Poppy Day

by Annie Murray

  It was a cheap piece of notepaper with a few lines of looped writing on it. It was addressed to a ‘Miss Harper’. Jess gave it straight to Olive and she and Polly leaned over her to read it.

  1887

  I got to Whitall orite He got me a plase to live and Im making a start on the baking He said he’d see me orite wich he will in case i deside to goo back home wich he dont want I wont goo, too much water under the brige Ill get on here its nice and quiet

  Thankyou for waht youve dune for me ill niver forget you.

  sincerly, Alice Tamplin.

  When she’d read it, Olive went very pale and her hands were shaking so much that she couldn’t hold the flimsy sheet of paper. ‘That’s her writing,’ she kept saying. ‘Oh yes – that’s her writing.’

  Polly handed it back to Mr Lang and laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder. She helped Olive lean forwards, supporting her as she tried to recover herself.

  ‘D’yer think . . .’ Jess’s mind was racing. ‘I mean, might she still be alive?’

  The man shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. This was all before my time. I don’t know the age of the woman in question, or her circumstances.’

  ‘No – course you don’t,’ Jess said. ‘Only this is such a shock for us, yer see. All these years . . .’ She stopped, shaking her head. ‘Where is Whitall?’

  ‘Not far at all. Between here and Wetley Rocks. A couple of miles at most.’

  She and Polly helped Olive to her feet and they left, thanking Mr Lang. The main door closed thunderously behind them.

  Walking back down the long sweep of the drive, their minds were seething with all they had just learned. Olive, so silent before, couldn’t stop talking, repeating over and over the anguish of the truth she had just learned, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘All that time ’e knew our Mom was alive and ’e kept her hidden out of the way so ’e could live with that Elsie instead! Louisa and me’d ’ve done anything to have our mom back. Oh Poll – can yer credit it? She was out of ’ere and ’e never said. I can’t believe ’e could be that cruel, that I can’t. If ’e was still alive today I’d – oh, I don’t know what I’d do!’ She stopped, turning to look back at the hospital with its black, secretive windows.

  ‘What if—’ Jess said. She and Polly were nearly as overwrought themselves. ‘What if she’s still living there, in Whitall? I mean – she’d be what, seventy?’

  ‘Nigh on. No – oh Jess, yer don’t think . . . No, she can’t be, can she? I mean, she ain’t come to us in all this time. We can’t – she daint want us . . .’

  ‘Auntie—’ Jess took Olive’s arm and spoke gently to her. ‘She’d been in this place for ten years. Ten whole years. Of course she wanted yer, but it must’ve felt like a lifetime she’d been away. And she knew she weren’t allowed to ’ave yer.’

  ‘Granddad would never’ve let ’er out if ’e thought she’d ever come near Birmingham again,’ Polly said. ‘She must’ve thought of you and Auntie Louisa with a new step-mom, all settled like . . . How could she justcome back? She was dead to them and she had to stay dead even if it broke her heart.’

  Olive’s face crumpled again. ‘Oh God, and it breaks mine just to think of it . . .’

  Jess and Polly held her close to them. Jess felt the rough weave of Olive’s coat under her fingers, and could feel her trembling.

  ‘Mom,’ Polly said. ‘D’yer want to leave the flowers here somewhere? Where she was? I know she daint die here, but just in case?’

  Olive drew back, tears on her face.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looked round. ‘No. We can’t leave ’em ’ere. I wanted somewhere with the feel of ’er in it, but I can’t feel it. She ain’t ’ere.’

  Forty-Four

  It took them nearly an hour to walk to Whitall. On the way they persuaded Olive to stop for a few minutes in a gateway by the road to rest and eat some of the bread and cheese they had brought.

  ‘I couldn’t eat,’ she said.

  ‘You must, Mom. It’s hours since we had anything and we’ll be dropping else. You need to keep yer strength up for this.’ Polly handed round food from the bag. ‘Ooh, I could do with a cuppa to wash it down,’ she said.

  The grass was wet and muddy underfoot so they stood up to eat. A horse and cart passed by on the road and a lad sitting at the back with his legs dangling down stared open-mouthed at them. Birds dived twittering in and out of the hedgerows and Jess breathed in the smells of grass and wet earth.

