Poppy in the Field

by Mary Hooper

  ‘You’ve already written home, haven’t you?’ Poppy asked Tibs.

  Tibs nodded. He’d been in the Casino Hospital for two weeks by then and was making reasonable progress. His cheek had been predicted to heal with very little scarring. Two more dead toes had been removed and surgery had tidied up the lesions, although the ulcerated flesh of his feet caused him continual pain and would probably take several months to return to something approaching normal. His right arm, however, was in a better state, and although a long way off being healed, was – mostly thanks to the new irrigation treatment – looking healthy and free of gangrene.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent a field postcard to my ma telling her I’m here, but I ought to write to my girl.’

  ‘Of course! I’ll help you, if you like,’ Poppy offered, knowing he would have difficulty with his right arm being out of use. ‘Don’t doze off after dinner – we’ll write when everyone’s having their afternoon rest.’

  When she turned up with pencil and pad, though, Tibs didn’t seem keen to start. He began by asking Poppy not to put the hospital address at the top of the letter because he didn’t want his girl to turn up unexpectedly.

  ‘Why ever not?’ Poppy said, for quite often wives and families would come across the Channel to see patients, and hostels and hotels had opened specifically for them.

  ‘I don’t want her to see me with my feet all dead and my toes missing,’ he explained. ‘She’s a well-brought-up girl. It wouldn’t be nice for her.’

  ‘She’ll get used to it,’ Poppy said cheerfully. ‘I’m well brought up and I have.’

  Tibs shook his head, his brow furrowed. He was a good-looking lad, Poppy thought, now that his cheek had been stitched, he’d been shaved and had his hair washed and trimmed.

  ‘She won’t care about a few missing toes if she loves you,’ she added.

  ‘Dainty, my Violet is. Like her name. She likes things just so. Imagine seeing those disgusting things,’ he said, indicating his feet, ‘sticking out of the bed in the morning.’

  ‘Tibs, she’ll just be happy you’ve been to war and come out the other side!’

  ‘I don’t want her to see me,’ Tibs said stubbornly. ‘I don’t want her pity. In fact, I think it’s all over between us.’

  ‘Well, if you say so,’ Poppy said, ‘but I think you’re being daft.’

  Tibs dictated his letter.

  Dear Violet,

  I’m in a military hospital recovering from a few bumps and bruises. Soon I hope to be out of this place, and out of the war, for ever.

  I’m glad you’re enjoying your new job in the factory. It’s good for you to have a little spending money. I know you like your pretty clothes.

  Violet, I’m sorry for what I have to tell you next, but I’ve met a French girl and she has been writing to me and visiting me in hospital. We have become quite close and I feel it is only right to ask you to release me from our engagement.

  I am very sorry if this news comes as a disappointment, but a smasher like you will not be long in finding yourself someone new. Please do not think too badly of me.

  Yours truly

  Poppy wrote exactly what he dictated, even though she paused halfway through and looked at him, frowning.

  ‘Do you want to sign it Tibs?’ she said when they’d finished. ‘Does she call you Tibs and not Terry?’

  ‘Everyone calls me Tibs.’

  ‘Including the French girl?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, she does too.’

  Poppy looked at him straight. ‘She doesn’t exist, does she? There is no French girl.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘Because if you’d had letters from her, I would have known. And I would have seen anyone who came visiting.’

  Tibs gave her a look, a bleak look, then turned away. ‘None of your business,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Tibs, you’ve lied to Violet, haven’t you?’ Poppy persisted. ‘Have you gone off her?’

  ‘No,’ he said, and then again, more miserably, ‘no, not a bit of it.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Because Violet wouldn’t want a freak with one damaged arm and no toes, that’s why. She likes going out dancing – she wouldn’t want someone who had to hobble around on their stumps.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ Poppy said. She squeezed his hand. ‘Things like that aren’t for you to decide. You’ve got to tell her the truth and let her make up her own mind about what she wants to do.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m making it up for her. I know I’m going to be a cripple. She’d have to stay working at the munitions factory for the rest of her life to earn enough money to keep me.’

