Poppy in the Field Read online

  Yesterday Private Ridge complained to me that his arm was bandaged so tightly that he kept getting very painful pins and needles so, Sister Shrew being busy on a doctor’s round, I cut the bandage, ready to apply a looser dressing. But before I could put it on, S.S. arrived and tore a strip off me in front of Private Ridge and all the doctors. She was simply horrible, wanting to know how I had the impudence, how I jolly well dared to touch anyone on her ward! There are two trained nurses on the ward and neither of them spoke up for me (though I can’t say I blame them, faced with her) and two VADs, both of whom are so terrified of S.S. that their voices go all squeaky when they speak to her.

  The boys here are as lovely as those in Netley, even though their injuries are mostly worse. They are endlessly patient and thoughtful. If S.S. has had a go at me, they whisper, ‘I see the wind’s in the east today,’ and other things to make me laugh.

  It’s very strange to think that the war is going on just down the road from here. Lying in bed at night I can hear the guns going off and bombs exploding and then, usually within twenty-four hours, new casualties are admitted. I always wonder which particular explosion caused which horrendous injury.

  I am doing my best to stop mooning over Freddie in the face of such real pain and loss. It is still hard, though – every time I see a squadron of soldiers in the square I can’t help looking to see which regiment they’re from. I ask myself what I’d do if I ever saw him again and like to think that I’d be calm and restrained, that I’d congratulate him on his marriage then just pass him by, but . . .

  Oh, do think of coming over here, Matthews! I know it’s really selfish, but I do miss having someone to talk to.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Poppy

  Going out to post the letter, Poppy wondered what she was going to do about Sister Shrew. She was used to red tape and tedious War Office ways, but not to someone constantly breathing down her neck, criticising her and tut-tutting in the background. Why, even when she’d been a parlourmaid she’d been allowed to work on her own initiative! Tall and commanding, Sister Shrew often stalked up behind Poppy, spoke to her sharply and made her jump, or stood on the other side of the bed to where Poppy was working, a silent presence, waiting (hoping, Poppy thought) for her to drop the scissors or fail to get the lid off a tub of boracic powder.

  Of course, in some ways it was easier not to have the responsibility of changing the boys’ bandages, cleansing their wounds and managing the intricate pulley affairs that kept their shattered legs straight. However, these most difficult parts of nursing were, in a strange way, also the best and when Poppy felt she was doing the most good. The giving out and collecting of bedpans, the filling of water jugs and the putting on of clean pillowslips was not fulfilling. She missed helping the boys cope with their injuries, missed their thankfulness when she eased their pain and the moment when, after carefully bandaging a man, he’d sigh in contentment and say, ‘Thanks, nurse. That feels much better.’

  One positive thing was that she was always busy, which meant less time dwelling on Freddie de Vere. In fact, on this first afternoon off, she was congratulating herself on not thinking of him all day when, going down to her room, she found a letter from England with Molly’s name and address on the back.

  Molly had been a maid at the de Vere family home, too, though she’d had no idea about the romance which had been going on between her friend and the de Veres’ youngest son. Looking at the front of the envelope, Poppy realised that the letter must have been some time on its journey to France, for it bore several different addresses, including Netley Hospital, Devonshire House and even the Welsh address of Poppy’s ma.

  22 Bartram Buildings,

  Mayfield,

  Herts

  Dear Poppy,

  I thought you would be interested in the enclosed cutting from the local paper. What a pity it didn’t happen when we were still working at Airey House – we would have been allowed to watch everything and maybe take a glass or two to toast the happy couple!

  I am still in the munitions factory and have been promoted so I am now a line manager. My dad says I am doing a man’s job, but I am not yet getting a man’s pay! Mayfield has been quite depleted of men and when I’ve been to the pictures or to a music hall, there are twice as many women as men in the audience. At the town hall dance this year, we girls had to waltz with each other. It was like being back at school.