  ‘Louisa took to the country,’ Olive said, seeing Jess gazing round at the fields, a soft expression in her eyes. ‘It were like she was born to it.’

  ‘P’raps Alice liked it too,’ Jess said.

  The village of Whitall sprawled along the road which ran through it like a spine. They passed farms, then cottages, widely spaced at first, then huddling closer together, making a proper street. A few people were about, and some looked curiously at them. The road was muddy and churned up by cart tracks. At the heart of the village smaller lanes branched off the main road and to one side, and behind the cottages, they could see the square tower of the church, topped at each corner with little gold flags. They turned off down the lane to the church, hawthorn and young trees on each side of them. At the end the path widened and divided to run in each direction, forming an oval-shaped path round the graveyard.

  Olive immediately began looking at the names on the graves. Watching her aunt’s quest, her stopping, looking so intently, sometimes even tracing over the letters with her finger then straightening up, each time hoping, Jess felt suddenly that she couldn’t bear it. Even if Alice was buried here, a stone would tell them nothing of her.

  ‘That must be the vicarage.’ She pointed at a large, gabled house behind the church. ‘Let’s ask, Poll, shall we? It’s such a small place we must be able to find someone who knew ’er and could tell us summat.’

  Olive began to protest.

  ‘Please, Mom,’ Polly touched her arm. ‘We’ve come all this way.’

  There were yellow climbing roses in the front garden of the vicarage and they could hear the sound of children from the back. The house was so big and grand that for a moment they hesitated. Then Jess lifted the heavy knocker.

  The maid told them the vicar was in, and took them into a homely parlour evidently reserved for visitors. Soon they heard a voice in the corridor saying, ‘Strangers, you say. Well, well. How exciting—’ and round the door appeared the plump, boyish face of a man who appeared ready to befriend anyone in the world.

  ‘Good afternoon – I’m Mr May. Archie May. Vicar of the parish.’

  As he stepped forward to shake hands, it was immediately apparent that his left arm was missing, the sleeve of his shirt pinned up at the shoulder. Seeing their gaze immediately fix on this as they shook hands, he said,

  ‘Yes – lost the other one. Ypres.’ He pronounced it Wipers. ‘Army chaplain – one of the Staffs battalions. Damn lucky it wasn’t the other one, since I’m right-handed, eh?’

  He indicated that they should sit down. ‘Now – can I help you in any way?’

  Between them, Jess and Polly began to explain, and the Revd Archie May listened attentively.

  ‘I say—’ he interrupted after a moment. ‘You’ve travelled all the way from Birmingham! You must have a cup of tea – just a moment.’ He went to the door and summoned the maid and in no time a tray of tea appeared. Jess felt like hugging him for his thoughtful-ness. As they drank it, they explained that they were looking for a relative who may have lived in the village.

  Archie May stroked his chin. ‘Alice Tamplin?’ As he spoke, Jess felt her innards contract. It was so strange hearing her name on someone else’s tongue. It made her real. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Olive’s hands tightly clasped on her lap. But the vicar shook his head. ‘No – doesn’t ring a bell. Thing is though, I’ve only been the incumbent here for a matter of months, so my memory doesn’t stretch back all that far. Tell you what—’ he
jumped up boisterously. ‘Soon as you’ve downed that tea – I’ve got just the chap for you. Just have a word with my wife – let her know I’m off out.’

  He left the room for a moment and they heard his voice shout ‘Darling?’ distantly at the back of the house. They looked at each other in silence, sipping the hot tea from bone china cups as fast as they could manage.

  ‘Now—’ Archie May looked the sort of man who would have rubbed his hands together frequently had he been able to do so. ‘Let me take you to meet Revd Chillingworth. He was vicar here for – oh, thirty-five years or more, and he still lives in the village, just across the green. If there’s anything to remember about any soul in the parish, he’s your man. Marvellous fellow.’ He led them out of the front door. ‘In his mid-seventies and still turns out to make up the Whitall eleven, cricket mad, all his life.’

