Softly Grow the Poppies Read online

  ‘What, my darling?’ Harry mumbled into her shoulder, nearly asleep, complete in the joy they had just shared in their bed.

  ‘I don’t want more than two children, I mean. That is if this one is another girl. A son would be perfect so . . .’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Can we arrange it so that we have no more babies?’

  Harry reared up with a great roar. ‘You’ve been reading that woman Marie Stopes, haven’t you? Now I’m not one of those chaps who says that whatever God sends must be accepted, that is if there is such a being, which I seriously doubt after what millions have been through not so long ago but—’

  ‘Harry, Harry, darling love.’ Rose tried to calm her incensed husband. ‘There are ways to . . . to prevent pregnancy.’

  ‘What ways, apart from complete celibacy? And neither you nor I could manage that. We love each other too much, in . . . in every way.’ He thumped back on his pillow, arms folded across his chest, looking so like Will when he wasn’t getting his own way, Rose wanted to cry, or laugh. Instead she uncrossed his arms and put her head on his chest.

  ‘I love you so much I’m afraid sometimes.’

  At once his arms were round her, holding her to him in remorse. ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry if I upset you, but the thought of . . . dear God, if anything happened to you I wouldn’t want to live. Some half-baked way of preventing your having another child is . . . it might be dangerous. To you or the child.’

  There was silence, then: ‘I’ve written to the the Mothers’ Clinic in London and have received literature on how to plan your family. Condoms are . . . have been used for years . . .’

  ‘Condoms, yes, I have heard of them but . . .’

  ‘You do not want to have anything to do with them.’

  ‘I did not – do not – say that. Let us have the child inside you then we will discuss this again. Our love has been so . . . so . . . spontaneous that the idea of . . . well, let us wait and see.’

  Rose had no choice but to accept this answer but her mind which for twenty-odd years had made its own decisions with no need to consult anyone, told her to say no more on the matter. For now!

  The small boy bowed over the table, a pen in his hand, watching the woman who sat opposite him from under his long lashes. She tapped on the table with the ruler in her hand. It had already twice been cracked across his knuckles and his hands, both of them, were very sore. He wanted to cry or scream as he had done at first, to weep his bruised heart out in fear, but had learned that to do so would only result in further punishment.

  ‘When you have finished those sums I have set you I will check them for mistakes so concentrate or it’s the cupboard for you.’

  He did his best to concentrate on the simple addition. Two and four make six, three and seven make ten and so on until the last one: seventeen and sixteen make . . . what? his traumatised brain asked. He didn’t think he could do it with the grey woman staring down at him with those cruel grey eyes and even as he contemplated ‘the cupboard’ into which she would fling him his child’s mind froze. He must get away from her since he was sure she would kill him. The stout man who came in now and again petrified him just as much and as he saw no one else in this nightmare room there seemed to him a great possibility he might as well be dead. What would they do to him when the woman told the man what a clever boy he was? Since that was unlikely he looked towards the window. It did not open but if he pulled a chair up to it he could perhaps jump through the glass and the frames in which it was set. The woman brought him back to earth with a nasty crack across his little hands but he did not cry out or speak. She seemed incensed that she could get no reaction from this poor tortured child so she smiled.

  ‘I’m going to the bathroom and you’re to the cupboard, my lad, when I return. Think about it while I’m gone.’ She smiled again showing him her grey teeth.

  She moved to the door and for the first time in six months she did something unusual. She forgot to lock the door behind her.

  As soon as it closed he was out in the corridor, catching a glimpse of her as she entered the bathroom. He ran past the bathroom door, down the back stairs, then another set of stairs, and another until he arrived at a door which, when he opened it, led into a little square garden of herbs. Like a hunted animal he hesitated, then jumped across the herbs which smelled heavenly, through another gate on the far side and out into an enormous and immaculate garden centred by a sweeping lawn. Two men were working on the far side but they did not see him as they had their backs to him.

