Poppy's War

by Lily Baxter

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Copyright

  About the Book

  August 1939: Thirteen-year-old Poppy Brown is evacuated to a village in Dorset. Tired and frightened, she arrives with nothing but her gas mask and a change of clothes to her name. Billeted at a grand country house, Poppy is received with cold indifference above stairs and gets little better treatment from the servants. Lonely and missing the family she left behind in London, Poppy is devastated when she hears that they have been killed in the Blitz.

  Circumstances soon force Poppy to move to the suburbs and into the company of strangers once more. Earning a meagre income as a hospital cleaner, as the war continues to rage, Poppy longs to do her duty. And as soon as she is able to, she starts her training as a nurse. While the man she loves is fighting in the skies above Europe, Poppy battles to survive the day-to-day hardships and dangers of wartime, wondering if she’ll ever see him again…

  About the Author

  Poppy’s War is Lily Baxter’s first novel. She also writes under the name of Dilly Court. She lives in Dorset.

  For Jackie and Alan with love.

  Chapter One

  Barton Lacey, Dorset, August 1939

  THE WHEEZY NOISE made by the steam engine as it chugged out of the station was the saddest sound that Poppy had ever heard. She bit her lip, trying hard not to cry as her last link with the East End of London and home disappeared into the hazy afternoon sunshine.

  The woman who had been put in charge of the schoolchildren was not their teacher, and she had warned them before they boarded the train at Waterloo that she was not a person to be trifled with. They were to address her as Mrs Hicks and woe betide anyone who called her miss, although miraculously no one had fallen into that trap during the journey, which had taken three long hours. Poppy could tell by their silence that the other children were also feeling tired, hungry and scared as the formidable Mrs Hicks herded them into a semblance of a crocodile while she performed a roll call on the station platform. She was a big woman, and the buttons on her blouse seemed to be in danger of flying off in all directions when her large bosom heaved with impatient sighs. Her tweed skirt was stretched tight across her bulging stomach, and when Bobby Moss had asked her if she had a baby in her tummy he had received a swift clip round the ear. That had quietened him down a bit, which was a relief to Poppy as he had been a pest throughout the long journey, pulling her hair and calling her silly names, but she had felt a bit sorry for him when she saw him huddled in the corner of the carriage nursing his ear, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘Poppy Brown, stop daydreaming and follow the others outside into the forecourt where the billeting officer will deal with you all as he sees fit.’ Mrs Hicks’ stentorian voice echoed round the empty station as Poppy fell in step beside Bobby. They were marched through the station ticket hall to stand outside on the forecourt, labelled like parcels and carrying their meagre belongings in brown paper bags, together with that mysterious but compulsory object in a box, a gas mask. Some of the children were snivelling miserably, others hung their heads and stared at their boots, while a few of the bigger boys fought and scrapped like wolf cubs attempting to establish a pecking order in their pack.

  Poppy wanted to cry like Colin, the ragged boy standing next to her who had wet his pants and was plainly terrified of being found out. She patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘I expect they’ll take us somewhere nice and give us a slap-up tea.’ She did not believe that for one moment, but she was not going to admit to being scared stiff. She held her head high and stuck out her chin. ‘Up guards and at ’em’ was what Grandad always said, taking his pipe out of his mouth and spitting into the fire as if to underline the importance of his words. ‘Don’t you let them country folk put one over on you, petal. If they does I’ll come down on the next train and give ’em a good seeing to. Chin up, Poppy. You come from a long line of brave soldiers, and don’t forget it.’

  Poppy did not feel like a brave soldier or a brave anything at that moment. Mrs Hicks had vanished. Maybe she had eaten one too many biscuits and exploded somewhere out of sight, but she had been replaced by a man with a clipboard. He wore a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses through which he peered at them like a myopic owl.

