Poppy Day (29 page)

‘Oh Ned!’ She leaned close, putting her hand on his shoulder, tears running down her own face. She would never have believed she’d see him like this. ‘What is it? Oh Ned! Look, my love, I can’t stop ’ere long – if your mom and dad were to come . . .’

Hearing what she said he managed to control himself, wiped his face and looked up at her almost as if he was afraid of her.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘My leg?’ He lay back, grimacing for a second. ‘Sometimes, now. Didn’t at all when it happened. Just like a little knock. And all the way back from France. Not a thing. But now – at night mainly. Oh God, Jess . . .’

‘I was so frightened . . .’ It was she, now, who couldn’t stop crying. ‘So frightened for you!’ She leaned down and kissed him, stroking his hair, his face. ‘I love you so much and now you’re safe, back with me.’

He looked back into her eyes with a bewildered, hungry look, as if hanging on every word, needing to hear what she said.

‘I saw your mom and dad—’

He started to speak, but she held up her hand.

‘It’s awright. But they mustn’t find me here. Are they coming today?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘They said you and Mary are going to start again . . . Is it true, Ned?’

She saw panic in his eyes. ‘No, Jess. No! They’ve not said a thing . . .’ He grasped her hand, and to her confusion said with strange intensity, ‘You’re good – a good, good thing. You are.’

‘Tell me you love me, Ned. Please. It’s been so long . . .’ She felt and sounded plaintive.

He began talking fast, a desperate note in his voice. ‘I do. I love you. Oh Jess, I just want to get out of here – away from them all. To come out with yer. You’re my love, you are. Let’s go somewhere where none of them can find us.’ He gripped her hand so tightly that she gasped.

‘Are you still feverish?’ she felt his forehead. It was overhot, but not extremely so. But she knew he wasn’t himself, and could see how ill he’d been, this odd excitement in him. He lay limply now, as if he’d exhausted himself. Jess kept her hand on his forehead. ‘Never mind, my love. You’ll soon be better. It’ll be awright, I promise you.’

‘You mustn’t come in here again, Jess.’ She was terribly hurt by the sudden aggression in his voice. He was becoming agitated again.

‘But why . . .?’

‘I’ve told yer – yer mustn’t – it’ll cause trouble. I’ve hurt them all enough and I can’t face it, not stuck lying ’ere like this. Please – stay away. Wait ’til I’m better and then I’ll come to you.’

‘But what can they do to me?’ She felt burningly defiant.

‘Nothing – not to you. I just – I’m a coward, Jess. I don’t want it going on in here. Fighting, arguments.’

She understood. He was too weak, too low to have conflict going on around him.

‘It’s ain’t just them, it’s Mary . . .’

Jess had a sensation like a cold hand closing round her heart.

‘Has she been to see yer?’

‘Not yet, but she will. They’ll make sure she does. Look, just keep out of it for now – please. Don’t make it any worse, Jess.’

She swallowed. There was desperation in his plea. ‘Whatever you want, Ned. Whatever’ll get you better sooner. As long as I know you love me I can put up with anything.’

Ned looked stricken. ‘I
know
yer can . . . oh God.’ He was sobbing again, clutching at her.

She held him close, kissing him, pressing her cheeks against his, trying to will all her strength into him. ‘I can’t stay now, Ned – just remember, I love you. You get better – that’s your job. I’ll be waiting, however long it takes yer. I promise.’

She felt him nod as she kissed him goodbye.

Jess left the hospital with the image of his face in her mind as she left him, pale, but calmer. When she turned back to look, he had already closed his eyes. She was disturbed by the state of him, one moment calm, the next distraught. What in God’s name had they done to him over there? But she was so full of resolve now, that she felt unbreakable. If she couldn’t see him for a time now, until he was healed, if that was what he needed, she could bear it. Knowing he was safe, away from the trenches, and that he still loved her, those were the main things. For their own good she would keep away until they could be together. She would wait. She had borne so much for him already that this seemed only a small thing.

Later that week, Olive pointed to a few lines in the paper which said that Lance-Corporal Edward C. Green, had been awarded a Military Medal for courage under fire.

‘Oh Auntie!’ Jess cried. She burned with pride for him. ‘See how brave ’e’s been – oh ain’t that summat special!’

And she could see that, though she tried to hide it, there was also pride in Olive’s eyes.

‘When’re things ever going to get better?’ Sis groaned, eyeing the evening meal Olive was dishing up, which consisted of a thin broth with a few bits of vegetables in stock made from boiled up chicken bones and a bit of bread and cheese. ‘We’ll be starving hungry again an hour after tea!’

