by Dilly Court
‘Look at their shoes and their hats, Poppy. Good shoes and a nice hat will mean a clean home and no bed bugs or lice. You be a good girl, wash behind your ears and say your prayers every night before you go to bed. Always remember that your mum and dad love you, ducks. And so does Joe, although he ain’t always the best at showing his feelings. That goes for your gran and grandad too. We’ll all miss you, love’
Poppy said a small prayer now as she met the eyes of a tight-lipped little woman wearing a felt beret and a mean scowl. Her shoes needed a polish and were down at heel. Poppy looked away and moved her gaze down the line until she came upon a smart pair of high-heeled court shoes, two-tone in brown and cream. Glancing upwards she noted a jaunty brown velour hat spiked with a long feather that reminded her of a film poster she had seen of Errol Flynn playing Robin Hood. The face beneath the hat could have been a female version of the film star’s, but the woman’s expression was neither charming nor kind. Poppy’s heart sank a little as she read boredom and indifference in the hazel eyes that stared unblinkingly into her own. But the shoes were good and the hat was quite new. The woman wore a wellcut tweed costume with a gold brooch on the lapel. Poppy did her best to smile.
The lady in the Robin Hood hat turned to the billeting officer. ‘What’s the name of that one?’ She waved her hand vaguely in Poppy’s direction.
Mr Walker scanned the list on his clipboard but he frowned as if confused by the names and ages of the children. He moved a step closer to Poppy. ‘What’s your name, dear?’
‘Poppy Brown, sir.’
‘Poppy,’ he said with an attempt at a smile. ‘Named after the flower, were you, dear?’
‘No, mister. I was called Poppy after me mum’s favourite perfume from Woollies. Californian Poppy.’
The smart lady cast her eyes up to heaven. ‘My God, what an accent.’ She looked Poppy up and down. ‘But she does look the cleanest of the bunch and she’s old enough to be useful. She’ll do.’
‘You’re a lucky girl, Poppy Brown.’ Mr Walker took her by the shoulder and gave her a gentle shove towards her benefactress. ‘You must be very grateful to Mrs Carroll and I hope you’ll behave like a good girl at Squire’s Knapp.’
‘Follow me, child.’ Mrs Carroll strode away towards a large black car, her high heels tip-tapping on the concrete, and as the feather in her hat waved in the breeze it seemed to be beckoning to Poppy. She followed obediently but shied away in fright as a big man dressed entirely in black from his peaked cap to his shiny leather boots leapt forward to open the car door.
‘Don’t loiter, girl,’ Mrs Carroll said impatiently. ‘Get in the car.’
Poppy glanced up at the chauffeur but he was staring straight ahead of him. She climbed into the back seat and made herself as small as possible in the far corner. The unfamiliar smell of the leather squabs coupled with the gnawing hunger that caused her stomach to rumble made her close her eyes as a wave of nausea swept over her. The jam sandwiches that Mum had made in the early hours of the morning had all been eaten before the train got to the Elephant and Castle. She had saved the piece of ginger cake until last, but she had shared it with the small girl from the infants class whose nose was permanently dripping with candles of mucus that grew longer each time she opened her mouth to howl.
‘We’ll go straight home, Jackson,’ Mrs Carroll said in a bored tone. ‘I’ve changed my mind about going to the library.’
The car picked up speed as they left the village and a cool breeze coming through the open window revived Poppy to the point where she could open her eyes. She craned her neck to look out of the window.
‘You’re very small,’ Mrs Carroll said, lighting a cigarette that she had just fitted into a green onyx holder. ‘How old are you?’ She inhaled with obvious pleasure and exhaled slowly as she replaced the gold cigarette case and lighter in her handbag.
Poppy was impressed. Her dad smoked cigarettes but he always rolled them himself and lit them with a match from a box of Swan Vestas. Sometimes when she had earned a bonus at the glue factory, Mum would buy a packet of Woodbines for him as a special treat. Gran said it wasn’t ladylike to smoke in the street. Poppy wondered what Gran would say about a lady smoking in her car.
‘Well?’ Mrs Carroll shot her a sideways glance. ‘Have you lost your tongue, girl?’