  Since then, I have managed to find myself a young man and we are officially walking out together. His name is Albert Higgins and he is a topping chap whose dad owns the boot shop down the high street. They both have exemption certificates because they are the official repair centre for army boots when the boys come home on leave. Albert also repairs kitbag straps and leather belts (and handbags, not that the army wants those) so he is jolly useful.

  Anyway, enjoy the enclosed and do write and let me know how things are with you.

  All love,

  Molly x

  Poppy struggled not to look at the newspaper cutting, for she knew already what it must be. Even as she urged herself to tear it up, however, she was removing it from the envelope and unfolding it. She took a breath.

  Second Lieutenant de Vere marries Society Beauty, said the caption at the top. The small photograph underneath was not a good one and, because it was taken some distance away, the expression on Freddie’s face was not clear. Next to Freddie were his mother and father, with Miss Cardew’s family on the other side and, of course, his bride, wearing a slim, fitting white silk dress with a train which swirled about her feet and a sparkling tiara on her shiny bobbed hair. Underneath the photograph it said:

  The last time the de Vere family had reason to meet at the family’s chapel in Mayfield, it was on the sad occasion of a memorial service following the death of the eldest de Vere son, Jasper, who perished in the brave service of his country. This time the occasion was a joyous one as Second Lieutenant Frederick de Vere, of the Duke of Greystock’s Regiment, married his childhood sweetheart, Miss Philippa Imogen Cardew, and these two noble families became united. Miss Cardew is pictured wearing a pure silk gown and the family diamond tiara. There will not be a honeymoon as the groom is on active service with his regiment somewhere in France. This newspaper wishes the young couple every happiness.

  Poppy stared at the photograph for some time. There was absolutely no chance now of pretending to herself that the wedding might not have happened, because here they were, the perfect couple, in black and white.

  Society Beauty, she thought. As if she, Poppy, could ever have been called that! Two noble families united – how would the de Veres have coped, being united with the family of their parlourmaid? Why, she didn’t even own a diamond tiara . . .

  Chapter Six

  She would not cry. She would not. If she could bear the sight of Private Toone, blinded by gas, trying to write to his wife . . . If she could stand seeing Private Norman, one stump of a hand on his bedhead and the other on his locker, grimly trying to balance himself on his only leg, then surely she could bear a broken heart? She just had to tell herself it would never have worked out between her and Freddie. They could never have been together. Never, never, never . . .

  She screwed up the newspaper cutting and threw it in the bin, then after a moment retrieved it, smoothed it out and, without looking at it again, placed it between the pages of a medical dictionary and put the book in the back of her chest of drawers. It would be a test, she thought. When she felt she could look at the photograph without feeling she was being cut in half, then she’d know she didn’t care about him any more. Then she would throw the cutting away.

  She desperately wished she had someone to talk to about it: Matthews, preferably. Matthews would be in a fury about the whole thing, say that Freddie had behaved in a beastly rotten way and Poppy was lucky to be rid of him. Then Poppy would have a good weep, admit that Matthews was right and feel a lot better.

  There was no one to tell, though – certainl
y no one in Ward 5. She couldn’t bother the trained nurses with something of that nature – they were much too respectable and proper – besides, they were entirely concerned with their patients. They would not understand how such an unsuitable liaison had happened in the first place. The two VADs in the ward weren’t the type to confide in, either. They were very well-to-do and, being single ladies well over forty, couldn’t be expected to remember what it was like to have your heart broken. More than likely, they would think it shocking that someone of her standing could ever aim so high as Freddie de Vere. Anyway, Poppy thought, finally dismissing them as confidantes, they were devoted to Sister Shrew and no one who was devoted to that person could ever become her friend.

  She looked round the gloomy basement room and decided she ought to go for a walk. So far, she’d seen very little of this foreign country she’d been so excited about working in, for, like everyone there, she worked long hours and gave up her half-day off if they were busy with new admissions. Today, though, she definitely felt the need to get out, go somewhere, do something.

