Poppy Day (33 page)

‘Must be nice for ’er though – being able to look after you.’

There was a long silence as she brewed the tea, that neither of them seemed able to break, and the tension grew until the very air between them seemed brittle with it. Jess fiddled with spoons, cups and saucers and poured the pale tea. He still stood at the window, hands in his pockets.

‘Ned?’ She held a cup and saucer out to him, but the tone of her voice asked him so much more.

As he took the cup and saucer from her his hands were trembling so much that he couldn’t hide it. He had to put them down. He stood by the table, pressing his palms against his thighs to try and control the tremor.

‘Ned – love?’ She stooped to look into his face. ‘What is it?’

He shook his head, unable to find words for the confusion inside him.

‘I so want to make things better,’ she said. ‘I want to be close to you.’ She took one of his arms and firmly helped him stand upright. He couldn’t look into her eyes. He was breathing hard, in panic, distress.

‘Love, oh my love – don’t! There’s nothing to worry about.’ Overwhelmed with feeling she pulled him to her, felt his trembling. Into his chest she said, ‘Let me love you . . .’

She looked up at him, needing reassurance herself, needing him to desire her. ‘I’m bad, I know. But I want yer so much – all this time I’ve waited and I love you more than anyone, anything . . .’

He seemed to relax, and smiled properly for the first time, gently kissing the tip of her nose. ‘I like your badness. Oh Jess, you’re what I need.’

‘Come with me.’

She led him into their front room and closed the door. As he stood watching she knelt by the grate to light the knotted twists of newspaper. The flames bit into them and soon they could smell smoke. She turned, and saw how intently he was watching her, his eyes moving over her.

‘That’ll help – for a little, anyhow.’ She drew the curtains, then sat on the quilt, her legs stretched out, hair falling over one shoulder. ‘Can you get down ’ere with me?’

He managed it, slowly. Once he was comfortable he reached out for her. ‘You’re so lovely.’ His voice held a desperate mixture of longing and regret.

They bunched up the edges of the quilt and blanket to rest their heads on. Ned eased himself down beside her, settling on his back, where he was most comfortable. It was only after a moment that he realized his body was so tense that he was holding his arms and legs almost rigid, and he tried to relax and let them sink closer to the floor.

‘You awright?’ she moved her hand across his chest.

‘Yes – just stiff.’

Jess leaned up on her elbows beside him and looked down into his face. She reached round and pulled the ribbon from her hair and it fell in long, thick waves over her shoulders. Teasing, she took an end of it and tickled his nose.

He shook her off, still taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself out of a sense of panic that he didn’t even understand. He looked into her face, seeing the love in her dark eyes, a tiny freckle on her left cheekbone, her soft, radiant skin. She leaned down and kissed his lips and her hair hung over him, further darkening the room.

‘I love you,’ she said, her face close to his.

‘I love you too.’ He searched inside himself for the meaning of the words.

‘You lie still,’ Jess said. ‘And I’ll make it better.’ She knelt up and simply took charge of him. Stroking, circling her hands, she moved over his body – his shoulders, his neck, arms, smoothing and kneading with her palms over his clothes, stopping often to turn and kiss his face. She felt him watching her, submitting to her, waiting. When she reached his injured leg she softened her caress to a light, fluttering stroke. She confined her touch to parts of his body which showed she was not impatient to arouse him. She simply loved him with her hands, her face intent. At first he felt foolish, passive. Then, under the warmth of her hands, sensations flooded through him.

She heard his breathing change and smiled into his eyes.

‘Oh God, Jess,’ he whispered.

Seeing the longing in his face, Jess unbuttoned her blouse and took it off, then her vest, with neat, graceful movements. Her skin was naturally slightly sallow across her shoulders and down her outer arms, but her breasts were very white, the nipples pink.

Clumsily, he pulled off his clothes, then reached out to touch her, heard her gasp as his flesh met hers. She clung to him, laughing, lips, tongue, hair moving over his flesh. Seeing her desire for him increased his own and he urgently pushed her down on to her back. She looked up into his eyes, giving her wide, delicious smile.

‘I don’t think there’s much wrong with you, is there?’

He pulled away after, leaving her abruptly cold after the heat of their lovemaking, drew his knees up and sat with his elbows on them, hands supporting his head.

‘I shouldn’t’ve done that. Not the full way. You should’ve stopped me.’

‘I didn’t want to.’ Jess hugged her arms across her breasts, shivering, inching herself closer to him again.

‘You could ’ave another babby.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Well yer
should
care. Christ!’

