Poppy Day

by Annie Murray

  ‘I don’t think there’s much wrong with you, is there?’

  He pulled away after, leaving her abruptly cold after the heat of their lovemaking, drew his knees up and sat with his elbows on them, hands supporting his head.

  ‘I shouldn’t’ve done that. Not the full way. You should’ve stopped me.’

  ‘I didn’t want to.’ Jess hugged her arms across her breasts, shivering, inching herself closer to him again.

  ‘You could ’ave another babby.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Well yer should care. Christ!’

  She had thought that he was with her, that they were back where they used to be, and then it was lost. She had let him make love to her, holding in the back of her mind a tiny hope that she might carry his child again, perhaps be able to lay to rest the phantom of the one she had lost.

  His mind was in turmoil. With her, he had experienced the first real depth of feeling, wholeness, that had come to him since he came home. For those moments he had at least had the physical evidence that he was well. He was a man again. He had been able to perform with a woman. But then the desire was replaced by remorse. This was wrong. Since he had met Jess his life had buckled out of shape. It was all wrong. He thought of his mom and dad and Mary and Ruth: he’d let down and betrayed every one of them. He thought of all the good, weary-faced people who had greeted him that morning at the church, who all thought so well of him. Ned Green, the splendid lad they all knew. And this Ned here now – who was he?

  He looked round the rotten little room, feeling as he did so, Jess’s caress on his back. He leaned away from her. What was this life with her? Lying and squalor and turning everyone against him. No – it was impossible. It couldn’t go on. The thought came to him, I want to be safe.

  He got up, with some difficulty, and started to dress. Jess watched him uneasily, her teeth chattering with cold. The feeble little fire had gone out. When they were both dressed she could no longer bear the silence, the way he had closed himself against her so completely. She went to him and held out her arms, her face appealing to him.

  Slowly, with infinite regret, he held her close for a moment.

  ‘I’ve got something to eat,’ she said, trying to be cheerful, to tell herself it was early days. He had been so passionate for her while they were making love. Things would get better.

  They had more tea with the buns in the kitchen, huddling close to the range.

  ‘We need time to get used to each other again, don’t we?’ she said. ‘Will you come here – next week?’

  Ned swallowed. He could think of nothing else to say, not in the right words, so he said, ‘Yes.’

  Thirty-Seven

  ‘I don’t want yer pity. Get out of ’ere and don’t come bloody mithering round me, woman!’

  John Bullivant had shouted these words, and variations on them, at Polly through the winter as she continued to try and visit him. At first she had gone tentatively, once a week, her heart pounding, frightened of him, but somehow unable to keep away.

  ‘Leave ’im be if ’e don’t want to see yer,’ Olive said. ‘’E’ll have to get over it in ’is own way.’

  ‘I can’t leave it, Mom,’ Polly said. ‘If you’d heard ’im like I do, and seen the state ’e’s in . . .’ She couldn’t easily explain how John had touched her heart, how she felt she couldn’t just abandon him to suffer like an animal in a cage, never going out and seeing the sun. And his family couldn’t get anywhere with him and didn’t know what to do for the best.

  ‘When yer come down to it,’ Polly said to Jess, ‘that’s all the war’ll amount to when it’s over and done with. Widows like me left to grieve or a wheelchair in the corner of a room. There’s nowt we can do except help each other.’

  ‘I think yer brave,’ Jess said. ‘I don’t think I’d have the courage to go in there and have ’im shouting at me. I wouldn’t know what to say to him.’

  ‘I think I’ll go more often,’ Polly smiled ruefully. ‘Get ’im used to the idea that I won’t give up!’

  She’d call in and sit beside John. The rest of the family got on with their lives around them, timidly, obviously afraid of John, his suffering and his moods. He was so down in himself that he barely ever answered her, sitting with his dark head sunk on to his chest. Mrs Bullivant whispered to Polly that she couldn’t get him to do anything. He wouldn’t even sit and read a newspaper. After a time, instead of shouting at Polly he seemed to realize that it would do no good so instead he sat quiet, seeming indifferent, just tolerating her presence.

