Softly Grow the Poppies Page 27

  ‘Poor little mite,’ sobbed Nessie and Dolly accompanied her.

  The men respectfully returned Charlie on to the stretcher and looked at Sir Harry waiting to be told where he was to be put.

  ‘Dolly, Nessie, which . . . which bedroom should he be . . .’ Harry was clearly in such a state the two older women shook their heads in sympathy.

  ‘The front bedroom would be best, sir. If the lads’ll carry him up we’ll see to him. You get off.’

  When the men returned from their task of laying the peaceful figure of his much loved brother on the bed in the splendour of the front bedroom they went out into the yard, taking the stretcher with them, forming a group in the stable yard, waiting to be told where they were to go.

  Harry, having seen Rose sitting by the fire with her hungry daughter at her breast, decided to do the telephoning himself, then moved to join the men.

  ‘Tom,’ who was older than the rest seemed to be the man to be most trusted. ‘I want you to go to Primrose Cottages and then to all the farms and fetch the men to help with the search.’ He knew that Will was familiar with every inch of the gardens, the woodland and the immediate moorland. He couldn’t understand why the boy should run off from Charlie but perhaps the brutal attack on the man he knew only as his friend had so frightened him he had taken off in terror, but in which direction? The terrible fear that flowed through Harry’s mind was that the small boy had been taken for the underground sex trade that went on in every major city. It caused an icy shudder to race through his frame. Small girls and boys – for little boys were sometimes to the taste of foul perverts – would be taken to some place where they would be sold to the highest bidder. He though he might vomit at the images that scurried through his mind like rats in a sewer.

  The thought crucified him but he revealed it to none of the men. These were decent, ignorant men, country men born and bred who had no notion of the wicked ways of the world.

  For the remainder of the night the weary men searched the estate, eager to help. There was no trace of the scamp; exasperating as he was, he was held dear in every man’s heart.

  Dolly and Nessie had laid Charlie out and they awaited the arrival of the undertakers. The inspector of police came, since these were important people in this parish and two constables interviewed every man and woman on the estate, terribly embarrassed by Lady Summers who was by this time in her bed to which the doctor had implacably ordered her. As sunrise came and the men returned, one by one they too were devastated and so distressed there was a great deal of sniffing and surreptitious wiping of eyes on sleeves. They stood about in little groups feeling that they should be doing more.

  ‘Go home, lads, and thank you. We can do no more for the present,’ Sir Harry told them. ‘You must be bone weary. I know I am but the inspector and all his constables will widen the search.’

  What the bloody hell could the coppers do that they had not already done? Nobody knew these grounds better than them who had lived here since they were born, some of them. They had peered under every fallen leaf and broken branch but they did as their master bade them and went home to their anxious wives, those who had them, inclined to keep their own children in their cottages or gardens.

  ‘Don’t go out o’ sight, d’yer hear?’ the bewildered children were told, their parents terrified that whoever had taken young Will might help himself to one of theirs.

  A small boy with tear-stained cheeks sat numbly at a table in a plainly furnished room. The walls were painted a dark green up to the dado and above that a sort of dull mushroom shade. The table at which he sat was round and covered with a deep maroon chenille tablecloth and on the table lay several books. Opposite the child was a grey woman! Grey hair, stony grey eyes, in a grey skirt and blouse, a mouth like a parrot and an expression that boded ill for anyone who was foolish enough to try to cross her. She held a ruler in her hand which the boy eyed apprehensively.

  ‘Please can I go home now?’ he whispered with a tremble in his voice as though the less noise he made might keep the woman from hitting him. He was to be disappointed. The ruler came into play, lashing across the table and striking his fingers. He cried out and got another crack across his knuckles.

  ‘How dare you,’ the woman snapped. ‘Speak when you are spoken to, boy. Remember that.’

  The boy began to cry desolately but the woman was unmoved.

  ‘Stop that noise at once, boy.’

  The child did his best but could not control his deep distress.

