Authors: Mary Hooper
Poppy (2 page)
Stanley and Lily Pearson had not intended to call her after a red field flower. Wanting to give their children plain names, they had already decided that if the coming baby was a girl, she would be called Ann. When she arrived after several hours’ labour, however, red in the face and screaming, with a few wispy, gingery curls, the midwife said, ‘Look at this one – red as a poppy!’ and the name had stuck. Her earlier carroty hair had softened over the years to a gentle pink-blond, but Poppy still had the complexion of a redhead, with fine, almost translucent skin and green eyes. She was born just a year before Billy, and then two further girls had come into the family, Jane and Mary, then another boy, who died after a few weeks.
There were four de Vere children also. Mrs de Vere liked things orderly and considered it a fine achievement to have produced two children of each sex: the girls first, then the boys, with an almost exact two-year gap between each of them. The girls, Bonita and Susannah de Vere – long-haired and, at that time, rather insipid – had come out in London society at sixteen, had had a photographic portrait in
Country Life
and attended Queen Charlotte’s Ball. Here they and other pretty, well-bred girls had sashayed about in white gowns, hoping to bump into eligible young men and be proposed to. Just as tradition dictated, they had curtseyed to a huge white birthday cake, danced every dance, fallen in love and, quite soon after, been married. Bonita’s husband was titled, but Susannah’s was rich, and each girl considered herself the luckier. They had done very little with their days until war had been declared, but now Bonita was working as a recruiter, undertaking clerical work at her local town hall for the boys who wanted to join up. Susannah, her husband’s farm having lost a dozen workers to the war, had helped form a group of young women into the beginnings of the Women’s Land Army to ensure there were enough workers to bring in the harvest. Both girls found work outside the home surprisingly invigorating and were no longer insipid.
All the de Veres were back at Airey House for Christmas 1914, though Mrs de Vere had deliberately played down the festive table and it was not, as in previous years, groaning under the weight of stuffed goose and capon, fruit trifles and crème caramels. Rationing had not yet been introduced, but Poppy and everyone else knew that to pile a dining table with luxury foods was not appropriate during wartime. Thus the Christmas tree in the hall (which came from the estate) was simply hung with homemade crêp
e-
paper flowers and some little wooden robins which Freddie had carved. Instead of rich plum puddings for the festive period, Mrs Elkins had made cakes from leftover bread and soups which didn’t taste of very much. Everyone ate up without fuss, feeling that by doing so they were somehow aiding the war effort.
On the morning of 26th December, the de Veres’ servants were summoned into the blue drawing room to receive their Christmas boxes and take a small glass of sherry with the family. The gifts were always the same: male servants received a half bottle of whisky, female staff a pair of leather gloves. There were fewer staff this year as Mrs Reid the housekeeper had gone to be a bus conductor, several young valets had joined the army and two of the female house servants had gone to work in a munitions factory. The thought of life outside the de Vere household, of becoming independent whilst hel
p
ing the fight in some small way, was becoming more and more attractive to all the servants, especially as it now seemed that the war was not going to end anytime soon.
Mrs de Vere spoke about the difficulties and shortages the family had faced in the past months and, handing the staff their gifts, thanked them for their loyalty and said that, whether peace or war prevailed, the family trusted they could rely on them in the coming year.
The servants made murmurs of assent, finished their sherry and turned to file out, at which point Jasper de Vere got to his feet and raised his hand to halt them. ‘One moment, if you please.’
Everyone stopped.
He gestured around the room. ‘There’s something I wish to say not only to my parents and family, but to you all . . .’
Poppy knew what was coming before he said it, merely from the proud tone he used.
‘I have today heard from the War Office that they have been good enough to offer me a commission in the Royal Engineers. Mother, Father, I am to serve my country as a second lieutenant in the British Army.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs de Vere flushed pink. ‘Oh, my darling!’
Mr de Vere moved to slap his son on the shoulder. ‘Jolly good show,’ he said. ‘I’d go myself if they’d have me!’
