Poppy Day (16 page)

Iris Whitman was pulling herself awkwardly to a standing position. She looked across at Jess, as if assessing her.

‘Well, that’s a kind offer. I believe you’re a good girl, aren’t you? A little help tomorrow would be very nice, I must say.’

Jess looked into Iris’s pale eyes for a second, then lowered her gaze. She could feel herself blushing.

‘I’d be glad to help yer if you need it. Goodnight then.’

Upstairs, she made up her bed by candlelight. There were no curtains, and the windows were solid rectangles of black. She laid her coat and other few garments over the blanket for a minuscule bit of extra warmth. She wondered what Iris Whitman had to keep her warm. Precious little no doubt.

Once in bed, she took out Ned’s letter again. The pain and confusion of her feelings overwhelmed her. Grief, hurt, but also a sense of injustice and frustrated anger.

He loves me, he told me so, and I’m never to see him again! It was madness, all of it! She wanted to run to him, pour out everything to him, about the child, their child she was carrying, that she’d been thrown out of home and all her troubles. Have him say he belonged with her, not Mary and Ruth. It was
her
he loved . . . But then an awful chilling thought ran through her mind. He doesn’t love me at all – he was only saying that to let me down gently, to get out of seeing me again. He was just using me the way Olive says men do. I’ve no sense, none at all – I’ve been living in a dream! Of course he wasn’t going to leave her and come to me. He was always going to stay with Mary, that was the harsh truth of it. And even if she wanted to see him she couldn’t: how could she go to him, force him to come to her when he had a wife and he had rejected her? And when he wasn’t even here? Choked with emotion she lay down still holding the letter. She couldn’t think clearly about anything, the future, the reality of it. Sleep came down on her suddenly, like a blind.

Polly was already waiting for her the next afternoon, after work. She saw Jess coming and ran to her.

‘Oh Jess – I’ve been that worried. I ’ardly slept a wink thinking about yer last night – I should’ve come with yer, that I should!’

The tears Jess had been suppressing all day welled in her eyes. Everything felt vicious this evening, the hunger in her belly, a cold wind grating on her face like sandpaper. ‘I’m awright. Look – ’ere’s the address where I’m lodging.’

Polly squinted at the scrap of paper. ‘Crabtree Road? Where’s that?’

‘Near the Workhouse – off of Dudley Road.’ She told Polly about Miss Whitman. ‘Poor soul. She’s quite nice really, I think. Got hardly two farthings to rub together, and she ain’t nosey or particular like.’

‘So yer set for a bit? Oh thank God for that. Now yer mustn’t worry, Jess.’ Polly felt the hollowness of her words. If she was Jess she’d be more than worried. Scared half to death more like. ‘We’ll see yer awright, and we’ll try and talk our mom round. I don’t know what’s got into ’er. She wouldn’t treat a dog the way she’s turned on you. I can’t seem to get through to ’er. I kept on at ’er to change ’er mind, and Sis has, but she won’t even listen. Kept shouting at me, telling me she didn’t want you anywhere near ’er, and if I didn’t keep quiet, I could go an’ all!’ Jess could see Polly was in almost as bad a state as she was. ‘She ain’t going to stop me coming to see yer though. I’ll come round Friday, awright? Bring yer a few things.’

‘Thanks, Poll. Evie said she’d come an’ all. But yer don’t need to worry yet – I’ve still got my earnings. Auntie needs yer money, to look after Ronny and that.’

‘Oh she’s getting ’er usual. I just can’t stand to think of yer all alone the way you are—’ Polly started to cry. ‘It’s just not like our mom, Jess. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who I’m most worried about – you, her or Ernie!’

Through those dark days of November and December, Jess went to work at Blake’s every day, secure at least in the knowledge that her pregnancy was not yet showing. The sickness left her and she had more energy, but not having the wretchedness of feeling ill to distract her, the full misery of Ned’s absence overcame her. She lay in bed at night crying for him, for what they had had before. It had not been much, after all, but to her it seemed like the world now that her existence had become a lonely, dragging round of drudgery and unhappiness, with no hope to lighten it, no love from him to see her through.

