Poppy Day (21 page)

Did I tell you they’ve made me a Corporal? Going up in the world, me. I wouldn’t mind being a Sergeant and giving some of the orders for a change.

There’s talk of us moving on soon. We’re being trained up for something big though none of us know exactly what yet. There’s a feeling about. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.

I’ve been wondering, when I get home leave, whenever that will be, if you and I should go and see my family together and try to put things right a bit. Let them see you as you are. It’d be an ordeal for you but let’s plan to do it. Or am I mad even to think of it? If the war wasn’t on we’d have had to sort it out somehow and we can’t just go on as we are forever.

Will close now. I think of so many things to tell you but when I come to write them I can’t remember. Send my regards to Miss Whitman – and Polly and all. To you my love, as ever, missing you,

Ned

Jess folded up the letter, gazing at the pale grey lines on the cheap paper. His hands had touched it, sealed the envelope. She pressed the paper to her face and breathed in, searching for some trace of him. She felt as if she was always living in the future when he’d be home, all her energy directed towards that. Now she was earning better she was saving a little money every week so that month by month it grew: her nest-egg for their future life together.

She sighed walking home from Iris’s house in the warm evening, the letter in her pocket. It was hard to admit to herself but she also felt a bit disappointed. The parts of his letters which she longed for, apart from his news, were his expressions of affection for her, his feelings pouring out. They warmed, fed her. But they were never enough. He felt so distant and she needed to see him, to be reassured constantly of his love. It seemed to her he was being drawn farther and farther away into the companionship of men, the clutches of the war, and she even had to strain to see his face in her mind.

Just let this war be over soon, she thought. Let them all just come home. Let us be able to live properly, not wasting our days waiting for life to begin.

That morning, the first weekend in July, Jess and Polly said they’d take Grace and Ronny out while Olive went to church. Perce, Sis’s sweetheart, was home on leave and she was spending every moment she could with him.

The two of them set off for Calthorpe Park, both in summer frocks, Ronny skipping back and forth along the pavement. Mrs Bullivant had let Polly use her old pram, which had served for most of her children and she hadn’t parted with it. It was a deep, clattering contraption which had come to them with patches of mould on the hood and dirt and cobwebs inside, but Polly had cleaned it up as best she could.

Jess smiled as the wheels went clunking round. ‘She don’t seem to take any notice of the noise.’ Grace’s tiny, mauve-tinged eyelids had fluttered closed almost the moment they started moving.

‘Nah,’ Polly peered over adoringly at her. ‘It rocks ’er to sleep. Any’ow, she was playing about that much in the night, she ought to be tired out!’

They decided to cut through the back, past the sweet factory on Vincent Parade. Further along, outside the houses, a man had wheeled out his hurdy-gurdy and they stood with the crowd, letting Ronny go to the front to watch the monkey on top of it, with his little fez falling down over one eye, prancing along the top on his bony legs to the tinkling tune. Ronny giggled and jumped, copying the monkey’s old man gestures.

‘Bless ’im,’ Polly said. There was a wistful note in her voice as she watched him.

‘Poll – don’t snap my head off – but who
is
Ronny’s dad?’ Jess spoke nervously in a low voice, wondering if she’d get an answer this time.

Polly carried on staring ahead, eyes on her little brother. ‘Hand on my heart, Jess, I don’t know for sure.’

‘But – I mean, the colour of his hair . . .’

‘I’ve told yer, I dunno. I can’t think of anyone we’ve ever known who it could be. It was a mistake, that’s all. I don’t dare ask.’

‘There’s a lot of things none of us dare ask.’

‘She’s ashamed of it. She ain’t that sort of woman . . .’ Polly trailed off, turning red, as she realized what she was saying, and to whom. She called Ronny to her and they walked on down the road in the sun.

‘Sorry, Jess – I daint mean . . .’

‘I know what yer meant.’ Jess was stung, her cheeks flushed pink. ‘I know what yer all must think of me. But it’s as if there ain’t nothing yer can ask Auntie about. She’s a closed book: the family, our grandmother. Why shouldn’t we know about ’er? I mean, I barely had my mom for any time – I want to know about everyone else.’

‘Well
you
try asking ’er then!’

‘I can’t, can I? She’s funny with me all the time – nice as pie one minute, huffy the next. I only have to do one thing wrong . . . Yer never know where you are with her at the best of times, but after what I’ve done – sometimes I think she can’t stand the sight of me, and other times she’s awright . . . But Polly, ain’t she
ever
talked to you about our grandma?’

