Poppy

by Mary Hooper

  Poppy was going to reply, but Sister Kay called out, ‘Pearson!’ and she had to excuse herself and dash off. She did so accompanied by a rousing rendition of You Planted a Rose in the Garden of Love.

  Two days before Christmas, when Poppy had almost given up hope of hearing from him, a postcard arrived from Freddie, enclosed in an envelope. The picture showed an infantryman, a sailor, an airman and a VAD standing under a Union Jack, with a banner saying, England knows that every man will do his duty. On the back, in very large writing, it said, Fondest love, Freddie.

  Poppy showed it to Matthews, who thought it was a bit off. ‘There’s a VAD in the scene so it should say every man and woman!’ Turning it over, she read the back. ‘That’s nice, though. Fondest love . . .’

  ‘But in such large handwriting!’ Poppy said. ‘As if he couldn’t think of anything else to say and needed to fill up the space.’

  ‘And there’s nothing about you meeting up when he comes through Southampton.’

  ‘Oh, well, he probably doesn’t know exactly when he’s coming back,’ Poppy said. ‘After all . . .’ She looked at Matthews.

  ‘. . . there’s a war on,’ they chorused.

  Our time will come, Poppy thought to herself. But, it seemed, not just yet.

  Christmas Eve dawned fine, bright and frosty, both the sky and sea a cornflower blue. Going into the hospital that morning, Poppy hoped she’d find the boys full of Christmas spirit and perhaps even hopeful about the war going the Allies’ way in the coming year. She was to be disappointed, however, because most of them had lost any earlier optimism along with their limbs. Many, also, had friends or family members who’d not survived to reach this second Christmas of the war. For them, the other depressing thing was that warnings had been sent from the top generals to the boys at the front to say that there must be no consorting with the enemy this year, no communal singing of Silent Night or England versus Germany games of football. This command had not gone down well and it was whispered that morale among the troops was low.

  At four o’clock that afternoon, the ward became a little more cheerful when Poppy went around hanging Christmas stockings on the boys’ bed rails, then put up homemade paper chains as well as red, white and blue bunting which had been donated by a Good Egg.

  It had been announced that, this Christmas, Princess Mary would not be sending out the little brass boxes containing small gifts that every soldier had received the year before. There were so many troops out there now, in such far-flung corners of Europe, that it was thought the delivery of such boxes would be impracticable. Poppy was disappointed about this, but had accumulated a good assortment of gifts for the boys’ Christmas stockings: notebooks, pencils and sharpeners, chocolate bars, soap, packets of cigarettes and special boxes of matches bearing Christmas pictures. She had also obtained some little metal toy cars and vans on the assumption that all men were boys at heart.

  The cheery feeling disappeared immediately, however, when news came from Private Taylor’s ward that he had died in his sleep.

  His ward sister came in to tell Sister Kay and her team the news. ‘He rallied a little when his mother came to stay nearby,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think he ever really meant to live. When she went back home a couple of days ago, it freed him to slip away.’

  ‘He told me that he was dreading the idea of Christmas without his brother,’ Sister Kay said with a sigh.

  When the other ward sister had left, Sister Kay said, ‘While we’re all together, I’ve something to tell you.’

  Nurse Gallagher, Moffat and Poppy looked at her expectantly.

  ‘I’m afraid this will be my last month at Netley,’ she went on. ‘In the New Year you’ll be working under another sister. A new sister will mean new rules, of course, but I have the greatest confidence in all of you.’

  There was a moment’s shocked silence, during which Poppy felt she wanted to hug the gaunt figure and ask her not to leave. ‘That’s really sad news,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll miss you dreadfully,’ added Nurse Gallagher.

  ‘Are you retiring?’ Poppy asked.

  Sister looked taken aback. ‘Hardly. How old do you think I am? There’s a few years’ life in me yet!’

  ‘Of course!’ Poppy said, blushing. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘No, I’m going to France to run a casualty clearing station near the front line. I shall miss you all, but I can be of more use out there. I think 1916 is going to be particularly difficult.’

  Poppy went back to the hostel at the normal time, ate a quick supper and then returned to Netley to fill the boys’ stockings under cover of darkness. The night staff were on duty by then, the ward was quiet apart from some snoring and snuffling, and everyone was praying that no unexpected convoys of wounded would come in. Poppy did her stocking duty, then remembered that Jameson had given her a satchel containing some illustrated newspapers and magazines. Her friend, already quite settled in her new ward, had been collecting these as Christmas treats for her boys and had found herself with more than she needed. Poppy spread them out on one of the tables, then went home and, looking forward to Christmas Day, slept soundly.

  The boys had all investigated the contents of their Christmas stockings by the time Poppy got to the hospital the next morning – in fact, they had already started swapping their tin cars. Breakfast went much as usual, except there was cream and brown sugar for the porridge as a special treat, and afterwards someone put on a recording of Christmas carols and everyone joined in the singing. Following this came a game of bed-to-bed softball and some magic tricks from Sergeant Carter, whilst, in the background, the ordinary life of the ward went on: bandages were changed, lesions cleansed, drugs given out, open wounds packed and bed sores treated.