Every evening she spent in Iris Whitman’s spartan little house. But she did make sure a fire was lit and that they had food. Miss Davitt, the kind lady from the chapel, came to help Iris with her shopping, and Jess would fetch any extras which were needed, so the house was never quite as wretched again as the night when she first arrived. Sometimes Evie came to see her for a while, and Polly and Sis, who Jess introduced as friends of hers, and Iris Whitman let them sit downstairs if they wanted to, to keep warm. They’d tell her any news about Bert and Ernie, who were both still safe training in England. Of course, with Iris about there were things they couldn’t say, so sometimes after a cup of tea they’d go up to Jess’s room for a private talk. Sis was very sweet, always bringing a little something – a chunk of cake, a couple of apples – and saying, ‘It ain’t the same at home without yer, Jess.’ But so far, nothing they’d said had been able to shift Olive. Jess was still an outcast.

After a few weeks, she got to know more about Iris Whitman. Iris did not have visitors, except for Miss Davitt and Beattie, another elderly woman across the road who looked out for her, when she was well enough to venture out herself. Iris was not able to move far outside the house on her crutches without completely exhausting herself.

Iris was lonely and liked Jess to sit with her, and Jess felt sorry for her and was glad of the distraction of company. Now the evenings were bitterly cold, they sat close to the range cradling cups of tea in their hands, Iris in her shawl, hair straggling round her face so that Jess itched to get the scissors and give it a good cut. She found Iris a strange, disconcerting woman. For days on end their talk consisted of trivial detail about the weather, food, little incidents about Miss Davitt or Beattie, Jess’s work, the state of the house . . . Iris hopped from subject to subject like a sparrow. Jess never asked her leading questions, hoping Iris would not ask any of her. But one evening, after a long silence, Iris said,

‘I was a schoolteacher, you know.’

Jess looked across at her, startled out of her own miserable thoughts. For a second she nearly laughed. Miss Whitman looked so unlike the neat, strict teachers she had had at school! But the well-spoken voice, the gentility of her, once you looked past the eccentric way she was dressed – yes, you could imagine it, almost.

Cautiously, she asked, ‘Were you?’

‘A trained teacher of young infants, I was. Always liked children. Taught in several schools across Birmingham – one in Sutton Coldfield. Until this.’ She straightened her damaged leg, the stump poking out from her shawl, dressed in a sludgy green, handknitted sock. ‘They wouldn’t have me back afterwards. Said I wasn’t fit to be associated with small children.’

Jess tried to control her expression of astonishment.

‘Hand to mouth I was, after it. That’s why you find me in these straits. Hand to mouth all these years is how I’ve lived. Faith, hope and bread. That’s life, dear. And thoughts. Must have your own thoughts.’

Iris looked very directly at her. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. You must’ve wondered, Jessica, although you’re too polite to ask.’

Jess nodded, blushing.

‘I was engaged to be married, aged thirty. Over the hill, some would say.’ She stroked one venous hand back and forth along the thigh of her gammy leg. ‘Quite besotted I was. I thought I’d found the only thing in life, pinned all my hopes on him. Anyway, to keep it short: a month before the wedding was due to happen he took off. February it was. Left his lodgings with everything – no letter, nothing. I was told he’d gone to Stafford. Whether that was true now, I don’t know, but I was in a desperate state, you see. How I felt about him, I mean. Fit to do myself in – though I don’t hold with that, it’s irreligious. So, what to do but go to Stafford. Well, it was snowy – inches of it settled for days, banked up in places – and Stafford’s a long way to go. By the time I got there this one foot was frozen. They had to have it off at the ankle. Frostbite, you see. I was in hospital in Stafford for weeks. I’d left my school – never said where I was going. They wouldn’t have me back – said I wasn’t a responsible person. Walking to Stafford like that.’