  ‘I’m Mr Walker,’ he announced as if this was something they ought to know. ‘I’m the billeting officer and I will find good homes to take care of you for the duration.’ He turned to a small group of people who had gathered behind him. None of them looked particularly enthusiastic at the prospect of taking on youngsters from the East End, and the raggle-taggle line of children began to fragment as some collapsed on the ground in tears and several others were sick. Probably from fright, Poppy thought, as she eyed their prospective hosts, recalling Mum’s last words to her as they had said a tearful goodbye outside the school gates at five thirty that morning.

  ‘Look at their shoes and their hats, Poppy. Good shoes and a nice hat will mean a clean home and no bed bugs or lice. You be a good girl, wash behind your ears and say your prayers every night before you go to bed. Always remember that your mum and dad love you, ducks. And so does Joe, although he ain’t always the best at showing his feelings. That goes for your gran and grandad too. We’ll all miss you, love’

  Poppy said a small prayer now as she met the eyes of a tight-lipped little woman wearing a felt beret and a mean scowl. Her shoes needed a polish and were down at heel. Poppy looked away and moved her gaze down the line until she came upon a smart pair of high-heeled court shoes, two-tone in brown and cream. Glancing upwards she noted a jaunty brown velour hat spiked with a long feather that reminded her of a film poster she had seen of Errol Flynn playing Robin Hood. The face beneath the hat could have been a female version of the film star’s, but the woman’s expression was neither charming nor kind. Poppy’s heart sank a little as she read boredom and indifference in the hazel eyes that stared unblinkingly into her own. But the shoes were good and the hat was quite new. The woman wore a well-cut tweed costume with a gold brooch on the lapel. Poppy did her best to smile.

  The lady in the Robin Hood hat turned to the billeting officer. ‘What’s the name of that one?’ She waved her hand vaguely in Poppy’s direction.

  Mr Walker scanned the list on his clipboard but he frowned as if confused by the names and ages of the children. He moved a step closer to Poppy. ‘What’s your name, dear?’

  ‘Poppy Brown, sir.’

  ‘Poppy,’ he said with an attempt at a smile. ‘Named after the flower, were you, dear?’

  ‘No, mister. I was called Poppy after me mum’s favourite perfume from Woollies. Californian Poppy.’

  The smart lady cast her eyes up to heaven. ‘My God, what an accent.’ She looked Poppy up and down. ‘But she does look the cleanest of the bunch and she’s old enough to be useful. She’ll do.’

  ‘You’re a lucky girl, Poppy Brown.’ Mr Walker took her by the shoulder and gave her a gentle shove towards her benefactress. ‘You must be very grateful to Mrs Carroll and I hope you’ll behave like a good girl at Squire’s Kna
pp.’

  ‘Follow me, child.’ Mrs Carroll strode away towards a large black car, her high heels tip-tapping on the concrete, and as the feather in her hat waved in the breeze it seemed to be beckoning to Poppy. She followed obediently but shied away in fright as a big man dressed entirely in black from his peaked cap to his shiny leather boots leapt forward to open the car door.

  ‘Don’t loiter, girl,’ Mrs Carroll said impatiently. ‘Get in the car.’

  Poppy glanced up at the chauffeur but he was staring straight ahead of him. She climbed into the back seat and made herself as small as possible in the far corner. The unfamiliar smell of the leather squabs coupled with the gnawing hunger that caused her stomach to rumble made her close her eyes as a wave of nausea swept over her. The jam sandwiches that Mum had made in the early hours of the morning had all been eaten before the train got to the Elephant and Castle. She had saved the piece of ginger cake until last, but she had shared it with the small girl from the infants class whose nose was permanently dripping with candles of mucus that grew longer each time she opened her mouth to howl.

  ‘We’ll go straight home, Jackson,’ Mrs Carroll said in a bored tone. ‘I’ve changed my mind about going to the library.’

  The car picked up speed as they left the village and a cool breeze coming through the open window revived Poppy to the point where she could open her eyes. She craned her neck to look out of the window.

