Softly Grow the Poppies Read online

  ‘But, Alice, it has only been a few months. Surely it is too soon to expect the miracle of his complete recovery? Won’t you give it a few more weeks? I cannot bear to lose you when we have been brought together again. You are my only friend.’

  ‘Harry loves you, Rose. I have seen him look at you with such longing in his eyes.’

  ‘Have you?’ she said with bitterness. ‘I haven’t. He’s absorbed with his brother, putting him back to what he was, and with his farms, producing the much needed meat and crops to feed this nation, keeping an eye on the tenants and teaching Charlie the ropes, so he has no time for . . . for anyone. What with Charlie and Will he is fully occupied. I am twenty-eight, Alice. I want children of my own. I love Will though he can be exhausting at times but I believe, given time, he will settle. He should be told that you are his mother and Charlie his father. We are all so busy protecting this one small boy. Oh, sweet Jesus, I wish I could just say “I’m going away” but how can I leave?’

  She leaned forward and put her hands to the fire, rubbing them together, her voice soft. ‘My grandfather built Beechworth after finding gold in a place called Yackandandah in Australia. Did you know that? No? I promised myself that one day I would go and see the place where it all started. When the war ended, I told myself, and everyone would be back in their place in life. You and Charlie together; I didn’t include Harry then, though I had fallen in love with him almost from the first day at Lime Street when we went to see the troops off. Then it seemed so wonderful that when he was home on leave he loved me in the same way. But that has gone, Alice, that dream, so one day I will return to my previous one. Yackandandah! What a wonderful name. It draws me and one day I shall go, but not yet, it seems. I cannot leave Will to servants, dearly as they love him, so if you are to desert him, I must stay.’

  Alice was weeping broken-heartedly now, her hands to her face, tears dripping through her fingers. ‘Don’t, Rose, oh, please don’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t what? Don’t leave Will, is that what you’re asking me? You can speak so calmly of abandoning your own child and husband but I must stay here and take responsibility for your family. I’ve done enough, Alice. I’ve loved you since that day at the station. You were the little sister I had always wanted. And your idea of joining the suffragette movement is a ridiculous one. They have won the right to vote or will do soon, so what can you possibly mean when you say you want to help them? They no longer need it. The war made the difference. Well, my dear,’ she said, standing up and smoothing down her skirt, ‘I shall leave you with your tears and go to bed. I am tired and I must ride back to Beechworth. And what is to become of Will? It might be as well if I remove him to my home which, if I am to be his mother, will be his as well. Dolly will be pleased. Goodnight, Alice.’

  17

  For a week she did not go near Summer Place. She could no longer bear to be close to Harry, close to the polite stranger he had become. She had come to the end of her tether, which was a stupid expression she knew, but she could think of no other way to describe the utter hopelessness that had invaded her. She had lived only for this time when he would come home to her. It had been the life raft to which she had clung during the past four years. She had wordlessly begged some unknown, unseen being to fetch Alice home to them and for Charlie, merry, mischievous Charlie to be found. Which he had been. Charlie had been released and taken to Camiers and from there, by boat and train, returned to them just before Christmas. Charlie who could be relied upon to lift their spirits. For Will at last to be with his mother and father, and of course, the most cherished dream of all, Harry at her side, in her bed and life as it used to be. It had happened but it had not happened. They were all safe, uninjured, by which she meant, no loss of limbs, no blindness, no serious wounds but injured just the same, all of them. Will was just a baby and like young children he would adjust to the upheaval in his life but he was precocious. He had never played with children of his own age except for the children at Oak Hill Farm, the wounded soldiers, the servants and herself, she must be honest, had treated him as though he were older.

  As Rose walked slowly down towards the paddocks she could see Mary from Summer Place hanging out the washing and for a moment she wondered why Mary was doing Bertha’s job. Where was Bertha? Perhaps she had gone over to Summer Place to give a hand. But Bertha’s soldier son, wounded in the last days of the war, was home, his leg beginning to heal but he was still virtually helpless. It was all Bertha could do to manage the laundry at Beechworth without coping with that of Summer Place as well.