‘But—’ Jess sat up straight, appalled. ‘Why didn’t you go on the train?’

‘I was in love, dear. Madly in love.’ Iris’s pale eyes looked back at her. ‘I wanted to show him, you see, what I’d do for him. Find him, wherever. Of course he never knew. I don’t even know if he was really in Stafford. Silly young thing, wasn’t I? I never saw him again. Thirty years ago now, all that.’

Jess stared back, thinking her way into Iris’s life. A life wrecked by love. She was so shocked by what she had heard that she felt as if she’d been punched in the chest.

‘So – you never found him?’

Iris shook her head.

‘And you never worked again?’

‘Oh I did. Of course. Had to, dear. But not as a teacher. Odd jobs here and there. Factories. A bit of private tutoring once or twice. Enough to keep body and soul together. What a fool, you’re thinking, aren’t you? Everyone does, I know. Mad old Iris. Lost everything for a man. I did – and I regret it. My old life was all gone, of course. But I did
have
love for a time, or thought I did, and that came to the same thing. Had some of the strong stuff for a bit – more than the everyday bread and water of keeping alive and breathing. That’s more than some.’

Jess’s heart was beating hard, she could hear the pulse of it in her ears. She looked down into her lap. Am I the same: ruined for love? Soon, she thought, the babby’s going to start showing and she’ll know. Whatever Iris felt for this man of hers, she didn’t have a babby . . . But she thought of Iris’s leg. A severed leg and a babby came to nigh on the same thing for a woman without a husband.

‘I’ve heard you having a weep up there at nights, dear. I don’t know what your trouble is. As soon as I saw you though, I knew there was something. I know a frightened face when I see it.’

Jess couldn’t answer.

‘Whatever it is, you’re a comfort to me, Jessica. I’m not for convention and stoning people for their misfortunes like the woman taken in adultery. No, no. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” I could be bitter, but I’m not. God’s love and man’s – that’s all that matters. Loving kindness and seeing into people as they are, that’s me. You’ll have a roof over your head, my dear, whatever your trouble, have no fear about that.’

‘Thank you.’ Jess could barely speak, so close was she to pouring out all her woes. Without looking up at Iris, she whispered, ‘I’m going up now.’

She managed to control her tears until she reached her room and buried her face in the bed, trying not to make a sound. The blanket was scratchy against her face and smelt mouldy, but it absorbed her sobbing.

Oh Ned, Ned,
please
. . . Over and over again the begging words spilled from her, whispered into the mattress. Iris’s story affected her deeply. It was too late for Iris, but the idea of ending up like her filled Jess with horror: unwanted, disgraced, alone with a child. All because of her love for a man. Are men different? she wondered. Don’t they feel? How could he just leave Miss Whitman like that if he’d said he loved her? Perhaps he was married as well? Had a wife and family that Iris never knew about. And hadn’t she fallen into the same trap? She curled herself up tight on the bed, lying on her side, banging one hand hard on the mattress as she wept, again and again so that the springs squeaked. How can I go on? she sobbed. How can I live like this, without him, without anyone?

‘Mom – you’ll let our Jess come ’ome for Christmas, won’t yer?’

Polly spoke to her mother’s back. Olive was sitting at the table. Sis looked round, watching them both.

There was no reply.

‘I don’t mean for good, but won’t yer let ’er come for the day with us? We can’t just leave ’er there all on ’er own! Ernie’ll be back Christmas Eve, and Bert . . . family all together like . . . Please, say summat! Why’re yer being so cruel to ’er?’

Olive stood up and tipped slack into the range, face turned away from them. The fire flared and crackled. She put the pail down and wiped her sooty hands on her apron.

‘Mom!’ Sis couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

Olive ignored the pair of them. Face blank of expression, as if she was shutting out them and all their words, she took the bucket out to the back yard, went into the privy and banged the door shut.

