by Mary Hooper
‘That’s right!’ Moffat said. ‘Do you remember the woman who insisted on distributing gloves to every man in the ward, even those without any arms?’
‘Quite,’ said Sister. ‘They put things on the beds – chocolate on my counterpanes! – upset our routines and generally clutter up the place. Haven’t you noticed that some of our boys elect to be asleep every afternoon between three and four to try to avoid having to speak to them?’
Poppy nodded that, yes, she had noticed.
‘Visitors are very out of place in a hospital,’ said Sister Kay. Her eyes scanned the ward, looking for rumpled sheets, pillows not at the peak of puffed-up-ness and untidy locker-tops. ‘Pearson, someone’s tied a dummy to the end of Thomas’s bed. That’s going too far. Take it off before visiting time, will you?’
By three o’clock there was a queue of these unwanted guests standing at the door. The boys’ families came in first, anxiously scanning the ward as they entered to make sure their own particular soldier was still where they’d left him, and then came the Good Eggs. The woman with the basket of red roses insisted on placing a flower and quotation from the Bible on each man’s pillow. Poppy, on Sister’s instructions, followed behind, collecting up the flowers before they marked the pillowslips, then cutting them shorter and putting them in vases. A man arrived with a pile of that day’s newspapers and took one to each bed, but Sister had them quickly moved to the dining table because of the risk of newsprint on the sheets. The boys’ favourite of all the visitors was the one who arrived with two crates of locally brewed beer, especially when, following a request from Private Mackay, they were allowed to drink this straight away.
Private Mackay and the other men who were without one or more arms were always looked after first, Poppy had noticed. Usually Smithers or another orderly would appear to give them their breakfasts, or if they were busy elsewhere, one of the ‘up’ patients would help out. In return, those with working legs would run an errand for those who weren’t so good on their feet, or had no feet at all.
Late that afternoon, Poppy was due to go and cheer on Billy’s regiment as they embarked on their journey to France and, with Sister’s permission, left Hut 59 at four instead of the usual seven or eight o’clock. She would just have time to go back to the hostel, have a cup of tea and ten minutes’ rest with her feet up before going out again.
Wishing the orderly at the YWCA reception desk a good afternoon, she passed through the ground floor and had only reached the stairs when she heard him call that there was a letter for her. Her heart jumped. She’d trained herself not to look in her pigeon-hole because it was just too disappointing when, nine times out of ten, there was nothing there except a note asking her to settle her laundry bill.
She turned, preparing herself for another disappointment, and the orderly handed her the letter. She looked at the writing – it was in a hand she didn’t recognise. But there was a regimental crest on the back of the envelope and the letters encircling it said, Duke of Greystock’s Rgt. Her heart gave an enormous leap. That was his unit. The letter was from Freddie.
‘There!’ said the orderly, seeing her reaction. ‘That’s put a smile on your face. From your one-and-only, is it?’
Poppy, laughing, said that it might be. With her heart racing she took the letter into the little kitchen upstairs, put it on the shelf and stared at it while she made a pot of tea.
She poured water into the shiny brown teapot, stirred up the leaves and looked at the envelope some more. She mustn’t get too excited, she told herself – perhaps he was going to say it wasn’t possible for them to meet. Or perhaps he was writing on his mother’s instructions in order to sever the ties between them. On the other hand, she thought giddily, perhaps he was going to declare that he loved her and couldn’t live without her . . .
But what if her heart got broken right there and then in the YWCA kitchen! Perhaps it was best not to open it, to stuff it down the back of a kitchen cabinet and forget all about it. That way she could carry on thinking that he loved her.
Feeling agitated and anxious, she poured the tea and carried cup, saucer and letter back to the cubicle, set the tea on her locker and closed the curtains round the bed in case anyone should arrive back. If it was bad news, she didn’t want to have to discuss it. She drank her tea then, half-scared and half-hopeful, snatched up the envelope and opened it quickly, before she could change her mind.
Duke of Greystock’s Regiment
8th September 1915
Dear Poppy,
I have been thinking of you – don’t dream that I haven’t been. I have also been learning how to be a soldier, though, and my superiors have seen that this has taken precedence over everything else. When we get back to our quarters at night, I think about writing to you, but fall asleep within moments, before I can even lift a pen.
As we all anticipated, the regiment is being posted overseas. There was a rumour that we were going to Gallipoli, and this would not have been good as I speak no Turkish, but it turns out that we are going where we are most needed: northern France. As I speak a little French – enough, perhaps, to get me out of trouble – this is what I had hoped for.
Dear little Poppy, I have often thought of our last meeting and how happy I was to find that your feelings seemed to reflect my own. I think we have much to talk about . . . I don’t want to be alarmist, but in these days of uncertainty, when goodbye might mean forever, there are things I would like to speak of before I go to fight. The death of my brother alerted me to such niceties; if I’d known that I was never going to see him again there was so much I would have said to him.
We have been granted several days’ home leave and then we go from England, via Southampton, on 28th October. If you would still like to meet up, perhaps you could get an afternoon’s leave on the 27th and we can go for tea at the Criterion? I had hoped that we could go dancing or do something gay, but – forgive me – I have a regimental dinner to attend that night.
