Poppy Day (28 page)

‘Depends on how the leg heals. There may be a limp. But he’s going to live, yes.’

‘Thank God,’ she gasped. ‘I thought . . . oh . . .’ She was weeping again, quietly. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, then looked up. ‘Where is he?’

He jabbed the pipe at her. ‘He doesn’t need disturbing – what ’e needs is rest and settling back down with his family where he belongs!’ Mr Green looked down into the bowl of his pipe, evading her eyes. ‘I’m not going to tell you where he is. His wife’s going – that’s all he needs. You’re to keep away. Ned’s married. He and Mary can . . . well, this is a chance for them. Patch things up and put the mistakes behind them. He’s finished with you. Is that clear?’

He looked across at her with a terrible sternness that made Jess shrink inside.

‘I’ve told you what you want to know. Now, if you’ve any real consideration for him, for all of us, you’ll keep away. You’ve done enough harm to us all already.’ His voice became ever sharper. ‘Keep away – you’re not wanted. By anyone!’

That same night, Peter Stevenson sat staring into the grate in his back sitting room. He had drawn the chair in close to catch the last of the heat from a smouldering log and was hunched forwards, elbows resting on his knees in a sad, sagging posture similar to that in which Jess had once come upon him in his office. Mrs Hughes had long since put David to bed and the house was quiet except for the fire still hissing quietly and the clock on the mantelpiece with its slow, mellow ticking. Either side of it were arranged framed photographs: a small, oval, silver frame held a picture of David as a baby, and the other, a rectangular frame wrought in silver-plated filigree, was a portrait of Sylvia. She had had a soft, reassuring beauty, long fair hair brushed back and fastened elegantly for the photograph. Every so often his gaze moved up to take in that picture. Even now, so many months after her death, he had to stop himself expecting to see her seated opposite him on the chair by the fire, legs comfortably crossed, with sewing or knitting for David in her lap. When he looked at the photograph the day it was taken always came to mind, how she couldn’t stop laughing: for some reason the sight of the photographer disappearing under the black hood of the camera tickled her, seeming absurd in some way, and they had to make several attempts. Even in the finished portrait her face had a look of repressed mirth.

Peter Stevenson put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. At last he sat back in the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. The eyes of the picture seemed to watch him relentlessly, as if she were seeing into his thoughts, and with a sudden movement he stood up and picked up the frame.

‘You know I loved you, Sylvia, don’t you? Always . . . I wish I still had you here, God knows I do. There’s nothing I wish for more.’ For a moment he held the picture over his heart, smoothing the back of it with his hand, then replaced it, turning it away from him towards the wall. He went to the glass door which looked out over the bleak little garden, but in the dark, could see only his own, long reflection, and he pressed his forehead against the window, shocked for a second by the coldness of it.

He had expected grief to go on, undiluted, forever. The extent of his anguish when Sylvia first fell ill, then lay dying and was finally taken from him, leaving him with a motherless child, was so acute that he could not then imagine life without the agony of it inside him. The early mornings were the worst, waking alone, and these silent evenings. Sylvia had liked music, would sing to herself, and the house had felt full of life. The pain of losing her had been his one certainty. It was still present, waves of loss and bereftness building and receding within him. But already he found that other feelings could exist mingled with grief: he could begin to move on without her, and this made him feel guilty and ashamed of his disloyalty. Chiefly these emotions were directed towards Jess Hart. At first he simply noticed her, the way some people in a group stand out while others fade. Her presence drew his eye, her prettiness, her shape. And he liked her, enjoyed the way their brief conversations seemed to fit with each other’s, her smile which had become, along with seeing David, the main thing which could brighten the day. She could make him laugh. More lately, she had aroused his tenderness, finally his desire.

He found himself looking for opportunities to talk with her. He wondered now at his decision to put her in the ‘Rumbling Shed’ as the women called it. At the time it had been nothing whatever to do with being able to see her alone. But had some deeper instinct, riding ahead of his knowledge of his own feelings, prodded him to do it? Whatever the case he was thankful daily that he had placed her there, and found himself looking for excuses to visit the shed.

‘Is there bad news?’ he had asked her again, cautiously, earlier in the week.