  Like a hunted animal he ran until he came up to a high stone wall. There was a gate which he wrenched open and fled through, closing it carefully behind him. He was suddenly in woodland surrounded by magnificent oak and beech trees. Brambles clung to and scratched his legs and though he longed to stop and rest, he ran wildly on. He had no idea where he was but he was away from her so he didn’t care if he was in the wilds of Africa or the Highlands of Scotland. He wanted to sing and whistle and dance but he knew he must put as much distance as he could between himself and that chamber of horrors and her. In his eagerness to escape he ran into the trunks of trees, fell down a dozen times, and from behind him he could hear the voices of men shouting to each other, getting nearer and nearer.

  With a silent plea to Rose and Harry to help him, wherever they were, he jumped up and clung to the branch of a horse chestnut tree that had wide, spreading branches, a rounded crown and a towering mass of luxuriant foliage. It made a good hiding place. He and Charlie were good at climbing trees and he knew this one was the best. He went up and up like a small monkey until he was sure he was invisible from the ground, climbing to the top. The bark was rough and scaly. It was an old tree and his legs in their short pants, his hands and arms and face were scratched and bleeding.

  He heard the men coming nearer and nearer and as they passed under the tree he began to cry. Silently the tears slid down his little gaunt face which had once been rounded and rosy with good health. He didn’t dare move until darkness fell, trying to imagine what Charlie or Tim or Harry, or even Sergeant Mark would do. He knew he could not stay here, for the naughty men might come back and find him. His brain was numb, as was the rest of him. He was a child, six years old, but he had been subjected to a torment that had almost turned him into a shadow of his former self; yet something in him, some spark that he had inherited from Charlie and Alice, but was not aware of, had kept him safe so far. He must leave his frail nest of safety while it was dark. His friends, those he had loved and trusted, had all been brave soldiers in the war and poor Sergeant Mark had lost his leg so he must be brave too.

  He slid down slowly, feeling with his feet where the next branch would be, pausing before he reached the lowest one, listening, hardly daring to breathe just in case they – who were they? his frightened child mind asked. Friends of the grey lady? – should be waiting for him at the base of the tree. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what day it was or even what time of the year. Time had no meaning for him. He was so tired his brain seemed to have gone to sleep. He wanted to scream for Dolly, or Rose, or Summer Place where he had once lived and been loved. It was his home but where was it? Where was he? His eyes kept closing but he couldn’t sleep in case in his sleep he might fall from the tree.

  Being as quiet as he could he slid down the rough bark until his feet touched the mossy ground beneath. There were clouds drifting in a soft breeze across the sky and as they moved slowly a full moon shone and he could see as though a light had been switched on and at once he knew where he was. He and Charlie, and Tim, and even Sergeant Mark had come this way many times on one of their adventures. He was in the stretch of woodland at the back of Summer Place where he had last seen Charlie and the robin. In fact he and Charlie had climbed this very tree.

  Beginning to sob with relief, no longer feeling tired and afraid, he ran and ran, dodging familiar places until he reached the gate that was let into the wall surrounding the house and garden
s. His home, Summer Place, where were peace and love and safety. The horses, Pixie and Molly, Corey and Foxy, sensed him in the yard and were restless and he distinctly heard Ned say, ‘What’s up wi’ them?’ but he did not stop. He reached the kitchen door, turning the handle, weeping with frustration when he found it locked. It was never locked, never, but he was not to know that since his own disappearance everyone, cottagers, farmers, everyone with children on the estate, took no chances. Gypsies, vagrants, those with no fixed address were viewed with great suspicion.

  He hammered on the door with his fists, screaming to be let in, for even now the men, the fat man and the grey lady might be hot on his heels. Inside Dolly screeched, Peggy, the new kitchen maid, dropped the saucepan she was scrubbing with a great clatter and Maggie reached for the back of a chair and clung to it.

  ‘Shall us open t’door, Miss Davenport?’ Martha quavered.

  ‘We don’t know who it is, lass. It might be—’ And outside Will began to scream until his throat was raw. The whole household could hear him and the men in the rooms above the stables threw aside the playing cards and clattered down the outside stairs. The horses were plunging and rearing and Ned shouted to Eddie or anybody to calm them down.

