Poppy's War

by Lily Baxter

  She blinked up at him, intoxicated by the scent of damp Harris tweed and spice-scented cologne. She was suddenly the centre of attention and it seemed that at least someone cared about her. All right, she thought, so he isn’t quite as handsome as Errol Flynn, but he’s not half bad. The girls at school would be green with envy if they knew she was living in the same house as someone who looked like a film star. He strolled through the open French windows into the garden. She realised with a start that Pamela was saying something.

  ‘You haven’t heard a word I said, Poppy. Are you sure your head doesn’t hurt?’

  Poppy gazed up at Pamela, searching for some resemblance to her brother and finding none. ‘I’m sorry, miss. What was it you said?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll ring for Olive. She’ll know what to do with you.’

  Poppy did not think much of that idea and she scrambled to her feet. ‘I’m all right now, honest.’

  ‘Then you’d better go to the nursery and read a book, or go into the garden and play ball, or something,’ Pamela said with a vague wave of her hands. ‘Just make sure you keep to the servants’ quarters while the shooting party have lunch in the dining room, and that goes for tomorrow as well. In fact the luncheon parties go on until the end of the week and you mustn’t make a nuisance of yourself. If you don’t know what to do, just ask Olive or Mrs Toon.’

  Poppy eyed her warily. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, miss. Who are they shooting if it ain’t the Hun?’

  ‘It’s way past the glorious twelfth, girl. The shooting season has begun. I thought everyone knew that.’ Pamela hurried from the room leaving Poppy none the wiser.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Poppy Brown. I’ve been looking for you.’

  Guy’s voice startled Poppy so that she almost fell out of the tree. She had thought she was well concealed amongst the greenery of the ancient oak where she had taken refuge from the house full of strangers. She had no idea how long she had been perched on the branch, but from her vantage point she had seen the return of the shooting party and the toffs in their tweeds, wearing flat caps that didn’t quite look the same as the ones that Dad and Joe wore when they went to watch West Ham play at home.

  ‘I can see you, kid, so you might as well answer me.’

  ‘How did you know where I was?’ She had bunched her skirt up into her knickers in order to make climbing easier and she was suddenly conscious of the fact that she was showing rather a lot of leg. Gran always said that ladies never showed their knees. She would have a fit if she saw her now.

  Guy pulled himself up into the branches with the ease of an athlete and straddled the bough beside her. ‘This is where I used to hide when I didn’t want anyone to find me.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was your tree.’

  ‘Well now you do, Poppy! But I give you permission to use it as and when necessary.’

  ‘But you’re grown-up. You don’t need a place to hide.’

  The smile on his lips did not quite reach his eyes. ‘Everyone needs a place to hide sometimes, Poppy. Grown-ups are no exception.’

  ‘I see.’ She did not understand at all, but she was flattered to think that Guy had seen fit to confide in her. He seemed to have forgotten her for a moment and he took a cigarette case from his breast pocket, selected a cigarette and lit it with a flick of his silver lighter. Poppy watched him with open admiration as he blew smoke rings up into the branches. ‘I wish I could do that.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it. Smoking isn’t for little girls.’

  ‘I’ll be fourteen next April.’

  ‘That makes all the difference, of course.’

  ‘Now you’re laughing at me. That’s not nice.’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I can remember what it’s like to be sort of halfway between childhood and being an adult. No one takes you seriously.’

  His smile would have melted an iceberg and Poppy was ready to forgive him anything. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she murmured, turning her head and hoping he had not seen the blood rush to her cheeks.

  He tossed the butt onto the ground where it glowed for a moment before being extinguished by the damp soil. ‘And now, Poppy,’ he said seriously, ‘I think it’s time for your first riding lesson.’

  She almost fell out of the tree in fright, but he had already lowered himself so that he could drop the last few feet, and he was standing below encouraging her to jump. She half climbed, half fell off the branch and was caught by a pair of surprisingly strong arms, stronger even than her dad’s when he lifted her up on his shoulders to pick apples off the tree in their tiny back garden.