It was clear to everyone that Jess was in a state. Of course, so were a lot of people, but it was her that he particularly noticed. Her expression was tense and she looked pale and drained. He knew there was something – someone – for whom she worried and suffered constantly, yet she would say nothing about him except that he was on the Western Front. He wanted to know who it was that took up her thoughts and feelings, but why should she tell him anything about her private life? He was only her boss, and he must seem like an old man to her!

But when he asked, she turned to him with such a look of desperation in her eyes that he wanted to take her in his arms.

‘No – no news at all. That’s the thing – I just don’t know.’ Her eyes, already pink from crying, filled with tears.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’ He wanted to add some platitude about no news being good news but it felt the wrong thing to say. ‘I hope you have some good news soon.’ The words sounded hollow. He turned to leave.

‘Mr Stevenson?’ She was hurriedly wiping her eyes. ‘Is there anything the matter with my work?’

‘No!’ He sounded too emphatic and corrected himself. ‘No – not a bit. Why?’

‘I just wondered if you was feeling you had to check up on me.’

He cleared his throat, finding himself reddening a little.

‘Not at all, Jess. You’ve been doing that job more than satisfactorily for a long time now. I – er, just like to keep tabs on things . . .’ He knew he was not bound to explain but found himself doing so anyway.

‘Oh,’ Jess gave him a wan smile which simply jerked at her mouth and didn’t alter the rest of her face. ‘That’s awright then.’

She turned back to the drum, already oblivious to him. He watched her, the sturdy determination of her movements. Finding he had been standing there too long, he hastily moved away.

Staring into the fire he went over what had happened. Had he made a fool of himself? She wouldn’t have noticed, he told himself. She was so worried she barely even saw him. But all evening he was full of longing thoughts of her.

Jess walked through the gates of the infirmary, the blackened brick building on the Dudley Road next to the Workhouse and near Iris’s house.

She still had a sense of disbelief that she had found out so quickly where Ned was. When she left his parents’ house her emotions were in such turmoil that no single one seemed able to master the others. She had expected the anger and bitterness they felt, but she was taken aback by how much this bruised her, made her feel worthless and rejected.

What did you expect? she ranted at herself on the way home. Considering what you’ve done they could’ve been a lot worse! But still she felt winded by it, and tearful. However wrong she and Ned had been in what they’d done, however much they had hurt and betrayed Mary, she had wanted them at least to understand the strength of her feelings for Ned and his for her. That her love was enduring and genuine. But while this seemed so important to her, in their eyes it counted for nothing.

But with the pain of this, there was also her enormous relief after the tension of the last few weeks, and she was full of joy.

She burst in through the door at home, her face alight with the news.

‘Ned’s alive – ’e’s awright! ’E’s home!’

Everyone stopped what they were doing immediately.

‘Oh Jess!’ Sis said. ‘Thank God for that!’

Polly smiled bravely at her and Jess saw Olive’s face relax. Though she seldom ever mentioned Ned, the war’s months of slaughter had softened her attitude. Life was too short to bear grudges. Just getting those lads back alive, that was all that mattered.

‘So ’e’s out of it?’ she asked.

‘Yes!’ Jess was dancing round the room. ‘He’s been wounded – one of his legs, they said. He’s in hospital.’

‘Who said?’ Olive frowned.

‘Mr and Mrs Green.’

‘
You went to their ’ouse?
’

Jess’s face fell. ‘I had to find out, Auntie.’

Olive sank down at the table. ‘Well, what did they make of you turning up?’

‘They were none too pleased.’

‘I’m not surprised! Oh Jess, how could yer’ve done it?’

‘I couldn’t stand it. No one’d ever’ve told me, would they?’

‘So where is he then?’ Polly said, eyeing Grace, who was walking now, round the room.

Jess shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Yet.’

At first she almost despaired, realizing the number of hospitals in Birmingham, and especially the additional mansions and private houses which had been converted for nursing the war wounded. She’d have to go round every one and ask. She might never find him!

But luck, in this instance, was on her side. The next evening she went to tell Iris the news. When she described her visit to the Greens, Iris seemed to withdraw from her a little, as if the reality of Ned’s situation, of his parents as live flesh and blood people, had impinged on her properly for the first time.

