‘Poppy, we shall go and have some refreshment,’ she said firmly. ‘And you shall hear all there is to be told. It is absurd of me not to tell you. There is, after all, only you and me. We only have each other, and if I can’t talk to you, who can I talk to? Come along – we shall go to that tea shop and you shall choose whatever you like to eat and drink –’
Immediately beguiled, Poppy came along. She had seen the shops’ fronts often with their big signs ‘Aerated Bread Company’ and been fascinated by them, for there were two of them in Holborn, one at each end, and they had big windows that were often half steamed over through which you could see people sitting at little tables, eating and drinking, and she had always wanted to go into one. That Mama should take her now was amazing, and not a matter over which to argue.
It was all she had ever hoped it would be; warm and steamy and smelling almost as nice as Mama’s baking and full of people who smiled at her, and she chose a large red jam tart to eat – Mama didn’t often bake jam tarts – and a glass of lemonade which she was to drink through a straw. Suddenly it didn’t matter she hadn’t been out of the house for so long and had been so dull and miserable; this more than made up for it.
‘Now, Poppy,’ Mama said when the waitress, dressed in a very frilly cap which Poppy thought would look nice on her, as well, had brought Mama’s coffee and gone away. ‘I shall explain all to you. You remember the last time we went on an omnibus?’
Poppy’s mouth was full of jam tart, so she couldn’t speak. She just nodded her head and stared at Mama, hoping she would see by looking at her how much she remembered it as having been a nasty day.
‘I know you didn’t like that day,’ Mama said and Poppy swallowed her bite of tart and felt better. As long as Mama remembered that, it would be all right. ‘And I know I said you wouldn’t have to go back there. But sometimes things change.’
‘How?’ Poppy said and took another big bite. Some of the jam got on to her chin and she managed to put out her tongue far enough to lick it back in again, and Mama leaned forwards and used her handkerchief to wipe her clean again. It seemed to help Mama to do that, as though having a jammy chin to clean was so important it made it easier to say the words she had to say, and obviously didn’t want to.
‘People change,’ Mama said. ‘They get ill. And sometimes –’ she swallowed. ‘You remember the old man there, the one you did not like?’
Poppy nodded vigorously. How could she forget someone who had been so nasty about her hat and muff? And suddenly she remembered that she wasn’t wearing them and wondered if Mama would go back and fetch them. It was cold enough outside today to wear them. But she didn’t say anything.
‘Well, Poppy, darling, he got ill and – and went to heaven.’
Poppy stared at her and frowned. ‘He couldn’t have,’ she said firmly. ‘Miss Rushmore says only good people go to heaven. He wasn’t good.’
Mildred stared at her and then at first quietly, and then more and more loudly began to laugh, until tears ran down her cheeks and other people turned and stared at her curiously, but no more curiously than Poppy was looking at her.
‘Oh, Poppy,’ she managed to gasp as at last she regained her self control, and was wiping her eyes on her handkerchief. ‘Oh, my dear, you are so right! He wasn’t good at all –’ She stopped then and took a deep breath and again wiped her eyes. But they remained very bright as though tears were still there.
‘It is better to be direct, isn’t it? Even with children –’ It was as though she had asked a question, but Poppy did not answer it. Instead she ate the last piece of her jam tart and then started on her lemonade, drinking it in lovely long slow sucks through the big yellow straw.
‘Well, then,’ Mama said and leaned forwards and put her hand over Poppy’s as she was holding her tall glass. Poppy went on drinking but she did not take her eyes from her mother’s face.
‘He died, you see. My father. Your grandfather. He took ill one night at a City banquet – an apoplexy the letter said – and died three days ago. The funeral is today, and my Mama – my stepmother wrote to tell me of that fact and to ask me to come to the funeral and to bring you.’ She stopped then and let go of Poppy’s hand and sat up more strongly. ‘Indeed, she begged me to come. And I feel I must. God knows he was a hard man and there were many times I hated him, but he was my father –’ And suddenly she bent her head and began to hunt through her reticule for a dry handkerchief, for the one she was holding was little more than a wet rag now.