Polly slammed her cup down on the table. ‘I can’t stand much more of this. One way or another summat’s got to give!’

Jess pulled up her vest and looked down at herself. No doubt about it: it was beginning to show. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but that wouldn’t take long now . . . Her nipples had darkened, and there was a little bulge to her stomach that hadn’t been there before. She reckoned she’d caught for the babby in August, that time in the park, she remembered bitterly. So she was nearly four months gone. She was starting to feel tiny movements inside her, wrigglings, flutterings, different from anything she’d felt before. She pulled her clothes on, pressing her hand to her stomach. No – no one’d notice for a little while yet. But it was frightening, having something control you from inside, knowing it was getting bigger, spreading.

‘I wish I could run away too, just move on and start again.’ She buttoned her cardigan with cold fingers. ‘But it’s done now – there’s nowt I can do about it.’

The week before Christmas, she walked home from work, alone as usual. It was dark, with a thick, swirling fog, the lamplight smudged and dim, and the dark walls seemed to close in on her. She was forced to walk more slowly, feeling her way along, able to see hardly a yard in front of her face.

When she reached the fire station in Albion Street, she paused, putting a hand out to touch the cold bricks. Everything else was invisible in the fog. It was not far from here that Ned had told her he loved her. For a moment she leaned back against the building, breathing in the rank, sodden air, and closed her eyes. If only it was June still! How strong and happy she’d felt then, believing in the strength of his feelings for her!

‘Yer doing business?’

Jess opened her eyes. A burly man, not much more than her own height, stood just in front of her. His collar was up and his cap pulled low over his eyes. In the gloom she could make out that he had a thick beard.

‘What?’ She stood up straight, alarmed.

He spoke in a murmur, through the side of his mouth.

‘You doing business, are yer?’

‘I don’t know what yer mean.’ She sidled further along the wall.

‘A shilling. All I can spare.’

Jess stared at him for a moment, until it dawned on her. That woman in New Street, drenched in perfume!

‘No – oh my God, no! I’m just going ’ome, that’s all. I’m not what yer think!’

She stumbled away from him, terrified he’d follow. After a few moments she stopped, peering back at the invisible street. She couldn’t hear anyone following and she slowed to a walk again, feeling shaky. That’d teach her to stand and dream in the street! It was a horrible feeling, being mistaken for a sordid, fallen woman. The man’s words wormed through her mind. A shilling, he’d offered. Just like that. Money for a job. If she did it say six times – even ten times a week . . .

‘I must be going mad,’ she muttered frantically as she strode along the Dudley Road. ‘Right off my ’ead, even thinking such a desperate thing! Never – however bad things get – not in a million years!’

By the time Christmas Eve came there was snow on the ground. For a few hours it made the city look clean and newborn, until the wheeltracks and footprints shovelled it into tarnished heaps and the factories belched their filthy breath all over it.

The lads were due home that afternoon, those with leave. Bert came home from Tidworth, new blue uniform and all, full of himself.

‘Awright, Mom—’ Bashful, he gave her a peck on the cheek and for a moment Olive’s face relaxed with pleasure. Ronny was wild with excitement, pulling at Bert’s coat until his big brother took notice, picked him up and dangled him playfully upside down.

‘Yer looking well, son,’ Olive said.

‘In better nick than when I left, no doubt about that.’ Bert threw himself down on to a chair and Ronny jumped on top of him, laughing. ‘Knocking us into shape good and proper, and some of ’em could do with it, I can tell yer!’ He grinned, looking round the room. ‘It’s good to be ’ome for a bit though, Mom, ’stead of sleeping in a leaky bloody hut . . .’Ere—’ He dug into his bag. ‘I’ve brought summat for yer.’

From a paper bag he unpacked a row of brass ornaments and stood them along the table. Olive came nearer, peering at them. Each one was a man’s head, moulded in brass, about four inches high. Bert pointed at each of them.

