Poppy

by Mary Hooper

  ‘I say, you’ve got a window!’ said the girl. She pulled the curtain aside and Poppy saw a tall, slim young woman of about eighteen, in a dark linen coat and velvet hat, her fair hair flowing in ripples down her back.

  ‘I just got here and took . . .’ Poppy began.

  The girl sighed. ‘Do you mean that if I’d been five minutes earlier I could have had this space instead? With the window?’

  Poppy, used to giving way before authority, shrugged. ‘I really don’t mind not having a window. Would you like to take this bed?’

  ‘Oh, how absolutely sweet of you!’ The girl picked up her case and beauty box and was through the curtain before Poppy could change her mind. ‘My name’s Beatrice Jameson. I understand we are to be known by our second names. What’s yours?’

  ‘Pearson. Poppy Pearson,’ said Poppy, and the two girls shook hands.

  ‘It’s most awfully decent of you, Pearson,’ Jameson said. ‘Thank you so much! I’m absolutely claustrophobic, you see. I can’t bear to be confined in a small space.’

  ‘That’s all right . . . Jameson.’

  The two girls looked around them: at the paint flaking from the window frames and the almost threadbare curtains.

  ‘Rather shabby, isn’t it?’ Jameson said. ‘One couldn’t say that they’ve gone to a lot of trouble preparing for us.’

  Poppy shrugged again. ‘I suppose all the trouble has gone on improving the hospitals.’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ Jameson cried, instantly contrite. ‘Our boys must have the very best of everything.’ She smiled. ‘I can’t wait to begin nursing, can you? Such a privilege.’ She began to remove her gloves. ‘Do you have a sweetheart who’s gone to fight?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Poppy replied and, thinking of Freddie de Vere, couldn’t resist adding, ‘but there is someone I’m awfully fond of who’s undergoing his training at the moment.’

  ‘I have two brothers fighting in Flanders.’

  Poppy remembered Billy and added hastily, ‘My brother is undergoing military training at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, this war is simply frightful,’ Jameson said. ‘Just this week I discovered that a very dear friend of mine has lost her husband.’

  ‘How terribly sad,’ Poppy murmured.

  ‘Quite. It seems that a girl only has to announce that she’s getting married these days for a telegram to appear saying that her fiancé is dead.’

  Poppy couldn’t think of what to say to this, and there was a moment’s pause in the conversation before Jameson said rather pointedly, ‘But now, if you wouldn’t mind excusing me, I think I’ll unpack my clothes and have a bath.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Poppy, and she jumped up from the bed, took her case and went into the next cubicle to begin her own unpacking.

  Once she’d hung her clothes on hooks and filled the locker with her bits and pieces, there was nothing to do but sit on the little school chair she’d been provided with and wait for something to happen – for some official to claim her, perhaps.

  She got out her notepad and pen and wrote to Miss Luttrell, giving her address in Southampton and saying how nervous and excited she was. Whilst she was doing this, Jameson disappeared from her cubicle for some considerable time and arrived back in a waft of talcum powder and a white negligee. Poppy heard the bed springs creak as she flung herself down, then came silence, so it appeared that she had fallen asleep. Outside in the hallway, Poppy heard the occasional footsteps echoing as a girl went up or down the stairs, but apart from that there was hardly any noise from within the building. All the VADs who lived there, Poppy supposed, must be at work at their various hospitals.

  Some moments later, Poppy was doing what she normally did when she had nothing to do – thinking of Freddie – when suddenly there was a noise on the stairway and two girls came into the room.

  ‘It’s too bad, really it is!’ one girl was saying. ‘Too absolutely selfish.’

  ‘Everyone knows it’s your turn for first bath water!’ said the other.

  ‘Unless . . .’

  There was a small gap where the curtains around Poppy’s bed didn’t meet, and she looked through this to see two young women in nurse’s uniform making gestures towards the curtaining which enclosed her and Jameson.

  ‘Unless someone new has arrived . . .’ the other one said.

  Poppy leaned forward to tug at her curtain, reveal herself and say hello.