  ‘You’re very small,’ Mrs Carroll said, lighting a cigarette that she had just fitted into a green onyx holder. ‘How old are you?’ She inhaled with obvious pleasure and exhaled slowly as she replaced the gold cigarette case and lighter in her handbag.

  Poppy was impressed. Her dad smoked cigarettes but he always rolled them himself and lit them with a match from a box of Swan Vestas. Sometimes when she had earned a bonus at the glue factory, Mum would buy a packet of Woodbines for him as a special treat. Gran said it wasn’t ladylike to smoke in the street. Poppy wondered what Gran would say about a lady smoking in her car.

  ‘Well?’ Mrs Carroll shot her a sideways glance. ‘Have you lost your tongue, girl?’

  ‘No, miss, I’m thirteen. I had me thirteenth birthday in April.’

  ‘You’re very undersized for your age, and you say my thirteenth birthday, not me thirteenth birthday. You call me Mrs Carroll or ma’am, not miss. Do you understand, Poppy?’

  ‘Yes, mi— ma’am.’

  Mrs Carroll smoked her cigarette in silence, occasionally tapping the ash into an ashtray located somewhere by her side. Poppy remembered that Gran also said it was rude to stare and she turned away to gaze out of the window. Through gaps in the hedgerows she could see fields of ripe corn, spiked with scarlet poppies and dark blue cornflowers. She had read about the countryside in books and she had seen the flat fields of Essex from the train window on the annual family August Bank Holiday trip to Southend-on-Sea, but the gently rolling countryside of Dorset was something quite new to her. She moved forward in her seat as they passed a field where a herd of black and white cows grazed on rich green grass, and she was amazed by their size and a bit scared, especially when two of them poked their heads over a five-barred gate and mooed loudly as the car drove past. She began to feel sick again and was relieved when Jackson brought the big limousine to a halt outside a pair of tall wrought iron gates. He climbed sedately out of the car and unlocked the gates, which protested on rusty hinges as they swung open. He drove slowly along an avenue lined with trees that formed a dark tunnel of interwoven branches heavy with wine-red leaves.

  ‘This is like the park at home,’ Poppy said appreciatively.

  ‘Really.’

  Mrs Carroll’s voice sounded remote and mildly bored. Poppy accepted this as a matter of course. Grown-ups never took much notice of what children had to say, and she had just spotted a small lake with an island in the middle and a white marble folly in the shape of a Roman temple. It was like something out of a film and she was about to ask Mrs Carroll if all this belonged to her when she heard the thundering of horse’s hooves and the car came to a sudden halt. Seemingly appearing from nowhere, the rider drew his mount to a halt on Poppy’s side of the car. The animal whinnied and rolled its great eyes. Its nostrils flared and Poppy thought it was going to put its huge head through the open window to bite her. She screamed and ducked down, covering her eyes with her hands.

  ‘Good God, who have you got there, Mother?’

  The voice was young, male and well spoken but Poppy did not dare look up.

  ‘Guy! Do you have to ride as if you’re in a Wild West show?’ Mrs Carroll said angrily. ‘Get that beast away from the Bentley before it does some damage.’

  ‘Have you kidnapped a little girl, Mother? I thought you hated children.’

  The humour in the voice was not lost on Poppy. She struggled to sit upright, but as she lifted her head she saw the horse’s huge yellow teeth bared as if it was going to snap her head off. Everything went black.

  She woke up feeling something cold and wet dripping down her neck. A fat, rosy face hovered above hers and for a moment Poppy thought she was at home in West Ham.

  ‘Gran? Is that you?’

  ‘Gran indeed. What a cheek!’

  ‘Well, you are a grandma, Mrs Toon.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, Violet. But I’m not grandma to the likes of this little ’un, come from goodness knows where in the slums of London.’

  Poppy was raised to a sitting position and the younger person, who she realised must be Violet, shoved a glass of water into her hands. ‘Take a sip of that, for Gawd’s sake.’