‘You must be careful,’ she cautioned. Her injured leg was troubling her and she leaned down, massaging it as she spoke. ‘You’ve upset people badly, the two of you, and you must think seriously of what you’re going to do next.’

Jess was in no mood for a sermon from Iris.

‘But you’ve always stood by us, up ’til now.’

‘I know, dear. I am standing by you, but the facts don’t alter. Happiness should never be at other people’s expense.’

Jess moved restlessly about the room.

‘It’s a bit late for that, Iris. Look, I’ve got to see ’im. I can’t think of anything else until I’ve seen how he is, what he feels. Can’t you understand that?’

‘Yes. And I know what you’ve suffered on his behalf . . .’ Iris sighed. ‘But it’s all looking rather a mess.’

‘I don’t even know where to start – he could be anywhere.’

‘Well,’ Iris said simply. ‘Why not try the nearest? It’s a big hospital. There’s a good chance he could be there.’

Before going home Jess went into the hospital to enquire and was told that a Corporal Edward Green of Oak Tree Lane, Selly Oak, was indeed in the hospital. Visiting, she was told, was for close relatives only.

‘That’s awright,’ Jess smiled. ‘I’m ’is sister.’

So now she stood looking at the brightly lit windows of the infirmary, wondering which of the high rooms contained him. A thrill passed through her. He was here, so close after all this time! She could see him, touch him! She knew there would be very little time, and was terrified of meeting a member of his family, but her determination was absolute. If she had to come every day, waiting for a chance to slip in and see him alone, she would do it. Nothing was going to stop her.

She pulled the belt tighter round her coat. She had on her close-fitting hat with the cream band, and under the coat a purple velvet skirt which she had made, with a white blouse and a little blue waistcoat. She knew she was looking her best, her hair brushed and tied back.

As soon as she was inside the hospital, her excitement faded and was replaced by terror. Her heart was pounding, hands horribly clammy. In these long, echoing corridors there was very little place to hide and she expected any moment to find Mr and Mrs Green walking towards her. But she had to see him . . .

Ned’s ward was upstairs. Every bend of the staircase, with people moving up and down, was a source of fear for her. She felt like a criminal about to be arrested at any second. By the time she’d reached the door of the ward she thought her heart was going to give out on her.

The door was open and she stepped in. A nurse near the door seemed to be in position to direct visitors.

‘I’ve come to see Mr Green.’ Jess found that she could sound calm. ‘Ned Green. I’m his sister.’

The nurse looked confused for a moment. ‘Oh – er, I see.’

‘Is there anyone here – my mother and father may have beaten me to it?’

‘No one’s come in yet.’ She leaned back and looked along the ward. ‘He’s alone. He is very tired today though. Still very up and down. Not too long a visit, please.’

‘Yes of course,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll just pop over and say ’ello.’

Her heels sounded to her like hammers as she walked along the long Nightingale ward, wishing she was invisible. Some of the lads were sitting up talking quite cheerfully to their visitors. One or two lay quiet, some with one or both arms bandaged. One, who smiled at her, had lost most of his right arm, and was nursing a short, bandaged stump. She found this less shocking than she would have expected, and realized that knowing Iris had accustomed her to such sights. She smiled back as she passed. On some beds there was a frame under the bedclothes holding their weight off the injured legs beneath like a tent, and there was one on Ned’s bed when she reached it two-thirds of the way down on the right.

He was propped in a reclining position on his pillows, his eyes closed, head tilted a little to one side. Jess stopped. Seeing him was a shock: she didn’t know whether he looked different or the same. She was not used to observing him in a lifeless position like this, unaware that she was there. For a moment she did not want to speak, afraid of what he might say when he saw her. But she longed to move closer, to touch him. And there was no time to delay. She glanced behind her, terrified his family might be bearing down on her, then moved quietly to sit beside him.

‘Ned.’

He opened his eyes at once, and she saw his face register who she was. ‘Jess . . .’ Immediately he tried to push himself up, wincing at the pain he caused himself. To her horror, she saw his eyes fill with tears and his face, at first startled, crease with anguish. Supporting himself on one elbow he covered his face with his other hand, trying to hide his distress from her.