Softly Grow the Poppies Read online

  The entrance of the United States into the war did not seem to alter in any way the savagery of the fighting that still continued on the Western Front. A new offensive was started at Nivelle and on the very same day the Arras offensive began. On and on it went and the hospitals were filled to overflowing, week after week, and all the time Alice kept up her own particular healing of the men who came into their care.

  And all the time, too, Rose and Dolly watched with bated breath for Alice to notice her little son who, thankfully they thought, was unaware that his own mother scarcely spoke to him. He had become accustomed to having her around the place, to sleeping when she was not at Summer Place in the bedroom at the back of Beechworth which was supposedly a guest bedroom and not a very luxurious one. At Beechworth he played games with the three dogs, chasing them about the garden, interrupting Tom’s work as the gardener did his best to do the job of three men, but it was not until he had been missing for a couple of hours, the dogs with him, that they realised the child needed something other than the cuddles and hugs and kisses the women of the house gave him.

  Oak Hill, the nearest farm to Summer Place, was tenanted by Dan Herbert who was, like Tom, doing his best to keep everything running smoothly until Sir Harry came home. He had three children, two of them boys who each had a small pony on which they rode to school every day. On this particular day they were plodding slowly up the lane that led to Oak Hill Farm when the dogs, squeezing through the hedge to the side of the woodland belonging to Summer Place, ran across their path and behind them ran a small child who was shouting his head off telling them to come back at once or he would give them a good hiding. The ponies, both young, reared up and one of the riders, five-year-old Alfie, slithered over his rump and fell into the dust of the lane. He was not hurt but he was incensed that the bloody dogs had made him look ridiculous. Alfie turned ferociously on the small boy who followed the dogs through the hedge.

  ‘What the bloody hell d’yer think yer doin’ lettin’ them bloody fools dash about like that? They had me on me bum an’ the ’orse ’as run off an’ you, yer little twerp, can run after ’er. Come ter think of it I’ll give you a good ’iding, never mind them dogs.’

  Though Alfie himself was only five years old he suddenly realised that the fool who’d let his dogs run wild and had unseated him was really only a baby. A little lad no bigger than two pennorth of copper. They had neither of the brothers been to Beechworth where their pa helped out Miss Beechworth when he wasn’t doing his best to keep Summer Place going while the squire, as they thought him, was off fighting the Hun. This must be the nipper whose pa was brother to the squire.

  ‘You’ve just sweared,’ the nipper said severely. ‘Wose said swearing’s naughty.’

  Alfie laughed. He was the youngest of Dan and Jinny Herbert’s children and had been bossed about by the older children all his short life. Now, here was some kid he could boss about and he began at once.

  ‘Yer can come an’ play wi’ us if yer like,’ he said loftily, ‘but first yer’ll ’ave ter ’elp me catch me pony. It were your fault she ran off. Come on, but yer’ve got ter promise yer’ll do as yer told.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  ‘’Onest?’

  ‘Yes, honest to God,’ a phrase he had heard Mrs Nessie say to Tom.

  John, who was a year older than Alfie and who had watched this exchange with amusement and derision, turned his pony towards the farm, saying as he trotted away, ‘Yer as daft as ’e is, our Alfie. ’E’s only a kid. Besides, they’ll come lookin’ fer ’im an’ it’s nowt ter do wi’ me. I’m off ’ome fer some o’ Mam’s fatty cake,’ a delicious mixture of pastry left over from the pies his ma made and which, spread with her best butter recently churned by herself, would keep him going until teatime.

  ‘Can I have some?’ Will beseeched.

  ‘Course yer can,’ Alfie told him, ‘as soon as yer’ve catched the ’orse.’

  It was the start of a friendship that helped Will Summers to be completely happy until his pa came home.

  13

  Jinny Herbert was horrified to see two-year-old Will Summers accompany her two sons into the yard, the small boy tagging along with Alfie who was always in trouble. What the dickens was the lad doing so far from home and what was his mam, or at least Miss Rose, doing to allow the boy out of the garden at Beechworth which was where he seemed to spend most of his time?