‘No, miss, I’m thirteen. I had me thirteenth birthday in April.’
‘You’re very undersized for your age, and you say my thirteenth birthday, not me thirteenth birthday. You call me Mrs Carroll or ma’am, not miss. Do you understand, Poppy?’
‘Yes, mi— ma’am.’
Mrs Carroll smoked her cigarette in silence, occasionally tapping the ash into an ashtray located somewhere by her side. Poppy remembered that Gran also said it was rude to stare and she turned away to gaze out of the window. Through gaps in the hedgerows she could see fields of ripe corn, spiked with scarlet poppies and dark blue cornflowers. She had read about the countryside in books and she had seen the flat fields of Essex from the train window on the annual family August Bank Holiday trip to Southend-on-Sea, but the gently rolling countryside of Dorset was something quite new to her. She moved forward in her seat as they passed a field where a herd of black and white cows grazed on rich green grass, and she was amazed by their size and a bit scared, especially when two of them poked their heads over a five-barred gate and mooed loudly as the car drove past. She began to feel sick again and was relieved when Jackson brought the big limousine to a halt outside a pair of tall wrought iron gates. He climbed sedately out of the car and unlocked the gates, which protested on rusty hinges as they swung open. He drove slowly along an avenue lined with trees that formed a dark tunnel of interwoven branches heavy with wine-red leaves.
‘This is like the park at home,’ Poppy said appreciatively.
‘Really.’
Mrs Carroll’s voice sounded remote and mildly bored. Poppy accepted this as a matter of course. Grown-ups never took much notice of what children had to say, and she had just spotted a small lake with an island in the middle and a white marble folly in the shape of a Roman temple. It was like something out of a film and she was about to ask Mrs Carroll if all this belonged to her when she heard the thundering of horse’s hooves and the car came to a sudden halt. Seemingly appearing from nowhere, the rider drew his mount to a halt on Poppy’s side of the car. The animal whinnied and rolled its great eyes. Its nostrils flared and Poppy thought it was going to put its huge head through the open window to bite her. She screamed and ducked down, covering her eyes with her hands.
‘Good God, who have you got there, Mother?’
The voice was young, male and well spoken but Poppy did not dare look up.
‘Guy! Do you have to ride as if you’re in a Wild West show?’ Mrs Carroll said angrily. ‘Get that beast away from the Bentley before it does some damage.’
‘Have you kidnapped a little girl, Mother? I thought you hated children.’
The humour in the voice was not lost on Poppy. She struggled to sit upright, but as she lifted her head she saw the horse’s huge yellow teeth bared as if it was going to snap her head off. Everything went black.
She woke up feeling something cold and wet dripping down her neck. A fat, rosy face hovered above hers and for a moment Poppy thought she was at home in West Ham.
‘Gran? Is that you?’
‘Gran indeed. What a cheek!’
‘Well, you are a grandma, Mrs Toon.’
‘That’s as maybe, Violet. But I’m not grandma to the likes of this little ’un, come from goodness knows where in the slums of London.’
Poppy was raised to a sitting position and the younger person, who she realised must be Violet, shoved a glass of water into her hands. ‘Take a sip of that, for Gawd’s sake.’
Poppy gazed in wonder at her surroundings. She was in a kitchen, but it was enormous. The whole ground floor of her home in West Ham would have fitted into it with room to spare.
‘We thought you
were dead,’ Violet said cheerfully. ‘But now we can see you’re alive and kicking.’
Poppy drank some water and immediately felt a little better. ‘I thought for a moment I was back at home.’
Mrs Toon cleared her throat noisily and wiped her hands on her starched white apron. ‘There, there! You’re a very lucky little girl to have been taken in by Mrs Carroll. I hope you’re not going to give us any trouble, Poppy Brown.’
‘I never asked to come here, missis.’
Mrs Toon and Violet exchanged meaningful glances, as if to say ‘I told you so’.
‘None of your lip, young lady,’ Mrs Toon said sharply. ‘You’re a guest in this house, although I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with you. Are you going to be kept below stairs or upstairs? Mrs Carroll never said one way or t’other. But whatever she decides, you must keep a civil tongue in your head, or you’ll answer to me.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ Poppy said, recalling Mrs Carroll’s lesson in manners.