  The roast goose or turkey – one for each ward – came courtesy of the local farmers, and it seemed to be no surprise to the boys that Doctor Michael Archer, wearing a red Santa Claus hat, turned up to carve theirs. Around this time a bunch of mistletoe also appeared, hanging in the doorway tied up with medical tape, and this sight caused Poppy to receive a look of warning from Sister Kay. Knowing exactly what she meant – and much to the boys’ disappointment – Poppy made sure that she didn’t walk directly underneath it while Michael Archer was around.

  At about two o’clock, after the young doctor had gone, those boys who didn’t want an afternoon nap put on their dressing gowns and gathered around one of the tables, reading out snippets from the Christmas magazines to each other. Poppy listened to them idly. The King and Queen were going to be at Sandringham for the festivities; the famous pianist Miss Marie Novello was in London for a performance at the Coliseum; Miss Ellaline Terriss was appearing in Bluebell in Fairyland at the Prince’s Theatre.

  ‘Have you seen this photograph of Ellaline Terriss, nurse!’ Sergeant Carter said to Poppy. ‘You look just like her.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t!’ Poppy held out her hand for the centre pages of the paper. ‘May I see?’

  Moffat peered at the page as it was being handed across. ‘No! Miss Terriss is at least ten years older than Pearson!’

  ‘Well, I reckon she’s your double,’ said Sergeant Carter. ‘Either that or you’ve got a part-time job up in London o’ nights.’

  Poppy smoothed out the paper and studied the picture. She was flattered to be thought to look like the glamorous actress, but Moffat was right – Miss Terriss was at least ten years older. She was just about to hand the newspaper back when her eye was caught by a small, square photograph, one of five in a column down the side of the page. The headline was Christmas Romances and the photographs were all of young ladies who had recently become engaged to be married. And one of them looked very much like . . .

  Poppy gave a cry of shock and, in her haste to see the photograph close up, practically snatched the magazine back from Sergeant Carter.

  ‘So sorry!’ she cried to the astonished men. ‘Will you all please excuse me a moment.’ Jumping up, she ran into the kitch
en.

  Yes, it was her. The same glossy bob, the same perfect smile. Miss Philippa Cardew.

  Underneath the photograph it said:

  Cardew and de Vere

  The engagement is announced between Miss Philippa Imogen Cardew and Second Lt Frederick James de Vere. The bridegroom is at present on active service and, following his return to this country on leave, the wedding will take place quietly on New Year’s Day.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was all over. The grand love affair that Poppy had envisaged was finished before it had properly started.

  At first she didn’t believe it. Surely it was some sort of joke? Or it was a mistake, a foolish mix-up at the magazine offices. But then again it must be true, because there it was, printed in black and white, with a photograph and names and everything. It was true, and Freddie didn’t love her – had never loved her. He’d just been toying with her affections, leading her on, pretending, lying, acting out a part.

  Furious, her heart pounding, different scenarios for revenge came into Poppy’s head. She’d find out where the wedding was to be held and go along – when the rector asked in church if there was any impediment to the marriage, she’d stand up. She’d contact his mother and say that they’d had a relationship. She’d write to Freddie’s commanding officer and say that he hadn’t behaved in a manner that befitted an officer and a gentleman. She’d tell not only Miss Cardew, but the whole village, so that everyone would know how beastly he’d been.

  But she didn’t do any of these things.

  Instead she thought about it while she was serving tea and Christmas cake, then quietly spoke to Sister Kay and took her notepaper and pen.

  YWCA Hostel,

  Southampton

  25th December 1915

  The Recruitment Office,

  Devonshire House,

  London,

  SW1

  Dear Madam,

  I am a nursing VAD presently working at Netley Hut Hospital. I am hardworking and diligent, and believe I could serve my country better if I was working as a VAD in France or Belgium. I am therefore applying for a position at either a field hospital or a casualty clearing station as close to the front line as possible.

  I am not quite of the minimum age for what I know to be dangerous work, but in view of my experience and taking into consideration the great demand for nurses, I hope you are prepared to overlook this. My present nursing sister, Sister Kay, has kindly said she will back my application and supervise my progress.

  I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

  Yours faithfully,

  Miss Poppy Pearson

  Some Notes from the Author

  I don’t remember learning about the war at school, so researching it from the point of view of one of the young volunteer nurses who served during it has been both eye-opening and humbling. More than 70,000 VADs (Volun-tary Aid Detachment) were recruited to serve as nurses, ambulance drivers, cooks and stretcher bearers during the Great War. Two thirds of VADs were women or girls.

  As soon as I knew I was writing this book, I went to the Imperial War Museum in London, which holds a huge amount of wartime memorabilia. Unfortunately, when I got there I discovered that, just three days before my visit, the World War I section had been closed temporarily in order to set up new displays in readiness for 2014, the centenary of the outbreak of the war. It will be open again by the time this book is published and should be the first port of call to anyone who wants to find out more.

