Poppy's War (20 page)

A cool breeze fanned her cheeks and the cloudless sky showed promise of a fine day to come. It was only here, in Guy’s tree, that she felt safe from prying eyes. In this serene rural setting it was almost impossible to imagine the war raging across the Channel and in the air over Britain. She could see deer grazing at the edge of the spinney, and rabbits were hopping about on the brow of the hill oblivious to the fact that their lives were likely to be short unless they kept away from snares and men with shotguns. On the ground below Goliath was munching the sweet grass. If she closed her eyes she could visualise Guy sitting on his back, looking up at her through the branches and smiling. Her hand flew to the heart pendant that he had touched as he said goodbye. He was risking his life every day in this awful war. She felt her throat constrict as she recalled the snowy day in December when Mum had given her the pendant that had meant so much to her. She curled her fingers around the glass drop, which was still warm from her body. In her mind’s eyes she could see Mum in her shabby grey woollen coat with the unflattering felt hat pinned to her head by the ridiculously long hatpin. If she closed her eyes she could see her mother’s pale hand waving from the rear window of the coach. She bowed her head, wrapping her
arms
around her body in an attempt to hold herself together.

The tinny sound of a bicycle bell made her open her eyes and looking down she saw Jean pedalling frantically on the old sit-up-and-beg bike that they had found in a corner of the coach house. She was bouncing up and down as she rode across the furrows which were ready for sowing winter wheat. ‘Poppy, come down quick. You’ve got a trunk call.’

Slithering off the branch, Poppy dropped to the ground. ‘Who is it?’

‘I dunno,’ Jean said breathlessly as she swerved to a halt. ‘It’s a man. He had to ring off but he’s calling again in five minutes.’

The telephone was in Edwin’s study: a warm, book-lined room that smelt faintly of cigar smoke and beeswax polish. He was still in his dressing gown, looking tousled and sleepy as he picked up the receiver. ‘Barton Lacey 349.’ He listened intently. ‘Hold on a moment, and I’ll pass you to Poppy.’

She took it from him, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. ‘Hello.’

‘Poppy, is that you?’ The achingly familiar voice sounded very far away.

Her heart missed a beat. ‘Joe, is that really you?’

‘It’s me, kid. Are you all right?’

‘Oh, Joe, you’re safe. I can’t believe it. I thought I’d lost you as well.’

‘Not me, ducks. I’m bullet proof, but seriously, it was just luck on my part. My leave was cancelled or
I
would have copped it too. It’s a bloody bad show, Poppy.’

‘Why didn’t you let me know before? It’s been awful …’

‘I thought Mum would have written and told you that my leave had been cancelled, and …’ Three loud pips drowned his last few words.

‘What did you say, Joe?’

‘I said I’ve got compassionate leave. Mabel and me are getting married by special licence at the register office.’

‘You’re getting married?’ Poppy could hardly take it all in.

‘The pips will go again any second now and I’ve no more change. I know it’s all a bit sudden but can you come up to London tomorrow? We want you to be there and I’ve only got thirty-six hours’ leave.’

‘Yes, of course I will.’

‘Meet me at one under the clock at Liverpool Street station.’

‘I’ll be there, Joe. Joe, can you hear me?’ She took the receiver from her ear. ‘We’ve been cut off.’ She turned to Edwin who was watching her with a worried frown. ‘That was my brother. He’s getting married and he wants me to go up to London tomorrow. May I go? Please say I can.’

She arrived at Waterloo station just before twelve thirty. The train had been packed with servicemen and women as well as civilians, and had stopped at
every
station en route, taking on more passengers until there was no standing room in the corridors, and in the compartments people were packed together like sardines. Revelling in the prospect of being reunited with her brother, Poppy had been oblivious to the discomfort. She had barely noticed the unpleasant body odour emanating from the fat woman sitting next to her whose bulk seemed to overflow, squashing Poppy into the corner of the compartment, or the constant coughing of the man sitting opposite who obviously had the most awful cold and was probably infecting everyone within range of his explosive sneezes. Every time he took his hanky from his pocket there was an overpowering smell of Vick’s VapoRub, but that did not seem to curb the appetite of the girl who sat next to him munching an apple down to the core, which she also ate with apparent relish. The journey took over three and a half hours, but as soon as her feet touched the platform and she took a deep breath of the smoky London air, Poppy felt at home. She had never done this journey on her own, and as the Bakerloo Line beneath the Thames had been closed for safety reasons before the outbreak of war, she had to find a bus to take her to Liverpool Street. It took longer than she had anticipated and when she eventually reached the main concourse of the station she could see by the huge white-faced clock that she was over twenty minutes late. She scanned the faces in the crowd, praying that she had not missed Joe.
Then
she spotted him. There was no mistaking Joe. He reminded her forcibly of their dad with his slightly beaky nose, high forehead and determined chin. He looked thinner than when she had last seen him, but when he saw her and smiled he was the same old Joe: the big brother who had alternately teased and spoiled her as a young child, but had always been on her side when she was in trouble with Mum or Dad.

