Poppy

by Mary Hooper

  ‘And you should look delightfully feminine and desirable,’ said Matthews. ‘Your uniform suits you, but up till now Freddie has always seen you looking quite regular and ordinary, first as a servant and then as a nurse.’

  ‘Gosh, I almost forgot. You were the de Veres’ maid, weren’t you?’ said Jameson in a tone of amused horror, and got kicked under the table by Matthews. ‘Well, anything you want to borrow of mine, you can,’ she added swiftly.

  Poppy sighed. It all took such a lot of thinking about. Everyone loved a VAD, of course, so she’d presumed she’d just go in her uniform, but now she realised that that wouldn’t be quite right. She didn’t want to be a perfect angel of a nurse – she wanted Freddie to long for her as she longed for him. She wanted to look at least as desirable as Miss Cardew.

  ‘You should wear your hair down,’ Jameson advised. ‘Men like long hair.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Matthews. She and Poppy exchanged meaningful glances. ‘Jameson, you’ve been wearing your hair down rather a lot lately, haven’t you?’

  Jameson said nothing, but her cheeks went pink.

  ‘I’ve got some rouge and some lip balm,’ Matthews said to Poppy. ‘Put a spot of colour on your cheeks first, and then mix a little of the rouge with the balm – it will make your lips a lovely shade of pink.’

  Poppy said, ‘Sister Malcolm told us that lipstick is . . .’

  ‘The devil’s work!’ Matthews finished. ‘Never mind – you’re not going out with her.’

  Jameson said she didn’t have many clothes with her, but she certainly had a more extensive wardrobe than the other two girls. When they went upstairs, Poppy tried on first an evening dress in silver (‘Just too much!’ Matthews declared), then two rather flouncy afternoon dresses and a stylish two-piece fitted costume in a dark purple.

  ‘It’s exactly right on you!’ Jameson declared of the latter.

  ‘And very à la mode with the shorter skirt,’ Matthews said, for it was, rather daringly, of mid-calf length. ‘Freddie de Vere won’t be able to resist falling in love with you.’

  ‘Here are some kid-leather gloves,’ said Jameson, putting them on the bed. ‘And what about this?’ She brought out a cream pill-box hat with a little spotted veil and settled it on Poppy’s head.

  ‘Lovely!’ both the girls agreed.

  Poppy, thanking them both, made a vow to concentrate on the coming excitement and try to forget about Billy for a couple of days. She wasn’t out there with him and she couldn’t play the big sister now. She just had to hope that he would come to his senses, do the decent thing and fight like everyone else.

  ‘This will be Private James’s tenth operation,’ Moffat said as, the next day, she and Poppy blanket-bathed the young soldier ready for his visit to the operating theatre. This was a job which was mostly carried out by male orderlies, but that morning Smithers had joined a group who’d gone to the docks to collect injured soldiers from a troopship.

  ‘His tenth?’ Poppy said, wincing a little on his behalf.

  ‘They’ve been trying to tidy up his remaining leg. That’s right, isn’t it, Private James?’

  ‘That’s what they say they’re doing,’ Private James said dolefully, ‘but I reckon they’re slicing me up and selling me down the butcher’s as rump steak.’

  Moffat, deftly moving towels around in order to preserve Private James’s modesty, smiled sympathetically. Poppy tried to smile too, but the mashed-up leg before her was so revolting that she found this almost impos­sible. It was not merely the sight of the leg, but the smell that came from it, for gangrene had set in during the time it had taken to get him to safety, and the awful stink of rotting flesh made her feel nauseous. His other leg had gone completely, right up to the thigh bone, so the surgeons were doing what they could to save the remainder of this one.

  Once Private James’s battered leg had been cleaned up and made ready for the surgeons, there were three other patients to bathe and prepare for surgery that day. One of these was Thomas, who was having an operation on what was left of his leg.

  ‘He’s lucky he didn’t get gangrene, too,’ Moffat said. ‘And at least he’s got one good leg, whatever happens to this one. Not like poor Private James.’

  ‘There’s been no word from Thomas’s mother yet?’ Poppy asked in a low voice.