‘That one’s Kitchener—’ Olive smiled ‘Oh yes!’ recognizing the moustache. ‘Then yer’ve got, let’s see – Joffre, Jellicoe for the navy, and Beatty, and that’s Sir John French . . . They’re to go on the mantel – look.’

He helped her line them up, seeing she was pleased.

‘’Ow is everyone – awright?’ he asked as she made tea.

‘Ar, they’re awright.’

‘Poll?’

‘Going along. She’ll be in soon.’

‘And Sis? And what about Jess?’

Olive tinkled a spoon round inside the teapot. ‘I’ve told yer – they’re all awright.’ She turned, her harsh expression softening again at the sight of him. So like

Charlie he was getting! ‘You look as if yer could do with a good sleep, you do.’

‘I could an’ all. Plenty of time later. After a couple of pints . . .’

There was a knock on the door soon after Polly and Sis got in. Polly dashed to open it.

‘Ernie – oh love, it’s you at last!’

Ernie was pink-cheeked, bursting with health, though he did look a little thinner in the face, and younger without the beard. He and Polly flung their arms round each other and stayed for some time out in the dark street, hugging and kissing, before going inside.

Polly rested her head on Ernie’s shoulder. ‘Oh love – I wish you was ’ere all the time, I’ve missed yer that much. I don’t want yer to go away again.’ She squeezed him tight.

‘Eh – come on, I’ve only just got ’ere! No need to talk about me going yet.’

Later, the two of them walked out together, to get away from everyone else, holding tight to each other so as not to slip in the street. It had started snowing again, small, dry flakes, falling skittishly.

‘I feel I want to hold on to every second,’ Polly said. ‘The time’s going to go in a flash and yer mom’s going to want yer over there too . . .’

‘Roll on the time when we’ve got our own place.’ Ernie stopped and pulled her close to him, licked a snowflake from her cheek. ‘’Aving tea and a chat’s awright, but it ain’t the thing I’ve been looking forward to all this time, I can tell yer!’

‘Ernie!’ Polly giggled. ‘Cheeky thing – eh, stop it, not ’ere! There’ll be time for that later!’ She removed his hand from her bottom. ‘Mom says yer can stop over, and turf Sis out of ’er bed tonight.’

‘I don’t know as I can wait ’til then . . .’ He ran his hands over her, feeling for her breasts. ‘Oh Poll, I’ve missed yer.’

‘I’ve missed you too – like anything. But listen, let’s walk on a bit. Before we go ’ome I want to talk to yer about summat. It’s Jess . . .’

Walking down the Moseley Road, she told Ernie all that had happened. He was far from impressed.

‘Stupid bloody fools, the pair of ’em – ’e’s got a wife and a nipper! What the ’ell does ’e think ’e’s playing at – and ’er! That’s disgusting that is.’

‘But she’s having ’is babby and our mom won’t let ’er anywhere near – she’s all on ’er own and she’s pining and worried sick! She’s got no one else, Ernie, and she loves the bones of ’im, ’owever much she shouldn’t! I think Ned ought to know. Why should Jess put up with all of it and ’im do nothing? And if ’e knew, maybe . . .’

‘Maybe what?’ His voice was harsh. ‘If you go telling ’im it’ll only cause trouble and you’ll be caught up in it. It ain’t up to you to go interfering. If a woman goes behaving like that she has to count the cost. It’s ’er own bloody fault. I must say, I’d never’ve thought it of ’er, but she’s made ’er bed and she’ll ’ave to lie on it. Unless – I mean, there’s ways yer can get rid of a babby, can’t yer, some’ow? Why don’t she do that and ’ave done with it?’

‘’Ere—’ Polly’s tone became sharp. ‘Don’t talk to me in that voice – it’s horrible! We thought of that. Went to this woman. But oh Ernie, if you’d seen – it frightened the life out of both of us. Yer wouldn’t do it to an animal. But someone’s got to sort it out. She won’t tell ’im ’cause she’s shamed and frightened . . .’