‘Poppy? Cor blimey, mate. I hardly recognised you.’ He wrapped his arms around her in a hug. ‘Strewth, you’ve grown up a lot in a year.’

Halfway between laughing and crying, Poppy touched his thin cheek with the tips of her fingers. ‘You haven’t changed at all, Joe. Well, not much anyway. You’re even better-looking than I remember.’

‘Get off with you, girl.’ He held her at arm’s length, looking her up and down as if he could scarcely believe his eyes. ‘I can see that you’re the same cheeky little madam you always were beneath the posh voice and fancy clothes.’

Shocked, she stared at him in disbelief. ‘I’m not posh. I’m just the same as I always was.’

‘You’ve grown up into a proper lady, Poppy. Not that I’m saying that’s a bad thing, not at all. But you are different, there’s no two ways about it. Anyway, let’s get moving and get the tube home. You can stay tonight, can’t you?’

She patted her shoulder bag, slanting a look at him
beneath
her lashes and grinning. ‘Got my toothbrush, nightie and clean knickers, Joe. I can stay as long as you like.’

‘Saucebox. Lucky Gran can’t hear you talking about unmentionables in public.’ He took her by the elbow, guiding her towards the subway.

‘What time is the ceremony, Joe?’

‘Half past three. We’d best get a move on or Mabel will kill me before Hitler has a chance to have a go.’

The walk from the tube station took a good fifteen minutes through pleasant streets lined with modest semi-detached houses with neat gardens and well-trimmed hedges. The only difference from the one time when Poppy had visited Mabel’s home was that the windowpanes were criss-crossed with brown paper tape and there were piles of sandbags everywhere. She had to trot in order to keep up with Joe, but he kept her amused with stories about the catering corps, which was not a subject which she would have thought conjured up much mirth, but he had a way of putting things that made her laugh out loud; something she had not done for quite a while. It seemed that no sooner had they left the station than they arrived at the house, and Mabel was standing at the front door, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming a welcome.

She ran down the front path, which was bordered by strips of flowerbed overflowing with fading asters and stumpy dahlias.

‘Poppy, love, it’s so good to see you, you poor little scrap.’ Throwing her arms around Poppy’s neck, Mabel held her to her ample bosom. ‘I was just going upstairs to change into me glad rags. I couldn’t get the coupons to buy a proper wedding dress. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ve got a nice new frock.’

Hustled into the small, rather dark hallway, Poppy blinked as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. The contrast between Squire’s Knapp and this small suburban house was startling. She realised with a jolt of surprise that she had grown accustomed to enormous rooms, high ceilings and the trappings of wealth, but she was instantly ashamed of herself for making comparisons. So what if the staircase ended just a few feet from the front door? Did it really matter that the passage leading to the kitchen was narrow and the paintwork scuffed, and the wallpaper faded to a dull sepia tint? This was probably more of a home to Mabel and her mother than Squire’s Knapp was to the Carrolls, who always seemed to be on the verge of falling out with each other.

‘Come into the front room, Poppy, and dump your things down anywhere. Make yourself at home, ducks,’ Mabel said, pushing Joe away with an embarrassed chuckle as he grabbed her round the waist. ‘Lord, Joe. Not in front of your sister.’

He winked at Poppy. ‘She’s a big girl now, and we’ll be man and wife in an hour or so.’

Mabel uttered a loud screech. ‘And me with me hair still in curlers. I’ve got to go upstairs and get changed.’ Dodging Joe’s grasping hands, she opened the door and ushered Poppy into the front room.