  She dropped her rolling pin on to the table where she had just finished shaping out the fatty cake and ran into the yard. There were, besides the boy, three dogs who began to chase her chickens which had been clucking and muttering to one another in the yard, and with an earsplitting shriek she rushed towards her sons.

  ‘What the ’ell’s goin’ on ’ere? What the devil d’yer think yer doin’ wi’ Master Will?’ turning on Will who cowered behind the fragile protection of Alfie’s back. ‘And you,’ glaring at Will, ‘where d’yer think you’re off to? What’s yer mam thinkin’ of, letting you wander about at your age? An’ them damn dogs’d better leave my chickens alone or I’ll ’ave them shot. John,’ addressing her eldest, ‘get down off that bloody ’orse and sort this lot out. See, get ’old of the bairn’s ’and an’ ’tekk ’im back ter Beechworth. Nay, don’t you dare argue wi’ me,’ as John began to protest that it was not him but Alfie who had fetched the kid to the farm. ‘Now get ’old of ’is ’and and tekk ’im ’ome.’

  ‘Mam, ’e were ’angin’ about in’t lane wi’ them dogs an’ the dogs jumped up at Misty and our Alfie fell off an—’

  ‘Never you mind. Get ’old of ’is ’and.’

  But Will, used to having his own way, did not want to have his hand taken nor did he want to go home. He and Alfie were friends now and he wanted to stay and play with his new friend and he said so vociferously, but as he was still having some difficulty with longer words he could not make this woman who was so cross understand this so he stamped his foot and when Mrs Herbert advanced towards him he ran away. The gate was still open so he darted through, much to the amusement of the Herbert boys who knew that their mother always won in the end. She’d tan his bottom when she caught him, whether he was from the big house or not, for Mam liked her own way an’ all.

  The spoiled, precocious son of Alice and Charlie Summers was caught by the outraged Mrs Herbert and she carried him, struggling fiercely, under her arm through the gate that led into the lane, across the field, into the lane that skirted Beechworth and up through the vegetable garden to the back door of the house. It stood open, for Miss Rose was just getting up a search party for the little boy, and the men, even some of the walking wounded, were all milling about waiting to be told where they should start.

  ‘It’s about time Alice faced up to her responsibility for her son, Dolly,’ Miss Rose was ranting to Dolly, her fear making her voice sharp. ‘He wanders about getting in everybody’s way, keeping Tom from his work and though we all love him he’s getting out of hand. Dear God, haven’t we enough to worry about without—’

  ‘Now, now, lass, child means no harm.’ Dolly did her best to calm Rose down although her own heart was beating fast with dread. She wrung her hands in her apron and the men shuffled from one foot to another waiting for orders.

  A loud gasp of relief went up when Jinny Herbert walked through the door holding the protesting child who had caused such commotion. They all started talking at once, most of them agreeing with Jinny who gave her opinion that the boy should have his ears boxed but Dolly, who took him from Jinny’s arms, at once began to pet him. She was astonished when Rose tore him from her and turned towards the door.

  ‘It’s no good making a fuss of him. He should be with his mother or we should get a nanny to look after him. He has far too much freedom for his age. Dear God, he could fall in the damn lake or wander off—’

  ‘He did wander off, Miss Rose,’ Jinny interrupted, ‘an’ ’is dogs played ’avoc wi’ my chickens. Any road, keep a tight ’old of ’im, if you please.’

 
; She turned her back on them and marched off in the direction of Oak Hill Farm and the fatty cake she had promised Alfie.