  Harry and his demented wife, still in the wisp of a nightgown Harry liked her to wear, burst into the kitchen. ‘What the devil . . .’ he began and without waiting to calm the servants he drew back the bolts and flung open the door.

  The little boy was on his knees now, his screams turning into whimpers.

  ‘Will,’ whispered Harry, dazed, for they had thought him dead. The child on the doorstep was barely recognisable. Harry scooped him up and stepped back into the warm kitchen where the women began to moan. Rose was paralysed with shock, white-faced, white-lipped, trembling with horror, but at the same time a great bubble of joy worked its way up her body and like them all she began to weep at the wonder of it.

  ‘Master Will . . . chuck . . .’ Dolly managed to squeak and the boy squirmed from Harry’s arms, stumbled across the kitchen and flung himself at her. He crept on to her lap, her arms came round him and like a newly born babe he put his face in her breast, that which had comforted him so many times in his babyhood and the short boyhood he had known. His thumb went into his mouth and he cuddled himself into the love and safety of her arms.

  The men crowded at the back door, Tom from his cosy kitchen and the fire where he read his Echo and behind him was Nessie in a warm and respectable dressing gown.

  They were all speechless, none of them knowing what to say except Dolly, even at this momentous event in their lives. ‘Go and put summat decent on, our Rose.’ Jossy was eyeing his mistress who might have been naked for all the good the nightdress did. Then Dolly turned to the men and, unlike her, for she detested swearing, told them, ‘And you lot can bugger off an’ all. You’ll be told in the morning what’s happened to our little lad and who’s to blame. Bye, if I could get me hands on ’im I’d bloody strangle ’im wi’ me bare hands.’ She kissed the boy’s curls and then began to sing to him the lullaby she had when he was a baby.

  ‘Dolly, you sweared,’ the boy said sleepily round his thumb and they realised that this was their boy home again and they could not control their joyous tears.

  Harry was stern, though his own face was still wet with tears. ‘You had best all go to your beds. Leave Will with Dolly. He’s where he wants and needs to be.’ He wanted to question Will but he knew this was not the right time.

  ‘I’m stayin’ wi’ Dolly,’ Nessie said firmly. ‘We could do with a cup of tea, me an’ Dolly, so off you go, all of you. You too, Tom.’ She placed a kiss on her husband’s cheek and shooed them all off.

  ‘You’ll bolt this door, lass, when us’ve gone, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, love’. And after doing so the kitchen was empty of everyone but Dolly and her and the boy who, for the first time in six months, fell into a deep and untroubled sleep

  They lay in one another’s arms, Rose still sniffing and wiping away the occasional tear.

  ‘Oh, Harry, oh, Harry, oh, Harry,’ she kept on saying. Before they cuddled into their bed they had checked on their own beautiful child. Rose whispered, did Harry not think her cot should be lifted into their room? As though afraid that what had happened to Will – whatever that might be – might happen to Poppy. Polly was in her bed but she was awake, ready, should it be needed, to give her life for the small being in her charge and Harry was pleasantly surprised that, being young and with a longing to know what was going on downstairs, she had not left Poppy on her own.

  ‘Everything is marvellous, Polly dear,’ Miss Rose said to her. ‘Master Will has come home. You’ll hear all about it in the morning,’ turning once more to gaze at the baby in the cot. ‘Now get some sleep. Will is with Dolly but – Polly dear, you will be shocked when you see him. He . . . he has been ill-treated, but those of us who love him must restore him to the Will we know and love. We’ll go now and tomorrow we will find out what has happened to him, who has done this terrible thing to him. Now go back to sleep and when Poppy wakes bring her straight to us.’

  But when tomorrow came and the next day and the one after that it seemed the terrifying experience that their Will had suffered had changed the cheerful boy they had known irrevocably. He was bathed by Dolly and the scratches that the brambles and the rough tree bark had made on his wild dash through the woods were soothed with comforting salve but it seemed the torment he had gone through would not let him be. He screamed in the night about a ‘grey lady’ who hit his hands with a ruler, which indeed were cracked and sore, and so his little bed was moved into Dolly’s bedroom in order that she would be there when he needed her.