  Guy set her on her feet and strode off in the direction of the stables. She trotted on behind, torn between the desire to follow him to hell and back or to run away and lock herself in the nursery bathroom. Forgiving him for teasing her was one thing; learning to ride one of those fearsome animals was quite another.

  When they reached the stable yard he summoned a lad with a wave of his hand and told him to saddle up Goliath. Poppy sidled away, swallowing convulsively as the bile rose in her throat. She felt faint and sick and was about to make a bolt for the safety of the rhododendrons when Guy seemed to sense her fear. His hand shot out and caught her wrist in a vice-like grip.

  ‘No you don’t,’ he said sternly. ‘Goliath is as gentle as a lamb. I don’t want you frightening him again.’

  The notion of a gigantic animal like Goliath being scared of a person as small as herself struck Poppy as funny in spite of her rising panic and she giggled nervously. The stable lad brought the beast out of the stall and Guy stroked the horse’s muzzle, speaking to it in a voice that made Poppy feel quite jealous. She took a step backwards as Goliath tossed his mane and pawed the cobbles with his huge metal-shod hoof, but Guy still had hold of her wrist and without saying a word he picked her up and set her squarely on the saddle. Poppy’s legs were not long enough to reach the stirrups and she gripped the pommel while he adjusted the straps, closing her eyes and praying that she would not fall off. The ground seemed miles away, and when the horse moved she uttered a cry of fright.

  ‘Hold tight. I’m going to lead Goliath around the yard. I won’t let you fall off so there’s no need to be scared.’

  The bones of Poppy’s pelvis bounced on the leather saddle and her stomach threatened to force its way up through her mouth as she clung on.

  ‘There now, that’s not so bad, is it?’ Guy said as they completed a full circle of the yard, which brought a round of applause from the stable lad and one of the grooms.

  ‘No-o,’ Poppy muttered, opening one eye and sighing with relief when she realised that the ordeal was over.

  Guy lifted her from the saddle and set her on the ground. He produced some lumps of sugar from his jacket pocket and put them in her hand. ‘Hold your hand out and keep your fingers flat or Goliath will think your thumb is a bit of sugar and eat it.’

  She held her hand out, keeping her eyes tight shut until she felt the soft, moist lips take the sugar gently from her hand. She opened her eyes and found herself looking into the limpid gaze of Goliath. For a moment she thought he was smiling at her. ‘He’s lovely,’ she whispered.

  ‘There you are, Poppy. I told you there was nothing to be afraid of.’ Guy lengthened the stirrup leathers before mounting with the ease of long practice. Goliath pranced around excitedly, eager to be off, but Guy had complete control over the horse. He smiled down at Poppy. ‘Cheerio, kid. See you later.’

  She waved shyly as he urged Goliath into a trot and they disappeared from view. She sighed, feeling suddenly lonely and unprotected as she walked slowly towards the scullery, but she came to a halt as a shower of filthy water splattered her sandals and the hem of her skirt.

  ‘Oops, mind out there, townie.’ The stable lad stuck his face close to hers, revealing a set of uneven teeth with a large gap where one of the top front ones was missing. ‘Oh dear, you’re all muddy. You’ll be in for it now.’ He stood grinni
ng stupidly at her, with the empty bucket still held in his hand.

  The pent-up emotion that had been building in Poppy since she left home suddenly erupted in an explosion of blind fury. She gave him a shove that caught him off balance and sent him sprawling onto the pile of horse dung and straw that he had been raking out of the stalls. Floundering and winded, he gasped for air. A shout of laughter echoed round the yard as the other stable lads and grooms emerged from the tack room to watch the scene with evident enjoyment. ‘Serves you right, Guppy,’ one of them called out. ‘We said you was too young to work here. Go back to the schoolroom where you belong.’

  Poppy drew herself up to her full height, tossed her head and marched into the scullery. She managed to slip past the women who were washing crockery in the Belfast sink, and Mrs Toon who was having forty winks in a chair by the Aga, with her cap pulled down over her eyes. Violet was nowhere to be seen and Olive and a couple of women from the village were busy laying out trays in readiness for afternoon tea. Poppy’s stomach rumbled as she realised that she must have missed the midday meal, but she dared not ask for food in case they saw the state she was in. No one at home had ever raised a hand to her, except for a swipe round the legs with a wet floor cloth once when she had cheeked Mum, but she was not so certain they would spare the rod in this house. If they went round shooting innocent birds, what might they do to a girl who had ruined a set of perfectly good clothes? Creeping up the back stairs, she managed to reach the nursery unseen, but as she closed the door behind her she came face to face with Pamela, who looked her at her as though she were something the cat had sicked up on the doormat.