‘A funeral,’ Poppy said after a while. She had finished her lemonade now, having made several satisfactory sucking-up noises with the last drops. ‘I’ve never been to funerals. What do they do? Do they put the dead people in a blanket and go one, two, three and throw them up to heaven? Or do they make a big fire and put them in to go to hell?’
‘Oh, Poppy,’ Mama said. ‘Oh dear, oh Poppy!’ and again she began to laugh, but it wasn’t quite so noisy this time, nor so unhappy. ‘Where do you get your ideas from? All that happens at funerals is that there are prayers said and – and the dead person is in a large and beautiful special box, covered with flowers and it is put in the ground and then covered up, and a special stone is put over it, with words on it explaining who the person was and how much everyone is sad they are dead.’ She stopped and stared silently at Poppy for a moment and then with an almost visible effort went on, ‘And then everyone goes to the person’s home and they all have something to eat and drink and talk of their nice memories of the dead person.’
‘No one will be able to do that for that man,’ Poppy said dispassionately and then frowned. ‘But the person in the box? What happens to them?’
‘Nothing. They just stay there.’
‘Oh,’ Poppy said consideringly. ‘That sounds dull. Like it’s been at home all this time. Never going anywhere, and never seeing anyone but us.’
‘Oh, no!’ Mama said and her face was blank with dismay. ‘It hasn’t been that bad, surely! I just want you to be safe –’
‘It’s been very dull,’ Poppy said. ‘And miserable, and you’re so cross a lot and –’ She stopped. ‘Anyway, we’re not at home now, are we? And the jam tart was lovely and the lemonade was better. Will you make some lemonade sometimes for the orders, Mama, and some jam tarts like those?’
‘Oh, yes, Poppy if you want me to.’ Mama got to her feet. ‘And I shall find a way to make being at home with me less – less funereal. I dare say it has been misery for you – Come along then. Let’s go and get it over and done with –’
And Poppy decided that after all it wasn’t worth nagging Mama about going back to fetch her fur hat and muff and instead took her hand obediently and went to catch the omnibus.
35
Generally speaking, Poppy liked colours, and the stronger they were the better she liked them. That was one of the reasons she so loved Auntie Jessie, for Auntie Jessie was one of the most colourful people she had ever seen. She knew more kinds of red than anyone in the world, Poppy thought. But even though there was no colour in the place to which Mama took her when they got off the omnibus – and it was the second one they had been on that morning, a remarkable thing! – Poppy thought it very beautiful.
It was all black and white. White ground and white branches on black trunked trees. White leaves on black stemmed shrubs. Crisp white edging on tilted black stones and models of angels and crosses and crying people wearing only sheets which stood in white tipped black earth. And over all a heavy sky which was a rich mixture of both colours, a thick bright grey that seemed to press down on her head and bite the tips of her ears and the end of her nose with the cold. Even the few people there were to be seen were black and white; black clothes, white faces with black shadows on them, and Poppy stared at them as Mama hurried her along one of the white paths, liking the look of their long sad faces and bent heads. It seemed right to look so sad in a place like this, even though its black and whiteness was so beautiful.
‘Where is this, Mama?�
�� Poppy asked and she said it quietly, because this was not a place in which people shouted, she was sure.
‘This is the cemetery,’ Mama said and held her hand more tightly. ‘Now hold on to me, and don’t ask questions. You can ask me all you like when we are going home, but please Poppy, be quiet now. People mustn’t talk at funerals.’
Which was a pity, Poppy thought, because she had a lot of questions to ask. She suddenly remembered one she meant to ask before but had forgotten; what was it Mama said happened to the nasty man? It had been a beautiful word that Poppy had liked and she had meant to ask more about it, but there had been so many interesting things to talk about she had forgotten. She tried to remember now as she almost ran along the path to keep up with Mama, who was walking purposefully towards a large group of very black figures clustered further along the path and moving slowly forwards, but she couldn’t. It was something like her own name and lex as well, and she tried to make the word inside her head; poppylex, poppylex; but it wasn’t right and that irritated her. It was dreadful not being allowed to ask questions.