  Foxy and Sparky were in the far corner of the paddock but when they saw her they both ambled across the grass towards her. They poked their heads over the fence and Foxy nuzzled her neck then tried to reach her pocket where she sometimes fetched them an apple.

  ‘I’ve nothing for you, my lass,’ she said sadly, sliding her hand down the mare’s smooth neck. She fondled the two of them until they lost interest and began to crop the grass by the fence. But something was bothering her and she turned her back to them, leaning against the fence, her elbows on the top rung. Dolly had not told her that the housemaid from Summer Place was working in Beechworth’s laundry. Dolly was getting on, and the war and the consequences of it seemed to have drained something from her, taking that strength she had always shown and leaving her frail and dependent on Nessie, the cook and now more or less housekeeper, the decision–maker in the kitchen. Rose had been so focused on Alice and Charlie and the general air of sadness that hung about the two houses that she had taken little notice of the running of them. Dolly would see to it as she always had done, she had thought if she had thought at all.

  A quiver of apprehension darted though her. No, not apprehension, that was too strong a word, more . . . unease. Why was Mary hanging out washing on Beechworth’s washing line? Where was Bertha who was usually so dependable? She had been laundress at Beechworth since she was a girl of twelve and had married Arthur who worked as head keeper at Weatherly House. Bertha had given birth to three boys: two had never come back from the war into which they had so gladly flung themselves. Only Sandy had been returned to them. Jimmy and Arnold were lying together in Flanders Fields. They had joined Lord Derby’s Pals’ Battalion and were killed on the same day.

  Bertha, like all the wives, mothers and sweethearts, had aged overnight. She had pulled herself together though she had grieved badly for her two handsome boys, and got on with life, giving thanks for the survival of her one remaining lamb.

  Rose fairly ran back to the kitchen where Nessie and Dolly were comforting themselves with a brew. It brought you round a treat did a brew, or so the two women said. They sat in silence, for though Master Will was a handful he brough a bit of life to the place and somehow they missed his lively presence.

  Dolly made an effort to rise from her chair by the fire, saying as she did so, ‘Come and sit thee down, my lass, and have a cuppa. There’s one left in the pot. It’s fresh made—’

  ‘Why is Mary hanging out the washing?’ Rose asked abruptly, cutting off Dolly’s words, startling the two women.

  ‘Good ’eavens, our Rose. Is that all? We thought it were something life-threatening the way you dashed in. Bertha’s not well, nor her lad so Mrs Philips from Summer Place offered Mary. Miss Alice is helping out in the kitchen, muckin’ in as she always does. “I’ve done harder jobs than this in France,” she ses. “I won’t tell you of some of the messes I’ve cleaned up in . . .” Well, you know what she’s like. She ses she’s nowt else ter do so—’

  ‘What about Will?’

  ‘Oh, he’s off with Sir Harry and Mr Charlie. Sir Harry puts him up in front of him on his horse and t’lad’s made up. Honest ter God, our Rose, yer’d think he were runnin’ the estate with Sir Harry and Mr Charlie giving him a hand.’ She looked somewhat troubled, taking a sip of tea before continuing. She didn’t like the expression on their Miss Rose’s face if truth be told and neither did Nessie. ‘What else could we do, our Rosie?’ Dolly ask
ed the pacing figure of the young woman she had known from birth. ‘Me an’ Nessie can’t manage him, chuck. He’s that wilful so Sir Harry, bless him, took him off with them. He’s a rare one is Sir Harry. Wounded in France, his pa dead leaving him to manage the place, his brother not right in the ’ead and on top of that there’s that little monkey ter bring up. Eeh, I don’t know, it’s enough to be the end of anyone and this – I could swear, really I could – but this war’s caused a deal of trouble, I can tell you. Servants not knowing where they should be, never mind what they should be doing. Me an’ Nessie can’t keep on chopping and changing between Beechworth and Summer Place like the young ’uns do. It’s like it was when they was both hospitals when war was on, everyone where they was needed—’

  ‘Yes, yes, Dolly,’ Rose interrupted, for once Dolly got going it was hard to stop her, ‘but I don’t like the idea of Bertha over there by herself at Primrose Cottage.’