  ‘Just look at the state you’re in!’ Pamela said coldly. ‘What on earth have you been doing, and where have you been all this time? Mrs Toon was going to send out a search party if you hadn’t returned by suppertime.’

  ‘Mr Guy taught me to ride,’ Poppy said truthfully.

  ‘Well, it looks as if you were thrown into a peat bog. You’d better change your clothes. No, on second thoughts you’d better have a bath first. You smell awful.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Pamela ground her teeth. ‘You don’t say yes miss. You say yes Mrs Pallister. And before you go and clean yourself up, Poppy, I want you to say hello to my son, Rupert, and this is his new nursemaid, Nancy Guppy.’ With a nod of her head she indicated a young girl seated at a low table with a toddler on her knee. ‘Nancy lives in the village and is only going to be here during the day.’

  Another blooming Guppy, Poppy thought, eyeing the girl warily.

  ‘You’ll be sharing the nursery with Rupert until we’ve decided what to do with you. I’m sure you are quite old enough to keep an eye on Rupert at night. Do you think you can be trusted to do that, Poppy?’

  ‘Yes, M-Mrs Pallister.’ Poppy nodded vigorously. She didn’t much like the look of Nancy, who had freckles and a spiteful, foxy look about her, but Rupert smiled happily at her as he munched bread and butter soldiers dipped in his boiled egg.

  ‘Good,’ Pamela said with a hint of relief in her voice. ‘Now go and take that bath and I’ll have a tray of supper sent up for you later on. Mrs Toon won’t want you getting in her way while she’s preparing dinner.’

  Poppy ran her bath, thinking while the water gushed into the big iron tub that these people were obsessed with cleanliness in a way that would even impress her gran, who prided herself on having the cleanest whites in the street. Gran was a great believer in Persil powder and not only used it to boil the whites but made it into a paste and scrubbed her own wrinkled skin with it and even used it to wash her hair. Poppy could never smell Persil without thinking of Gran and the tiny kitchen in Quebec Road on Monday, which was washing day, as opposed to Friday which was bath night. As she undressed, Poppy drifted into a blissful reverie about the home she was missing so much that it hurt.

  Tuesday was the day when Mum black-leaded the boiler and on Wednesday Dad always brought home sprats for tea. On Thursday Mum and Gran had a baking day and the whole house was filled with the aroma of warm sponge cake and bubbling jam tarts. Joe had taken one off the wire cooling tray once and had burnt his mouth. Gran had said that was what you got for pinching things, but Mum had given him a cup of cold water and a kiss on the cheek. Friday was fish and chip night, after everyone had taken a turn in the tub. She was the youngest, and therefore the last in the queue. She was used to tepid water and floating islands of soap scum. Poppy tested the water with the tip of her big toe and climbed in. The bath was as big as the Serpentine; the water was hot and clear as crystal and she had it all to herself. No gritty bits in the bottom now. This was luxury, but it didn’t make up for being away from home and family. She lay back in the bath and closed her eyes. Tears forced their way beneath her screwed-up eyelids and trickled down her cheeks to plop into the bath water.

  ‘Have you gone down the plughole to the sea?’

  Nancy’s shrill voice made her sit up with a start, and she clutched the flannel to her bare chest. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to use the lav, fathead! What do you think?’

  ‘I’m getting out now.’

  ‘You’d better hurry or I’m coming in ready or not!’

  Poppy leapt out of the bath and had just wrapped herself in the white bath sheet when Nancy flew in and began to take down her navy blue knickers. Poppy hurried into the bedroom, and still damp around the edges she had just managed to struggle into her clothes when Nancy breezed back into the nursery.

  ‘Whew! That was nearly a nasty accident. You took long enough in there, Popeye. I thought you’d drownded yourself.’