Polly’s brow crinkled. ‘The only thing I can remember is, she was marvellous at baking – bread and that. Mom used to say that sometimes.’

Jess took Ronny’s hand as they crossed the road into the park. ‘Well there must be more to know than that.’

Polly breathed in the flower-scented air of the park. ‘We ought to come in the afternoon. There’ll be a band.’

‘I’m going over to Iris.’

‘Yes – course. Oh Jess . . .’ Polly linked an arm through her cousin’s, both of them pushing the pram together. ‘Never mind our mom. She don’t seem too bad at the minute. Let’s just make the best of today, eh? It’s lovely in ’ere.’

They chose a place to sit, legs stretched out comfortably, and Ronny found another little boy to play with, tumbling on the grass together and chasing one another. Jess and Polly turned their faces up to the sunlight, talking intermittently. Nowadays their favourite talk always began, ‘when the war’s over . . .’

‘I want to go and live in the country.’

Jess snorted. ‘
You?
That’s a laugh!’

‘Get a little house, bring our family up where the air’s better. Cleaner, like where you grew up. Don’t you want to go back?’

‘Yes, I s’pose so. All I can think of at the moment is getting Ned back safe.’

Polly watched her cousin’s thoughtful face, her brown eyes fixed on the trees at the far side of the park. Jess’s sweet looks, her tendency to stare dreamily ahead, gave her an air of vulnerable impracticality which sometimes made Polly want to shake her. But she knew that Jess was much tougher and more determined than she looked.

‘I reckon you’d do anything for ’im though, wouldn’t yer?’

Jess nodded. ‘I feel ever so bad about Mary, though. I think about ’er a lot, how she’s getting on. She must hate me so much.’ She was silent for a moment, looking at the pram. ‘Mrs Bullivant carried nearly all her babbies in there, didn’t she?’ Their neighbour had had nine children. ‘Now there’s five at the Front, Stanley already dead. What was ’e – seventeen? It’s frightening, Poll.’ She turned, looking her cousin in the eyes. ‘Life’s like paper on the fire – gone, fast as that. I could’ve married Philip if I’d wanted just an arrangement, no feelings to speak of. If we’ve done wrong, me and Ned – well there’s no if about it, we have – it’s because we love one another and we want to spend our lives together. Is that wrong?
Is
it?’

A few nights later Polly lay in bed with Grace tucked beside her. Grace had finished feeding and was sleeping in the crook of her mother’s arm, Polly curled beside her so that her face was close to the child’s, hearing the sweet sound of her breathing.

Polly was in the half-wakeful, alert sleep of early motherhood. She stirred, moving carefully to ensure Grace’s safety beside her, and woke, opening her eyes suddenly in the dark. A moment later a sensation passed through her as if an icy wave had sluiced over her body. She pulled herself up and sat hugging her knees, teeth chattering, her hands and feet as cold as if she had walked the streets in midwinter. But worse than the cold was the terror that took possession of her, a fear that made no sense but which turned her body rigid, filling her with a terrible certainty.

She got out of bed, covered Grace and stumbled next door to where Jess and Sis slept. Jess woke to find icy fingers clutching at her hand.

‘Poll?’ She sat up immediately. ‘What’s up? You’re freezing! Is everything – Grace . . .?’

‘She’s asleep – I just . . .’ Polly sank down on the bed, still shaking. ‘Summat terrible’s happened.’

‘What – what’s the matter?’ Hearing the fear in Polly’s voice Jess could feel herself beginning to panic.

‘I was just lying there, and I just went cold, and it was then I knew. I’m so scared, Jess!’ She began sobbing. Jess moved beside her, wrapping her in her arms. ‘It’s Ernie – I’m sure that’s what it is, summat’s happened to ’im.’

‘Oh Poll – how can that be? You’ve likely caught a chill and yer imagining things – you know ’ow yer get delirious when yer poorly. All them bad dreams you had last winter when you was bad—’

‘I’m not sick,’ Polly interrupted. ‘Jess, there’s nothing wrong with me. I was perfectly awright when I went to bed. It’s a message from Ernie – he’s calling out to me, I can feel it!’

A letter arrived that Saturday. Olive brought it to her. One of Polly’s hands went to her throat. She didn’t say a word, and her hand shook as she reached out to take the envelope.

10th Royal Warwickshire Regt.

B.E.F.

July 6th, 1916

Dear Mrs Carter,

It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that your husband Pte Ernest J. Carter 10/612 died of wounds last night.

His Company showed great bravery and he was a gallant man who will be missed by his comrades.

Please accept my very sincere sympathy for your loss.

The letter was signed by the Captain of his Company.

