Poppy (16 page)

I am jolly well exhausted tonight, but I must tell you that I love the work and shall forever be grateful to you for having enough confidence in me to suggest such a thing. To help to save the boys who are saving us is such a privilege; there is so much to do for them and their injuries are mostly very bad.

I hope all is well with you. I think you know that my mother has taken Jane and Mary to live in Wales with my aunt. Aunt Ruby has a small farm with eight horses and six of these have been requisitioned by the military to help transport food and munitions to the front line. Poor Aunt didn’t want to part with them, but even horses have to do war work now.

I will now have another try at getting to sleep!

With very best regards and love from

Poppy

Chapter Fourteen

‘Do try and keep those Good Eggs at bay a little while longer,’ Sister Kay said to Poppy. The two of them glanced outside Hut 59, where two women in sensible coats and old-fashioned felt hats waited patiently for three o’clock and visiting time. ‘I see red roses in a basket. And, oh dear, I do believe I can see a pile of religious tracts.’

‘But the second woman is carrying a pack of postcards and some pencils,’ Poppy said.

‘Ah, the boys will like those,’ Sister said. ‘
She
can come in.’

Some weeks had gone by and Poppy was getting to know Sister Kay, who wasn’t quite so prickly as she’d thought at first. Or rather, she
was
, but only on behalf of the boys in her ward. She fought to get them extra rations, pleaded for sleeping powders and insisted on having copious amounts of clean linen. Hut 59 had also been one of the first wards in the hospital to get a consignment of blue suits for men who were ‘up’ patients and who, having had their uniform shot off them on some foreign field, needed something to wear.

‘But why do you dislike visitors so much?’ Poppy asked her.

‘Why? Because they’re such time-wasters!’ said Sister Kay. ‘They disrupt the boys’ stability, upset them by saying they can’t manage without them and keep asking when they’re coming home. They also bring inappropriate presents.’

‘That’s right!’ Moffat said. ‘Do you remember the woman who insisted on distributing gloves to every man in the ward, even those without any arms?’

‘Quite,’ said Sister. ‘They put things on the beds – chocolate on my counterpanes! – upset our routines and generally clutter up the place. Haven’t you noticed that some of our boys elect to be asleep every afternoon between three and four to try to avoid having to speak to them?’

Poppy nodded that, yes, she had noticed.

‘Visitors are very out of place in a hospital,’ said Sister Kay. Her eyes scanned the ward, looking for rumpled sheets, pillows not at the peak of puffed-up-ness and untidy locker-tops. ‘Pearson, someone’s tied a dummy to the end of Thomas’s bed. That’s going too far. Take it off before visiting time, will you?’

By three o’clock there was a queue of these unwanted guests standing at the door. The boys’ families came in first, anxiously scanning the ward as they entered to make sure their own particular soldier was still where they’d left him, and then came the Good Eggs. The woman with the basket of red roses insisted on placing a flower and quotation from the Bible on each man’s pillow. Poppy, on Sister’s instructions, followed behind, collecting up the flowers before they marked the pillowslips, then cutting them shorter and putting them in vases. A man arrived with a pile of that day’s newspapers and took one to each bed, but Sister had them quickly moved to the dining table because of the risk of newsprint on the sheets. The boys’ favourite of all the visitors was the one who arrived with two crates of locally brewed beer, especially when, following a request from Private Mackay, they were allowed to drink this straight away.

Private Mackay and the other men who were without one or more arms were always looked after first, Poppy had noticed. Usually Smithers or another orderly would appear to give them their breakfasts, or if they were busy elsewhere, one of the ‘up’ patients would help out. In return, those with working legs would run an errand for those who weren’t so good on their feet, or had no feet at all.

Late that afternoon, Poppy was due to go and cheer on Billy’s regiment as they embarked on their journey to France and, with Sister’s permission, left Hut 59 at four instead of the usual seven or eight o’clock. She would just have time to go back to the hostel, have a cup of tea and ten minutes’ rest with her feet up before going out again.

Wishing the orderly at the YWCA reception desk a good afternoon, she passed through the ground floor and had only reached the stairs when she heard him call that there was a letter for her. Her heart jumped. She’d trained herself not to look in her pigeon-hole because it was just too disappointing when, nine times out of ten, there was nothing there except a note asking her to settle her laundry bill.

She turned, preparing herself for another disappointment, and the orderly handed her the letter. She looked at the writing – it was in a hand she didn’t recognise. But there was a regimental crest on the back of the envelope and the letters encircling it said,
Duke of Greystock’s Rgt
. Her heart gave an enormous leap. That was
his
unit. The letter was from Freddie.

‘There!’ said the orderly, seeing her reaction. ‘That’s put a smile on your face. From your one-and-only, is it?’

Poppy, laughing, said that it might be. With her heart racing she took the letter into the little kitchen upstairs, put it on the shelf and stared at it while she made a pot of tea.

She poured water into the shiny brown teapot, stirred up the leaves and looked at the envelope some more. She mustn’t get too excited, she told herself – perhaps he was going to say it wasn’t possible for them to meet. Or perhaps he was writing on his mother’s instructions in order to sever the ties between them. On the other hand, she thought giddily, perhaps he was going to declare that he loved her and couldn’t live without her . . .

But what if her heart got broken right there and then in the YWCA kitchen! Perhaps it was best
not
to open it, to stuff it down the back of a kitchen cabinet and forget all about it. That way she could carry on thinking that he loved her.

Feeling agitated and anxious, she poured the tea and carried cup, saucer and letter back to the cubicle, set the tea on her locker and closed the curtains round the bed in case anyone should arrive back. If it was bad news, she didn’t want to have to discuss it. She drank her tea then, half-scared and half-hopeful, snatched up the envelope and opened it quickly, before she could change her mind.