She had thought that he was with her, that they were back where they used to be, and then it was lost. She had let him make love to her, holding in the back of her mind a tiny hope that she might carry his child again, perhaps be able to lay to rest the phantom of the one she had lost.

His mind was in turmoil. With her, he had experienced the first real depth of feeling, wholeness, that had come to him since he came home. For those moments he had at least had the physical evidence that he was well. He was a man again. He had been able to perform with a woman. But then the desire was replaced by remorse. This was wrong. Since he had met Jess his life had buckled out of shape. It was all wrong. He thought of his mom and dad and Mary and Ruth: he’d let down and betrayed every one of them. He thought of all the good, weary-faced people who had greeted him that morning at the church, who all thought so well of him. Ned Green, the splendid lad they all knew. And this Ned here now – who was he?

He looked round the rotten little room, feeling as he did so, Jess’s caress on his back. He leaned away from her. What was this life with her? Lying and squalor and turning everyone against him. No – it was impossible. It couldn’t go on. The thought came to him,
I want to be safe
.

He got up, with some difficulty, and started to dress. Jess watched him uneasily, her teeth chattering with cold. The feeble little fire had gone out. When they were both dressed she could no longer bear the silence, the way he had closed himself against her so completely. She went to him and held out her arms, her face appealing to him.

Slowly, with infinite regret, he held her close for a moment.

‘I’ve got something to eat,’ she said, trying to be cheerful, to tell herself it was early days. He had been so passionate for her while they were making love. Things would get better.

They had more tea with the buns in the kitchen, huddling close to the range.

‘We need time to get used to each other again, don’t we?’ she said. ‘Will you come here – next week?’

Ned swallowed. He could think of nothing else to say, not in the right words, so he said, ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t want yer pity. Get out of ’ere and don’t come bloody mithering round me, woman!’

John Bullivant had shouted these words, and variations on them, at Polly through the winter as she continued to try and visit him. At first she had gone tentatively, once a week, her heart pounding, frightened of him, but somehow unable to keep away.

‘Leave ’im be if ’e don’t want to see yer,’ Olive said. ‘’E’ll have to get over it in ’is own way.’

‘I can’t leave it, Mom,’ Polly said. ‘If you’d heard ’im like I do, and seen the state ’e’s in . . .’ She couldn’t easily explain how John had touched her heart, how she felt she couldn’t just abandon him to suffer like an animal in a cage, never going out and seeing the sun. And his family couldn’t get anywhere with him and didn’t know what to do for the best.

‘When yer come down to it,’ Polly said to Jess, ‘that’s all the war’ll amount to when it’s over and done with. Widows like me left to grieve or a wheelchair in the corner of a room. There’s nowt we can do except help each other.’

‘I think yer brave,’ Jess said. ‘I don’t think I’d have the courage to go in there and have ’im shouting at me. I wouldn’t know what to say to him.’

‘I think I’ll go more often,’ Polly smiled ruefully. ‘Get ’im used to the idea that I won’t give up!’

She’d call in and sit beside John. The rest of the family got on with their lives around them, timidly, obviously afraid of John, his suffering and his moods. He was so down in himself that he barely ever answered her, sitting with his dark head sunk on to his chest. Mrs Bullivant whispered to Polly that she couldn’t get him to do anything. He wouldn’t even sit and read a newspaper. After a time, instead of shouting at Polly he seemed to realize that it would do no good so instead he sat quiet, seeming indifferent, just tolerating her presence.

Polly talked to him about all sorts: the news, work, what happened when she went to see Mrs Black, Ernie and how they’d got the news about him, where he was when he died. She asked him how he was keeping, never really expecting to get an answer.

The week before Jess met Ned though, John had seemed particularly low. Polly sat beside him, chatting away. John didn’t answer her, although she did feel he was listening. After a while, running out of news and gossip, Polly said,

‘D’you know, your moustache has grown nice and thick again now – and yer face ain’t so thin as it was. You look more like yer old self.’

To her bewilderment, John’s shoulders began to shake and she thought he was beginning to weep, but instead she realized he had been overcome by a desperate mirth. He put his hands over his face, the dry laughter escaping from him.

‘What’ve I said?’

Eventually he looked at her.

‘My old self? Oh that’s good, that is! Look at me! A man with no legs, who can’t walk, can’t work, can’t even dress or get out to do me business without someone seeing to me. I’ll never be any use to anyone ever again, so for God’s sake, woman, leave me alone – why d’yer keep coming, carrying on and on at me?’

