Poppy Day (2 page)

‘Was it really pretty?’ Sis whispered.

‘Nice enough, I s’pose. Cream with pink flowers.’

It had been hanging on the back of the door when she woke early that morning, caught in the light of sunrise through the window, its frill round the neck fashioned from the same material. She’d had to hurry – to act as if it was a normal day and she had to be out early to work. Downstairs she’d crept, scared rigid that she’d wake one of Sarah’s two young children, looked round for Sarah’s scissors . . . When she snipped across the waist the skirt crumpled to the floor like a windswept bird.

‘If I went back I should think she’d kill me.’

‘We’ll help yer, Jess,’ Sis said. She sounded, finally, as if she was drifting into sleep.

And Polly added, ‘Course we will. Don’t worry about our mom.’

‘I don’t want to cause Auntie any trouble. She wasn’t all that pleased to see me, was she? Why did she go all funny? I thought she was ’aving a fit.’

‘I don’t know. It must’ve give ’er a shock seeing yer.’ Polly sighed. ‘She’s ’ad a lot to put up with one way or another. But she’ll come round. Just don’t keep on at ’er. She ’ates people keeping on.’ Polly reached over, took Jess’s hand for a moment. ‘I’m glad you’re ’ere. I can remember coming out to see yer, when your mom passed on.’

Jess smiled in the darkness, wiping her eyes. ‘D’you remember my mom?’

‘A bit. She put my flowers in ’er hair.’

‘I do that. Makes me feel like her.’

‘Yer won’t find many flowers round ’ere!’

‘’Ave to grow some then, won’t I?’

When the others had fallen asleep, Jess still lay awake, hearing them breathing each side of her. One of the memories she held on to came to her: long ago, walking into the kitchen to find her father holding her mother close. Louisa’s back was to her, a small crimson rose twisted into her skein of hair, her father’s eyes were closed and he looked happy in a way she didn’t normally see in him. Little as she was she took in that there could be passion tucked under the flat, practical things of every day, like currants inside a bread pudding. And she didn’t see why she should settle for less.

Eyes open, she stared into the darkness, longing, feeling it as an ache inside her.

Jess woke early the next morning and went down into the cramped little living room. She found it full of the irritable chaos of a family trying to get out in time for work.

Bert was at the table, peering into a small hand-mirror, scraping a cut-throat razor across his cheeks and attempting to whistle at the same time. Polly was by the window, cursing over a button missing from her blouse, and Sis, busy stuffing paper into one of her shoes to cover a hole, looked up and smiled. The kettle was boiling away unnoticed on the hob so the room was filling up with steam.

‘Get a couple of fillets o’ coley for tomorrer . . .’ Olive was in the scullery, rattling something in the sink, shouting instructions to Polly.

Jess badly needed to relieve herself but didn’t like to interrupt. Surely they didn’t pee in a pot in the daytime here as well? She crept across and moved the kettle, then whispered to Polly who was pinning the front of her blouse together.

‘Yer ’ave to go down the entry. Come on, I’ll show yer.’

She took an old cotton reel with a bit of string on it from which dangled a key and led Jess out into the street and down an entry between two houses, its walls damp and covered in slimy green moss.

To Jess’s surprise she found there was a little yard behind with more houses crammed in all round it, dingy, dark and in very poor repair, and the smell of the place was overpowering.

All round her Jess could hear the inhabitants of the houses going about their morning business – a door was open and a broom flicking out dust and bits. There was shouting, the splash of water, clink of plates, children squabbling. A mangle and a tin bath were pushed carelessly close together in one corner of the yard, and at the far end, a stinking heap of refuse, fresh ash steaming on it in the cold air.

‘There yer go . . .’ Polly opened the door of one of the three privies for her. Jess stepped inside full of dread and locked herself in. Through the badly fitting door she could still hear most of the racket from outside. At home, when she sat in the privy out at the side of the cottage, all she heard was birds in the trees, or the chickens.

She had no more time to wonder whether running away had been a dreadful mistake because someone was rattling at the door.

‘Yer going to be all day on there, are yer?’

She pulled her bloomers up and skirt down and hurried out, red with embarrassment. A middle-aged man with a swarthy, unshaven face stood back to let her out, one hand on his fly, giving her a good look up and down. She could feel other eyes on her as she and Polly crossed the yard.

‘No peace round ’ere, is there?’ Polly grinned at her. ‘Take a bit of getting used to.’

The family all downed their porridge at such a rate that Jess was left way behind. Even little Ronny had nearly finished before her. She looked round as she ate. Bert, dark haired and stocky, ate fastest of all. When he saw her watching he winked at her.