‘La-di-dah!’ Mrs Toon said, chuckling. ‘Better give her a bowl of soup and some bread and butter, Violet. And then you can take her upstairs and run a bath for her.’
‘It’s not Friday.’ Poppy looked for the tin tub set in front of the black-lead stove, but there was none. Come to that there was no stove either. There was a large gas cooker and some sort of range with shiny metal lids on the top, but that was all. She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, seeing as how you got no hot water, I’ll skip the bath, ta.’
‘People in proper houses have baths every day,’ Mrs Toon said firmly. ‘And I don’t know what gives you the idea we haven’t any hot water. We have the very latest in everything at Squire’s Knapp.’
‘That’s right,’ Violet said, nodding. ‘We had central heating before even Cook was born, and that’s going back some.’ She placed a bowl of steaming soup on a stool which she set beside Poppy. ‘I daresay you don’t have proper bathrooms in the slums. Eat up and I’ll show you how posh folks live.’
The soup was as good as anything that Gran could make, Poppy thought appreciatively as she bit into the hunk of freshly baked bread liberally spread with thick yellow butter. She had not tasted butter before as they always ate margarine at home. She stopped chewing as she thought of her family and suddenly it was difficult to swallow. She had lost track of time but a sideways glance at the big white-faced clock on the kitchen wall told her it was teatime. Dad and her elder brother Joe would be home from their jobs on the railways, and Mum would be stoking the coke boiler to heat water for them to wash off the grime of the day, while Gran peeled potatoes ready to boil and serve with a bit of fat bacon or boiled cod. Grandad would be out in the back garden smoking his pipe and keeping an eye out for the neighbour’s pigeons. The birds were supposed to fly straight home, but were inclined to stop off in order to sample the tender green shoots of cabbage and a Brussels sprout or two.
‘What’s up with you?’ Violet demanded. ‘Don’t you like proper food? I bet your family lives on rats and mice up in London.’
Apparently overhearing this remark, Mrs Toon caught Violet a swift clout round the ear. ‘Don’t tease the kid, Violet Guppy. How would you like it if you were sent away from home and had to live with strangers? You go on upstairs and run the bath water and don’t dawdle.’
Uttering a loud howl Violet ran from the kitchen clutching her hand to her ear. Poppy swallowed hard and blinked, determined that whatever happened she was not going to disgrace herself by bursting into tears. Gran said tears were a sign of weakness, like not being able to work a pair of scissors with your left hand in order to cut the fingernails on your right hand. Gran said if you couldn’t control your emotions or your left hand, it was just weak will and not to be tolerated.
‘Eat up, little ’un,’ ordered Mrs Toon. ‘I haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you, you know.’
‘Mrs Toon. I’ve got a message from her upstairs.’
Poppy twisted round in her chair to see a maid wearing a black dress with a white cap and apron standing in the doorway.
‘Mrs Carroll wants to see you and the evacuee in the drawing room as soon as she’s been fed and bathed.’
Mrs Toon tossed her head causing her white cap to sit askew on top of her silver-grey hair. ‘All right, Olive. She’s nearly finished her food. You’d better take her up to the bathroom and watch your cousin Violet. That girl’s got a spiteful streak in her nature and I don’t want her trying to drown young Poppy here. Mrs Carroll wouldn’t like it.’
‘Mrs Carroll says to burn the evacuee’s clothes because they’ll probably be – you know.’ She winked and nodded her head, lowering her voice. ‘She says to find some of Miss Pamela’s old clothes and see if they fit.’
‘As if I haven’t got enough to do.’ Mrs Toon clicked her tongue against her teeth. She sighed. ‘Dinner to prepare and an evacuee to feed and clothe; I just haven’t got the time to go poking about in Miss Pamela’s room. You’ll have to do that, Olive.’
Poppy leapt to her feet. ‘You ain’t going to burn my clothes. My mum sent me with my Sunday best and I haven’t got fleas. It’s only poor folk’s kids that have fleas, not people who live in Quebec Road, West Ham.’