They had reached the group of people now and Mama put one finger to her lips warningly as Poppy lifted her head to look up at her and then stood quietly and Poppy stood still too, trying to look up at the people around them to see who they were.
There were tall men on each side of her, so tall she could see nothing of their faces; only chins over white shirt fronts, so that was dull and she began to peep between the gaps in front of her to see what it was they were all looking at.
Enthralling, she thought. There was the box Mama had told her about, all covered with flowers and for the first time there was colour. Reds and yellows and blues and greens, and she stared at them, because they looked so very much brighter than colours usually did, after all the black and white, and she liked that. Beyond the box there were ladies in black gowns and pelisses and most dramatic of all, with black veils falling from their hats over their faces. One lady in particular was wearing a very thick and voluminous veil and she was leaning on the arms of the men on each side of her. Next to the men were three boys all in the same sort of black overcoat and hat. One looked, Poppy thought, about as old as some of the biggest boys at school, and the other two were much bigger, about as big as Nellie’s brother Ted. They looked sad, but the other one, the smallest, didn’t. He looked bored and Poppy looked at him and wondered what he was thinking.
He seemed to hear her thinking, because suddenly he looked across the box towards her and saw her staring and at once stuck out his tongue and Poppy blinked, startled, and at once stuck hers out too. And then there was a rustle as the people standing around moved a little and a faint voice, coming from somewhere in the crowd that Poppy couldn’t see, began to speak in a sing-song sort of voice.
‘I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall live, and whoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die —’
Which, Poppy, decided, was silly. People who are dead aren’t alive. So she stopped listening and let the words just roll past her ears and started to stare again, instead.
It went on and on, it seemed, with the man talking and talking in the same singing sort of voice – it wasn’t like talking at all – and the people standing there and saying nothing back. Very boring. So she tried to catch the eye of the boy on the other side again and as soon as she did, poked out her tongue. But this time he just looked at her as though she wasn’t there and then looked away, which made Poppy feel dreadful. She felt her face go red as she thought about how awful it was to be looked at as though you weren’t there when all you were trying to do was be friendly.
It stopped at last, the singing talk, and there was a little rustle of movement as though the wind had blown over all the people and made them bend, and they were closer together now so that she couldn’t see. There were sounds, though, and she craned to stare at the box from which they seemed to be coming, but Mama held her back and whispered, ‘Be still, Poppy!’ So she had to. And could see nothing of what was happening.
People moved again and now she could see that the box had gone. There was just a hole in the ground and the box had vanished and Poppy longed to get closer so that she could peer down inside the hole and see what had happened to the box, but she couldn’t. The flowers hadn’t gone though; they were all in a row on the ground in bunches and rings and some shaped into crosses and she looked at them instead.
And then people were walking, moving away to the path and Mama took her hand and tugged her forwards and she had to walk round the hole in the ground – too far round to be able to see in – and towards the woman in the thick veil. People were standing in front of her and the three boys and shaking their hands and then moving away, and after a while Mama was there, with Poppy beside her.
‘Oh, Mildred,’ the woman in the veil said and Poppy wanted to laugh for when she spoke the veil puffed out in front. It looked very comical. ‘Oh, Mildred, you came! You were not at the house when the carriages came and the hearse – oh, Mildred!’ And she began to cry as one of the boys leaned across and patted her shoulder.
Poppy knew who she was now. The woman who had sat on the sofa in the big house and talked with a voice that sounded like a kettle that whined to itself when it wasn’t quite boiling. Somewhere under the black veil was the yellow hair like fluffy cotton wool and the red patches that had been painted on to a melted face. Poppy hadn’t liked her much when she met her at the big house, and she liked her even less now she was covered all over in black cloth. Except for the way the veil blew out when she spoke; that was funny, and Poppy liked it.