‘I was in the line for some stewing beef today,’ Olive ladled out the broth, glowering round the table in a way that dared anyone else to complain. ‘Stood there over an hour I was, and then they shut up shop and said it’d all gone – and that was with
her
mithering at me the whole flaming time.’ She nodded at Grace. ‘Half the morning gone, nothing done back ’ere, and it’ll all be the same tomorrow. ’Ere – save some of it to go with yer broth!’ She rapped Ronny’s hand gently with the ladle as he went to cram his share of bread into his mouth.

‘Ow, Mom!’

‘Eat slower – it’ll last yer longer.’

It was a couple of days before Christmas and everyone round the table looked sunk in gloom, exhaustion, or both. The fighting on the Western Front had ground to a halt for the winter months. Everything felt as if it was everlastingly stuck: the grim news, the grief and worry, the sheer drudgery of war seemed set to go on and on.

This evening was pitch black and wet. Jess and Sis had been soaked through by lashing, ice-cold rain as they came home from work, and even after they changed into dry clothes, sat shivering for ages before they felt warm again because there was barely enough fuel to keep a fire going. Now Grace was toddling, Mrs Bullivant had her pram back and it had found a new role as a coal cart for both families so they could at least get some warmth in the house.

But day-to-day living had become even more tiring and gruelling than usual. And everyone had the worry of a loved one on their mind: Sis was fretting about Perce, Olive and the girls worried for Bert, Polly was still grieving and Jess waiting for Ned to be released from hospital, on tenterhooks, longing to know how he was and what was happening. Through an old acquaintance of both Olive and the Greens, Olive had heard that he had been moved out of Dudley Road to a convalescent home in Bromsgrove, which would have been difficult for Jess to get to even had she been allowed. But she was tormented by the thought of Mary being able to see him. It was terrible to be banished, pushed into the background, a dirty secret in a corner of Ned’s life. Almost daily she was tempted to go against what he had asked of her, and try to travel over and see him. She didn’t even know the address to write to and she had not heard from him. She understood that while he was convalescent and needing help, he was at the mercy of his family, but his weakness frustrated her when she felt so strong. She was caught between jealousy and worry and shame that she was being so selfish when he had fought and suffered. He needed his leg to mend, she told herself, to get his strength back. Then they would face everyone and fight them together. The two of them could overcome anything. And every day she was thankful that he was at least home, alive and safe.

The rain was still pelting down. Jess looked at the clock. Normally Polly would be on her way out by now. It was her night for going to Mrs Black’s.

‘Not going out tonight, Poll?’ Jess asked, wiping the bread round her dish.

‘No—’ Polly had Grace on her lap and was dipping little bits of bread in her broth, feeding them to Grace on a teaspoon while trying to feed herself and keep her daughter’s inquisitive hands from tipping the bowl over. ‘One soaking’s enough. Hark at it out there! I’ll leave it for this week.’

She still clung to her messages from Ernie as one of the few things that kept her going. Jess once asked her whether it might be a good idea to stop, try and put his death behind her for good.

‘I can’t, Jess,’ she said. ‘Not yet. It’s too much for me on my own. I need him to help me – I know that sounds like nonsense to you, but it’s true. It’d be different if we could bring his body home – have a proper burial and a funeral and that. But being out there – I know ’e’s gone really, in my heart. But it ain’t finished. There’s too many of ’em all just to go like that, for good.’

Jess half understood Polly’s need, although she’d never gone back to the Blacks’ spiritualist sessions with her. The experience of going once had been unsettling enough. Most of it was a trick, she was sure: so obvious to anyone who didn’t desperately want to believe it wasn’t.

‘It gives them comfort,’ she told Olive. ‘You can feel it. Everyone’s so sad, and it makes ’em feel better. I think it’s harmless enough.’ But what about what happened when she’d asked to hear from Alice? What if that had been real? It had certainly seemed convincing at the time. She hadn’t mentioned the incident to Olive.

Sometimes, usually in the dark of the night, she found herself wondering about Alice, fancying a plea, a cry coming from her, something unfinished that it was her responsibility to act upon.

That’s just daft, she’d say to herself when daylight came. Getting the heeby-jeebies in the night! But she knew instinctively that she wanted to know more, as if her grandmother’s fate was a key to something in herself. She found nowadays that she could ask Olive more about the family. A dam had been breached and she would try to remember details about Alice, about Louisa. Jess was hungry for the information, was beginning to understand more fully her aunt’s contradictory feelings towards her sister: the great protective love for a younger sister, mixed with enormous bitterness and resentment that Louisa had been absent through so much of the grief and trouble they’d endured, that in marrying first, she had escaped it again. Jess was watching her aunt, thinking about these things, when Polly looked up, her chin close to the top of Grace’s tufty head.

‘I thought I might pop in next door again – a bit later on like. When the younger ones’ve gone up.’

Olive paused, spoon halfway to her lips. She looked concerned. ‘Why don’t yer leave it for a bit, Poll? Yer said ’e daint take too kindly to yer going last time.’ She was worried about Polly’s preoccupation with John Bullivant.