  ‘Don’t call me Popeye! That’s not my name.’

  ‘It’s what Violet calls you,’ Nancy said, smirking. ‘And Violet’s me cousin, so you’d better be nice to me, Popeye, or I’ll set Violet on you.’

  Before Poppy had time to think up a suitably cutting remark, the door opened and Violet stomped in carrying a heavy wooden tray which she dumped down on the nursery table, startling Rupert who opened his mouth and began to wail.

  ‘I’ve got enough to do without having to wait on you two,’ she grumbled.

  ‘There now, Vi. You’ve made Master Rupert cry,’ Nancy said, putting her arm around him, which made him wail even louder.

  ‘It’s your job to keep him quiet then, isn’t it?’ Violet snorted. ‘Me, I’ve got to wait on you lot as well as everything else. I’m run off me feet, and there’s still dinner to get through with all them snooty toffs. Think yourself lucky, Nancy Guppy. You’ve got it easy.’ She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Bitch,’ Nancy muttered. ‘I hate her. Stuck-up cow.’

  Poppy stared at her in astonishment. ‘I thought you said she was your cousin?’

  ‘She is, but that doesn’t mean to say I like her, does it?’ Nancy dumped Rupert on the floor as if he were a sack of potatoes. ‘Go and play with your toys like a good boy while me and Poppy here have our tea. I’m flipping starving.’

  Rupert sat where he had landed, plugging his thumb in his mouth and staring wide-eyed at Nancy. Poppy felt instantly sorry for him. He was only little, after all, and he seemed to be scared of foxy-face. She bent down and picked him up, settling him on her knee while she shovelled bread and milk into her mouth, but having taken the edge off her appetite she broke off a piece of shortbread and gave it to him. ‘There you are, Rupert,’ she said gently. ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’

  He curled his stubby little fingers around the biscuit and grinned at her as he stuffed it in his mouth.

  After they had finished their supper, Nancy picked up the tray and headed for the door. ‘Keep an eye on Rupie for me, Popeye. I’ll take the tray down before they send Vi up again. I need to keep in with her because I want to borrow her new blouse for the dance in the village hall on Saturday night.’

  She flounced out of the room. Relieved to be on her own with Rupert, Poppy went to sit beside him on the floor where he was quietly playing with
some wooden bricks. ‘I’m Poppy, and I’m going to look after you at bedtime.’ She lifted him onto her lap.

  ‘Poppy,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Poppy.’ He wrapped his chubby arms around her neck. He felt soft and warm like a puppy and it was wonderful to feel loved and needed, even if only for a moment as Rupert grew bored and wriggled until she set him down on the floor and he toddled over to continue playing with his bricks.

  She was helping him build them into a tower when the door opened and Pamela entered the room. ‘Where’s Nancy?’

  ‘She took the tray downstairs, Mrs Pallister.’

  ‘Tell her she can go home as soon as she’s put Master Rupert to bed. You must stay with him then, Poppy. I trust you to keep an eye on him.’

  Poppy nodded her head, lost for words as she gazed in admiration at Pamela’s elegant silk dress, which clung to her slender figure and swirled out around the hemline just like the ones that Ginger Rogers wore in the films. It must, she thought, have cost a bomb, not including the double row of gleaming pearls that she wore round her neck. As Pamela bent down to drop a kiss on the top of her son’s curly head, Poppy caught a waft of expensive perfume that was nothing like the scent they sold in Woollies. Miss Pamela’s husband must be worth a fortune, she thought enviously. One day maybe if she saved up enough she could afford to buy some of that perfume for Mum. She loved nice things, and although she never complained Poppy had often seen her leafing through the old fashion magazines she brought home from her cleaning job at the newsagent’s in the High Street.

  ‘Goodnight, darling,’ Pamela crooned. ‘Give Mummy a big kiss.’

  Rupert obliged and then turned his attention back to the tower of bricks.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ Pamela said, pausing by the mirror above the fireplace to pat an imaginary strand of hair into place.

  Poppy was impressed. She had seen upswept hairstyles like that in Picturegoer magazine. ‘You look pretty,’ she said shyly.