A desultory fire burned in the grate and Mabel’s mother sat huddled in an armchair with a crotchet blanket over her knees. She squinted at Poppy, peering at her through glasses with lenses as thick as milk bottle bottoms.

‘It’s Poppy, Mum. Joe’s sister.’ Mabel raised her voice. ‘You know Poppy.’

‘Never seen her before in me life.’

‘Yes, of course you have, Mum.’ Mabel exchanged resigned looks with Joe. ‘I’m going upstairs. I’ll leave you to explain.’

‘It’s my sister Poppy, Ma,’ Joe said cheerfully. ‘You remember little Poppy.’

‘That’s never little Poppy. You’ve got the wrong one there, Joe.’

Poppy knelt down beside her, trying not to stare at the whiskers growing out of Mrs Tanner’s chin. ‘No really, it is me, Poppy.’

‘You don’t talk like Poppy.’ Mrs Tanner fingered the fine tweed of Poppy’s jacket, passed on by a reluctant Pamela who had been forced to acknowledge that she had put on a few pounds in weight. Child-bearing she had cried dramatically, had ruined her figure forever.

‘But I am Poppy, Mrs Tanner. I’ve only been away for a year.’

‘That’s what I call a good bit of cloth. Proper Harris tweed unless I’m very much mistaken. You done all right for yourself by the looks of things, young miss.’

‘Sit down and tell us what’s been happening to you in the country,’ Joe said hastily. He leaned over Mrs Tanner’s chair. ‘How about a glass of stout, Ma? It’s a special occasion after all.’

‘Never mind the stout,’ Mrs Tanner muttered, fixing him with a hard stare. ‘Where’s that girl hidden the sherry bottle?’

‘Sherry it is then.’ Unruffled, Joe went to a corner cupboard and took out a bottle which he set on a table in the bay window where a tray of glasses had been laid out in readiness for the coming celebrations. He filled three of them to the brim and handed one to his future mother-in-law and one to Poppy. ‘How old are you now, ducks? Old enough to take a drop of sherry, I hope.’

‘I’m fourteen and a half, Joe.’

He grinned. ‘The half is important at your age. Anyway, down the hatch.’ He tossed the drink back in one go. ‘Sit down, Poppy. Make yourself at home.’

The settee was covered in slightly worn Rexine and Poppy sat down cautiously, half afraid she might slither to the floor if she made the wrong move. She sipped her sherry, looking round the room which she had once thought was huge, but now she realised that it was comparatively small. The dark brown three-piece suite might have been
the
in thing twenty years ago, but it was now outdated and extremely uncomfortable. She could feel a broken spring pressing into her buttocks and she shifted her position, hoping that it would not impale her as she moved. Joe and Mrs Tanner were seemingly in a contest to see who could down the most sherry in the shortest space of time, leaving Poppy free to study the Victorian prints on the walls, which were sombre and thoroughly depressing. She had not realised until now how much she had grown to appreciate the gilt-framed oil paintings of landscapes, family portraits, still lifes and studies of thoroughbred horses that hung on the walls in Squire’s Knapp. Coming back to suburbia was like entering a forgotten world.

Joe refilled his glass and perched on the arm of the settee, gazing down at Poppy with an anxious frown. ‘The reason it took so long to let you know that I was all right, was that I had a job tracing you, Poppy. I knew you’d been sent to a posh house in Barton Lacey, but I’d clean forgotten the name of the people who’d taken you in, so I got in touch with the billeting officer. After going through a load of red tape, I found you.’

The sherry had gone straight to Poppy’s head. She had not eaten since breakfast and she was feeling distinctly muzzy. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard your voice, Joe. I thought I’d lost everyone.’ Suddenly she was crying and she could not stop.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ Mrs Tanner picked
up
her walking stick and prodded Joe. ‘Do something, you big booby. Tell her to stop snivelling like a baby.’

‘Shut up, Ma.’ Abandoning his drink, Joe sat down beside Poppy and slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘There, there, kid. Let is all out. I howled meself when I heard the news, and I’m a bloke.’

Poppy fumbled in her pocket and found the handkerchief that Guy had given her. She had meant to return it to him, but somehow there had never been an appropriate moment. She buried her face in its soft folds. The familiar scent of him still lingered in the material, or perhaps it was simply wishful thinking. Whatever it was she felt comforted, and Joe was saying something. She blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry all over you, Joe.’