  The hospital was hardly more than a stone’s throw from Boulogne-sur-Mer’s docks and Poppy began to walk in that direction. Dodging the lorries, Red Cross trucks, army jeeps, private ambulances and a horse-drawn bus, and arriving in the main square, she found the whole place full of Tommies, army officers and nurses. Looking about, it seemed that the whole town had been turned over to the war. Some places which had once been shops now had their windows whitewashed and were being occupied by Belgian refugees who’d fled from the German troops occupying their villages; other units had been turned into bars and cafés for off-duty Tommies. Some shops were boarded up and being used as storage space for items destined to be transported to the front as and when they were needed: tents, stretchers, crates of tinned food, munitions, blankets . . . all the requirements of an army on the move.

  Finding a small kiosk open, Poppy bought some souvenir postcards showing the promenade in its heyday (with floaty-skirted women walking along the beach with lace-trimmed parasols) to send to her sisters, and also a keepsake for herself, a metal mug made from a tin which had once contained condensed milk. The boys in the trenches had taken to making these mugs whilst waiting for the call to fight.

  Other than these mugs, some week-old English newspapers and a selection of pilfered German army badges, there wasn’t a great deal in the shops – certainly none of the stylish clothes that Poppy had been hoping to see. Even food had to be hunted down because army regiments, passing through on their way either to the front or to a different location, would clear shelves of chocolate, cakes, bread and biscuits. Basic medical requirements like plasters, bandages, headache pills and anything that could be fitted into a kitbag were also quickly snapped up, either by Tommies or by one of the small private hospitals that had sprung up in the area.

  Walking through the square and along the promenade, Poppy passed a score of luxury hotels which had been turned into hospitals: the Hotel de Luxe, the Savoy, the Palais de Bain. A dog cart, pulled by two strong Alsatian dogs, went by with an old woman sitting in it, and Poppy was marvelling at the novelty of this when she heard a man’s voice calling.

  ‘Pearson! I say, over here, Pearson!’

  Immediately presuming it was Freddie, for he was still not far from her mind, Poppy felt her legs go to jelly. She didn’t want to see him yet! Well, she didn’t want to see him at all, but especially not until she’d worked out what she was going to say; what cutting remark, what withering put-down or sarcastic comment she would fell him with. Turning, she saw that it wasn’t Freddie de Vere – who, anyway, had always called her Poppy – but Doctor Michael Archer, last seen in the kitchen of Hut 59 on Christmas Day.

  ‘Pearson. How good to see you!’ It had seemed, Poppy thought later, as if he’d been about to put out his arm to hug her, but halfway there he changed it into a handshake. ‘I’ve been wondering where you might have ended up.’

  Poppy allowed her arm to be shaken vigorously, and said, ‘I’m in Ward 5 at the Casino, along the promenade.’ It was good to see him too, she thought. Lovely to see a familiar and friendly face from home – and a great relief that it wasn’t Freddie’s. ‘Where are you stationed?’

  ‘A few miles inland, at a casualty clearing station.’

  ‘I asked to go to a clearing station.’ She shrugged. ‘But – I know – no VADs allowed.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘Qualified sisters and theatre staff only.’

  ‘Is it gruelling?’

  ‘Pretty gory, yes. And we’re taking in casualties day and night now. They’ve just started to come in from Verdun, too.’

  Poppy looked at him questioningly. ‘But that’s mostly a French–German battle?’

  He nodded. ‘The thing is, there have been so many men injured that the French hospitals down there can’t take them all. They’re coming along in train-loads. Your hospital will be getting casualties from Verdun soon – that’s if they haven’t got them already.’

  There was an awkward silence before Poppy spoke again. ‘So what are you doing here now?’

  ‘Well, there was a lull in admissions, one of the hospital cars was free and I had a couple of hours off, so they sent me here to try and hunt down some decent fodder for the overworked doctors.’ He lifted a big canvas shopping bag. ‘All we’ve had for the past three days has been bully beef and tinned peas, and tonight we’ll probably be working all night.’