  ‘Boy, if you don’t stop that snivelling you shall have a beating that will not be pleasant. Now, open your book and read the first line on the first page. Now, at once.’ The woman did not speak loudly this time but with hissing venom that terrified the child even more. He looked ready to break down completely. The woman sprang to her feet, moved round the table and took the boy’s ear in pinching fingers and dragged him to his feet. He was paralysed in his terror and the woman smiled triumphantly.

  Just at that moment a large, stout, red-faced man entered the room. At once the woman detached her fingers from the small boy’s ear and smiled at the man.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said unctuously. ‘We were just about to read from our book but I’m afraid the boy is behaving with a quite unnecessary show of what I can only call a tantrum. Though great progress has been made in controlling his intransigence he is still inclined to cry for nothing more than a slap with the ruler. But’ – here she simpered – ‘I think we can congratulate ourselves his first wilfulness is slowly being driven out. He should be just as you want him to be very soon.’

  The man looked at the child who looked at nothing, his eyes quite unfocused.

  ‘Well, he certainly has quietened down since he was brought here. We can’t have that kicking and screaming when he is fully brought into company. You’ve done a good job, Miss Evans. I congratulate you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I do my best with the children in my care and might I say this one was very hard to tame. He must once have been allowed his own way in everything. It really is unbelievable the way parents bring their children up these—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the man said irritably, ‘but this boy must be able to mix in good society, Miss Evans, and the ways of good society must be drummed into him if he is to succeed when you have finished teaching him how to behave.’

  ‘And I shall, sir. His spirit must be knocked out of him first, broken, if you like, so that we might start from scratch, so to speak. I’ve had him for three months and still occasionally he defies me, but we are making good progress.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said, eyeing somewhat doubtfully the crumpled figure of the child who sat dejectedly on his chair by the table and showed no sign of becoming the boy he wanted him to be. A boy to be proud, to carry on the name that was rightfully his.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Perhaps he could be allowed to come down and take luncheon with me. You have taught him manners, the correct way to behave in company as well as to read and write but he seems . . .’ He nearly said elevenpence-halfpenny in the shilling which he had heard used to describe those who were backward.

  ‘Oh no, not yet, sir. He’s not ready for that,’ the woman said positively, for she did not want to lose this position which suited her down to the ground. Extremely well paid and she had only to whip this bonehead of a child to become the person the man wished him to be. An easy task for her who hated children. A comfortable room of her own, servants to wait on her, the best food she had ever eaten. Oh, no, she meant to make this job last as long as she could. She herself had come from a strict, even cruel upbringing which had made her as she was. To torment this small being who could not defend himself awoke the grisly, unnameable thing that had spread its tentacles through her. She was warped, twisted and her impulses were to crush this young child almost to breaking point.

  When the man left the room she smiled silkily. ‘Now then, where were we?’ rapping his knuckles when he failed to answer.


  Poppy Summers was three months old when the inspector rang the doorbell of Summer Place. Martha, who been made up to parlour-maid, answered the door, smiling and bobbing a curtsey to the inspector of police who stood on the threshold.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said politely, opening the door wide for him to enter.

  ‘Good morning, miss. Is your master available? I’d like a word with him, if you please.’ A straight-backed, smart man was the inspector in his immaculate uniform. He removed his shako helmet and tucked it under his arm, waiting patiently while the parlour-maid went to enquire if the master was in.

  Harry Summers fairly sprinted from his office to the hallway where the inspector stood, hoping for good news but when he and the inspector faced one another he could tell by the man’s expression that there was nothing to report. No good news, no bad news. Even as he shook the inspector’s hand the man was shaking his head sadly.

  Still! ‘Is there any news, Inspector?’ he asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘No, sir, I’m sorry. Can we go somewhere private?’ eyeing Martha who still hung about hoping to have something to tell those in the kitchen.