  Polly took Olive’s arm and they followed Archie May’s springy walk back along the lane to the road and along another short path running off from the opposite side, which led to the village green. Round it stood four cottages and he took them to one which had a riot of buddleia bursting out of its front garden, alive with cabbage white and tortoiseshell butterflies.

  The Revd Thomas Chillingworth was, even at his advanced age, a magnificent-looking man. Tall, slightly stooped, with the bushiest white eyebrows Jess had ever seen, vivid blue eyes and a large, hooked nose. His face and hands were so lined and gnarled they made Olive’s look quite youthful.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ He led them into a sitting room at the back looking out over a lawn edged with flowering shrubs. The three of them quailed at the sound of his loud, autocratic voice, but to Jess’s astonishment, Archie May turned round and winked conspiratorially at them. ‘He’s a proper old lamb in wolf’s clothing,’ he murmured. ‘Very deaf though.’

  They were invited to sit in this room, already so stuffed with books and papers that there seemed barely space to move. The wall was covered with pictures with leprous-looking mounts round them, mostly of cricket teams. Thomas Chillingworth sat grandly before them, a prayer book resting on the arm of his chair, and leaned forward to listen to what Archie May had to say, one hand cupped round his right ear to increase his chance of hearing.

  ‘Alice?’ he boomed. ‘Oh yes – I remember Alice all right.’

  All of them felt their hearts race violently, but intimidated by the old man they left the young vicar to question him.

  ‘Alice Tamplin?’ Archie May asked.

  ‘What’s that? Tamplin? No – no recollection of a Tamplin. But Alice – now I remember her. Could hardly forget her – practically lived in the church. Only one who came to evensong every night of her life . . .’

  ‘But her name wasn’t Tamplin?’ Archie looked regretfully at them. No luck, his expression said.

  ‘No – she was . . . Brodie. That was it. Alice Brodie.’

  They all heard Olive’s breath catch. Even Thomas Chillingworth seemed to sense the impact of his words.

  ‘That was ’er maiden name,’ Olive said, gripping Polly’s hand. ‘She was a Brodie – ’ad a brother, Joe Brodie all ’is life.’

  ‘She’s . . .’ Jess hesitated. ‘She’s dead then?’

  ‘Dead – oh yes,’ he continued loudly. ‘Died a good while back, poor old Alice. Before the war. She was taken with one of those wasting diseases and faded away. Never would have any help from anyone. Baked bread – that was her living, you see – right up to the end. Always like that. Very reserved woman, very quietly spoken. Strong as an ox though, I reckon. She came to me two or three times—’ His voice slowed, musing on the memory. ‘Odd, it was – I thought so at the time. She’d look into my face as if she’d come to offload something particular, but in the end she’d never say anything much . . . In all the years she was here she barely ever said a word about herself. Not to anyone, so far as I know. I knew she’d been in the asylum over there—’ He jerked his head. ‘That was common knowledge. Heaven alone knows what effect that had. But she just went along, you know, lived a quiet life, no harm to anyone . . . that was all really.’

  There was silence for a moment. He sat nodding, remembering.

  ‘One thing I do recall, now I think of it. Early on – probably the first Christmas she was in the village though the Lord only knows now when that was . . . She was a very devout woman as I say, attended everything. But on that Christmas Eve she came to the midnight service. She was deeply upset by it. It sticks in my mind because she was in such a state when she came to take communion. Weeping, distraught. And upset at attracting notice to herself. It’s a season which does heighten the emotions, of course. Especially these days . . . but I never saw Alice like that at any other time. She never came to the Midnight Eucharist again. Not in all the years she lived here.’

  He became aware of the intense, rapt attention of the three women in front of him. ‘So what have you to do with Alice?’

  ‘She was . . .’ Jess had to shout to make him hear. ‘A relative. A long-lost relative.’ She looked at Archie May. ‘Will you ask him – did Alice marry? Are there any children?’

  ‘Marry? Alice?’ For a few seconds his body shook with silent mirth at the idea. ‘Alice wasn’t the marrying kind. Oh no – you couldn’t imagine Alice marrying. I don’t know what was in her past – perhaps you do. But she was an island on her own, Alice Brodie was . . .’ Again, he shook his head. ‘An isolated being. That was Alice. Cut loose, somehow. Strange creature.’ He looked directly at them. ‘But a good soul. Of that I’m sure.’