Can we meet at the Criterion at three o’clock? Will you let me know? I will wait impatiently to hear.
With my love,
Freddie
Poppy read the letter five more times and then left the hostel with it in her pocket. He’d written to her – he’d actually written! He wanted to meet her. He was going to take her to tea. He wanted to speak to her seriously . . .
As usual, a fair amount of people had gathered between the station and the docks in order to wave off another regiment of young men going to war. Some were local residents who regarded turning out to cheer as part of their war work. Others had come from a distance to say goodbye to a member of their family. Some were good-time girls who wanted not only to give a handsome soldier-boy a smacking kiss, but also to get his address and send him a few saucy pin-up photographs.
Poppy heard someone saying that Billy’s regiment was forming-up by the station, so positioned herself on a street corner in order to get the best views. If she hadn’t been in uniform, she thought, she would have climbed on to a garden wall in order to see better, but the thought of Sister Kay discovering that one of her VADs had behaved in such an unseemly manner stopped her.
Joining the people milling about waving flags, Poppy realised that she ought to have bought something to give to Billy, but, hurrying into a corner shop, found that everyone had had the same idea and they had completely sold out of cigarettes and chocolate bars. Going back to her place on the corner, she heard, in the distance, the sounds of a regimental band playing a marching tune, men’s voices singing, and the stamp-stamp-stamp of heavily booted feet. When a wave of khaki appeared around the corner, her heart swelled with pride. Our Billy, marching off to glory!
The regiment marched on and suddenly she wasn’t thinking about glory, but of her own wounded men in Hut 59, and of the limbs lost, bodies mangled, blood spilled and lives changed forever. The shattered men in the hospital, though, were the fortunate ones, the ones who’d come back. Thinking of Billy in relation to the boys she nu
rsed made her eyes fill with stinging tears. Her brother – her own brother – was marching away! What if he returned without limbs, as some of her boys had done? What if he didn’t return at all?
The men, marching six abreast behind the band and singing, whistling or just smiling broadly at the reception they were getting from the crowd, reached where Poppy was standing. As they went by, girls waved and cheered, threw flowers or pressed rouged lips to a manly cheek. Some gave them little gifts, such as woolly mufflers or thick socks, for the coming winter was predicted to be bitter.
At last, when two thirds of the column had gone by, she saw Billy on the outside of his six, marching towards her. He had a carnation sticking out of the barrel of his rifle, three notes pinned to his shoulder epaulettes and his pockets were bulging with things he’d been given. Poppy, waiting for him to reach where she was standing, didn’t think she’d ever seen him so broad of shoulder, walking so tall, looking quite so pleased with himself.
She stepped off the kerb and waved, then called his name.
He turned, his smile growing even wider. ‘Hiya, sis!’
She ran along beside him as much as the crowd would allow her to do. ‘Isn’t this grand!’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t buy you anything, but when you get to France, you can write and let me know what you’re short of.’
‘Will do!’ Billy said. ‘What a turnout, eh? It’s been like this all the way from London – people waving and cheering as the train went through stations. Whenever it stopped, girls got on and gave us cocoa or buns, or newspapers and ciggies.’
Poppy laughed – he looked so happy with everything.
‘Tell Ma you’ve seen me, eh?’ Billy said as the band began playing Tipperary and the men increased pace a little. ‘Tell her that I looked the part, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ Poppy promised. ‘She’ll be right proud of you. And I’m proud too, Billy!’
But he was gone, swallowed up by the lines of men.
Poppy waited until the whole regiment had gone past, the front of their line had reached the gates of the Docks, and the well-wishers who’d gathered to cheer the men on were dispersing. It was odd, she thought, that when the soldiers disappeared, the cheering and flag waving stopped too, and those left in the street just melted away. It was like the end of a show; the performance was over . . .
YWCA Hostel,
Southampton
12th September 1915
Dearest Ma,
I have just seen our Billy! He marched right past me, enormously pleased with himself, covered all over with love tokens from girls. He said I must be sure to let you know I’d seen him. I don’t know the name of the ship he’s on or the port they are heading for, but it’s only an overnight journey and – let’s pray they are speaking the truth – they say our shipping lanes are well protected by the Navy.
How are you, Ma, and the girls? I’m glad you have all settled in with Aunt Ruby. I think that is by far the safest place for you. Yes, do consider staying down there for the duration of the war.
I am sorry I haven’t written more, but it is such awfully hard work being a VAD and when I’m not working I’m asleep. I do love my work at Netley, though. Sister is strict, but adores the men and gives them such tender care we cannot help but emulate her. Some of our boys have no arms and I have had to learn how to shave them. There is a gigantic Scot, Private Mackay, whose arms were blown off by a bomb, and I was terrified shaving him in case I cut him, but he was so good and quiet when I was doing it and afterwards thanked me in such a heartfelt way that I had to go outside and weep. The boys – that is, the regular Tommies (the officers are always ‘the men’) –rarely complain. The standard reply when asked how they are is ‘not too bad’ or ‘in the pink’. They are just pleased to be home – and be alive.