  Poppy gazed in wonder at her surroundings. She was in a kitchen, but it was enormous. The whole ground floor of her home in West Ham would have fitted into it with room to spare.

  ‘We thought you were dead,’ Violet said cheerfully. ‘But now we can see you’re alive and kicking.’

  Poppy drank some water and immediately felt a little better. ‘I thought for a moment I was back at home.’

  Mrs Toon cleared her throat noisily and wiped her hands on her starched white apron. ‘There, there! You’re a very lucky little girl to have been taken in by Mrs Carroll. I hope you’re not going to give us any trouble, Poppy Brown.’

  ‘I never asked to come here, missis.’

  Mrs Toon and Violet exchanged meaningful glances, as if to say ‘I told you so’.

  ‘None of your lip, young lady,’ Mrs Toon said sharply. ‘You’re a guest in this house, although I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with you. Are you going to be kept below stairs or upstairs? Mrs Carroll never said one way or t’other. But whatever she decides, you must keep a civil tongue in your head, or you’ll answer to me.’

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ Poppy said, recalling Mrs Carroll’s lesson in manners.

  ‘La-di-dah!’ Mrs Toon said, chuckling. ‘Better give her a bowl of soup and some bread and butter, Violet. And then you can take her upstairs and run a bath for her.’

  ‘It’s not Friday.’ Poppy looked for the tin tub set in front of the black-lead stove, but there was none. Come to that there was no stove either. There was a large gas cooker and some sort of range with shiny metal lids on the top, but that was all. She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, seeing as how you got no hot water, I’ll skip the bath, ta.’

  ‘People in proper houses have baths every day,’ Mrs Toon said firmly. ‘And I don’t know what gives you the idea we haven’t any hot water. We have the very latest in everything at Squire’s Knapp.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Violet said, nodding. ‘We had central heating before even Cook was born, and that’s going back some.’ She placed a bowl of steaming soup on a stool which she set beside Poppy. ‘I daresay you don’t have proper bathrooms in the slums. Eat up and I’ll show you how posh folks live.’

  The soup was as good as anything that Gran could make, Poppy thought appreciatively as she bit into the hunk of freshly baked bread liberally spread with thick yellow butter. She had not tasted butter before as th
ey always ate margarine at home. She stopped chewing as she thought of her family and suddenly it was difficult to swallow. She had lost track of time but a sideways glance at the big white-faced clock on the kitchen wall told her it was teatime. Dad and her elder brother Joe would be home from their jobs on the railways, and Mum would be stoking the coke boiler to heat water for them to wash off the grime of the day, while Gran peeled potatoes ready to boil and serve with a bit of fat bacon or boiled cod. Grandad would be out in the back garden smoking his pipe and keeping an eye out for the neighbour’s pigeons. The birds were supposed to fly straight home, but were inclined to stop off in order to sample the tender green shoots of cabbage and a Brussels sprout or two.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Violet demanded. ‘Don’t you like proper food? I bet your family lives on rats and mice up in London.’

  Apparently overhearing this remark, Mrs Toon caught Violet a swift clout round the ear. ‘Don’t tease the kid, Violet Guppy. How would you like it if you were sent away from home and had to live with strangers? You go on upstairs and run the bath water and don’t dawdle.’

  Uttering a loud howl Violet ran from the kitchen clutching her hand to her ear. Poppy swallowed hard and blinked, determined that whatever happened she was not going to disgrace herself by bursting into tears. Gran said tears were a sign of weakness, like not being able to work a pair of scissors with your left hand in order to cut the fingernails on your right hand. Gran said if you couldn’t control your emotions or your left hand, it was just weak will and not to be tolerated.

  ‘Eat up, little ’un,’ ordered Mrs Toon. ‘I haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you, you know.’

  ‘Mrs Toon. I’ve got a message from her upstairs.’