Poppy

by Mary Hooper

  On a scorching day in June, one of the final deliveries of equipment, two van loads of hospital beds, had been delivered to Airey House and were now awaiting erection. Following this, the house would officially be taken over by the War Office. The few remaining members of the de Veres’ staff, including Poppy and Molly, were due to leave the following morning and, as Poppy had not yet heard the result of her interview from Devonshire House, she’d arranged to go home and stay with her mother. If she was thought unsuitable to be a VAD, she would, she’d already decided, join Molly at one of the munitions factories. It would not be as thrilling or as useful as being a nurse, and she had heard that the chemicals turned your hair ginger, but at least she would be doing war work.

  ‘Can you imagine it?’ Molly said, as the two girls stood in what had once been the blue drawing room but was now empty of carpet, curtains, paintings and furniture. ‘All down each side of this room will be beds: fourteen of them in a line! And there’ll be as many beds again in the green drawing room and the dining room, and Cook’s pantry will be a restroom for the nurses.’

  ‘How long will they have the house for?’ Poppy asked.

  Molly shrugged. ‘For the rest of the war, I suppose. The de Veres are just going to keep a few pieces of furniture and some suitcases of stuff in one of the cellar rooms.’

  ‘What about upstairs?’ Poppy asked. ‘What will happen to the bedrooms?’

  ‘Some of them will become treatment rooms,’ said Molly, for she’d been chatting to one of the Tommies and knew all the latest, ‘and Mrs de Vere’s room is to become an operating theatre. They’ll be setting broken bones and trying to put people back together in there.’ She shivered dramatically. ‘Bet that’s not an easy task. I’ve heard that some of the men come back to Blighty near blown to bits or with no limbs at all.’

  ‘I’ve heard that too,’ Poppy said, and could not stop a picture forming in her mind of Freddie in a hospital bed with some superficial hurt which did not mar his handsome profile – while she, immaculate in her nurse’s uniform, placed an ice pack on his brow.

  Molly waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Poppy, you’ve gone into a trance! I was asking you how your brother’s getting on.’

  Poppy pulled herself together. ‘Oh, apparently – surprisingly – he’s doing fairly well.’

  ‘There you are!’ Molly said.

  ‘He wrote to Ma to say that he likes the fellows he’s signed on with and enjoys the training sessions.’

  Molly nodded. ‘Well, they do say that war brings out the best in people.’

  ‘He told me that they’ve all promised to look out for each other if they get involved in a skirmish.’ Poppy was silent for a moment, then said, ‘How strange it all is. The war has changed everything, hasn’t it? This house, our jobs, our families, our homes.’

  ‘Mmm. I s’pose it has.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true that because everyone is pulling together, all the different classes will sort of merge into one?’

  ‘Eh?’ Molly looked at her, puzzled. ‘How d’you mean?’

  Poppy made several starts at formulating what she wanted to say without mentioning Freddie and herself and any potential relationship, but found it too much of a struggle. ‘Oh . . . nothing,’ she said finally. ‘I was just being silly.’

  ‘Just think, Mr Jessop the butler is in Boulogne now!’ Molly said, hardly noticing Poppy’s struggle. ‘He’s helping feed hundreds of soldiers as they pass through on their way to fight.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be strange if he served Mr Jasper,’ Poppy said, for Jasper de Vere was due to receive his first posting at the end of June and was hoping to see active service in France as soon as possible.

  A little later, Poppy made a pot of tea for the team of Tommies who were putting up the beds and, taking it in to them, smiled to hear them complain that they were doing women’s work.

  ‘Making up beds for officers! We’ll be plumping their pillows next,’ one soldier said.

  ‘And giving ’em a goodnight kiss!’ said his pal.

  ‘I never signed up for this,’ said the first.

  ‘Nor did I! I signed up to get my hands on Fritz.’ He balled his fist hard into his palm and imitated the noise of a bomb going off. ‘I’d show ’em. Just let me get at the blighters!’

  ‘Knowing our luck, we’ll probably spend the whole blimmin’ war in Blighty.’

  ‘Fat lot of good to anyone, that’ll be!’

  Their sergeant major entered the room. ‘But at least you’ll be alive and not under the Flanders mud,’ he said. ‘Now cut the cackle and get on with the job.’

  Poppy, still smiling, went back into the kitchen, where Molly was holding out an envelope with Devonshire House printed in the top-left corner.

  ‘The postman just brought this for you!’ she said excitedly. ‘What do you think? Yes or no?’

  ‘No,’ said Poppy, fearing the worst.

  Molly pushed the letter at her. ‘Quickly, then. Open it and see!’

  The Recruitment Office,

  Devonshire House,

  London SW1

  13th June 1915

  Dear Miss Pearson,

  Following your interview at this office, we are pleased to inform you that the Voluntary Aid Detachment of the Red Cross will be able to offer you training in general war work, including first aid and nursing.

  Please attend this office on 15th June at two o’clock, when you will be assigned lodgings. Training will commence the following day.