  Harry led the inspector to his office, the estate office and asked him politely to sit, enquiring if he would like a drink, perhaps coffee, or perhaps something stronger. There was no hurry since it seemed the inspector had nothing to say on the whereabouts of Will Summers.

  Only this!

  ‘No, no, Sir Harry, nothing to drink, thank you.’ He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. ‘Only this. I’m afraid the search for your nephew is . . . I have been given orders to end it. My men and constables from other constabularies have searched every inch of Lancashire and Liverpool, knocking on doors – you know what I mean. We have even gone as far as London where children . . . er, stolen children are often taken but have come up with nothing. For three months we have investigated every lead given to us, not only by members of the public but by known offenders. I’m sorry, sir, I know what an anxious time—’

  Harry exploded, springing from his chair behind his desk. ‘Anxious, anxious! Good God, man, a child of five years has vanished off the face of the earth. We are frantic, Inspector, frantic.’

  For a moment he had lost his composure, pushing a hand through his already unruly mass of hair, rubbing his face harshly, afraid he would break down in tears. The lovely child, a little tearaway at times, exasperating, wilful, cheerful, loving, loved by them all, had been taken from them and they could hardly bear it . . .

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Harry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I have children of my own and can sympathise—’

  ‘I don’t think you can, Inspector.’ Harry had pulled himself together. ‘I’m sorry, it was unforgivable of me to . . . to . . .’

  The inspector stood up and the two men faced each other then Harry turned to ring the bell. Martha came running, her face bright with hope but at the sight of her master the hope disappeared and tears formed in her eyes.

  ‘Show the inspector out, Martha,’ Sir Harry ordered, then turned his back on them both, staring out into the spring garden. A garden vivid with colour. The lawn was a smooth green, watered each day by the conscientious Jossy. Masses of wild daffodils sprang up across the lawn down to the small lake. Below the trees the lovely blue of periwinkle was spreading, jostling with primrose, and the flowerbeds were a blaze of tulips, lily tulips in scarlet, parrot tulips, striped pink and white. The garden took your breath away with its beauty, and was a credit to Tom and his band of men, most of them ex-soldiers.

  Sir Harry Summers saw none of this, his heart breaking as he wondered how he was to tell his wife of the inspector’s visit and the news – no news really – on the fate of the small boy who at five years old was either in the hands of some wicked men, or dead!

  Turning wearily, he made for the stairs, climbing them like an old man, then entered the nursery where his three-month-old daughter was already doing her best to sit up. She was in the old cradle used by both he and Charlie as infants, lying on her back, her plump legs waving in the air. She grabbed at one foot and did her best to bring it to her mouth. Rose watched her, her happiness with her child etched on her lovely, serene face. She turned as her husband entered but at the sight of his face her happiness, her momentary serenity slipped away, leaving her expression drained and fearful.

  ‘Harry, darling, what . . .?’

  He knelt beside her, then leaned forward to pull her into his arms.

  ‘My love, my dearest love.’

  Her voice rose to fever pitch. ‘What is it? What is it?’ she almost screamed and the baby turned her head in her mother’s direction and the sunny smile that wreathed her face disappeared and she began to wail.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s Will.’

  ‘Not dead, please say he’s not dead,’ she implored him.

  Into Harry’s fevered mind slithered the thought that perhaps it would be better if he was. The alternative crucified him.

  ‘No, darling heart. At least we don’t know, but the inspector has just been to say, after all this time they are . . . calling off the search.’

  Rose fell into his arms, the pair of them huddled on the floor while the baby’s cries reached the kitchen. Dolly listened to it for several minutes, exchanging glances with Nessie. It was not like their mistress, or the master for that matter, to let the little pet cry so long.

  ‘I’m going up,’ Dolly declared stoutly while the housemaids stood about, white-faced, knowing something had happened. The inspector had been and now their precious little bairn was screaming her head off and no one taking a blind bit of notice. Polly began to cry.

  ‘Oh, give over do, girl,’ Nessie snapped though she felt like having a good cry herself.