  Moffat shook her head. ‘Nothing. Maybe she just can’t cope with seeing him so badly injured. Some of them can’t, you know.’

  ‘But he’s only a kid. He needs her.’

  ‘I know. It’s so sad . . .’

  They reached Thomas’s bed and, though they both greeted him cheerily, received no reply.

  ‘How are you feeling, Thomas?’ Moffat asked.

  By way of an answer, Thomas just turned awkwardly in the bed and hunched himself away from them.

  ‘Pearson and I are here to get you ready for the surgeon,’ Moffat said.

  Silence.

  ‘Aren’t you speaking to us, Thomas?’

  There was a long moment, then he said gruffly, ‘No point. I’ve seen the grey lady and I won’t be here much longer.’

  Moffat sighed. ‘Really, Thomas, who’s been telling you such silly nonsense?’

  ‘Who’s he talking about?’ Poppy asked.

  Moffat tutted. ‘The grey lady is supposed to be the ghost of a nurse.’ She put her arms out, ghost-like, and affected a blank face. ‘Lots of hospitals are supposed to have them – lady ghosts who walk the corridors at night. It’s quite ridiculous, of course.’ She sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t mind if they came in and did something useful – rolled bandages or washed out the bedpans – but just to walk up and down corridors . . .’

  ‘They’re omens of death,’ Thomas said in a hoarse voice. ‘The sergeant who died told me about her – he saw the grey lady and that was the end of him. Private Taylor’s seen her and now he knows he’s going to die and join his twin. He says he’s looking forward to it.’

  Poppy gave Moffat an enquiring look. ‘Is Private Taylor speaking now?’

  ‘Only about dying,’ Moffat said under her breath.

  ‘The grey lady came here last night,’ Thomas said. ‘She walked down the centre of the ward – well, she drifted, more like, all grey and misty. An’ when she got to the end of my bed she stopped an’ just looked at me. If she comes for me tonight I’m going to go with her.’

  ‘Thomas, your operation isn’t life-threatening,’ Moffat said. ‘That’s why you’re going down to the theatre last. The surgeons are just going to make a tidy job of your leg and clean up any remaining shrapnel wounds.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just drift off and die while I’m under the anaesthetic an’ she’ll come and get me.’

  ‘You didn’t see a grey lady – you had a nightmare,’ Moffat said soothingly. ‘It was just a bad dream.’

  ‘What did you have for supper that might have brought it on?’ Poppy asked, trying to think back. ‘Was it cheese?’

  ‘It wasn’t a dream,’ Thomas said. ‘I tell you, it was the grey lady. An’ if she comes tonight I’m gonna go with her.’

  ‘Well, I shall fetch you back!’ Poppy said.

  When they’d finished getting Thomas ready, Moffat told Sister what he’d said and Poppy was asked if she wouldn’t mind sitting with him for a couple of hours when he came back to the ward after his operation.

  ‘He won’t be awake for a while,’ Sister said, ‘so if you could just stay on until he comes round properly it would be a real help. We don’t want him going after any grey ladies and falling out of bed.’

  ‘I’d be happy to stay,’ Poppy said.

  ‘Good lass. Thank you,’ Sister said warmly. ‘I’m sure the night staff would look after him, but . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Poppy nodded, basking in the light of Sister Kay’s praise. ‘But they don’t know him like we do.’

  The other men who’d been down for operations had woken up at various points, been given painkillers and gone off to sleep again before Thomas came back from
the theatre. When the night staff came on, Poppy put a wooden stool in the space next to Thomas’s bed and sat there sewing buttons on shirts.

  By nine o’clock, most of the ward was asleep and the place was almost silent. Thomas had not come round from the anaesthetic yet, although he was breathing steadily and his colour was better than it had been earlier. Poppy, looking at him closely, began to wonder how long it would be before he woke and, thinking longingly of her bed, wondered if she might get a lift home with one of the orderlies.