  ‘I saw potatoes for sale in a laundry behind the town hall,’ Poppy offered.

  His face brightened. ‘I was really hoping for eggs – they’re number one on my list – but potatoes are a good start. Where’s the town hall?’

  ‘In the square, though actually it’s no longer the town hall, but a dental hospital. I had to take a patient with a shattered jaw over there yesterday to have all his teeth out.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Things are all downside up, eh? A laundry selling potatoes, a town hall that’s a dental hospital, a casino where there’s no gambling.’

  ‘Except with men’s lives,’ Poppy said.

  He grinned. ‘Very perceptive, Pearson. Or can I call you by your first name now we’re out of England?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute,’ Poppy said, thinking of Sister Sherwood.

  ‘I suppose that young man of yours wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘No . . .’ Poppy was about to say that she didn’t have a young man – probably never had had one – but for some reason thought better of it. No, let Doctor Archer think she had someone, then he would stay at arm’s length. ‘No, he probably wouldn’t.’

  ‘And are you enjoying France?’

  Poppy shook her head slowly. ‘Not . . . awfully much.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  At the sympathy in his voice, Poppy’s eyes welled up. ‘I know I’m probably being a complete ninny,’ she said, ‘but it’s my ward sister. I can’t seem to get on with her.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s not at all like I thought it would be here. I don’t feel useful. I just spend my time folding sheets, washing bedpans and laying up trays. I mean, I don’t mind doing those things, but I want to do other things as well! I’m not allowed to change bandages, pack wounds, apply poultices or do any of the medical tasks I did at Netley.’ She suddenly remembered she was speaking to a doctor – an officer – and blushed. ‘Sorry, I’m being really unprofessional. We’re just supposed to do whatever we’re asked without complaining, aren’t we? It says so in the VADs’ instruction book.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ he said. ‘We’re friends. And if you can’t tell your friend something . . .’

  ‘I don’t think VADs are allowed to have friends.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  Poppy managed a smile.

  ‘But anyway, how’s that brother of yours?’

  Poppy made a so-so gesture with her hand. ‘The last I heard, he was out of Dottyville and working on a farm near Edinburg
h. He sounds more or less back to his old self.’

  He nodded. ‘Good. Let’s hope he gets stationed somewhere out of the way where he doesn’t feel he –’

  What he was going to say Poppy didn’t find out, however, because there was a sudden shouting and cheering in the street, a loud grinding, rumbling noise then, from around the corner, a large, awkward-looking vehicle appeared, part lorry and part tractor, with a pipe like an elephant’s trunk sticking out at the front. A handful of local children was running behind it, all shouting, and someone had hung a branch of green bay leaves around its turret in some semblance of a wreath of honour. The vehicle went slowly past them, and Poppy saw a Tommy sitting in the turret, waving to each side of him.

  ‘Judging by the cheering, it’s one of ours,’ she said. ‘But whatever is it?’

  ‘Well, I’ve only seen a drawing of one before now, but I believe they’re calling it a land-ship or a tank. We’re going to have about a dozen of them.’

  ‘What will they do?’

  ‘Kill an awful lot of Germans,’ he said wryly. ‘They can knock over barriers, go through barbed wire and pass right across the trenches. Nothing can touch them.’

  ‘But what an extraordinary-looking thing!’

  ‘They have machine guns and a stack of grenades on board, and the pipe affair on the top is a cannon.’

  ‘Sounds scary,’ Poppy said.

  ‘Exactly, and now that I’ve seen one I can visualise the damage it will cause to human flesh,’ he said. ‘Damage that you and I will have to deal with.’

  ‘But it’s ours.’

  ‘Oh, make no mistake, the Germans will use them too. They’re probably copying the blueprints right now – that’s what they have spies for.’

  Poppy’s eyes followed the strange-looking vehicle as it trundled down the road. When she turned back to Michael, she saw that he was looking at her with a half-smile on his face.