  Dolly knocked sharply on the bedroom door, the bedroom where Miss Rose – as she still felt the need to call her – and Sir Harry slept, and without waiting for an answer opened the door and marched in. She was startled to see Miss Rose and Sir Harry on the floor, arms about one another while the baby wailed and so did Miss Rose.

  ‘Well . . .’ expostulated Dolly, embarrassed and maddened beyond words. The master and mistress ‘at it’, for she knew no other word for what they were doing, while the bairn cried her little heart out. But . . . but Miss Rose was in a torrent of tears and Sir Harry looked not far from it.

  ‘Oh, Dolly . . . Dolly,’ wept Miss Rose. ‘Our little boy is . . .’

  Dolly put her hand to her mouth and whispered the same words as Rose had done a few minutes ago.

  ‘Not dead . . . eeh, don’t say he’s dead, Rosie. I couldn’t stand it. Not that beautiful boy.’ She broke into a wail of sorrow and out on the landing the female servants who had, knowing something bad was happening, followed her up and gathered behind her, began to weep.

  Nessie swept into the bedroom and snatched the distressed, hiccuping baby from her cradle, rocking her in trembling arms.

  Suddenly it was all silent as everyone realised they might never see their handsome, winsome, lovable boy again. Their hearts were breaking.

  23

  They all mourned the boy who had played such a big part in their lives. Dolly and Nessie, the older generation, still wore the black they had donned for Mr Charlie’s funeral and it was only the baby, darling of their hearts, who kept them going.

  Harry, begged by Rose, who was a wealthy woman, employed private detectives, unaware that Sergeant Mark Newton, who had been unable to keep up with the rest in the search that night, and now had no job with Will gone, kept up his own search. He had become fond of the boy who was bright, receptive and lovable but the other men were inclined to ignore him. What good could a man with one leg be, they asked one another, but not in an unkindly way. He was a nice chap but didn’t know the area like they did.

  As though to mock their sadness the spring was the most beautiful any of them could remember. Yellow iris crowded beneath the newly greening trees and along the hedgerows that lined the lanes. Harebells spread handfuls of pale bl
ue mist and wood anemones peeped shyly from behind the fallen trunks of oak and beech. Celandine, dog violet and primroses grew madly at the edge of the yew hedge and above them magpies and blackbirds began the anxious task of preparing homes for the arrival of their young.

  In April on the day that would have been Will’s sixth birthday Rose told her husband that she was pregnant again. Poppy was almost four months old and was at that delightful age when she smiled at everyone who looked into her perambulator and that was everyone on the estate from Tom the head gardener to Billy, the most recent addition to the staff. She was a cheerful, contented baby, growing up in a home filled with sadness.

  Charlie’s funeral had nearly finished them all off. Their sorrow turned for a moment to astonishment, for it seemed the whole county attended the ceremony. The church and the churchyard surrounding it were packed from wall to wall, inside and out. In the actual church folk stood alongside the pews and across the back, most of them, including some men, weeping for the lovely young man who had given his life into the hands of the brutal war machine. He had come back a broken man only to be murdered by some unknown thugs and the small boy who had been his own son and companion spirited away never to be seen again. How could a family bear up under such desolation?

  Poppy had been left at home in the care of Polly, would you believe, who absolutely adored the baby. She had been found not to be the ‘daft ’apporth’ that Nessie and Dolly had believed and even called her, and Rose was seriously considering making her up to nursery nurse when Poppy was weaned. Given such responsibility, Polly was a different young woman to the girl who had snivelled over the dirty pans. She slept beside the cot in the nursery, giving Poppy’s parents not only a good night’s sleep, which they needed to run the growing success of the estate, but also the privacy they had longed for in their lovemaking, which led inevitably to another pregnancy!

  ‘A boy this time, my love,’ Rose told Harry. ‘I want you to have a son to continue the line. To keep Summer Place and the estate in the good order it is achieving. But I only want . . .’