  ‘Who is the “grey lady”, sweetheart?’ Rose asked him, gently trying to draw him on to her lap, for Dolly was showing the strain of her constant nursing.

  ‘Bad, she was bad, Rose,’ he began to whimper, then reached out for Dolly who it seemed was the only one who could comfort him.

  Harry telephoned the inspector of police who said he would be right over to question the child, for kidnapping was a major criminal offence.

  ‘Inspector, I beg you to wait for a week or two. Will is in a dreadful state. He has been abused; no, no, not sexually. At least our doctor does not think so but I wanted to let you know he is back home with us. I’m letting the doctor see him again and he will let us know when he is up to being questioned and if . . . if . . .’

  ‘I understand, Sir Harry, and will wait to hear from you. The villains will be long gone after all this time. If the child remembers where he was we can take action.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he replied and hung up.

  Dolly was in her rocking-chair, gently rocking the badly traumatised child as though he were no older than the infant daughter of Rose and Harry. The boy’s thumb was firmly plugged into his mouth. The maids moved about the kitchen almost on tip-toe, speaking in whispers, afraid to alarm the pathetic little boy who had mischievously plagued the life out of them six months ago. Mrs Philips had made some almond biscuits especially for him because they had been his favourites but he turned his head away and shrank from her. They all wanted to weep for this terror-stricken child but when they heard the doctor’s voice in the hall once again they breathed a sigh of relief. He was a lovely man was Dr Standish and would soon sort out what was to be done with the severely damaged child.

  But it was not the doctor who brought their Will back to them but the baby who Rose had brought down to the kitchen to fetch the bottle of milk that was warming on the stove. Poppy was doing well on the mixture of her mother’s breast and Mellin’s baby food and was halfway to being weaned. Rose wanted to help her husband on the vast estate that was Summer Place and chafed at being tied to the nursery.

  Poppy noticed Will at once and staring into her mother’s face with that intensity babies have began to babble and point, then laughed as though she and her mother shared a huge joke.

  Will stirred in D
olly’s arms and though he still clung to her with one hand he sat up and looked curiously at the baby. They all watched and waited, waited for they knew not what, but when Will spoke they wanted to hug each other for surely this was a start.

  ‘Who that?’ he asked, reverting to the baby talk of years ago.

  ‘She’s Poppy, darling,’ Rose said quietly. ‘She is my daughter and Harry is her father. We would like you to be her big brother. Would you like her to sit on your knee? No, no, you don’t need to leave Dolly’s lap but Dolly would like you both to sit on her knee. Is that all right, sweetheart?’

  No one dared breathe and when Will, settling himself firmly on Dolly’s knee, held out his arms, Rose placed the laughing baby on his knee, hoping poor old Dolly could bear the weight of both of them.

  ‘Poppy,’ Will said and the baby chuckled and patted his cheek. Rose stayed close, ready to catch Poppy should Will drop her but he smiled down at her in wonder and then up at Rose. He clearly didn’t understand but he looked so kindly at the baby they all began to relax. Poppy waited for this new face to speak.

  ‘She my sister?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘Rose and Harry her mama and papa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I got no mama and papa.’ Sadly.

  ‘Yes you have, Will. Harry and I are going to be your mama and papa and Poppy is your little sister to play with. Do you remember Polly who worked here in the kitchen?’

  ‘No?’ Then cringed back against Dolly as if expecting a blow for the wrong answer.

  ‘That’s all right, my love, Polly sleeps in the nursery with Poppy and you could sleep there, too. Would you like that?’

  They stood like statues, the kitchen-maid, the housemaids, Mrs Philips, Nessie and Rose.

  ‘I never had no mama and papa,’ he said tearfully and they were choked with emotion, all of them. What he said was, they supposed, quite true. Charlie had been no more than a child himself and Miss Alice had run off with another man but Will had never lacked for love from them all. Now it seemed he was to be Miss Rose and Sir Harry’s son, so how was that to be achieved?