‘Awright this morning, Jess?’

‘I remember you when yer was a babby – running round like ’im.’ She nodded at Ronny.

Bert smiled back, winningly. ‘Bet I was beautiful, wasn’ I?’

Olive tutted. ‘Don’t give ’im any encouragement – ’e’s full enough of ’isself as it is.’

‘You weren’t bad,’ Jess said. She calculated – she was twenty and Polly nineteen, so Bert must be nigh on eighteen. He was nice looking – not handsome, but full of friendliness and cheek. He told her he worked in a metal rolling mills in Bordesley, and, moments later, was out of the door on his way, with a ‘T’ra then,’ over his shoulder.

Polly went to the scullery and came out cleaning her teeth with salt from the block Olive kept out there.

‘I’ll be off in a tick,’ she said through the finger stuck in her mouth.

‘Ar – and you will be an’ all if yer thinking of stopping round ’ere,’ Olive said to Jess. Having fed everyone else she’d finally sat down to eat.

‘What – today?’ Jess was full of alarm at the thought of wandering round trying to find work in this enormous, teeming place. But she felt a tingle of excitement too. She’d do it. By God she would. She’d prove she could find a job, and be allowed to stay!

‘Why not today?’ Olive said. ‘Unless yer want to stand by me up to me elbows in the maiding tub. Though heaven knows, I could do with someone to keep an eye on ’im.’ She smacked Ronny’s hand as he’d started rubbing it round the inside of his bowl.

‘Where d’you work?’ Jess asked Polly who was gathering up a little cloth bag and her hat.

‘Oh, not far . . .’ She opened the front door. ‘Off Bissell Street. Clark’s Pens. Sis does an’ all. You ready? T’ra Jess, Mom – see yer tonight!’

‘See yer later—’ Sis came and shyly kissed Jess’s cheek. Jess was delighted.

And then they were all gone. The room went still, seemed to settle and expand. They could suddenly hear the fire in the range and voices from the house behind. Ronny had picked up his bowl and was licking round it.

Olive looked disparagingly at him then said, ‘Oh well – keep ’im quiet for a bit.’ She poured them each a cup of tea and sat down in her apron.

‘What work was yer doing out there then?’ she asked, as if Jess had arrived from the North Pole.

‘I worked up at the farm – churning, collecting eggs – the lot really. I used to carry the milk up to the Big ’Ouse when I were younger, so in the end Mrs Hunter at the farm gave me a job. I thought – now I’m ’ere I could look for a job in service.’

‘Oh – yer don’t want to do that.’ Olive sat straighter. ‘Yer life’s not yer own if yer do that. You can go and look for summat in a shop or a factory. I won’t ’ave any of mine skivvying in service – oh no.’

Jess was encouraged by the way she said ‘mine’. So her aunt wasn’t planning to put her back on the next Leamington train.

There was silence for a time. Jess watched as Olive stared into her cup, trying to make out the face of the younger woman she remembered. In repose, Olive’s expression was less harsh, but she looked tired through and through. The years had obviously taken their toll. Jess was moved, watching her. She knew next to nothing about what had happened to her aunt though, except that she was widowed two years after Louisa died.

‘I’ve not kept up with yer as much as I should – seen what was ’appening to yer.’ Olive looked up at her. ‘Things’ve been hard over the years, no two ways about it. She kept yer awright any’ow. Yer look healthy and you’ve got meat on yer bones.’

‘I liked your letters. I’ve always kept ’em.’

There was a note every Christmas. In 1902, a black-edged card: ‘I’m sorry to say that Charlie passed away in November.’ They were always short, the barest snippets of news. Sometimes when she was sad Jess had taken out this pile of little notes and hugged them to her chest.

Olive shrugged. ‘There should’ve been more of ’em.’

‘Auntie—?’

‘Ummm?’ She was standing, stacking dishes tacky with porridge. Ronny solemnly passed his over.

‘Come ’ere—’ Olive wiped his face and hands on her apron and he squealed until she let him get down and he waddled over and sat on the stairs, bumping up and down the bottom two steps.

‘Will yer tell me about Mom? And the family, and that?’

Olive looked up at her. After a long pause, she said, ‘What’s to tell?’

She took the dishes and Jess heard her put them with a clatter into the stone sink. Her voice came through from the scullery.