‘I am sorry, Mama, I tried to reach you in time, but sadly the journey is long and made it impossible. I wish you well, Mama, and am saddened for you and your grief.’ And she bent over and kissed the black veil.
‘And I for you, dear Mildred, for he was your dear Papa, was he not? And he is such a loss to us all –’ The kettle was whining at top pitch now and Poppy looked at Mama, and saw her face stiff and hard, like a board, and thought – she doesn’t like the sound much either.
‘Indeed, Mama,’ Mildred said after a moment and then stepped aside as a man in what looked to Poppy like a long white dress came to join them. She hardly stared at him at all, even though he looked rather strange, for she had seen so many strange things already this morning that one more really made no difference.
‘My dear Mrs Amberly, we share your grief, and wish you comfort in your distress. God will be good to you, if you turn to him. Be of good heart –’
‘Thank you, Vicar. It was good in you, indeed it was, to agree to come so far for the funeral. Edward would have so much preferred to lie in the churchyard at St Mary’s, of course –’
‘Ah, indeed, indeed. So sorry there was no room – but this is an excellent resting place, excellent. We are indeed fortunate to be so near Kensal Green – well, I must return to my duties –’
‘You will return to the house with us, perhaps, on your way?’ The voice came from behind Poppy and she turned to stare up at the source, a tall young man with a bright face that was not at all sad, and wearing a soldier’s uniform. Poppy thought he looked very beautiful. ‘My mother would welcome you, I know, and we – my brothers and I – would also. It was an excellent service and encomium – we much appreciated it.’
‘Indeed, Mr Amberly – or perhaps I should say Lieutenant Amberly – it is good in you to say so. I do my poor best, you know, my poor best. And indeed your late father was a very special man, a very special man –’
The woman in the veil gave a little yelp and then began to cry and the lieutenant put out his arm and set it round her shoulders.
‘Come along, Mama! We shall return home. The carriage is ready, and you need some brandy to get the chill out of your bones – I’m sure Mildred will come with – and here’s the little one, too! Poppy, isn’t it? Yes, Poppy – here you are then, Vicar, my niece, don’t you know. Papa managed to be a gran
dfather before he snuffed it – sorry, Mama —’ the whine having grown louder. ‘Before he passed on – though he didn’t relish it as much as he might have done, eh, Mildred? M’sister, Vicar –’
‘How do you do,’ the Vicar nodded a little frostily. ‘But if you will forgive me I will not return to the house with you. So many pressing duties – again my sympathy –’ And he went away along the path, his white surplice flapping behind him.
‘That’s down to you, Mildred!’ the lieutenant laughed softly. ‘Did you see how sour he looked? Someone’s told him of your naughty ways – eh, Poppy?’ And he tapped the top of Poppy’s hat and then chucked her under the chin in a way that Poppy particularly disliked and which made her pull away.
‘I hardly think this is the time or place for your silly witticisms, Wilfred,’ Mama said frostily and Poppy held her hand tightly in approval. He was being horrid which was particularly naughty, when usually he was so nice, and it was right of Mama to tell him so. ‘Come, Mama, let me help you to the carriage. And when we get back you shall have some hot tea and feel better –’
‘She’d rather have the brandy,’ Wilfred said softly, behind Poppy, so that only she and Mama could hear, but Mama took no notice of him and they all went back along the path, the lady in the black veil and another tall man – one of those Poppy seemed to remember seeing at the house that day she had visited it so long ago – and the three boys. Poppy carefully didn’t look at the youngest one. She had decided he was not a person she wanted to know at all.
At the far end of the path there were many other people waiting for them, some of them stamping their feet up and down to warm themselves in the cold and Poppy looked at the clouds of mist they made when they breathed and the bigger clouds of mist that the horses made, as they stood waiting patiently in the shafts of the carriage, and then blew softly with her own breath to make a private cloud and watched it as it rose against the thick grey sky and disappeared.
Jubilee (Book 1 of The Poppy Chronicles) Page 38