‘I hear ’im – the way ’e keeps moaning and carrying on. It’s terrible, Mom. Heartbreaking. No one should ’ave to suffer the way ’e is. ’E was a big strapping bloke before. And she’s at ’er wits’ end. I know ’e’ll most probably tell me to get out. But how’s ’e ever going to have any sort of life again if all ’e does is sit there?’

Polly leaned in close to the Bullivants’ front door, trying to shelter from the rain. Mrs Bullivant opened it cautiously, unused to visitors at this time of night, and hurried her quickly into the hall out of the wet. She held a lamp in one hand and they stood in its arc of light.

‘Anything the matter?’ She sounded tense, had guessed why Polly had come. Polly’s hands had gone clammy. He’s only a man, she told herself. An injured man, that’s all. What was there to be so nervous about? But she was frightened: at the same time she felt compelled to be here.

‘I just thought I’d pop in and say hello to John again. Wondered if ’e’d like a bit of company? I know it’s late, only I’m at work again now.’

‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ Marion Bullivant kept her voice low. ‘’E’s not been too good today.’ She worried at her lower lip with her teeth. Polly’s heart went out to her.

‘I’m ever so sorry.’

‘Oh, you’ve got yer own troubles, Polly. I know that. Look, come in, but I don’t know what sort of welcome you’ll get.’

Through the back, Mr Bullivant, a dark, stocky man, was asleep in a chair beside the same sort of puny fire that burned in their grate next door. The room was cold, although it had a cosy atmosphere, plates and cups tidy on shelves and the range and little ornaments on the mantelpiece. Close to Mr Bullivant sat Lottie, who was twelve, fiddling with a tangled skein of wool. She looked up at Polly and smiled, but also glanced anxiously across at her brother.

‘Awright, Lottie?’ Polly greeted her. ‘’Ello, John.’

There was no reply from John Bullivant, seated in his wheelchair which was pushed up close to the table. The way he was sitting you couldn’t see his injury. He just looked like a man reading the paper, elbows on the table, hands making a frame round his face. For a second Polly imagined him getting up, walking across the room, like before.

She pulled up a chair to sit down by him. As she did so she saw him wince as if she had hurt him, or he was afraid she would.

‘For Christ’s sake watch it!’ He bellowed so loudly that Polly jumped. Mr Bullivant stirred, opening his eyes. John’s face was contorted with rage and pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ Polly stood gripping the back of the chair. ‘What did I do? Did I hurt yer?’

She knew she hadn’t touched him. It was as if pain surrounded him like a magnetic field.

‘What do you want?’ he said, more quietly, but with such contempt that Polly cringed.

‘John—’ his father warned.

‘I just came to see yer. Thought you might like a bit of company.’

‘Come to have another look at the cripple, ’ave yer?’ he propelled himself back from the table. ‘There yer go then – ’ave a good look.’

‘I didn’t come to . . .’

‘LOOK, I said!’ Again, a loud bawl, which sent his mom and dad into protests that he should stop it and calm down, Polly was trying to be kind.

Polly clung to the back of the chair and did as she was ordered. John sat with his shoulders thrown back in an awkward, helpless posture. Polly thought, you don’t see how much the legs do, even sitting down, until they’re gone. She looked down, past his strong, barrel chest to the thick stumps, sawn off mid-way between knee and groin. There was nothing repulsive in the sight, barely even shocking. He was covered, dressed. It was unnatural to see, but the full horror of it came when she slowly moved her gaze upwards, over his thin, taut face. He had grown back his moustache, but when their eyes met, she felt herself go cold at the expression in his.

‘Now get out.’

‘Oh don’t, John!’ His mother stood over him, her hands squirming round each other. ‘Polly’s just come out of friendliness – to see if yer’d like a chat.’

‘A chat! What in hell’s name does she think I’ve got to chat about? Go on – out. Bugger off out of ’ere!’

‘Awright—’ Polly shifted towards the door. Her knees had gone weak. ‘I’m going . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Bullivant said in the hall. ‘I did warn yer. I just don’t know what to do with ’im for the best, that I don’t . . .’

‘It’s awright.’ Polly was shaken by the intensity of John Bullivant’s self-loathing. ‘I s’pose I shouldn’t’ve come.’

‘No – I’m sure it’s what ’e needs. It’s just – well, it’s taking a bit longer than we thought . . .’ She trailed off, her voice desolate.

‘Any news of the others?’ Polly asked.

The woman nodded. ‘They’re awright, for the moment. Look—’

Polly stopped with her hand on the door handle.

‘’E won’t see anyone – pals of his, nothing. Course, most of ’em ain’t home anyhow. But the couple that are’ve given up . . . I hardly dare ask this, but . . .’

‘I’ll come again,’ Polly promised. ‘In a while.’ She squeezed Marion Bullivant’s hand. ‘’Ave the best Christmas yer can manage, love.’