  Polly talked to him about all sorts: the news, work, what happened when she went to see Mrs Black, Ernie and how they’d got the news about him, where he was when he died. She asked him how he was keeping, never really expecting to get an answer.

  The week before Jess met Ned though, John had seemed particularly low. Polly sat beside him, chatting away. John didn’t answer her, although she did feel he was listening. After a while, running out of news and gossip, Polly said,

  ‘D’you know, your moustache has grown nice and thick again now – and yer face ain’t so thin as it was. You look more like yer old self.’

  To her bewilderment, John’s shoulders began to shake and she thought he was beginning to weep, but instead she realized he had been overcome by a desperate mirth. He put his hands over his face, the dry laughter escaping from him.

  ‘What’ve I said?’

  Eventually he looked at her.

  ‘My old self? Oh that’s good, that is! Look at me! A man with no legs, who can’t walk, can’t work, can’t even dress or get out to do me business without someone seeing to me. I’ll never be any use to anyone ever again, so for God’s sake, woman, leave me alone – why d’yer keep coming, carrying on and on at me?’

  Something had broken through the rage, the bitterness. The face that Polly saw before her showed all his agony, his vulnerability.

  ‘John—’ Polly spoke softly, laying a hand gently on his arm. She could tell Marion Bullivant was listening, but she didn’t care. ‘I lost my ’usband on the Somme. You know that. My life’ll never be the same again now. Grace’ll never know her father and I’m so sad and lonely that sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself. Many’s the time I’ve thought of finishing it altogether, to tell yer the truth. But I’ve got Grace to bring up – and I’ve got a life to live the best I can. And you’ve got one too, John. It’ll never be the same again for you neither, but it’s still a life. You know – if yer’d just go out of the house for once you’ll see there’s lots of boys on the streets with one leg or both missing. You’re not the only one. But I still reckon if it was me I’d sooner be ’ere with no legs and all my family round me, than buried in French mud.’ Her voice was fierce as she finished.

  He didn’t say anything, just continued to stare into her face. A nerve in his cheek twitched. He was in a tumult of confused emotions.

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Polly said. ‘If you was to get out and see some of the other lads – you know, a trouble shared . . .’

  He tutted, suddenly furious, and looked down at his lap. ‘I’m finished . . . I’m not a man . . .’

  Polly hesitated. Very quietly she said, ‘You are to me, John.’ On the Sunday he agreed, at last, that she should wheel him out for a walk.

  ‘Shall we all come?’ his mother said nervously. ‘Make a bit of an outing of it?’

  ‘No!’ John protested sharply. ‘I’m not being taken out with yer all like a freak in a fairground. Just Polly on ’er own. That’s all I want.’

  ‘It’ll start getting him used to the idea,’ Polly spoke to Mrs Bullivant quietly in the hall, hoping she wasn’t offended. But she was only relieved.

  ‘It’s marvellous him agreeing to go out of the house!’ she said gratefully. ‘Where’ll yer take ’im?’

  ‘Cannon Hill Park.’

  ‘Oh no – that’s too much for yer, Polly – it’s a hell of a walk, and pushing that chair! You’ve no flesh on yer bones
as it is!’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Polly said determinedly. ‘I’m feeling strong today. And I want to take ’im somewhere really nice. Get some fresh air into ’im and summat pretty to look at. There might be a few daffs out by now.’

  The two of them manoeuvred the wheelchair down the step, with John clinging tensely to the arms, cursing at them as they landed it rather joltingly on the pavement. They’d wrapped him up in blankets over his coat because although the sun was shining weakly, it was still a bitter day.

  ‘Have a nice walk,’ Mrs Bullivant said, then looked as if she wanted to cut her own tongue out. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘See yer later.’ Polly smiled ruefully, waving at her.