Something had broken through the rage, the bitterness. The face that Polly saw before her showed all his agony, his vulnerability.

‘John—’ Polly spoke softly, laying a hand gently on his arm. She could tell Marion Bullivant was listening, but she didn’t care. ‘I lost my ’usband on the Somme. You know that. My life’ll never be the same again now. Grace’ll never know her father and I’m so sad and lonely that sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself. Many’s the time I’ve thought of finishing it altogether, to tell yer the truth. But I’ve got Grace to bring up – and I’ve got a life to live the best I can. And you’ve got one too, John. It’ll never be the same again for you neither, but it’s still a life. You know – if yer’d just go out of the house for once you’ll see there’s lots of boys on the streets with one leg or both missing. You’re not the only one. But I still reckon if it was me I’d sooner be ’ere with no legs and all my family round me, than buried in French mud.’ Her voice was fierce as she finished.

He didn’t say anything, just continued to stare into her face. A nerve in his cheek twitched. He was in a tumult of confused emotions.

‘Maybe . . .’ Polly said. ‘If you was to get out and see some of the other lads – you know, a trouble shared . . .’

He tutted, suddenly furious, and looked down at his lap. ‘I’m finished . . . I’m not a man . . .’

Polly hesitated. Very quietly she said, ‘You are to me, John.’ On the Sunday he agreed, at last, that she should wheel him out for a walk.

‘Shall we all come?’ his mother said nervously. ‘Make a bit of an outing of it?’

‘No!’ John protested sharply. ‘I’m not being taken out with yer all like a freak in a fairground. Just Polly on ’er own. That’s all I want.’

‘It’ll start getting him used to the idea,’ Polly spoke to Mrs Bullivant quietly in the hall, hoping she wasn’t offended. But she was only relieved.

‘It’s marvellous him agreeing to go out of the house!’ she said gratefully. ‘Where’ll yer take ’im?’

‘Cannon Hill Park.’

‘Oh no – that’s too much for yer, Polly – it’s a hell of a walk, and pushing that chair! You’ve no flesh on yer bones as it is!’

‘I’ll manage,’ Polly said determinedly. ‘I’m feeling strong today. And I want to take ’im somewhere really nice. Get some fresh air into ’im and summat pretty to look at. There might be a few daffs out by now.’

The two of them manoeuvred the wheelchair down the step, with John clinging tensely to the arms, cursing at them as they landed it rather joltingly on the pavement. They’d wrapped him up in blankets over his coat because although the sun was shining weakly, it was still a bitter day.

‘Have a nice walk,’ Mrs Bullivant said, then looked as if she wanted to cut her own tongue out. ‘I mean . . .’

‘See yer later.’ Polly smiled ruefully, waving at her.

They didn’t talk much on the way, as Polly needed to concentrate on learning to steer the chair and she could sense that John was having to get used to all sorts of sensations. All these months he had not been outside for more than a few moments. He screwed up his eyes, which watered in the bright winter light. The air felt strange on his pallid skin, everything felt so wide and spacious, even in the streets. And above all, he was not the man who had left Birmingham, full bodied and vigorous. He had to face meeting people outside, being seen for what he was: a man who had been mutilated, changed forever on the battlefield.

‘There at last,’ she said, and saw him nod.

She pushed the chair into the wide, green space, and along the path which led to the pond, pausing to look across the water. As they did so, both of them caught sight of a young man and woman, arm in arm together. But instead of moving with the easy strides of a young couple in love, the man was taking tiny, shuffling steps, and clinging to the girl’s arm as if terrified that a great crevice was about to open in the ground in front of him. His free arm waved in front of him, feeling the air like an antenna. It was immediately apparent that he was newly blind. As the two drew painfully nearer, Polly saw that while the girl was holding his arm, talking to him calmly, reassuring and guiding him, tears which he could not see ran ceaselessly down her face. Polly and John watched silently as they passed.

She wheeled him to the far side of the pond, so that the water was to their right, the park on their left, and it presented a beautiful sight.

‘No daffs yet,’ Polly said. ‘But just look at that.’

Planted in huge numbers, in great patches across the grass were crocuses, all flowering at their perfect best in purple and mauve, rich golden yellow and the purest white. The thin sunlight caught them, illuminating the perfection of their shape and colour as if they were jewels scattered across the green.

John had been looking round, taking everything in, but suddenly Polly saw him lower his head and clasp his hands to his face.

‘John?’ In concern, she leaned down, her face close to his. She stood up and gently laid her hands on his shoulders. After some time he reached round and clasped one of his hands over hers.