  The two girls looked at her severely. ‘Is it you who’s used all the bath water?’ said the first of the girls, who was a few years older than Poppy, had short dark hair and hazel eyes.

  Poppy shook her head. ‘I haven’t actually seen a bathroom yet.’

  ‘Well, someone has,’ the girl said, ‘and the whole hostel knows that it’s my turn to have the first bath this week. I’ve been working for twelve hours without a break!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Poppy.

  ‘The selfish beast must have had it absolutely brimming with water,’ said the same girl. ‘The orderly says there’s not a drop left in the hot tank.’

  ‘It smells like a tart’s boudoir in there, too!’ said the other girl.

  There was a creak from the bed in Jameson’s cubicle and the cross girl wheeled round. ‘Are there two of you?’ she asked Poppy. ‘Two new girls?’

  On Poppy nodding, the other girl tugged at the curtain and Jameson was revealed, stretched out on her bed and looking guilty.

  ‘Did you take all the bath water?’ the girl demanded.

  Jameson, in pristine white ruffles, looked alarmed. ‘I didn’t realise. I’m most awfully sorry!’ she said. ‘Someone always draws me a bath before supper and –’

  ‘Not here they don’t,’ came the retort. ‘Here you take your turn and once a month, if you’re lucky, you’ll be in the first five to have a bath and get two inches of hot water. The rest of the time you have to line up and get one inch of lukewarm water, and if some selfish beast has got there before you and taken it all, you get nothing.’

  Jameson said over and over how dreadfully, terribly sorry she was, but it took a considerable amount of grovelling on her part (and she was probably not much used to that, Poppy thought) before the other girl was placated. She and Jameson then had to sit through a short lecture about how many hours the VAD, whose name was Moffat, had been on her feet, how she hadn’t stopped for as much as a sandwich, and how Jameson should have asked the orderly if it was all right for her to bathe when she wasn’t even on the rota and therefore had no rights whatsoever.

  Poppy, thanking the Lord that she hadn’t felt the need for a bath, listened to this in silence. Jameson did, too, for this was a real-life VAD they were being lectured by, in a crumpled grubby apron which looked as if it had seen nursing action and with a red cross on her bib which meant, as far as most of the world was concerned, that she was a heroine. Poppy gazed at her admiringly, knowing that the next morning, she’d be taking the first steps towards joining those hallowed ranks.

  Supper, a bowl of soup in the canteen, came next. Poppy was pleased when Moffat joined them, for she’d feared she might have been lumped in with Jameson as another selfish beast. Moffat, however, did not seem to hold grudges and began telling stories about life as a VAD – she’d joined up right at the start of the war – before, yawning profusely, she excused herself to go to bed.

  Poppy was tired, but when she went upstairs she found it difficult to sleep, and worries about new responsibilities competed with thoughts of Freddie de Vere. Did he ever think of her? Would he write to her as he’d promised? Was the lady of the lake a very lovely thing?

  With a sigh she realised that if Freddie were awake, his thoughts were probably all of the war and fighting and death, for she didn’t think it very likely that soldiers had much time or energy to think about love. Never­theless, she could not shake off the attractive notion that she and Freddie were meant to be together . . .

  The following morning at seven thirty, Poppy, plus Jameson and ten other new VADs, were met
in the dusty lounge of the hostel by Sister Malcolm, who told them that she was going to oversee their training. A list of rules and regulations was produced: VADs were to act with decorum at all times, there was to be no fraternising with officers, no going out dancing, and the integrity of the profession was to be upheld at all times. There should be no going out and about in ordinary clothes.

  ‘Besides, you will probably find that wearing your uniform gives you status and brings certain privileges,’ Sister told them. ‘Free cinema tickets, for instance, and cheap meals. I often find that when a cab driver sees that I’m a nurse, he will refuse to take any fare from me.’

  A basic uniform for each girl was produced: a blue cotton dress and white apron with that all-important red cross.