  ‘She’s got Sandy,’ Nessie put in.

  ‘He’s no help to her, Nessie. He can barely get about let alone care for his sick mother. What’s wrong with her anyway? I’ve never known her to be ill.’

  ‘Arthur said she had flu. He was on his way to work and couldn’t stop. There’s a lot of it about, he ses. The housekeeper, now what were her name, Nessie? Mrs Gibbs? No, it were Mrs Gilly, that’s it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what does it matter what her name is? Flu, you say?’

  ‘That’s what Arthur said.’

  Both women watched her intently.

  ‘D’you think one of us should go over there and see what’s what? Arthur didn’t say much but yer know what men’re like. As long as their grub’s on’t table, they’ve gorrer pipe ter smoke and their Echo ter read they don’t notice owt else.’

  ‘My Tom’s not like that,’ Nessie protested indignantly.

  ‘Now I’m not sayin’ he is, Nessie, but . . . well, I’ve never ’ad an ’usband but I remember my old dad, that was before I were put in the orphanage—Nay, what’s up, chuck?’ as Rose flung herself out of the kitchen, leaving the door swinging violently, then ran down the wide hallway, out of the front door and down the short path that ran from the house straight to a gate in the high stone wall. Beyond it were four cottages all belonging to Beechworth, in the first of which Bertha and Arthur Longton had brought up their three sturdy sons. She stopped suddenly at the wrought-iron seat beneath the dining room window, then slowly lowered herself on to it. Was she panicking over nothing much? The last four years had left her, as it had all women with men on the Western Front, with a tendency to fret over the slightest thing. Perhaps this with Bertha was just a cold but would Bertha, stalwart Bertha, stay at home for something as slight as a cold? She recalled reading, without a great deal of interest, the piece in The Times about returning soldiers and the cautious comment on how many of them, weakened by their ordeal, had caught colds so easily and these colds were turning to influenza. It said that of all the Americans – which was why it had not concerned her – who went to France, half of them died not from their wounds, but from this dreadful sickness called influenza. Peace was here, the war was over, so an illness such as this had not seemed worth worrying about, but now that it might have struck someone she knew and was fond of, it was suddenly of some importance. She felt shame because it was the Americans who had helped to bring the horror of the war to an end.

  From somewhere she could hear the squeals of children playing and dogs barked, evidently involved in the children’s game. Could she hear Will’s voice among them? What was he doing? He was supposed to be with Harry and Charlie. Had they become exasperated with the noisy, self-willed child and left him with the other children in the lane? She wouldn’t be surprised. He was enough to irritate the most patient!

  With a sudden surge of panic she strode through the gate into the lane, crossing it to the row of cottages where some of the people who worked for her lived. Bertha’s cottage, the first one, was strangely silent so without knocking she opened the door and walked in. The room into which she stepped was a kitchen-cum-parlour, usually as neat and clean as a new pin, but now somewhat cluttered. The remains of a breakfast, Arthur’s she supposed, was still on the table which was without a tablecloth, something on which Bertha was particularly insistent. She had standards, did Bertha, and they were sadly lacking here.

  It was a mild day but certainly not mild enough to be without a fire. There had been one, for the remains smouldered in the grate, but it had gone out and nobody had re-lit it. Sprawled in a fireside chair was Bertha’s son, Sandy, his wounded leg and his bare foot propped on a stool. Lying by his side, his nose on his paws, was the family dog, called, for some reason, Tuppence, so it was not Tuppence who was making such a row in the lane.

  With a start Sandy became aware of her and did his best to sit up. The dog rose to his feet, and turned round but made the mistake of putting his nose on Sandy’s leg, the one with the deep, half-healed wound. Sandy shouted with pain. At the noise Bertha’s voice called out weakly from above.

  ‘Sandy, lad, what’s ter do? Is tha’ dad home, Sandy?’