  The two night VADs at the nursing station – girls who worked elsewhere during the day but did voluntary work at night – were bent over the desk, doing paperwork. The lamps in the ward had been turned down. Outside the hut, their footsteps muffled by the grass, people went by the windows with torches or lanterns, their shadows briefly flickering across the walls. The patients in their beds breathed evenly, snored gently, and the ward grew more still. It had, Poppy thought, something of the hushed solemnity and gravity of a church about it – and thinking that, she suddenly felt overwhelmed with pity for the young men within their care, these boys whose lives would be changed irrevoc­ably by the wounds they bore.

  She was aware of wisps of fog seeping in through the windows. When someone opened the door at the far end of the ward, a cloud of mist came in too, for the river wasn’t far away and the huts had been built on meadowland.

  Poppy heard footsteps trip-trapping down the wooden floor and looked up from her needlework. As she did so, a figure stopped at the end of Thomas’s bed and the light from an outside lamp illuminated the lady in grey standing there.

  Startled, Poppy gave a little cry and dropped a shirt on the floor.

  ‘Sorry!’ said the grey one in a whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I was just passing through on my way to see the night staff and saw you sitting there.’

  ‘I’m waiting for a patient to come round from surgery.’

  The other girl smiled and nodded. ‘Well, goodnight to you.’

  ‘Wait!’ Poppy whispered back. ‘Do you come along here often?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Every night. I’m from the surgeons’ office. I log the number of men operated on each day.’

  ‘And you’re a St John nurse?’ Poppy asked, knowing that although the Red Cross VADs wore blue dresses, the St John nurses always wore grey.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ah! Thomas here thought you were the grey lady come to get him.’

  ‘Well, I’m not dead yet!’ the girl said, smiling as she went on her way.

  Poppy checked on Thomas’s breathing and felt his pulse. Why wasn’t he awake yet? She couldn’t stay by his side all night! She had to work the following morning and look her best to meet Freddie in the afternoon.

  She picked up the shirt from the floor and, as she did so, thought she saw a flicker of movement from Thomas’s eye, as if he’d taken the opportunity to peep at her.

  ‘Thomas!’ she whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

  No reply came.

  ‘I’m just going to talk to the night staff about you.’ Leaving the shirts on the bed, Poppy went to the nursing station, not sure whether Thomas was asleep or just pretending to be.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked the VADs, and went on to explain about Thomas and how he’d said he might not return to consciousness after the operation, but drift away with the grey lady. ‘I don’t know if he’s come round properly. Shall I go and find a doctor?’

  ‘Begging your pardon.’ There was a voice behind Poppy, and she turned to see that a plump, no-nonsense sort of a woman had appeared while she’d been speaking. ‘I think you’re talking about my lad.’

  ‘Thomas?’ Poppy asked in surprise. ‘Thomas Stilgoe? Are you Mrs Stilgoe?’

  The woman nodded and put down the suitcase she’d been carrying. ‘Well, I was till I married Mr Lambert.’

  ‘I wrote to you . . . My name’s Pearson.’

  ‘I got your letter, pet, and thank you for it,’ said the visitor. ‘I would’ve got here sooner but had a deal to do to farm out the brood at home, and the babby wasn’t well, either. I started off early this morning but the train was diverted and I thought I’d never get here.’ She paused for breath. ‘But what’s wrong with my bonny lad?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Well, his leg, of course, which you know about. He had an operation on it this afternoon and we’ve been waiting for him to come round.’

  ‘What was that about a grey lady?’

  ‘Oh, he had some idea in his head that there was a grey lady coming for him – a ghost! And he said he was going to go with her.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Thomas’s mother stoutly.

  Poppy pointed out his bed and Mrs Lambert went over. ‘Thomas! Whatever are you playing at?’ she asked in a loud whisper. ‘Wake up, pet!’

  There was a squeal of surprise from the bed. ‘Ma?’ Thomas said. ‘Ma! Is it you?’

  ‘Well, it’s not some grey lady ghost! Now wake up and let these nice nurses see that you’re all right.’

  ‘But . . . how did you get here?’

  ‘Steam trains and Shanks’s pony. How d’you think?’

  Thomas struggled to sit up, but continued to regard his mother doubtfully.

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Thomas, I really am – leading these lasses such a song and dance!’