‘No, Poll – it ain’t on. You keep out of it. It ain’t your business or mine, and I daint come ’ome to argue with yer. Come ’ere, wife, and give us a kiss!’

For a moment Polly didn’t look up at him. She bit her lip. He’s wrong, she thought. I’ve got to interfere. She didn’t want to go against her husband, but he couldn’t see things the way she could. She didn’t want to spoil their time together though. Looking up she smiled.

‘Come ’ere then, yer big ’andsome soldier boy!’

Jess spent Christmas with Iris Whitman. She turned down Iris’s invitation to go to church with her because she didn’t feel like going out, and having people asking questions about her to her face. If they wanted to gossip behind her back, then that was their business.

‘You go,’ she told Iris. ‘And I’ll cook us a bit of dinner.’

She hadn’t had the heart to do anything about decorating the back room, and the house seemed so dismal in the harsh white light from the snow outside. She didn’t want to be reminded that it was Christmas at all, except that somehow it had to be lived through. They did have a small joint of beef as a Christmas treat though, and Jess prepared it for roasting with potatoes and parsnips, sprouts and carrots alongside. But she did so with such a heavy heart. How small were the amounts she had to cook, and how lonely the little cut of meat looked! She thought of everyone in Oughton Place, the family all together. The fact that her aunt hadn’t caved in and let her back just for a visit hurt her so much. And there’d been nothing in the way of a Christmas greeting sent from Budderston either. She cried, peeling the three potatoes, scrubbing the few carrots. Of course she was in the wrong: a disgrace to the family. But she’d thought that Olive, after she calmed down, might find it in her to forgive. She would have had her first Christmas with a proper family in such a long time. She knew Bert and Ernie were home on leave, and . . . and . . . She dragged her mind away from the thought of Ned. He’d be on leave too – going home to Mary, loving her, being a family . . . And of course that was the right thing because she was his wife, and whatever Jess felt for him she had no right . . . She, and all her deepest feelings and yearnings, were wrong in the eyes of everyone. Worst of all, in his eyes too . . . It was a grim, despairing morning, and when Iris came back it took her an enormous effort to conceal her misery.

On the morning of Boxing Day, Ernie went to his mom’s for a bit and Polly said she was going out. She looked defiantly at Olive.

‘Please yerself,’ Olive didn’t look up. She had a darning mushroom pushed into one of Bert’s socks. She was having to sew again now Jess was gone.

‘Shall I come?’ Sis asked.

‘No!’ Polly spoke too sharply. ‘Er, no, Sis – not this time. Maybe later, awright?’ She gave her sister a wink as she put her coat on and Sis was appeased. They had told Bert Jess was away visiting her father.

She set out across the quiet city, asparkle today in its new coat of white, screwing up her eyes against its brightness. St Martin’s Church seemed made of sugar. Polly felt well in herself. She had had food and rest over Christmas, and her husband home. But the deep breaths she breathed in were as much from nerves as contentment.

‘I ’ope I’m doing the right thing,’ she said. ‘God alone knows – but someone’s got to do summat, the way things are!’

Late that night, Jess lay in bed, trying to get warm before she could sleep. She tucked her feet into the bottom of her nightdress, curling up tight, arms folded, hugging herself. It would be a relief to go back to work, get back to the normal routine.

She tucked her nose under the covers, smelling the damp sheet. Nothing in this room ever felt warm. She imagined looking down from outside herself, the sight of her body lying covered by the cold sheet and her black coat, legs bent up trying to get warm. Her body: where she began and ended, the limits of her, so small, so minutely insignificant compared with everything outside. The muffled city, the huge sky flecked with stars . . . what did any of it matter? She lived, she’d die: just like a lump of meat in a big pot of stew. She’d be gone, and none of her problems would matter. Comforted by this, her mind drifted and she was beginning to doze.