  I found other places to do my research, including the British Red Cross Museum in London, where the staff were most helpful, and the amazing new interactive museum in Ypres, Belgium, which was a fiercely contested city throughout the war. There are a great many museums in this area, including small, family-run bases situated on what was actually the front line, with shored-up trenches still in place. Visiting one of these museums on a dark November day in the pouring rain, standing beside a lone piper in full Highland dress playing a lament, was a memorable moment. It also made me decide that I would like to write a second book where Poppy goes to work as a nurse in Flanders, very close to the front line.

  As well as the books listed in the Bibliography I made use of the many internet sites devoted to different aspects of the war, especially the excellent The Long, Long Trail at www.1914–1918.net, and the marvellous Scarletfinders at www.scarletfinders.co.uk, which is specifically about British military nurses and has a huge and fascinating section about VADs plus lots of photographs.

  Much has been written about the bravery and humour of the ordinary soldier, the Tommy. Photographs of Tommies going off to fight, waving their tin hats and cheering, are especially heartbreaking when you learn that whole platoons of young men were killed or injured in one battle, many only seventeen or eighteen years of age.

  Some soldiers, like Billy, couldn’t cope with the carnage they were confronted with. They either ran away, inflicted wounds on themselves, went mad with terror or simply refused to fight. Most of these men were court-martialled and faced an instant death by firing squad. Some 306 soldiers died in this way. Relatives of these men have been active in trying to obtain a pardon for them and to have their names put on war memorials, arguing that they weren’t criminals, but were suffering severe mental trauma.

  Conditions in field hospitals – that is, those close to the front line (‘in the field’) – were poor and there were no antibiotics at this time. Although the importance of hygiene was understood, it was difficult to keep things sterile when men came into the operating theatre badly injured, gashed all over by rusty barbed wire or covered in caked-on mud. Those with major injuries had very little chance of survival. If wounds were very extensive, they were often packed with dried sphagnum moss. This was highly absorbent and could hold quantities of liquid and blood, like a natural type of cotton wool. If they were lucky, those with facial wounds were treated at one of the facial reconstruction units, known by Tommies as the ‘tin noses shops’, within a hospital. The most famous of these, Queen Mary’s Hospital in Sidcup, Kent, provided pioneering plastic surgery to those with injuries to their faces. The skill of the surgeons was remarkable and the patients were treated with care and compassion. However, although some patients endured years of operations in the hopes of making themselves look even passable, many still struggled to re-enter society. The extreme psychological trauma of having bad facial injuries must have been very great indeed.

  This is a work of fiction and, although I have researched the period and read diaries and first-hand accounts of the war, all the characters are fictitious. Some of the places are not, however: Netley Hut Hospital is very much based on the real hospital of the same name in Southampton which was demolished in 1966. The war poet Wilfred Owen was briefly treated at Netley in 1917 before being transferred to ‘Dottyville’, as the patients called Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh. Although I would have liked Owen to have a walk-on part in this story, he was there in 1917 and Poppy is set in 1915.

  Airey House is fictional but is typical of the many great houses up and down the country which became hospitals or convalescent homes for war casualties. Some of these were official and came under the auspices of the War Office; others were run by wealthy women who wanted to do something concrete to help the war effort. When the war ended some of these great houses were never reclaimed by their owners, often because they could no longer get the staff to run them. Many former male servants – grooms, valets, butlers and so on – had become casualties of the war, while many female servants had found more varied professions. This era was a time of great social change and the women who had taken on men’s jobs, and proved themselves more than capable of doing so, didn’t want to stay below stairs. It took until 1928 for all women to get the vote, but they were well on their way.

  If you enjoyed Poppy, look out for the sequel, Poppy in the Field, publishing in May 2015.

  Bibliography

  Appleton, Edith, A Nurse at the Fr
ont: The First World War Diaries of Sister Edith Appleton, Simon and Schuster, 2012

  Atkinson, Diane, Elsie and Mairi Go to War: Two Extraordinary Women on the Western Front, Arrow, 2010

  Bagnold, Enid, A Diary Without Dates, Virago, 1978

  Bowser, Thekla, Britain’s Civilian Volunteers: Authorised Story of British Voluntary Aid Detachment Work, Forgotten Books, 2012

  Brittain, Vera, Testament of Youth, Virago, 1978

  Doyle, Peter, First World War Britain, Shire Publications, 2012

  MacDonald, Lyn, The Roses of No Man’s Land, Penguin, 1993

  Rathbone, Irene, We That Were Young, Virago, 1988

  Tapert, Annette, Despatches from the Heart: An Anthology of Letters from the Front, Hamish Hamilton, 1984

  Van der Kloot, William, World War One Fact Book, Amberley Publishing, 2011

  Also by Mary Hooper

  Historical fiction

  At the Sign of the Sugared Plum

  Petals in the Ashes

  The Fever and the Flame

  (a special omnibus edition of the two books above)

  The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose

  At the House of the Magician

  By Royal Command

  The Betrayal

  Fallen Grace

  Velvet

  The Disgrace of Kitty Grey

  Contemporary fiction

  Megan

  Megan 2

  Megan 3

  Holly

  Amy

  Chelsea and Astra: Two Sides of the Story

  Zara

  Poppy’s story continues in the sequel, Poppy in the Field, publishing May 2015.