  ‘Dolly, we must speak to Alice about Will. I know she is more content, more herself since she started to help out at Summer Place and had the news that Charlie has not been killed, but Will is her son and she seems to take little interest in his welfare. Caring for the wounded is helping her to get over the last couple of years but her boy must be given into her hands then when Charlie comes home they can settle down together.’ Rose shook her head, not knowing how this little family were to bond. All of them at both houses loved the child and he had had a happy childhood so far, but the truth was that with so many folk to indulge him he was getting seriously out of hand. The wounded in their beds made a great fuss of him, glad to see him wandering along the ward which he did whenever he could escape the notice of the overworked nurses. He would stop at a particular bed, whichever took his fancy, and was not afraid of bandages or even faces that were not quite as they should be or scars that were healing but really no sight for a small child. Some of the men were quiet, some whimpering from pain, other calling out for Elsie or Joan or their mam but when his inquisitive little face beamed at them on their pillows they quietened and did their best to smile.

  ‘I’ll get her on her own tonight when she comes over to Beechworth,’ Rose said to Dolly. ‘See, sit down, lass, and I’ll make us a cup of tea, and you, you young imp, sit there and eat one of the biscuits Nessie has made. No, you can’t have two. You’ll spoil your tea. Here’– reaching for a pile of books and crayons on the dresser – ‘do some colouring in to show Mama when she comes in and try to sit still.’

  She moved across the kitchen which even with the door open was warm for it was the middle of summer, 31 July. Rose wondered tiredly how much longer this bloody war would go on. She put the kettle on, feeling the sweat trickle down her back between her shoulder blades and her thoughts winged across the country and thence to the Channel over which so many men had gone, some never to come back, some returning so maimed in mind and body they would never be the same again. Where was Harry? Dear God, it was weeks since she had had a letter from him and then it had been barely more than a note. At least it had told her he was alive. Then! Even as she held it she knew, as did many of the women at home, that though he had been alive when it was sent, he could have been killed between it leaving his hand and being delivered into hers.

  Captain Sir Harry Summers was shouting his head off, saying he didn’t know what, encouragement, he supposed, as he went over the top waving his revolver, but it helped to get his seriously depleted men up the ladders and into the almost knee-deep mud in no-man’s-land, for the weather in France was not as pleasant as it was at Beechworth. They were in the second wave, crammed into the trenches along the Ypres salient and they shivered in the persistent drizzle that had been falling for days.

  He yelled for his men to keep shoulder to shoulder, which was how they were supposed to advance but it was the maddest way to move because they made a solid wall of men, easily mown down by the venomous machine guns of the enemy. And they did go down, like ninepins, he thought, like those in the pubs at home that played the game but this was no game. Men lay in writhing heaps as he and those who were left ran into the vicious fire and though he did his best not to step on the fallen it was impossible for they were so thick in the churned-up ground of mud and blood that soaked into the land about them.

  ‘Keep going, lads,’ he heard himself shouting, at the same time condemning himself for encouraging these bone-weary young men to run towards the barbed wire behind which the Germans lay. Down they went, and down, and from somewhere something slammed into the front of his thigh and to his own astonishment he stepped on to the prone body of one of his own men and fell down. Private Joe Turner, he thought it was, and he found himself apologising to the soldier who was already dead. He lay for several moments doing his best to stand up and it was probably his inability to do so that saved his life. He began to crawl through the muck and mud and across fallen men, some of whom cried out in pain, calling to Private Turner to follow him, but he was on his own until he toppled into a hole made by a shell, one of their own that had fallen short of the target, the Hun.

  There were several others already in the crater, one of them shrieking, ‘Make it stop, please, Jesus, make it stop,’ until a tired voice told him to put a sock in it. They huddled together, those men, glad to be safe for a minute or two, if you could call a machine-gun-strafed hole safe, then Captain Summers began to do his best to rally them. But they were not to be rallied. They’d had enough and one of them was heard to mutter that if the officer thought he was getting out of here in broad daylight he’d got another bloody think coming. It was still raining and with so many men in the crater it was beginning to fill up with rainwater. Harry struggled to climb up the slippery walls of the packed hole but he found the leg that had been hit would not hold his weight and it was damned hard to climb with only one leg workable.

