Poppy (20 page)

The hotel was built in the classical style with marble columns and niches containing statues, and there was a grand circle of steps leading up to its entrance. A row of bay trees, trailing patriotic red, white and blue ribbons, stood along the front of the building, and a man in a maroon suit and top hat was on the stairs opening the door for customers and bowing them through. The whole effect was so splendid that Poppy crossed over to the other side of the road in order to view it better. She’d been in one or two imposing buildings before, but always as a servant, through the tradesmen’s entrance. Now she was going through the front door wearing an outfit from Harrods and kid-leather gloves.

She reached the end of the road, turned back and crossed to the right side again, hearing three o’clock strike on a distant clock and wondering where to wait. Freddie hadn’t said whether they should meet outside the hotel or in it, and she hadn’t thought to ask. But if inside, then where exactly? The foyer or the reception desk or the restaurant itself?

For a moment she felt like walking past it again, but she was at the bottom of the stone steps by then and the man in maroon had seen her and bowed. As she climbed the steps, she almost expected him to say, ‘Back door for trades, if you don’t mind.’ Instead he tipped his top hat and said, ‘Good afternoon, madam.’

‘Good afternoon to you,’ Poppy replied sedately.

He opened the door. ‘Straight through for Reception, madam.’

Poppy was bowed through into a large area which was thickly carpeted, smelled of lavender and luxury, and contained deeply cushioned sofas and leather chairs. She thanked the doorman, thinking how easy it was, if you were rich, to be charming to people. How pleasant to live this sort of life all the time; the sort of life where coming to the Criterion was an everyday matter and where, here inside the glittering reception area, there didn’t even appear to be a war on. Apart from all the people in uniform, of course.

She reached the front desk and looked around. Plenty of boys in khaki and several Canadians in navy. Lots of glamorous young women either in uniform or in civvy suits which owed something to the military look, with straight, sensible skirts and small, close-fitting hats. But no Freddie, and the clock above the desk now showed just past three o’clock.

He’d forgotten, she decided immediately. And then came a list of other reasons he hadn’t appeared: he’d resolved to remain true to Miss Cardew; he was not willing to risk being seen with a housemaid; his mother had forbidden him to come; his unit had been called away on an earlier ship. Or – the most obvious and dreadful thing of all – he had simply stopped caring for her.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ asked the man behind the desk.

Poppy started. ‘Afternoon tea,’ she said. ‘That is, I am, er . . . meeting a friend for afternoon tea.’

‘In Palm Court?’

She nodded, although she had no idea. Was there a choice of places for afternoon tea?

He opened a leather book. ‘A three o’clock booking, then. May I ask under whose name?’

‘De Vere,’ Poppy said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Second Lieutenant Frederick de Vere.’

He looked at the book, but gave no indication as to whether he’d found a booking or not and just asked if Poppy would like to go to the table and wait. After another hesitation, wondering which might look less needy – table or Reception – she decided that, yes, she’d go and sit down.

Palm Court was a circular room with a glass roof. The walls were scalloped, each curved shape containing a table for two, while bigger tables surrounded a circular space in the centre, where a woman in a gold evening dress was playing a harp.
A harp
! Poppy had only ever seen a picture of one before, and had somehow imagined that they only existed as mythical instruments played by angels sitting on clouds.

Once seated at a small table with its own softly glowing lamp, Poppy gazed about the room, which was fast filling up with customers. If Freddie didn’t arrive, what would she do? Perhaps she could pretend she’d come on her own and order a pot of tea. But how much would it cost? Even a
cup
of tea in a place such as this might possibly be as much as two shillings, and there wasn’t much more than that in her purse. But if he didn’t come, she thought, then never mind about the cost of tea, because it would break her heart and she’d never get over it! And just after she’d thought
that
– oh joy, there he was, coming across the thickly carpeted floor, smiling at her, and only ten minutes late.

‘I thought you weren’t coming!’ she blurted out, and could have bitten her tongue off for doing so.

‘I’m so sorry to be late,’ he said. ‘Regimental matters, meetings, the tedious checking of mine and the men’s equipment – it goes on and on.’

‘Oh! Of course it must do. That’s quite all right.’ She could have forgiven him anything, because he looked handsome, so
very
handsome, that surely every girl there would fall in love with him at first sight. His uniform was newly pressed with no sign of wear nor war, the officer’s stripes prominent on his arm. The brass buttons and fixings on his belt glittered, and his hair still flopped over his eyes in an endearing manner.

He sat down and smiled at her. ‘You look charming,’ he said. ‘And that is a very elegant and stylish outfit you’re wearing.’ He laughed. ‘You might think it strange that I know such a thing, but I have two sisters.’

‘Of course,’ Poppy said. Perhaps you also have Miss Cardew? she couldn’t help but think.

‘Have you been here before?’

Poppy shook her head. As if she’d ever have dared!

‘The menu is very extensive. When my . . . my brother was stationed here before he went to France, my mother came down for tea. She said it was the only place outside France where she could obtain madeleines. She’s very fond of madeleines.’

‘Is she?’ Poppy said politely. She didn’t know what these were – and certainly didn’t want to be reminded of his mother.

‘And so, Poppy Pearson, how are you liking being a nurse?’ Freddie asked, settling back in his chair.

‘I like it very much,’ Poppy said, trying to dismiss thoughts of Mrs de Vere. ‘It’s very hard work but . . .’

‘Better than fighting, given the choice. But you must see a lot of painful sights.’

‘We had a boy of only fifteen on our ward until this morning – he’d had his leg shot off and lost a shocking amount of blood.’ As she said this she realised that to be talking of such things at the tea table was frightfully ill mannered. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s just that Thomas has been very much on my mind – he’s so young and we all made such a pet of him. His mother came down from Newcastle last night and Sister got special permission for the two of them to be escorted by an orderly all the way back to a Newcastle hospital, nearer his home.’