  ‘Some of these garments have been worn before,’ said Sister Malcolm, ‘so I’m also giving each of you a pattern so that you can make a uniform in your own size when you have time. Please don’t be tempted to add your own little touches: any jewellery, ribbons or other adornments, either to your uniform or outer clothes, will be frowned on.’ She walked between the girls, studying their faces. ‘Some of the ward sisters are very strict about make-up. I’ve known girls to be sent home for having the tiniest smudge of colour on their lips.’ She paused by one girl. ‘I suppose that is a natural pink on your cheeks?’

  ‘Yes, sister,’ said the girl, but when Sister had moved on, Poppy saw her scrubbing at her cheeks with a hanky.

  ‘A sister’s word is law at all times,’ continued Sister Malcolm. ‘Never talk back, or undermine her, or – heaven help us! – a matron’s instructions, or you’ll find yourself heading straight for home on the next train. In the unlikely event that you’re allowed into a ward before your training is up . . .’

  There was a murmur of disappointment from the girls.

  ‘What?’ said Sister in mock surprise. ‘Did you think you’d be let loose on our injured boys immediately? Did you picture yourselves setting broken bones, bandaging sore heads and saving lives?’

  The girls smiled sheepishly. They all had, of course.

  ‘As I said, in the unlikely event that you find yourself in a ward and come face to face with an injured man, you will take your cue from the ward sister. She will understand her patient and know if he should be asleep or awake, whether she must be brisk or gentle with him, if he is able to eat or drink. You may not so much as touch a patient without her express permission. Each ward sister will have her own rules and regulations, her own way of doing things, and you must be guided by her at all times. Do you understand?’

  The girls nodded solemnly.

  ‘Are there any questions?’

  Jameson put up her hand. ‘Are there . . . will we see some terribly gruesome sights?’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ said Sister Malcolm. ‘Next?’

  The new VADs were allocated their first tasks. Poppy and four other girls were asked to clear the top floor of the hostel of an amount of old furniture, and collect and assemble four beds ready to be occupied by new VADs. Two girls were given the task of rolling bandages; others were set variously to scrub floors in an army canteen, sterilise operating equipment at a nearby military hospital or attend their first nursing and first-aid course. Apart from the latter, these tasks were perhaps not what the girls had hoped they would be doing, but everyone tried to look willing – whilst hoping against hope that the time would go swiftly until they could begin to do what they’d joined up for: to care for injured soldiers.

  Chapter Nine

  Roughly halfway through Poppy’s training period, Sister Malcolm arrived earlier than usual at the hostel, looking rather anxious.

  ‘One of the senior sisters has got a bad bout of influenza and I’ve been asked to join a hospital train taking a large group of wounded men from the docks,’ she said. ‘An orderly will be along to take over from me here this morning and he’ll be able to deal with any queries you might have. In the meantime . . .’ her eyes quickly scanned the dozen girls, ‘I need two girls who are used to following orders – girls who can obey instructions without question.’

  She looked across the girls and Poppy drew herself up, feeling as if she were at school and hoping to be chosen for the end-of-term play. After a moment’s consideration, Sister Malcolm reached out to touch Poppy’s shoulder and that of the girl behind her.

  ‘Pearson, is it? And Matthews. Go upstairs for your outdoor clothes, put them on as swiftly as possible and come back down.’

  Poppy, pleased she had been paired with Matthews, a giggly, curly-haired girl from the same sort of background as herself, ran up the stairs as quickly as her long skirts and starched pinafore would allow and put on her outdoor outfit. This had only just been distributed and consisted of a smart dark navy coat with red facings on the collar and cuffs, and a navy blue straw hat. The all-important band bearing a red cross was worn on the left arm. There was no mirror but she looked at her reflection in the window in Jameson’s cubicle and was startled at what she saw: she actually looked like a real nurse. She, Poppy Pearson, was going to help wounded men straight from the front line, newly arrived at the docks.

  Jameson arrived upstairs just as Poppy was going down, and seemed rather surprised at the sight of her. ‘I must say that navy blue suits your hair,’ she said. ‘And I do rather envy you going on a hospital train.’

  ‘I just hope I don’t do anything majorly daft,’ Poppy said.