The servants began clapping. Poppy noticed that the only one who didn’t look frightfully pleased about it all was Freddie. This was not, she quickly realised, because he was going to miss his brother, but because it made him, still at home carving robins when his country was crying out for recruits, look rather pathetic. However, he would have an even better excuse for not going to war now, as the only son left to help his father on the estate.
Poppy, staring at him and thinking about his life, was startled when Freddie turned and looked directly at her. There was a certain look on his face and afterwards she tried to put a name to what sort of a look it had been: vulnerable, enquiring . . . and somehow
interested
. She couldn’t exactly explain
how
he’d looked, but it was not the usual sort of look between a de Vere and a parlourmaid. Her cheeks went pink and, looking away, she pretended to study her new gloves. How had that happened, she wondered. How had he gone from being merely the younger de Vere boy to someone who could quicken her heart?
The applause from the servants died down and, before they could move off again, Mr de Vere rose to his feet. ‘This seems an opportune time to pass on an item of news about the war,’ he said. ‘In the
Telegraph
this morning there was a report of a Christmas truce on the front line.’
‘Oh, how marvellous!’ cried Mrs de Vere.
‘Apparently,’ continued her husband, ‘yesterday – Christmas morning – our Tommies and the German soldiers called greetings to each other, then ventured out of their trenches into no-man’s-land to exchange food and souvenirs. It’s said that they played games of football, England against Germany – bartered cigarettes and shook hands for a happy new year.’
‘There!’ said Freddie. ‘Perhaps it’s true what some people are saying: that the war isn’t so serious and soon everyone will be home again.’
‘I fear it
is
serious,’ said his brother, a trace of reproof in his tone. ‘Hundreds have already been killed at Marne.’
‘Yes, of course, dear,’ said Mrs de Vere, as if sensing a little tension between her two boys. ‘I’m very much afraid that they have.’
‘At any rate, the generals didn’t approve of the ceasefire,’ said Jasper. ‘Any fraternisation between Tommy and Fritz is frowned upon.’
‘Quite,’ said Mr de Vere, who’d had several glasses of port wine. ‘They think that if the lads get too friendly they won’t be so keen to knock the blasted bejesus out of each other!’
At this Mrs de Vere raised her eyebrows at her husband. Everyone fell silent and the servants finally left the room.
A group of guests had been invited for afternoon tea on New Year’s Day. There had been much discussion between Cook and Mrs de Vere on what, exactly, this tea should consist of. The latter wanted to strike the right note: mindful of the war, but not too frugal with the iced fancies in case she was deemed as lacking in hospitality.
At four o’clock, going into the drawing room bearing the best silver teapot, Poppy was all-over anxious to see one particular person, for a Miss Philippa Cardew and her family were amongst the guests. This Miss Cardew – so rumours below stairs had it – was in line to marry Master Freddie. (‘Money marrying money,’ Mrs Elkins told Poppy. ‘No love involved – you mark my words – just land and country houses.’)
Setting down the tea tray on the polished table, Poppy took in the visitors at a glance and knew immediately which one was Miss Cardew, for she was the only female of the right age and, besides, was terribly attractive and stylish, with bobbed hair which fell straight and shiny to her jaw in the new fashion. She was wearing a bias-cut dress in bright emerald silk with a full pink rose pinned at the neckline, and had matching pink satin boots with a row of buttons running up the sides.
Poppy was somewhat taken aback. Just an alliance of land and country houses, Mrs Elkins had said, and Poppy had somehow imagined Miss Cardew as a solid, frumpy country girl, with bird’s-nest hair and thick knitted stockings. She hadn’t prepared herself for the possibility of beauty.
The likelihood of Freddie and Miss Cardew becoming engaged was discussed over the servants’ tea break, but Poppy, despite being full of thoughts on the matter, did not volunteer any opinion either way.
At five o’clock she was delighted to have her mood lifted when Cook remembered that a letter for her had been delivered by second post. It was from Miss Luttrell, her old English teacher.
The Pantiles,
Mayfield,
Herts
31st December 1914
My dear Poppy,
Thank you for your Christmas card. I was pleased to hear of your doings and know that you and your family are all well. I still occasionally see your mother when I am popping in and out of the village shops and we always exchange the latest news. News about you, I mean!
