dropping ’em out in the fields.’

  By the cathedral they sat on a bench with their coats pulled tight round them and Ned’s arm round her. Small clouds moved ac
ross the sun. Jess did most of the talking, told him about how things had been at home since Ernie was killed, and about Alice, about how upset Olive had been.

  ‘She’s forgiven you, yer know.’ She turned to face him. ‘Give ’er a bit of time and she’ll be back to letting yer come round again.’

  ‘That’s good of ’er,’ Ned said, but his voice sounded flat. There was silence for a moment.

  ‘Has Mary been coming to see yer?’

  Ned sighed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She still want you back?’

  ‘Seems that way.’ There was a pause. ‘I didn’t think she’d – well, after all this time . . . forgive me like she has.’

  Jess froze. She forced the words out. ‘Are you going back to her?’

  Ned pulled her close to him with a fierce, hard movement. ‘No! No, of course I’m not. Christ, look I ain’t got no words – just come ’ere . . . f’

  Again he kissed her so hard she was gasping, his arms almost crushing her. She tried to pull away.

  ‘Ned, you’re hurting . . .’

  ‘Sorry.’ He relaxed his grip. His intensity, his need of her, filled her with desire.

  ‘I began to think I’d never feel like this again,’ she pressed herself close to him. ‘I needed you to come home and wake me up!’

  His lips moved close to her ear. ‘God, Jess, it’s more than waking up I need.’

  She went weak at the urgency in his voice. ‘Iris’ll let us go to hers—’ Their eyes met. ‘We can’t just turn up today. I’ll have to ask ’er . . . Next week.’

  He closed his eyes. He wanted her now, here on this bench, as if it would sort everything out.

  ‘Seven days is too long.’

  ‘I know.’ Jess laughed. ‘But it’ll come round.’

  Thirty-Six