  ‘I’m sure she’d rather do that than lose you! Listen, we had someone here a while back who was a triple amputee.’

  Tibs shrugged.

  ‘He never complained, always made the best of things. We got him up and sorted him out. He was on his way to Roehampton to get fitted with new limbs when the ship he was sailing on struck a mine and that was the end of him.’

  Tibs shook his head and wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Well, I’m sorry about him, but that’s nothing to do with me. Just send her the letter, will you?’ he muttered. ‘She’ll write back and tell me I’m released from our engagement, and that’ll be the end of it.’

  Poppy sighed, but did as he’d asked.

  Before she went off duty that day, Sister Gradley, after asking to have a quiet word with her, said she hoped Poppy wasn’t getting too friendly with any of the patients.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing your attentions to Private Burroughs,’ she said. ‘And weren’t you holding his hand?’

  ‘I didn’t . . . I mean, I did squeeze his hand, but in sympathy, not because there’s anything between us!’ Poppy said, rather shocked. ‘He has a fiancée at home and he was writing her a very difficult letter.’

  ‘Very well, but do remember that in the circumstances in which we find ourselves, with our patients relying on us for everything, it’s all too easy for pity to be mistaken for love.’

  Poppy nodded, thinking that although she did feel, in a way, that she loved Tibs – in fact, loved all the boys – it wasn’t that sort of love. ‘I’ll take care.’

  ‘I probably wouldn’t have said anything to you, but I happen to know that there was a VAD on this ward last year who behaved quite scandalously,’ Sister said. ‘She got over-friendly with a young lad and then gave him the big heave-ho.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m afraid he took it badly . . . tried to kill himself.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful!’

  ‘We’re all trying to make sure that such a thing doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Poppy said, rather subdued. ‘I’ll be very careful.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Casino Hospital,

  Nr Boulogne-sur-Mer,

  France

  21st April 1916

  Dearest Ma,

  Thank you for your letter. I’m glad to hear that you and the girls and Aunt Ruby are all well. I’m sorry I’ve only managed to send you a couple of postcards lately, but things are always so hectic here. Hospital life goes on round the clock, patients come in, go out or – of course – sometimes die, whatever time it is. So far I have not had to do night shift, which everyone says is dire.

  Things are so much better in Ward 5 since a certain sister went back to Blighty. We now have Sister Gradley in charge and she is perfectly human and allows me and the other VADs to take care of the boys properly and do everything for them, as much as we wish. Sometimes it’s more than we wish, but I’ve got to a stage now where I almost feel that I’ve seen it all.

  Ma, what do you think? The most exciting thing! We’ve just heard that the Prince of Wales is coming here this afternoon to inspect the hospital, talk to some of the boys and thank the doctors and nurses for their work. I saw a photograph of him the other day in his army uniform and I must say that he is the best looking man
that I’ve ever seen in khaki. Brave, too – apparently as soon as war broke out he wanted to go to France and fight.

  I am going now to help shampoo and shine the ward, hang Union Jacks and pin up pictures of the King and Queen – also, my boys with smashed-up legs say I must hang red, white and blue bunting round their leg hoists. We are a little late with all this preparation, because although we heard a rumour about the Prince coming here early this morning, no one believed it. We are always being told that famous people are coming in to boost morale (on April Fool’s Day they said it was the King who was coming, and then Charlie Chaplin was supposed to be in the canteen and half the hospital rushed in there to see him), but this time it’s really true because Sister showed us the letter.

  Your excited daughter,

  Poppy xxx

  If Poppy was excited, then Dot and Tilly were beside themselves at the thought of a visit by the handsome twenty-two-year-old prince who was not only heir to the British throne, but hugely popular with the people. Luckily, because Dot and Tilly’s hospital was closely aligned with the Casino (and because the two girls were nothing but persistent), they’d persuaded their matron to give them permission to be present at the royal visit.