Duke of Greystock’s Regiment

8th September 1915

Dear Poppy,

I have been thinking of you – don’t dream that I haven’t been. I have also been learning how to be a soldier, though, and my superiors have seen that this has taken precedence over everything else. When we get back to our quarters at night, I think about writing to you, but fall asleep within moments, before I can even lift a pen.

As we all anticipated, the regiment is being posted overseas. There was a rumour that we were going to Gallipoli, and this would not have been good as I speak no Turkish, but it turns out that we are going where we are most needed: northern France. As I speak a little French – enough, perhaps, to get me out of trouble – this is what I had hoped for.

Dear little Poppy, I have often thought of our last meeting and how happy I was to find that your feelings seemed to reflect my own. I think we have much to talk about . . . I don’t want to be alarmist, but in these days of uncertainty, when goodbye might mean forever, there are things I would like to speak of before I go to fight. The death of my brother alerted me to such niceties; if I’d known that I was never going to see him again there was so much I would have said to him.

We have been granted several days’ home leave and then we go from England, via Southampton, on 28th October. If you would still like to meet up, perhaps you could get an afternoon’s leave on the 27th and we can go for tea at the Criterion? I had hoped that we could go dancing or do something gay, but – forgive me – I have a regimental dinner to attend that night.

Can we meet at the Criterion at three o’clock? Will you let me know? I will wait impatiently to hear.

With my love,

Freddie

Poppy read the letter five more times and then left the hostel with it in her pocket. He’d written to her – he’d actually written! He wanted to meet her. He was going to take her to tea. He wanted to speak to her seriously . . .

As usual, a fair amount of people had gathered between the station and the docks in order to wave off another regiment of young men going to war. Some were local residents who regarded turning out to cheer as part of their war work. Others had come from a distance to say goodbye to a member of their family. Some were good-time girls who wanted not only to give a handsome soldier-boy a smacking kiss, but also to get his address and send him a few saucy pin-up photographs.

Poppy heard someone saying that Billy’s regiment was forming-up by the station, so positioned herself on a street corner in order to get the best views. If she hadn’t been in uniform, she thought, she would have climbed on to a garden wall in order to see better, but the thought of Sister Kay discovering that one of her VADs had behaved in such an unseemly manner stopped her.

Joining the people milling about waving flags, Poppy realised that she ought to have bought something to give to Billy, but, hurrying into a corner shop, found that everyone had had the same idea and they had completely sold out of cigarettes and chocolate bars. Going back to her place on the corner, she heard, in the distance, the sounds of a regimental band playing a marching tune, men’s voices singing, and the
stamp-stamp-stamp
of heavily booted feet. When a wave of khaki appeared around the corner, her heart swelled with pride. Our Billy, marching off to glory!

The regiment marched on and suddenly she wasn’t thinking about glory, but of her own wounded men in Hut 59, and of the limbs lost, bodies mangled, blood spilled and lives changed forever. The shattered men in the hospital, though, were the fortunate ones, the ones who’d come back. Thinking of Billy in relation to the boys she nursed made her eyes fill with stinging tears. Her brother – her own brother – was marching away! What if he returned without limbs, as some of her boys had done? What if he didn’t return at all?

The men, marching six abreast behind the band and singing, whistling or just smiling broadly at the reception they were getting from the crowd, reached where Poppy was standing. As they went by, girls waved and cheered, threw flowers or pressed rouged lips to a manly cheek. Some gave them little gifts, such as woolly mufflers or thick socks, for the coming winter was predicted to be bitter.

At last, when two thirds of the column had gone by, she saw Billy on the outside of his six, marching towards her. He had a carnation sticking out of the barrel of his rifle, three notes pinned to his shoulder epaulettes and his pockets were bulging with things he’d been given. Poppy, waiting for him to reach where she was standing, didn’t think she’d ever seen him so broad of shoulder, walking so tall, looking quite so pleased with himself.

She stepped off the kerb and waved, then called his name.

He turned, his smile growing even wider. ‘Hiya, sis!’

She ran along beside him as much as the crowd would allow her to do. ‘Isn’t this
grand
!’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t buy you anything, but when you get to France, you can write and let me know what you’re short of.’

‘Will do!’ Billy said. ‘What a turnout, eh? It’s been like this all the way from London – people waving and cheering as the train went through stations. Whenever it stopped, girls got on and gave us cocoa or buns, or newspapers and ciggies.’

Poppy laughed – he looked so happy with everything.

‘Tell Ma you’ve seen me, eh?’ Billy said as the band began playing
Tipperary
and the men increased pace a little. ‘Tell her that I looked the part, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ Poppy promised. ‘She’ll be right proud of you. And I’m proud too, Billy!’

But he was gone, swallowed up by the lines of men.

Poppy waited until the whole regiment had gone past, the front of their line had reached the gates of the Docks, and the well-wishers who’d gathered to cheer the men on were dispersing. It was odd, she thought, that when the soldiers disappeared, the cheering and flag waving stopped too, and those left in the street just melted away. It was like the end of a show; the performance was over . . .

YWCA Hostel,

Southampton

12th September 1915

Dearest Ma,

I have just seen our Billy! He marched right past me, enormously pleased with himself, covered all over with love tokens from girls. He said I must be sure to let you know I’d seen him. I don’t know the name of the ship he’s on or the port they are heading for, but it’s only an overnight journey and – let’s pray they are speaking the truth – they say our shipping lanes are well protected by the Navy.