Polly’s legs went from under her and she sank groggily to the floor. Gently, Olive helped her up on to a chair.

Ronny stood staring, not needing to be told he must keep quiet when Polly, who was usually full of jokes, was sitting absolutely still, her face stony with shock.

Grace was crying upstairs and Jess fetched her down.

‘She wants yer,’ she said, holding her out to Polly who took her, automatically latching her on to feed, hardly seeming to notice she was there.

‘Oh Polly, bab . . .’ Olive whispered, watching her. Her own legs were trembling, but she forced herself to be practical: get the kettle on, hand Ronny a finger of crust to keep him quiet.

‘I knew . . .’

‘What’s that?’ Olive was putting cups out.

‘I knew summat had happened. I had a message, the other night, from Ernie. ’E were trying to tell me . . .’

‘Don’t start talking like that,’ Olive said sharply. She didn’t mean to. Her daughter’s suffering was unbearable to her. It made her hands shake so she could barely put out the cups. She wanted to take that agony on herself and knew there was nothing she could do. Polly had had just a few days of proper marriage with Ernie, and now it was over.

For a second, as she went to the hissing kettle to warm the teapot, another loathsome thread of recall from the past forced its way up through a crack in her mind as if one cause for distress brought back the memory of another. Images chasing one another, the staircase, sound of footsteps on the bare stairs, that dark room, the woman with her back to her at the window . . . but there were curtains drawn, closed, she was staring at nothing. And there was a smell . . . that smell . . .

She found she was shaking her head hard from side to side – forget, forget . . . don’t let it come back, keep it down, down . . . It was Polly she must think of now.

‘What’re yer doing, Mom?’ Ronny said.

‘Yer mom’s upset, darlin’,’ Jess told him. ‘Don’t you worry.’

‘I’m so sorry for yer, love.’ Olive left what she was doing and went and stood by her, pressing Polly’s head to her and stroking her hair with her rough hands. ‘So sorry. I don’t know what to do for yer.’ Polly began to cry, high sobs like a little girl. Ronny came to her, his eyes full of sorrow, and stroked her too.

‘I’d just sent him them nice things,’ Polly sobbed. ‘And now ’e won’t get ’em. Oh Mom, I want ’im back – I hadn’t even seen ’im, not for ages. And now I shan’t ever see ’im again. Never!’

Polly had been thinking about weaning Grace early and going back to work, but now she didn’t want to be parted from her. Jess had to tell Peter Stevenson what had happened.

She stood in his office, feeling as if she was going to teacher for a telling off, her cap held in front of her, aware that her hair was sticking out in wayward wisps. Mr Stevenson’s face looked bruised with exhaustion. He listened quietly as Jess explained what had h appened.

‘There’s no need for her to worry, tell her.’ He spoke kindly, but it seemed somehow an effort for him to bring forth the words. ‘We’ve almost more work than we can manage all the time. I’ll happily take her back when she’s ready.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ Jess said. ‘That’s nice of yer.’

He shook his head with such a sad expression in his brown eyes that Jess was touched by his sympathy. ‘Not at all. Poor thing – with the child to look after as well.’

‘Yes, she’s upset ’er husband never saw Grace – that’s the babby. It’s been a terrible shock for all of us. You don’t think it’s going to happen to yer ’til it does.’

‘That’s true, you don’t. Terrible for her.’

There was an awkward silence during which Mr Stevenson seemed to sink into his own thoughts, and Jess wondered whether she should be gone.

‘Well, thank you,’ she said, turning away.

‘Oh, Jess?’

She turned back.

‘Is everything all right out there?’ He nodded towards the Rumbling Shed.

‘Yes, thank you. I think so.’

‘Good. That’s good,’ he said distractedly. Jess went back to work, grateful for his genuine sympathy.

She was full of sorrow for Polly, and of unease. The Big Push everyone had been talking about on the Somme had begun on the first of the month, and that was where Ernie had been with the 10th Warwicks. Jess felt sure that was where Ned must be, and as the Casualty lists poured in, taking up more and more column inches in the newspapers, she became increasingly frightened and uneasy. Death had already come to the heart of the family: sudden, arbitrary, final. The image of Polly sitting at home, so numb and bereft, haunted her all the time. They were helpless, unable to argue with anything that was happening. Nothing could be done to change the fact that they would never see Ernie’s chubby, cheerful face again and Grace would grow up without her father. Jess’s eyes kept filling with tears thinking about it. It touched on her own deepest feelings, her memories of Louisa’s death, and her desperate longing to have Ned home, safe, loving her and alive.