  Yours truly,

  For Voluntary Aid Detachment

  That evening, Poppy walked over to see her mother and tell her the good news, then, having received a note from Miss Luttrell to say she would be spending several nights that week back at Mayfield, called in there to show her the letter too.

  ‘My congratulations, dear,’ Miss Luttrell said, kissing her on each cheek. ‘I knew they’d want you. Now you’re really going to help our boys!’

  Poppy nodded excitedly, still hardly believing that she’d been accepted.

  Miss Luttrell made a pot of tea. ‘You’re going to find yourself living and working amongst all sorts of people,’ she said, pouring it out, ‘and most of them will be well-to-do. I want to warn you against making up stories about your background – you might come unstuck. Just stay true to yourself.’

  Poppy listened and nodded, waiting for an opportunity to speak to Miss Luttrell about something in particular. When there was a lull in the conversation, she seized the moment. ‘The younger de Vere boy, Freddie, has also signed up now,’ she said.

  Miss Luttrell raised her eyebrows. ‘Excellent. I should think so!’

  ‘I sent him the feather,’ Poppy said. ‘But I don’t know if that was the reason he enlisted.’

  ‘Not the feather on its own perhaps, but he’ll have been getting a certain amount of pushing from those around him. Anyway, it’s not before time – it’s rumoured that the War Office will begin conscription early next year, so all those cowardly so-and-sos who’ve refused to fight for their country will be made to!’

  Poppy hesitated. The something which she wanted to speak to Miss Luttrell about was the same something she’d tried to bring up with Molly. She made several false starts and then began again rather timidly, ‘Miss Luttrell, I keep reading that a woman’s role in the world is changing. They say that because we’re managing to hold down men’s jobs – important jobs – we’ll probably get the vote when the war ends and . . .’ her voice trailed away and Miss Luttrell looked at her expectantly, ‘. . . and you did say that the war will level people.’

  ‘Yes, dear, I did. So?’

  ‘So does that mean . . . Do you also think it’s possible that young men from good families will now keep company with girls who might once have been thought of as below them?’

  Miss Luttrell looked at her keenly. ‘Possibly,’ she said, ‘but you must remember that these young officers want to . . .’ she gave a delicate cough, ‘. . . keep company for one
specific reason. And that reason is not marriage.’

  Poppy felt her cheeks begin to turn warm.

  ‘There is a certain desperation in young men who are going to war – oh, I know how it was for my generation during the Boer War! Men and women can get together for the wrong reasons.’ She grasped Poppy’s hand. ‘Be sensible. Don’t listen to a plea from a young man that you should consummate your relationship in case he dies at the front. If you do, you could find yourself with more than you bargained for at the end of the war.’

  On Poppy falling silent, Miss Luttrell added, ‘You do know what I mean, don’t you, dear?’

  Poppy nodded. She knew what Miss Luttrell was alluding to, but she and Freddie hadn’t even kissed! It sowed a little seed of doubt in her mind, however. A certain desperation in young men who are going to war . . . was that why Freddie was paying her so much attention?

  Chapter Seven

  Poppy was greeted at the door of Devonshire House by a girl in army uniform, who scrutinised the letter Poppy handed her and directed her to a waiting area just off a large, tiled hall. Here she sat on a bench with perhaps twenty other girls, all with suitcases and bags at their feet, all anxiously waiting to hear what they were going to be doing and where they’d be sleeping that night. Several of them were already speaking in low voices, comparing notes, talking about their homes or saying how much they missed their sweethearts who’d gone to fight. There was a kind of status battle going on, Poppy realised, with those who had brothers or fiancés at the front scoring the most points. She could not help noticing, either, that most of the young women had expensive leather luggage, were very well dressed and spoke in what her mother called ‘cut-glass accents’. She would be working alongside the type of girl she’d been calling ‘madam’ and curtseying to just a few weeks before – how odd that would be.

  After a few moments of staring at the floor, Poppy found a little confidence and began to look around her, wondering whether she would be billeted with any of these girls, hoping that they would be friendly, wondering what they would be like to work with. Those who’d removed their gloves were showing awfully pale and un-workaday hands!

  Four names were called out and four girls picked up their luggage and went into the next room, never to be seen by Poppy again. More time went by. Young women in different uniforms went backwards and forwards carrying paperwork, tea was served to the waiting girls from a trolley, further names were called and more new girls arrived to take the places of those who’d disappeared into other rooms. Another bench was brought in so that by the time someone called ‘Miss Pearson, please’ there were new recruits seated right around the four walls of the waiting area.

  Poppy got up, tapped at the door and went in, no longer nervous, just grateful that they had called her.

  ‘You are Poppy Pearson?’ the matron asked.

  Poppy nodded. ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Well, Pearson, as a VAD you will always be known by your surname,’ came the response. She scanned the form she had before her, then peered over her glasses at Poppy. ‘You have no formal first-aid knowledge?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  ‘But I see here that nursing is the area in which you want to work, rather than office work or driving?’

  ‘It is, madam.’

  ‘I want to emphasise straight away that you may not get the opportunity of work in France or Belgium. Only the crème de la crème of our nursing VADs will have the great honour of working alongside our fighting men.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, but I wasn’t considering asking to work abroad,’ Poppy said, thinking that nursing in this country was going to be quite difficult enough.