  That morning, Poppy, after getting a tip-off from one of the orderlies, had gone into the attic of the building and discovered a trunk containing yards and yards of red, white and blue flag bunting, last used years ago when the casino had first opened. This was brought downstairs, and Poppy and the orderlies draped it around the top of the bed screens and zigzagged it across the ward from one bed to another.

  The boys had been issued with clean pyjamas for the occasion, had any beards or moustaches trimmed neatly, and been given haircuts. There were those among them, of course, who wouldn’t even know a royal visit was going on, and men who were either in a coma, were seriously ill or had only recently had operations were wheeled into a quiet, screened-off corner of the ward. Tibs, however, was considered well enough to join in the fun, as his cheek was knitting together nicely and the wound in his upper arm was still free of infection. It was just his feet, and more especially his toes, which were causing the doctors some concern. That, and the fact that since he’d got Poppy to write to his fiancée, he’d been quiet and depressed.

  When Poppy had finished decorating with the bunting, she took her place by the door of Ward 5. By this time, there were nurses by the beds, nurses on the stairs, nurses on the balcony. There were also doctors, surgeons, orderlies and ‘up patients’ lining the hallways. Around midday, distant cheers were heard, a band in the street began playing, and an equerry came up the stairs to tell them that the Prince of Wales would be with them in ten minutes.

  ‘Say, if an American girl marries a prince, would she become a princess?’ Dot asked Poppy, pulling a tendril of hair out of her cap and curling it round her finger.

  ‘I should think so,’ Poppy said. ‘But don’t hold out much hope of that – I rather think he might have to marry someone titled, like a duchess or a dame, or someone who’s a princess already.’

  ‘And someone British, I suppose,’ Dot said.

  ‘I expect so,’ said Poppy. ‘Did you know the royals are changing their name because it sounds too German?’

  Dot nodded. ‘So he’ll want someone who’ll back him up in Britishness, right?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ Poppy said. ‘Hard luck, Dot.’

  Tilly arrived carrying a big vase of wild flowers. ‘I borrowed them from downstairs,’ she said. ‘I thought they’d make the ward look pretty.’ Tilly went into the ward, positioned the flowers on the central table and came out again. ‘Now,’ she said to Poppy, ‘tell us what we do if we’re presented to this prince? Is there a law about what we’re allowed to say?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s a law . . .’

  ‘He’s a real prince of the royal blood!’ Dot said, fanning herself with her hand. ‘Just think of it. The legacy! The tradition!’

  ‘As he passes us, do we curtsey, shake hands or prostrate ourselves on the floor?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘A curtsey will do,’ said Poppy, giggling.

  ‘And how do we do one of those?’ Dot asked.

  ‘One foot behind the other, bend from the knees and bow your head respectfully as you dip,’ Poppy said, demonstrating it to them. ‘Go as low as you can without falling over.’

  ‘Is this right?’ Dot and Tilly asked, bobbing up and down enthusiastically, one on each side of her.

  ‘Very good!’ Poppy said. Having so recently been in service, she didn’t feel the need to practise.

  There came some shouts from downstairs – cries of ‘God save the King!’ and ‘God bless the Prince of Wales!’ – and then the young man himself came up the central staircase. He was surrounded by important-looking people: hospital managers, field marshals, equerries and local dignitaries, also matrons and matrons-in-charge, and several elegantly dressed, aristocratic-looking ladies.

  He was very handsome, Poppy thought, tall and sensitive-looking. Not a bit like his bluff, bearded father.

  The crowd applauded, bowed and curtseyed as the Prince passed, but when he went right into Ward 5, most of his entourage stood respectfully to one side while he went to have a private word with several of the boys – including Tibs, Poppy was pleased to see. She hoped the royal visitor would be able to bring a smile to his face.

  In fewer than ten minutes, the Prince was out again and the crowd, bowing and bobbing as before, clapped him all the way down the stairs and out towards his next appointment in Calais, for he was visiting as many hospitals as he could. Even royalty, Poppy reflected, were doing their bit for the war.

  ‘Pearson!’

  As the crowd dispersed, Poppy was just about to go over and ask Tibs what the Prince had said, when she heard Sister calling her.