  ‘We’ll wait until it’s dark, lads,’ he told them, but he was so bloody tired he had no strength to enforce his will on them and could you blame them for not wanting to move. Poor sods had been fighting valiantly for months in this battle along the Ypres salient, some of them in these same trenches and across this same bit of land, for three years. He himself had not been on leave since last autumn, rallying his men in this hell on earth, breathing in death and destruction along with the stink of rotting bodies and yet here they still were at the end of the first day of the Third Battle of Ypres and he had worked out that they had advanced no more than half a mile.

  He must have passed out then, for the next time he came to it was to the sound of a young voice, the voice of a boy, screaming for his mam. Then suddenly the voice fell silent and he realised that one of the other men had hit the lad to quieten him as he was driving them all to the edge of insanity.

  It was very quiet and as dark as the inside of the parson’s hat, as his old nanny used to say, and he knew that it was time, the only sensible time to make a bid for their own lines.

  ‘Give me a hand, lads. Push me up to the top of the crater and then help one another as best you can. I’m going to crawl on my belly so those who are up for it, and that means all of you who are not wounded, follow me.’

  ‘I’m not goin’,’ a belligerent voice answered.

  ‘This is an order, soldier.’

  ‘Oh, sod it,’ came from the darkness but the men began to inch their way, pushing him upwards until he reached the lip of the shell-hole. He put his head tentatively over the top, just his forehead and eyes and could see absolutely nothing.

  ‘Right,’ he whispered, ‘follow me.’ Slowly, inch by inch, he hauled himself over the lip of the shell-hole and crawled as near to the ground as he could, his belly brushing against the silent dead who lay in a carpet between their position and the trench from which they had erupted hours ago. It seemed to take ages but was actually no more than an hour and he was amazed because it seemed to him that they had run for miles that morning.

  The men still in the trench almost cried out as Harry and the few men who had followed him fell in on them.

  The hedges were bright with wild rose, elderberry and honeysuckle. There were cows knee-deep in clover and poppies as Rose, Will and the two dogs crossed the field from Summer Place to Beechworth. Tommy had chosen to stay behind beside the bed of a soldier who was dying from the gas he had breathed in weeks ago and from which he had never recovered. The dog sensed that the soldier, Billy Collins, who was all of eighteen years old, was near to death and he lay on the polished floor ready to give comfort, as he did to so many of the men should they show signs of distress. Billy, Private William Collins, whose mother was expected any moment, was not quite so tucked up as Staff Nurse Long liked her patients to be since it was so warm, and his arm fell over the edge of the bed, his hand dangling near Tommy’s nose. The dog licked it tenderly and the boy, the soldier, since he had fought
valiantly in France, did his best to open his eyes; though the nurses bathed them each day the lids became glued together with the nasty matter caused by the gas. His breathing was hoarse and when his mother arrived and was taken to his bed she began to weep. This was her baby. She had fought him every step of the way when he volunteered but it did no good, he had gone anyway and now he was to leave her for ever.

  ‘Be brave, Mrs Collins. Try not to cry for it will only upset him. Kiss him, give him a hug and tell him about all the things that are happening at home in . . .?’

  ‘Preston,’ Mrs Collins managed to say, then, with the strength that amazed Alice, who was the nurse who had led him to her son, she smiled.

  ‘Eeh, our Billy, what yer doin’ fiddlin’ wi’ that there dog? I’m that surprised they let the animal in.’

  ‘He has a twice-weekly bath, Mrs Collins. The soldiers love him and he loves them. He often comes in here to comfort those who are—’ She nearly said ‘close to death’ but quickly changed it to ‘who need a bit of fuss. He does them a lot of good.’

  ‘Aye, our Billy always liked a dog. We got one at ’ome called Tinker. You remember our Tinker, lad?’ The lad did his best to smile but as his hand wavered in the air his mother took it, sitting in the chair they had placed beside the bed for her. She brought it to her lips and Alice tiptoed away.

  Rose sauntered in the late summer sunshine while Will frolicked round her with Ginger and Spice. The cows in the field eyed them suspiciously but the dogs were accustomed to them and took no notice of their presence. Rose had been hoping to get a word with Alice about Will but Alice was always busy and she had had little success.