  ‘Well, you’re not exactly going to find yourself sewing up head wounds or conducting operations, are you?’ Jameson said with a yawn, for she still hadn’t got used to early rising. ‘Sister just wanted a couple of girls who were used to hard graft.’

  ‘That’s certainly me,’ Poppy said drily.

  ‘You’ll probably just be washing out the lavs.’

  ‘I dare say.’ Poppy hid a smile as she spoke, thinking that no one, even the tactless Jameson, could take away the thrill of being one of the first two girls in the detachment to be asked to do real war work.

  Downstairs, Matthews and Poppy exchanged comments about how nervous they were, until they heard a call from outside of ‘Girls! Now, please!’ from Sister Malcolm, and hurried out to where an old army pick-up truck was waiting in the street. There was a regular soldier in the driver’s seat, and Sister was sitting beside him.

  ‘Quick as you can!’ she called.

  Both girls clambered in, ignoring the appreciative wink from the Tommy.

  ‘Any more coming?’ he asked jovially.

  ‘No, just we three,’ said Sister Malcolm.

  ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Any more and you might have had to sit on my lap, sister!’

  Matthews nudged Poppy and she giggled before she could stop herself, but Sister Malcolm acted as if she hadn’t heard and was very icy with him for the short drive to Southampton station, murmuring, ‘Such insolence!’ under her breath as his truck drove away. She left both the girls waiting under the station clock whilst she dashed off to discover which train they were needed on.

  The concourse was chaotic, heaving with Tommies, officers, equipment and kitbags nearly as big as their owners. There were two train loads of new troops waiting to catch their ships, cross the Channel and join the fighting, as well as several hundred wounded men newly arrived from France and waiting to be despatched to hospitals all over England. Along with the soldiers, there was a crowd of townspeople waiting to see off one group and welcome home another.

  ‘So many people. So many soldiers!’ Poppy gasped.

  Matthews said, ‘Well, the front line goes along four hundred miles.’

  ‘You can tell which boys are going to fight and which are coming back, can’t you?’ said Poppy, for the new boys had spruce uniforms and were jaunty and smiling, occasionally bursting into song or whistling cheerily, whereas those returning, apart from any obvious wounds, were tired and grey of face, with muddy, bloody uniforms. They might have looked awfully weary, but they didn’t look miserable, for they were back in Blighty and out of the war.<
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  ‘So many of them coming and going,’ Poppy mused. ‘Who actually decides where the injured ones should end up? Do you know?’

  ‘Well, my big sister’s a VAD at a hospital in Dover,’ Matthews said. ‘She told me that they assess the injured lads when they come in from the battlefield, and if they’re bad enough they get what they call a “Blighty ticket” and come back on the first ship. Some of these boys go to the local hospitals at the port they arrive at, particularly the really badly injured, because they might not survive a railway journey. Some get taken to London or one of the other big cities – anywhere they’ve got the space, and close to their families if possible.’ She sighed, and added in a low voice, ‘Some die on the journey over, of course . . .’

  Poppy was about to ask something else, but Sister Malcolm was gesturing to them from across the concourse. ‘Pearson, Matthews!’ she called. ‘Come with me.’

  She led the way to a platform where a long train waited, steam already belching out of its funnel and the red crosses on its sides showing that it was a hospital train and, as such, should not be attacked by the enemy or harmed in any way. As they walked along beside it, Poppy looked through the windows and was both gripped and appalled to see that the train had been converted and, instead of seats, a lot of the carriages contained what looked like narrow bunk beds, or racks to hold stretchers. One carriage was completely closed off, its blinds rolled down all the way along.

  ‘That’s a small operating theatre,’ Sister Malcolm said as they passed it. ‘Some poor chaps are bound to need stitching or warrant some other urgent attention before we get to Manchester.’

  ‘Manchester!’ Poppy said.

  Sister Malcolm nodded. ‘Though we’ll see next to nothing of it. We’ll get there, the boys will be taken off and our train will be loaded with supplies for our return to Southampton.’

  They passed another, smaller carriage with its blinds down, which Sister said was for men with facial injuries. ‘They don’t want to be stared at as we go through stations.’