Ma, I can’t resist telling you this, but don’t breathe a word to anyone. You remember the younger de Vere boy, Freddie? We have become quite close and he has written to me to ask me to meet him for afternoon tea at the Criterion when he comes through Southampton. I like him very much so I am fearfully excited about this!
I have an early start in the morning so will close now, with lots of love to you, Aunt Ruby, Jane and Mary, from your daughter.
Poppy
She finished the letter, put it in an envelope, thought about things, then opened the letter and took out the second page containing the piece about Freddie de Vere. Her mother would not understand, she decided. She wouldn’t think it was right. She probably hadn’t heard how society was changing. She took a fresh piece of paper and rewrote the second page without mentioning him.
Finally, after getting ready for bed, she put Freddie’s letter under her pillow, hoping to drift off to sleep and dream of him. When she closed her eyes, the figure who came unwanted into her head was the elegant one of Miss Cardew. Where did she figure in their relationship?
Chapter Fifteen
‘I say, girls, listen to this from the personal column,’ said Jameson. She read out from the newspaper she was holding: ‘A young lady, who was engaged to be married to an officer killed at Ypres, is willing to dedicate her life to any soldier blinded or severely incapacitated as a result of the war.’
Poppy and Matthews were silent for a moment. It was seven in the morning and they were sitting together in the hostel canteen having breakfast.
‘Gosh,’ Poppy said then. ‘She’s taking a risk. She could end up with anyone.’
‘Of course she could,’ Jameson said. ‘And that’s just it. She’s admitting that because the man she loves is dead, she doesn’t care what happens to her. How terrible.’
‘But don’t you think the new chap will mind being second best?’ Matthews asked. ‘She’s obviously still in love with the one who died.’
The other two shook their heads wonderingly.
‘And it would be difficult if the one who died was a colonel or something and the new one was a private,’ Jameson said. ‘He’d never feel quite up to scratch, poor lamb.’ She took a spoonful of porridge, turned the page and began studying the Died in Action lists.
‘Anyway, Jameson, how are your Hun?’ Matthews suddenly asked.
Jameson frowned. ‘Don’t call them that.’
‘Your Germans, then.’
‘You were calling them Hun before you started nursing them,’ Poppy pointed out.
Jameson began to protest, but on both girls insisting that indeed she had, she said that was before she knew what they were like.
‘And what are they like?’ Matthews enquired.
‘Just like us. They really are, though,’ she added after a moment. ‘They simply speak another language.’
‘But aren’t they terribly fierce and violent?’ Poppy asked. ‘That’s what the newspapers are always saying.’
Jameson shook her head. ‘They have to say that so that people want to go out and shoot them. Actually, the ones at the hospital are very polite and extremely grateful for everything we do for them.’ Looking at her two friends rather sheepishly, she added, ‘They’re far from home, they miss their families and they’re scared to death about what might happen to them if their country is defeated. They’re just like us!’
‘Maybe,’ Poppy said with doubt in her voice.
‘The ward is guarded day and night,’ Jameson went on, ‘and they’re not allowed as much as a sniff of fresh air. When they’re well enough to leave hospital they’ll go straight to a prison camp. They may never see their families again.’
‘Well,’ Matthews said, ‘that’s their fault.’
‘Their fault for being German?’ responded Jameson.
Matthews shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean.’
‘It’s what happens in a war,’ Poppy said. ‘There are always different sides. There’s you and there’s them, and someone’s got to win.’
‘But they’re just really nice men,’ Jameson went on. ‘They’re all officers – honourable prisoners of war. They kiss my hand when I go off duty
; they’re interested in my family and what I do in my spare time. One of them even gave me a box of German chocolates.’
Noticing the look in her eye and the tone of her voice, Poppy nudged Matthews. ‘What’s he look like – the one who gave you chocolates?’ she asked Jameson.
‘Oh, he’s very good-looking,’ Jameson said immediately. ‘Thick fair hair and a strong jawline, quite tanned. He hasn’t got blue eyes, though – they’re a greeny-hazel.’ She suddenly noticed that both girls were looking at her with raised eyebrows. ‘What?’
Poppy and Matthews just smiled.
‘It’s not like that – not like that at all!’
‘I should think not,’ said Matthews.
That morning, Poppy made up her mind to ask Sister Kay if she could have the afternoon of the twenty-seventh off. She hadn’t asked before because she couldn’t decide if she should tell Sister the truth – that she was going out with a man – and risk being forbidden to go. The other thing was, once she had permission then she’d have to write to Freddie, and she hadn’t been able to decide what sort of a letter this should be. How much should she say about her feelings? Should she ask about Miss Cardew?
Going into Hut 59 that morning, Poppy found it quieter than usual. This was normally a sign that there had been a death or some sort of emergency on the ward, and she looked around anxiously to make sure her favourites were still there. She cared deeply about all the boys, of course, but certain of them had touched her heart. Young Thomas, especially . . . She looked towards his bed, but he was still in it, the small brown bear hanging from the end bar. Private Mackay was in place, too, and Private Franklin and one or two others she took a special interest in.