  ‘Very well. As to your duties: you may be asked to scrub the floor of a ward, to roll bandages, to clean equipment, to wash windows or clear up after someone who has lost control of their bodily functions.’

  Poppy nodded. So far, so much what she was used to.

  ‘You must be ever willing to help and never complain at any task you might be given. The army rule of obey first and complain afterwards should always be uppermost in your mind, and as we are a military detachment you will be subject to discipline similar to that in the British Army. You will wear your nurse’s uniform at all times and make sure it’s immaculate, address all your superiors as sir or madam, stand to attention when spoken to by an officer and keep your temper whatever the provocation. You will undertake the smallest detail ordered by a superior and draw yourself to attention whenever the national anthem is played.’

  ‘Of course, madam,’ Poppy said, trying not to look too overwhelmed by all these demands. ‘I’ve been a parlourmaid in a big house for four years and that’s been good training. I’m used to hard work and obeying orders.’

  ‘Then you’re halfway there, Pearson,’ said the matron. ‘VADs are part nurse and part kitchen maid. From what you’ve told me, I take it that you won’t need training in how to scrub a floor or serve tea, like some of our new young lady volunteers.’

  Poppy shook her head, hiding a smile.

  ‘You’ll be learning all sorts of tasks whilst you’re training, but it’ll be up to each individual nursing sister as to which you’ll be allowed to practise on the wards. You may be called upon to live in a tent, a hostel or in lodgings, and after eight weeks’ training in a variety of things you may be sent anywhere in the country.’

  ‘Very good, madam,’ Poppy said.

  ‘Now, Pearson, where shall we put you?’ Several moments went by whilst the matron consulted her paperwork. ‘Southampton again, I think,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s the first port of call for injured soldiers coming back from the front line, and at the moment they need as many girls down there as they can get. You’ll be staying at what was the Young Women’s Christian Association Hostel. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds very good, thank you, madam,’ said Poppy. At least it wasn’t a tent.

  ‘So, if you’re ready to go now, ask at the travel office through the door . . .’ she gestured to the right, ‘. . . and they’ll supply you with a warrant to catch the afternoon train.’

  VAD Unit No. 1765

  c /o YWCA Hostel, Southampton

  16th June 1915

  Hello Billy,

  I expect Ma has told you: I have enrolled as a VAD and I am on my way to Southampton on the train as I write this. My unit number is written above. If you want to write to me then please address letters to me c/o the YWCA Hostel.

  I’m terrifically proud to be helping the war effort and I expect you are, too. You must have nearly finished your training. I wonder if you will be posted abroad? Ma said that you are with a group of pals – I expect that will make all the difference and stop you feeling homesick. Billy, please make sure you write to Ma regularly and let her know (as far as you are allowed to by the censor) where you are and that you are well, for she will be worrying about you very much. Let’s hope that before too long we win the war and are back living peacefully in Mayfield.

  I said I’m proud to be doing what I’m doing, but I’m also very nervous. I know my life won’t be in danger like yours, but I’ll be away from everyone I know and doing a difficult job whilst trying to keep a smile on my face no matter what. Southampton could be South America as far as I’m concerned – I won’t know anyone and everyone says the VADs are mostly very posh. Think of me speaking in my best voice all the time – it will be such a strain!

  Writing of Mayfield, Ma told me that because of the anti-German feeling, Mrs Schmit had to close her sweet shop. Such a shame – she was a nice lady and had never even lived in Germany! People shouted at her in the street, though, and twice her front window was kicked in.

  Do let me know how things are going.

  With best love,

  your sister Poppy

  She wrote a few lines to her mother and sent postcards to both Molly and Cook, telling them where she was going and asking that any letters be sent on to the YWCA in Southampton. And then she just stared out of the window
while the train belched steam and the English countryside passed by. Both she and Billy in uniform, she marvelled. How quickly things had changed!

  Southampton. First port of call for injured soldiers. She didn’t want to see Freddie injured – couldn’t bear to think of it – but if he was, she would be there waiting for him . . .

  Chapter Eight

  By the time Poppy arrived at what had once been the YWCA Hostel in the back streets of Southampton, it was late in the afternoon. The big house was shabby and had an interior which was quite cheerless, but it was placed very conveniently for the VADs at local military hospitals.

  The new girls were allocated a bed space as they arrived at the hostel, and Poppy found herself in a largish room which had been partitioned off by faded curtains into three separate areas. One of these areas was already occupied, to judge by the overflowing locker and the clothes hanging behind the bed, so she took one of the other two cubicles, which had its own small window. She sat down on the narrow bed and, before unpacking, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths to compose herself.

  She was here. She had arrived. She was going to be a nurse . . .

  On the third breath there was a sudden noise outside her curtain, the thump and clatter of cases being thrown down and the stamp of a foot.

  ‘Oh, how perfectly hateful!’ Poppy heard a girl’s voice say. ‘I can’t bear to be confined in such an awful dank little space!’

  The curtain which surrounded Poppy was tugged open a little and a face looked in.