Olive reached out a long, thin arm and grabbed Poppy by the scruff of her neck. ‘Less of your cheek, young lady. Mind your manners or Mrs Carroll will send you back to London to be bombed by them Germans.’
Poppy felt her heart kick against her ribs. If Olive had punched her in the stomach it couldn’t have hurt more. ‘They won’t bomb West Ham, will they?’
‘Why do you think the government sent all you kids out to pester us in the country? Silly girl!’ Olive gave her a shove towards the door. ‘Now get up the stairs and we’ll make sure you haven’t brought any little lodgers with you.’
After an excruciating time half submerged in what felt like boiling water while Violet scrubbed her back with a loofah that felt more like a handful of barbed wire and Olive shampooed her hair, digging her fingers spitefully into Poppy’s scalp, she was eventually deemed to be clean enough to be taken down to the drawing room. Dressed in clothes that were expensive but at least two sizes too large for her small frame, Poppy waited nervously outside the door while Olive went inside to announce that she was ready for inspection. Moments later she reappeared. ‘Go in. Speak only when you’re spoken to.’
Poppy entered the room as nervously as if she were venturing into a cage filled with wild animals. Mrs Carroll was seated in a large blue velvet armchair with her feet raised up on a tapestry-covered footstool. In one elegantly manicured hand she held a glass of sherry and between two fingers on the other hand she balanced her cigarette holder. She was talking to a thin, white-haired man seated in a chair on the opposite side of the huge fireplace. She stopped speaking to stare at Poppy. ‘She looks cleaner, Olive. It’s fortunate that I hadn’t found time to send Miss Pamela’s old clothes off to the orphanage. They fit Poppy quite nicely, considering she’s so small and thin.’
Olive bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mrs Toon would like to know where she’s to put her, ma’am.’
Mrs Carroll took a sip of sherry and sighed. ‘I don’t know. There must be a spare room in the servants’ quarters.’
A sharp intake of breath told Poppy that this suggestion was not popular with Olive.
‘The ones that aren’t used have been shut up for years, ma’am.’
The kindly-looking gentleman had been silent until now but he frowned, shaking his head. ‘You can’t put the child up there, Marina. What about the old nursery?’
‘Don’t be silly, Edwin. Pamela will need to put Rupert in there when they come to stay.’
‘Well, just for the time being then, my dear. The girl will feel more at home in the children’s room.’
Poppy cast him a grateful look. He seemed nice and had kind eyes.
‘So you are Poppy Brown,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘How do you do, Poppy? My name is Edwin Carroll.’
‘Pleased t
o meet you, mister.’ Poppy gave his hand a shake and thought how soft his skin was, not a bit like Dad’s which was calloused by years of manual labour.
Marina Carroll groaned audibly. ‘The reply to how do you do is simply how do you do, Poppy. Not pleased to meet you.’
The lines on Edwin’s forehead knotted together in a frown. ‘I think the lessons in etiquette might wait until the child has settled in, Marina.’ His eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, smiled kindly at Poppy. ‘Now you go with Olive, Poppy, and she’ll make you comfortable in the nursery. Tomorrow we’ll have a chat and you can tell me all about your family in, where was it? Caterham?’
‘West Ham, Edwin,’ Marina snapped. ‘Take her away, Olive. We’ll have dinner at eight o’clock whether Guy gets home on time or not.’
‘Yes’m.’ Olive seized Poppy by the arm and dragged her out of the room.
Mrs Toon said she was too busy with dinner to think about minor details like Poppy’s comfort and she put Olive and Violet in charge of settling Poppy in the old nursery.
Grumbling all the way, Olive trudged up three flights of stairs with the reluctant Violet carrying a pile of clean bed linen and Poppy following wearily carrying nothing but her gas mask and toothbrush, which was all that was left after Mrs Toon had incinerated her few possessions in the thing they called an Aga.
Olive and Violet made up a bed in the night nursery. After a great deal of bickering and a little half-hearted flapping around with a duster, they agreed that they had done enough for one day, and Olive flounced out of the room followed by Violet, who popped her head back around the door and poked her tongue out at Poppy. ‘Sleep tight, Popeye. Don’t worry about the ghost. The white lady don’t do much more than tug off the bedclothes and throw things about the room.’