  ‘We have two more visitors waiting downstairs,’ Sister said. Poppy looked at her, puzzled. Sister added, ‘For Private Burroughs – Tibs, as you call him.’

  ‘Yes?’ Poppy said, very surprised. ‘Are they his family?’

  ‘Well, it’s his mother and a younger woman who I took to be his sister. They arrived here just before the Prince, and I thought they’d be better waiting in one of the side rooms, out of the fray.’

  ‘Do you want me to go and get them?’

  ‘Would you? And perhaps you wouldn’t mind preparing them for what’s happened to his feet, just so they don’t have too much of a shock. His mother’s in a bit of a nervous state and his sister seems traumatised by everything she’s seen here. When they’ve spoken to their boy, please ask them to kindly come and chat to me and I can tell them more fully about his injuries and his expected recovery.’

  Poppy said she would, then went downstairs to where Mrs Burroughs and a young woman were waiting in a side room. Introducing herself as one of the VADs who were looking after Tibs, she asked if they’d had a good journey over and if they were staying at the hostel in town.

  Mrs Burroughs answered Poppy’s questions in a distracted manner, then said that they’d like to see Tibs straight away. ‘You see, dear, we’re terribly anxious,’ she went on, ‘because he’s hardly told us anything about his injuries, just tried to make light of them. Why, Violet and me have been fretting half out of our skins about what might be wrong.’

  ‘Violet!’ Poppy said, turning to the girl in surprise. ‘Then you’re Tibs’s fiancée.’

  ‘I am,’ she said. She blinked rapidly to disperse the tears which had suddenly appeared in her eyes. ‘That is, I thought I was, until a week or so back when I had the strangest letter telling me about a French girl he’d met.’ She shook her head and a few tears fell. ‘I didn’t even know he could speak French!’

  ‘I’ll give him French girl!’ Mrs Burroughs said. ‘He’s got responsibilities, he has.’ She looked meaningfully at Violet, who smiled tremulously and put her hand on her stomach in a protective gesture.

  ‘Oh! Are you . . . expecting?’ Poppy asked.

  Violet nodded. �
�Tibs came home six months back,’ she said in a low voice. ‘He only had three days’ leave and we were going to get married, but for one reason and another we didn’t get round to it.’

  ‘Young people . . .’ Mrs Burroughs murmured.

  ‘And then I found I was . . . I didn’t tell Tibs because I thought he’d only fret about me. I told his ma, of course, but I made her swear she wouldn’t say anything to him. I was going to surprise him when he next came home on leave.’

  ‘But then he surprised us!’ said Mrs Burroughs. ‘Knocked us for six, he did. I was that ashamed! I could hardly believe my Tibs would do such a thing. French girl indeed!’

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ Violet interrupted. ‘Is she someone who works here?’

  ‘If she does, I’ll be wanting a few words with her, I’ll tell you that for nothing,’ said Mrs Burroughs grimly.

  Poppy took a deep breath. ‘There is no girl.’

  The other two stared at her.

  ‘He made her up,’ Poppy continued.

  ‘But why would he do that?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Because he’s been quite badly injured and he thought you, Violet, shouldn’t have to care for him for the rest of his life. He was offering you a way out.’

  ‘Is it . . . is it his face?’ his mother asked, pressing her hand against her mouth. ‘Is he very badly disfigured?’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘Not at all. He had a gash on his cheek, but that’s healing nicely, and so is his arm. No, it’s his feet – his toes. Have you heard of trench foot?’

  Both women nodded.

  ‘Well, Tibs had it extremely badly.’ Poppy gave them a moment to take this in, then added, ‘Some of his toes had to be removed.’

  Mrs Burroughs gasped.

  ‘My poor Tibs!’ said Violet.

  ‘Yes, but bad though that is, Tibs has actually been quite lucky. Some boys end up with gangrene and need to have half their legs taken away,’ Poppy said gently. ‘The medical staff are hoping that they can save the rest of his toes, however, and his feet.’

  ‘And if the treatment goes all right, will he be able to walk?’ Violet asked.