  A thought struck him and he pulled himself spryly out of the chair.

  ‘Let me see now – d’you know, I do believe . . .’

  He fumbled round amidst the utter chaos of the shelves, limping along them stiffly, running a finger along the dusty leather bindings.

  ‘There are a couple of albums from the parish – I must hand them over to you, Archie. Not really mine to keep after all. Ah – here!’

  Yellowed pages crackled open under his hands displaying faded sepia photographs. He looked through, murmuring to himself.

  ‘Yes – that’s the one! The only time we could persuade her to come along. This was the annual parish picnic – nineteen hundred, look. Now that—’ his arthritic finger quivered lightly over a face at the end of the solemnly posing line, ‘is Alice Brodie.’

  The tiny, indistinct face of a fifty-year-old woman looked out at them from the picture from under a dark hat with a brim. Jess could hear Olive’s jerky breathing close to her as they peered forward to look.

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Is it?’ Polly asked.

  ‘It’s so small – I can’t be sure . . .’ Olive laid her hand over her heart, trying to calm herself, staring rapt at the picture. ‘It could be, but then – oh my Lord, yes it could easily be . . .’

  They all pored over the picture, unable to move away from their one glimpse of Alice, Alice who, after all, had made some sort of life. Jess couldn’t stop staring at the faded sweetness of the face, its closed, unsmiling gaze, the thick hair escaping from under the hat. She could sense that had Louisa lived long enough, she too would have looked like this, and that in turn, one day, she herself . . . But the woman’s face told so little. Another face among a throng of faces giving nothing away. No clue on the outside, Jess thought. No scars to show us.

  ‘I say,’ Archie took in the acuteness of their need to see. ‘Thomas – how about giving them the picture? The parish won’t miss one photograph – they’ll only moulder quietly away on the shelves in the vicarage.’

  ‘Would you like it?’ Thomas Chillingworth asked. ‘I don’t see why not, after all, if it means so much.’

  He took an ivory-handled paper knife from his desk and carefully cut the page from the album. Olive took it from him as if she hardly dared touch it, looking up at him in awe.

  ‘I’m ever so grateful – I don’t know what to say,’ she said tremulously. ‘You see – Alice Brodie was my mother.’

  They found h
er name in the graveyard, ‘Alice Brodie’, carved on a simple stone, positioned close to a young lilac tree which was pushing out fragrant white blossom. They had left Archie May with their stumbling gratitude, and come to kneel on the spongy grass round the grave in the afternoon sun.

  On the stone it said simply, ‘Alice Brodie 1850–1912. Faithful Child of God.’

  Olive sat, transfixed by the sight of it. They were silent for a long time, staring at the little grave, the high emotions of the day still coursing through them. All that remained of Alice, then, they could locate here. This had been her place where she settled at last, and this what finally remained, this little stone already green with lichen.

  But we remember you, Alice, Jess said, in her mind. Your family remembers you and you live on with us. Now you can rest in peace.

  At last, Jess gently nudged Polly. The two of them got up and walked a short distance away. The graveyard was ringed, beyond the path, with dark yew trees, but among the graves were lighter, young blossom trees. They went and stood near one, a flowering cherry still wearing the remnants of its blossom.

  For a moment the two of them put their arms round one another and held on tight, not speaking. When they released each other they stood watching Olive still kneeling by the grave, her bag and the flowers beside her. They could tell she had begun to speak, the low murmur of her voice just reaching them though they couldn’t hear her words. After a time, she picked up the posy of flowers and laid it carefully beside the humble headstone. Then she got up and walked towards them, and there was an enormous tiredness about her.

  Forty-Five

  Picardy, France – June 1919

  The car lifted lazy sworls of dust behind it that hot, still midday, the sound of its engine breaking into the silence of the countryside. They had the windows open, so that the burring sound of the tyres over the pavé road came to them more loudly. The sun was almost at zenith, so that the car moved through an arcade of grey shadow thrown down by the trees with knobbly trunks which grew along the roadside.