  Poppy came along with an enamel bowl in case Thomas was sick. ‘Will you be staying here tonight, Mrs Lambert?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, that I will, pet,’ said the lady. ‘They’re putting me up in a nice little visitors’ room. And tomorrow, with your say-so, we’ll both say thank you kindly and goodbye.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you can go just like that,’ Poppy began, taken aback. ‘I think you have to get discharge papers.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll sort that right enough, pet,’ said Mrs Lambert. ‘My Thomas is only fifteen, see. He should never have been allowed to join the army in the first place. I went and told the recruiting officer but he wouldn’t take any notice, so I’ve come to take him home meself!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Looking up at the Criterion Hotel as she approached it, Poppy felt quite overawed, despite knowing that Jameson’s suit was most becoming, her fingernails were buffed until they shone and she was, daringly, wearing a little of Matthews’s pink rouge on her lips.

  The hotel was built in the classical style with marble columns and niches containing statues, and there was a grand circle of steps leading up to its entrance. A row of bay trees, trailing patriotic red, white and blue ribbons, stood along the front of the building, and a man in a maroon suit and top hat was on the stairs opening the door for customers and bowing them through. The whole effect was so splendid that Poppy crossed over to the other side of the road in order to view it better. She’d been in one or two imposing buildings before, but always as a servant, through the tradesmen’s entrance. Now she was going through the front door wearing an outfit from Harrods and kid-leather gloves.

  She reached the end of the road, turned back and crossed to the right side again, hearing three o’clock strike on a distant clock and wondering where to wait. Freddie hadn’t said whether they should meet outside the hotel or in it, and she hadn’t thought to ask. But if inside, then where exactly? The foyer or the reception desk or the restaurant itself?

  For a moment she felt like walking past it again, but she was at the bottom of the stone steps by then and the man in maroon had seen her and bowed. As she climbed the steps, she almost expected him to say, ‘Back door for trades, if you don’t mind.’ Instead he tipped his top hat and said, ‘Good afternoon, madam.’

  ‘Good afternoon to you,’ Poppy replied sedately.

  He opened the door. ‘Straight through for Reception, madam.’

  Poppy was bowed through into a large area which was thickly carpeted, smelled of lavender and luxury, and contained deeply cushioned sofas and leather chairs. She thanked the doorman, thinking how easy it was, if you were rich, to be
charming to people. How pleasant to live this sort of life all the time; the sort of life where coming to the Criterion was an everyday matter and where, here inside the glittering reception area, there didn’t even appear to be a war on. Apart from all the people in uniform, of course.

  She reached the front desk and looked around. Plenty of boys in khaki and several Canadians in navy. Lots of glamorous young women either in uniform or in civvy suits which owed something to the military look, with straight, sensible skirts and small, close-fitting hats. But no Freddie, and the clock above the desk now showed just past three o’clock.

  He’d forgotten, she decided immediately. And then came a list of other reasons he hadn’t appeared: he’d resolved to remain true to Miss Cardew; he was not willing to risk being seen with a housemaid; his mother had forbidden him to come; his unit had been called away on an earlier ship. Or – the most obvious and dreadful thing of all – he had simply stopped caring for her.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’ asked the man behind the desk.

  Poppy started. ‘Afternoon tea,’ she said. ‘That is, I am, er . . . meeting a friend for afternoon tea.’

  ‘In Palm Court?’

  She nodded, although she had no idea. Was there a choice of places for afternoon tea?

  He opened a leather book. ‘A three o’clock booking, then. May I ask under whose name?’

  ‘De Vere,’ Poppy said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Second Lieutenant Frederick de Vere.’

  He looked at the book, but gave no indication as to whether he’d found a booking or not and just asked if Poppy would like to go to the table and wait. After another hesitation, wondering which might look less needy – table or Reception – she decided that, yes, she’d go and sit down.

  Palm Court was a circular room with a glass roof. The walls were scalloped, each curved shape containing a table for two, while bigger tables surrounded a circular space in the centre, where a woman in a gold evening dress was playing a harp. A harp! Poppy had only ever seen a picture of one before, and had somehow imagined that they only existed as mythical instruments played by angels sitting on clouds.