Poppy, as you know, I was very disappointed that you could not go on to take a higher qualification at college, but I have recently heard of an exciting and fulfilling opportunity that I think would be perfect for you – and would also offer training of practical use after the war. I know you are content at the de Veres’, but I long to see you doing something which would use your intelligence and really stretch you. I am also of the opinion that as many of us as possible should be helping the war effort. There! Have I aroused your curiosity?
I know you have very little spare time but wondered if you would be able to meet me on your next day off. I am about to leave Mayfield for some weeks to stay with my sister in Kensington, and thought that a meal in London would be a treat for both of us. There is a Lyons Corner House in the Strand, opposite Charing Cross station – perhaps you could meet me there?
If you are interested in hearing what I have to say to you, please do drop me a line with a suggested date. In the meantime, allow me to wish you the compliments of the season.
Yours truly,
Enid Luttrell
‘Ooh, you’ve got a letter!’ Molly said, trying to look over her shoulder. ‘Who’s it from? Is it a
love
letter?’
‘No, of course not! It’s actually from my old English teacher,’ Poppy explained. ‘She’s retired now, but we still keep in touch – she’s a dear old stick.’
‘But what does she want?’
Poppy smiled. ‘To stand me dinner! Lyons Corner House in the Strand.’
Molly’s eyes widened. ‘Grand!’
‘She’s probably going to give me a lecture on women’s suffrage.’ On Molly looking at her blankly, she added, ‘You know, women getting the vote. She was very keen on that before the war started.’
‘Oh well,’ said Molly. ‘It’ll be worth it for the lunch!’
Poppy smiled and nodded, then folded the letter and her new gloves and tucked them both carefully into her apron pocket. She wouldn’t think about Miss Cardew and she wouldn’t think of Freddie. She would think of Miss Luttrell’s letter and the possibility of an exciting and fulfilling opportunity . . .
It was well into January when Poppy could get time off to meet Miss Luttrell in London. She went from the local station by steam train to Euston, and from there was only a little terrified to find herself travelling on the Underground to Trafalgar Square.
The Strand was full of khaki-clad soldiers and thrillingly busy. There were many indications that there was a war on: advertisements on billboards urged
Send a jar of Bovril to your Tommy at the front
or emphasised that
Bread gives us the strength to win the fight
, and hoardings and omnibuses alike bore a variety of posters persuading all able-bodied men to enlist in the army and serve their country. Poppy sighed when she saw these, almost wishing that she had someone marching off to fight the good fight; someone to worry about, to knit a scarf for and send parcels to. A sweetheart would be best, but – failing that – even a brother would do.
For the first time, Poppy saw men wearing the blue cotton suits which signified that they were soldiers on day release from the hospitals. Some of these men were missing a limb or limping badly. One who passed her had only one eye and a ghastly, livid scar which ran from his temple, across his cheek and right down his neck, so that Poppy had to brace herself not to turn away from him in horror. People greeted these men warmly, clapping them on the shoulder and shaking their hands, for they were war heroes and had the wounds to prove it.
Miss Luttrell had not yet arrived at the Corner House, so Poppy, enjoying being addressed as ‘madam’ and the novelty of being deferred to, asked the waitress for a window table for two. From here she could look on to the vast station concourse at Charing Cross and watch the minor dramas being enacted outside: people meeting and kissing, parting and crying, soldiers weighed down with mighty loads of equipment, businessmen in top hats or bowlers, children with nursemaids, and a lady at the wheel of a shiny open car that was bellowing out yards of smoke (her chauffeur must have gone into the army, Poppy decided). One surprising thing was that many well-to-do ladies appeared to be unchaperoned. She had read features in the family’s discarded newspapers about this. It seemed that ladies whose husbands were at war felt that they no longer needed a man to escort them to film matinees or a maid to scurry behind them carrying their parcels – they could manage perfectly well by themselves. Indeed, wealthy lady sho
p
pers whose chauffeurs had joined the army were driving themselves to eat in restaurants with their female companions. They were wearing bloomers, too: on pedal cycles, to attend exercise classes – or just because they wanted to.