  ‘No, it’s me, Bertha. Rose Beechworth. I’ve come to see—’

  ‘Oh, thank God, Miss Rose. Did my Arthur call in ter tell yer?’

  ‘No, Bertha. I suppose he was in such a hurry to get to work. He told Dolly you had a cold, though . . .’ She didn’t know how to complete the sentence, because Arthur’s employer, Alice’s father, was known for a hard master and had been known to sack a man for being two minutes late for work. Arthur Longton would be afraid of losing his job, especially with work so hard to come by.

  ‘Can I come up, Bertha?’ she asked. ‘We’ve been quite worried about you. Mary’s managing but she hasn’t your touch.’

  ‘Miss Beechworth, me mam’s in a bad way,’ Sandy mumbled, his voice hoarse. And so are you, Rose thought but didn’t say so.

  ‘Stay just where you are, Sandy. I’ll go up and see your mother.’

  ‘She’s badly, miss, an’ I’m no use to her; come to that, to anyone. Me legs . . .’

  Rose raced up the stairs, leaving poor Sandy to his rambling. There was a narrow landing with two doors leading off it and with a swift look round she found Bertha struggling as her son had done to rise. She was feebly pushing back the bedclothes with the obvious intention of climbing from the rumpled bed but in a second Rose was beside her, pushing her back on to her pillows. Bertha was struggling to breathe and as she did so in her desperate effort to clear her airways, blood-tinged froth gushed from her nose and mouth.

  Frantically Rose looked about her as though help might be standing at her elbow but there was no one. Downstairs poor Sandy was fastened to his chair and could not run for help. But someone must. Could these two sick and wounded people, people she had known since childhood be left by themselves? The agonising answer was ‘they must’.

  But there were other women in the row of cottages, wives of the men who worked on her land and she could not help but wonder why they were not here helping Bertha in her hour of need. All the neighbours helped one another.

  She knocked on the door of the cottage next to Bertha’s. It was opened by a small, neat woman wearing a pinny. She had obviously been baking, for her hands and arms up to the elbow were dusted with flour. When she saw Rose she almost curtsied but Rose put out a hand and took hers, flour and all.

  ‘Oh, Mrs . . . I’m sorry I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Mrs Wainwright, miss.’ She was clearly puzzled but very polite since Miss Beechworth was her landlady and had allowed her and her children to stay on when . . . when . . .

  ‘Can I ’elp thi?’ Her heart had sunk for a minute when she had seen who was at her door. Her Arnold had been killed at Ypres, leaving her with four children below the age of ten and ever since Arnie had gone she had been worried to death Miss Beechworth might turn her out. Had she changed her mind? Did she need the cottage for a new family? Mind you, Effie Wainwright had worked hard and she had been proud to wor
k up at the hospital so ’appen the mistress might look kindly on Effie and the bairns and let them stay on as she had promised. Her face was pale with apprehension.

  ‘Mrs Wainwright, might I ask a favour of you, a great favour?’

  ‘A favour, Miss Rose?’ Effie’s voice quavered.

  ‘You know Bertha Longton, I take it?’

  ‘Oh aye, miss, her and me’s good neighbours but—’

  ‘She’s not a bit well, Mrs Wainwright, and what with poor Sandy unable as yet to get about I wonder if you would sit with her while I fetch the doctor and make further arrangements for her care.’

  ‘Eeh, Miss Rose, o’ course I will an’ right gladly. I didn’t know or I’d’ve bin round there. Bairns are up lane playin’ wi’ Jinny Herbert’s lads’ – so that was where all the noise was coming from – ‘but you go on. I’ll see ter Bertha. She were right good ter me when my hubby were killed so just let me get this pie in’t th’oven an’ I’ll be on me way.’

  But when Mrs Wainright returned with Rose, they found it was too late to help Bertha and Sandy.

  Dolly and Nessie nearly jumped out of their skins when Rose shot into the kitchen like a bullet from a gun. Not that either of them had seen a bullet let alone one being fired. Ginger, who had been dozing by the fire leaped up and began to bark furiously.