Freddie nodded. ‘That should suit him better.’

‘Thomas used to have Private Taylor looking out for him, you see, but Taylor’s twin was killed by a sniper and since then he’s gone downhill and Thomas has gone with him.’ She knew she was blabbing but couldn’t seem to stop. ‘Private Taylor has refused to eat or drink at all now, and Sister’s really worried about him.’

There was a pause, then Freddie said, ‘You have a brother in the army, don’t you? Is he in France?’

Poppy nodded. ‘I don’t quite know where, though.’ She didn’t want to think about Billy.

‘And what does he think of army life?’

Poppy paused. ‘He . . . he’s undecided right now,’ she said after a moment.

A waitress arrived, pink in the face and eyes ablaze for Freddie (who, Poppy was pleased to see, didn’t seem to notice). ‘How can I help you, sir? Afternoon tea for two, is it?’

Freddie nodded. ‘And two glasses of champagne, please,’ he added, much to Poppy’s delight, for she had never tasted champagne before.

‘At once, sir,’ the waitress said, bobbing a little curtsey.

A laden tray soon arrived, carried by a man wearing white gloves. Having spent years serving tea, Poppy was on safe ground, confident about handling the heavy pot and not about to make any mistakes concerning in what order the milk, tea and sugar should go into the cups. The savoury food arrived first: roast beef and crab sandwiches with the crusts cut off, salmon pinwheels, cheese triangles, anchovy puffs, bridge rolls with ham and mustard. There seemed to be no shortages at the Criterion.

Poppy, who’d been too nervous to eat breakfast or lunch, knew that she was starving hungry, but every time she caught Freddie’s eye her stomach turned right over and she found herself unable to do much more than nibble at what was before her. In some ways this was a good thing, she thought, because the food looked so delicious compared to what was on offer in the hostel canteen that she might have forgotten her manners and bolted down more than was seemly.

She and Freddie spoke about the tragedy of the
Titanic
, about the possibility of the royal family changing their Germanic-sounding name to one that was more English, and of the case for conscription.

Time passed. Poppy was anxious to ask whether the War Office would inform her if Freddie was injured (for Mrs de Vere certainly wouldn’t), but felt it would sound presumptuous to ask such a thing, as if she was confident that there was a relationship between them. She had high hopes of the champagne making the two of them more relaxed, and drank hers eagerly, but once the bubbles had gone it turned out that there was actually very little in the glass. She certainly didn’t feel
squiffy
, as Matthews had assured her she would after drinking alcohol.

Next the scones arrived, luscious, tall as top hats and still warm from the oven. She knew that jam should be put on first then clotted cream, and was managing this quite tidily when she glanced up at one of the larger tables in the centre of the room and, to her horror, saw one of the Netley Hospital matrons, in her full uniform and white winged cap, taking tea with some army officers. She’d only seen this particular lady once, when she’d been on an inspection tour of the wards, and was fairly sure that she wouldn’t be recognised in civvies, but it had the effect of making her feel jittery – which in turn re-established the barriers which had gradually been coming down between her and Freddie.

The cakes and sweets came and Poppy changed the angle she was sitting at to be out of the matron’s direct sight. Nervously, she took a small chocolate eclair from the cake stand and, biting into it, squirted cream down the front of Jameson’s purple jacket. Freddie had to give her his napkin to help mop it up.

Oh, why were things so difficult? Not daring to take another bite from the eclair, she nibbled at a walnut wrapped in marzipan, then, catching Freddie’s eye, felt her stomach lurch and put it down again. She felt sick and thought to herself, sick with love. This was all so strange. It was too correct, too proper – they were being much too polite with each other. What she wanted was to be alone with him and to be kissed again, but that was never going to happen here, with someone playing a harp and a matron lurking a few tables away.

She knew she really must say something to him about Miss Cardew – either that or spend the days and weeks to come worrying about her. In her head she rehearsed several beginnings: ‘
I believe I mentioned in my letter . . .
’ and ‘
Pardon me for asking such a thing . . .
’ and even ‘
Of course, it may not be any of my business . . .
’

In the end, pushing aside a pink macaroon, she blurted out, ‘But what about Miss Cardew?’

There was a fraught moment when she thought he was just going to pretend he hadn’t heard her, but then he said, ‘
What
about her?’

Poppy blushed. ‘Well, you and she . . . you are . . . at least, what I mean is, are you . . . friends? That is, not friends, but romantically attached?’

Freddie’s hand reached for hers across the white linen tablecloth. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘Miss Cardew and her family are great friends of my mother and father. The two of us have known each other since we were children.’

‘But is there . . . I mean, do you see . . .’ Thrown by the way he’d boldly taken hold of her hand in front of the whole restaurant, Poppy came to a stuttering halt.

He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘My mother would love there to be a serious attachment between Philippa and me, but . . .’

Poppy never found out what he’d been about to say because the waitress had come up and was standing there smirking at the sight of their two hands joined on the tablecloth. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

‘I think not,’ Freddie said. ‘Just the bill, please.’

The bill!
It was the end of their meeting and she hadn’t really found out anything.

The waitress went away and Poppy, not daring to bring up the subject of Miss Cardew again, sat there grasping Freddie’s hand, taking in every detail of his face so she could recall it later.
This
was what it was like to be in love, she thought; this was how those weeping girls at the stations felt as they waved their lovers off to fight – a deep distress and a tremendous pride. Freddie was going to save the world!

‘Shall we write to each other?’ Freddie asked. ‘And will you meet me again when I come back through Southampton?’