‘I’m not one for canting, in the ’ouse or out of it. And I’m not about to ask yer any more about what ’appened out there. If it’s bad enough to make yer come running to me after all these years, that’s enough for me to know.’ She came back into the room. ‘But we’re going to ’ave to let ’em know yer safe—’

‘Oh no – not yet, Auntie, please!’ In her urgency, Jess got to her feet. ‘I’m due to be wed to ’im on Sat’dy! They might come and make me go back. At least wait ’til the day’s gone by.’

‘Ah well – awright then. We’ll leave ’em to stew. At least for a week or two. So – now yer can go out and find yerself a job.’

Jess looked anxious. ‘I do want to get a job, Auntie. I want to be able to pay my keep, like, since yer’ve taken me in. Only I don’t know where anything is or what to do. I’ll get lost straight away!’

‘No yer won’t. Wherever yer are, ask for Digbeth. Anyone’ll direct yer. I’ll give yer a piece to take for dinner, and sixpence for a cup of tea or two. All yer’ve to do is go round – look out for signs up, or ask.’ Olive pulled sixpence out of a little cloth purse she kept tucked in her waistband. ‘And Jess – you’ll not be used to factory work. Why not try the shops round ’ere for a start – up Digbeth and the Bull Ring, see what’s going?’

Jess got ready and picked up her hat, all nerves. She was off to take on the big city by herself!

‘T’ra then, Auntie.’ Her voice wavered. ‘See yer later – when I’ve got a job!’

‘Go easy.’ Jess was touched that she showed her to the door. ‘And mind the ’orse road. There’ll be more going back and to than yer used to!’

Olive stood at the window watching her niece as she left. She knew Jess was in a bit of a state, despite her brave smile, head held high, her quick, bouncy walk as if she might break into a trot at any moment. Still, she was going to have to start somewhere if she wanted to make a go of it here.

The sight of her stirred up Olive’s emotions again. She was so like Louisa as a young woman – especially from a distance. That dreamy, innocent look she had, while Olive knew that she herself had never looked pretty or innocent. Never felt it either, she thought bitterly.

Course, Jess looked healthy from the country air as Louisa had never done as a girl. But the way she walked, that beautiful hair . . . The loss of her sister swept through Olive again. She ached with it, as she’d done so many times over the years. But it wasn’t just Louisa. Jess was even more like . . . like . . . She could not let her mind pursue that. Get on now. Things to do.

She was about to move from the window when she glanced across the road and caught sight of a face, watching.

‘Bugger me – just look at ’er!’

The front door of number fifty-seven was also open a bit – just enough for Bertha Hyde, the street’s nosey parker, to peer out in the direction Jess had just taken. Olive felt a terrible, dizzying rage surge up in her.

‘What’re yer gawping at, yer nosey old bitch?’ She was out the front door, striding across the street.

‘If you’re so keen to know my business why don’t yer come and ask me, ’stead of poking and prying, eh?’

The door of fifty-seven slammed smartly in her face, leaving her staring at its flaking green paint. Olive felt herself boil over. She raised her hand and thundered on it with her fist.

‘Everyone has to know, don’t they? Has to meddle and spread lies!’ Her voice shrieked high, verging on hysteria. ‘Why can’t yer leave us alone – all of yer?’

She marched back into her house, kicked the door shut and lowered herself unsteadily down at the table. She was panting, half sobbing, her full breasts forcing at the buttons on her dress. She put her face in her hands, overwhelmed with shame and misery, with fear at the unbalanced tone she’d heard in her voice. And last night – when Jess arrived, seeing her like that, unexpected, with that copper next to her . . .

‘What’s happening to me?’ a frightened moan escaped her. How could she have lost her temper like that? As if a trigger had been pulled inside her, out of her control. She pulled the empty cup and saucer towards her on the table and gripped her hands round it until she thought she might crush it.

All these years she’d been all right – hadn’t she? Life with Charlie, having the babbies, bringing them up . . . She’d made herself believe she’d forgotten. Past was past.

But now, suddenly – seeing Jess, then feeling the merest hint that she was being watched . . . It brought it all back with heightened, uncontrollable emotion. The persecuted years of her childhood. Tongues wagging, the insults, the horrified stares . . . She’d thought she was free of it.

Her legs felt unsteady as she got up and squeezed the last dregs out of the teapot, stewed dark as dubbing. She was shaking all over.

‘Could do with a drop o’ hard stuff if there was any . . .’ Her hand rattled the cup on the saucer as she picked it up. She became aware of Ronny watching her, staring in the doorway.

‘It’s awright, son . . . just ’aving a last sup of tea.’ To herself she whispered, ‘Dear God, help me . . .’