  They didn’t talk much on the way, as Polly needed to concentrate on learning to steer the chair and she could sense that John was having to get used to all sorts of sensations. All these months he had not been outside for more than a few moments. He screwed up his eyes, which watered in the bright winter light. The air felt strange on his pallid skin, everything felt so wide and spacious, even in the streets. And above all, he was not the man who had left Birmingham, full bodied and vigorous. He had to face meeting people outside, being seen for what he was: a man who had been mutilated, changed forever on the battlefield.

  ‘There at last,’ she said, and saw him nod.

  She pushed the chair into the wide, green space, and along the path which led to the pond, pausing to look across the water. As they did so, both of them caught sight of a young man and woman, arm in arm together. But instead of moving with the easy strides of a young couple in love, the man was taking tiny, shuffling steps, and clinging to the girl’s arm as if terrified that a great crevice was about to open in the ground in front of him. His free arm waved in front of him, feeling the air like an antenna. It was immediately apparent that he was newly blind. As the two drew painfully nearer, Polly saw that while the girl was holding his arm, talking to him calmly, reassuring and guiding him, tears which he could not see ran ceaselessly down her face. Polly and John watched silently as they passed.

  She wheeled him to the far side of the pond, so that the water was to their right, the park on their left, and it presented a beautiful sight.

  ‘No daffs yet,’ Polly said. ‘But just look at that.’

  Planted in huge numbers, in great patches across the grass were crocuses, all flowering at their perfect best in purple and mauve, rich golden yellow and the purest white. The thin sunlight caught them, illuminating the perfection of their shape and colour as if they were jewels scattered across the green.

  John had been looking round, taking everything in, but suddenly Polly saw him lower his head and clasp his hands to his face.

  ‘John?’ In concern, she leaned down, her face close to his. She stood up and gently laid her hands on his shoulders. After some time he reached round and clasped one of his hands over hers.

  Thirty-Eight

  Sunday came at last. As before, Jess made preparations for Ned. She took time over it, arranging a few sprigs of forsythia in a jam jar, brushing out the room, singing and humming. She took a warm, caressing pleasure in the homely activity. Soon she’d be doing this properly, in a place of their own.

  I’ll talk to him about it today, Jess thought. Tell him about the money I’ve been saving for us. But then she changed her mind. The war wasn’t over. Ned had said they’d most likely send him back once he’d recovered fully. Though she longed with all her heart for the love and security of marriage to Ned, of a home, it would be tempting fate to start planning now. There were still so many hurdles in their way.

  She was lost in thought, kneeling by the grate, sweeping out the ashes from last week, when she heard Iris come and stand in the doorway and turned, smiling. Iris had washed her hair that morning and got Miss Davitt to cut it, and it hung just below her ears, severely chopped, but clean and almost pure white. Once again she had promised to pop out for a bit, although Jess told her there was really no need.

  ‘This can’t go on forever, you know.’

  ‘I know that,’ Jess stood up and came over to her. ‘Of course I do. I was only thinking that myself. But the war . . .’

  Iris just sniffed.

  ‘The man you loved, Iris – d’yer think he was married?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. Quite possible. I expect he was lying to me all the time. I was such a foolish, innocent little thing. I just wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How serious your young man Ned is after all, carrying on in this hole in the wall sort of way.’

  ‘Oh ’e is!’ Jess didn’t feel she could say, you should see his face, the way he looks at me and loves me! ‘It’s only that he’s living with his mom and dad and they don’t approve of me. But when we’re together, there’s nothing to worry about there!’

  She was expecting him at two o’clock. We’ll go out, she thought. They’d walk arm in arm round the park, close, loving, stopping to kiss. Then come back to the house. As the time approached she went through to the back and put a kettle on the fire. Between them, Iris’s helpers seemed to be making sure she had enough fuel, and Jess had paid her a few pennies for the use of some of it. She had put the lid back on the kettle and was brushing soot off her skirt when she heard him rapping on the front door.

  She danced along the hall singing out, ‘I’m here – I’m coming, my love!’

  She flung the door open with a flourish, a smile of joy and welcome on her face. In a second the smile froze. Jess felt as if she had been punched. Her breath seemed to get stuck in her chest. It took her a couple of seconds for her mind to process what was in front of her eyes.

  ‘What’re you doing ’ere?’

  Mary stood before her, thin as a park railing and dressed in grey. The arched eyebrows which before had made her look friendly and enquiring now gave her an expression of superiority and triumph.

  ‘I’m ’ere to give you a message.’ Jess could feel her enjoyment, the way she was savouring what she had to say, almost delaying the moment. ‘A message from my husband.’ Mary gave a knowing, calculated smile.

  ‘Ned and I have been spending a lot of time together over the past months. With our daughter. I don’t s’pose he told you all this? Anyway, he sent me to tell yer that he’s decided to come back to me. He’s come to his senses and he’s coming back home for good . . .’

  ‘No!’ Jess’s hand went to her throat. ‘It’s not true!’

  ‘He never really left me in the first place,’ Mary said spitefully. ‘After all, he’s been away fighting like everyone else so yer’ve never really ’ad ’im at all, have yer? Don’t go getting any ideas that you can go changing his mind – ’e says ’e wants to live a decent life now with his wife and family – ’stead of with a whore like you . . .’ She spat out the word.

  ‘I don’t believe yer – he wouldn’t . . .’ Jess could barely get a sentence together.

  ‘Oh wouldn’t ’e? And you think you’d know, do yer?’ She came up very close so that Jess could feel the woman’s breath on her face as she spoke. ‘You know nothing. And yer’d better take my advice and keep well away from us. Keep out of our lives – yer not wanted!’

  She began to turn away, then looked back. ‘I’d tell yer ’e said ’e was sorry – but come to think of it, ’e never said that.’

  Mary stalked off down the road without looking back, her head held high.

  Jess shut the door and leaned back against it. Her limbs seemed to have turned to water, her shocked mind telling her she had found herself in a crazed dream. Here, where he’d come last week, loved her, held her . . . suddenly everything was shattered.

  She hugged herself, trying to force from her mind the memory of Ned’s back turned away from her after their lovemaking. It couldn’t be true! Mary had wormed out of him where she was meeting him, had come to spin her a pack of lies . . . Ned would never do this to her, he loved her! She shook her head, moaning gently to herself.

  ‘He loves me – ju
st me . . .’ She couldn’t stand the pain of what she had heard, nor would she ever believe it unless she saw Ned herself. She had to hear the truth from his own lips.

  Afterwards she couldn’t remember the journey to Selly Oak. It was as if she had done it in her sleep and wakened to find herself outside the Greens’ house, wondering how she got there.

  She hammered on the door, past caring about anything: that it was Sunday afternoon and that his mom and dad loathed and despised her, that Mary might well be there as well by now . . . In her desperation none of this mattered and only one thing in the world did: she had to see Ned and talk to him.

  It had begun to spit with rain as she walked up Oak Tree Lane and the wind was getting up. As she waited for someone to open the door she thought, we’d’ve got wet. We couldn’t’ve gone for a walk in the park after all.

  Ned’s mother opened the door. She gasped when she saw who it was.

  ‘You’ve got some nerve coming here! Don’t you think you’re coming in because you’re not. Clear off and don’t you ever come near this house – breaking up families. You’re nothing better than a common little tart!’

  She went to shut the door, but Jess ran against it with her full weight, making sure she got her foot wedged in the doorway.

  ‘I’ve got to see him!’ She found she was right out of control, shouting at the top of her voice. ‘I’m not going away ’til I’ve seen ’im and ’e tells me the truth with his own lips – ’stead of sending a cowing messenger round – if ’e did send her! Ned – Ned!’

  ‘Mom—’ She heard his voice, very tense sounding in the hall behind.

  ‘Disgusting little trollop, coming round here!’ Mrs Green’s face was contorted with anger and disgust. The sight of it made Jess feel dirty and sordid. Something in her shrivelled and died, knowing so clearly and brutally what they all thought of her.

  ‘I don’t care what you think – I love ’im!’ she sobbed, distraught. ‘I want to see ’im!’