Poppy's War (2 page)

‘Good God, who have you got there, Mother?’

The voice was young, male and well spoken but Poppy did not dare look up.

‘Guy! Do you have to ride as if you’re in a Wild West show?’ Mrs Carroll said angrily. ‘Get that beast away from the Bentley before it does some damage.’

‘Have you kidnapped a little girl, Mother? I thought you hated children.’

The humour in the voice was not lost on Poppy. She struggled to sit upright, but as she lifted her head she saw the horse’s huge yellow teeth bared as if it was going to snap her head off. Everything went black.

She woke up feeling something cold and wet dripping down her neck. A fat, rosy face hovered above hers and for a moment Poppy thought she was at home in West Ham.

‘Gran? Is that you?’

‘Gran indeed. What a cheek!’

‘Well, you are a grandma, Mrs Toon.’

‘That’s as maybe, Violet. But I’m not grandma to the likes of this little ’un, come from goodness knows where in the slums of London.’

Poppy was raised to a sitting position and the younger person, who she realised must be Violet, shoved a glass of water into her hands. ‘Take a sip of that, for Gawd’s sake.’

Poppy gazed in wonder at her surroundings. She was in a kitchen, but it was enormous. The whole ground floor of her home in West Ham would have
fitted
into it with room to spare.

‘We thought you were dead,’ Violet said cheerfully. ‘But now we can see you’re alive and kicking.’

Poppy drank some water and immediately felt a little better. ‘I thought for a moment I was back at home.’

Mrs Toon cleared her throat noisily and wiped her hands on her starched white apron. ‘There, there! You’re a very lucky little girl to have been taken in by Mrs Carroll. I hope you’re not going to give us any trouble, Poppy Brown.’

‘I never asked to come here, missis.’

Mrs Toon and Violet exchanged meaningful glances, as if to say ‘I told you so’.

‘None of your lip, young lady,’ Mrs Toon said sharply. ‘You’re a guest in this house, although I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with you. Are you going to be kept below stairs or upstairs? Mrs Carroll never said one way or t’other. But whatever she decides, you must keep a civil tongue in your head, or you’ll answer to me.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Poppy said, recalling Mrs Carroll’s lesson in manners.

‘La-di-dah!’ Mrs Toon said, chuckling. ‘Better give her a bowl of soup and some bread and butter, Violet. And then you can take her upstairs and run a bath for her.’

‘It’s not Friday.’ Poppy looked for the tin tub set in front of the black-lead stove, but there was none. Come to that there was no stove either. There was a
large
gas cooker and some sort of range with shiny metal lids on the top, but that was all. She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, seeing as how you got no hot water, I’ll skip the bath, ta.’

‘People in proper houses have baths every day,’ Mrs Toon said firmly. ‘And I don’t know what gives you the idea we haven’t any hot water. We have the very latest in everything at Squire’s Knapp.’

‘That’s right,’ Violet said, nodding. ‘We had central heating before even Cook was born, and that’s going back some.’ She placed a bowl of steaming soup on a stool which she set beside Poppy. ‘I daresay you don’t have proper bathrooms in the slums. Eat up and I’ll show you how posh folks live.’

The soup was as good as anything that Gran could make, Poppy thought appreciatively as she bit into the hunk of freshly baked bread liberally spread with thick yellow butter. She had not tasted butter before as they always ate margarine at home. She stopped chewing as she thought of her family and suddenly it was difficult to swallow. She had lost track of time but a sideways glance at the big white-faced clock on the kitchen wall told her it was teatime. Dad and her elder brother Joe would be home from their jobs on the railways, and Mum would be stoking the coke boiler to heat water for them to wash off the grime of the day, while Gran peeled potatoes ready to boil and serve with a bit of fat bacon or boiled cod. Grandad would be out in the back garden smoking his pipe and keeping an eye out for the neighbour’s
pigeons
. The birds were supposed to fly straight home, but were inclined to stop off in order to sample the tender green shoots of cabbage and a Brussels sprout or two.

‘What’s up with you?’ Violet demanded. ‘Don’t you like proper food? I bet your family lives on rats and mice up in London.’

Apparently overhearing this remark, Mrs Toon caught Violet a swift clout round the ear. ‘Don’t tease the kid, Violet Guppy. How would you like it if you were sent away from home and had to live with strangers? You go on upstairs and run the bath water and don’t dawdle.’

Uttering a loud howl Violet ran from the kitchen clutching her hand to her ear. Poppy swallowed hard and blinked, determined that whatever happened she was not going to disgrace herself by bursting into tears. Gran said tears were a sign of weakness, like not being able to work a pair of scissors with your left hand in order to cut the fingernails on your right hand. Gran said if you couldn’t control your emotions or your left hand, it was just weak will and not to be tolerated.

‘Eat up, little ’un,’ ordered Mrs Toon. ‘I haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you, you know.’

‘Mrs Toon. I’ve got a message from her upstairs.’

Poppy twisted round in her chair to see a maid wearing a black dress with a white cap and apron standing in the doorway.

‘Mrs Carroll wants to see you and the evacuee in
the
drawing room as soon as she’s been fed and bathed.’

Mrs Toon tossed her head causing her white cap to sit askew on top of her silver-grey hair. ‘All right, Olive. She’s nearly finished her food. You’d better take her up to the bathroom and watch your cousin Violet. That girl’s got a spiteful streak in her nature and I don’t want her trying to drown young Poppy here. Mrs Carroll wouldn’t like it.’

‘Mrs Carroll says to burn the evacuee’s clothes because they’ll probably be – you know.’ She winked and nodded her head, lowering her voice. ‘She says to find some of Miss Pamela’s old clothes and see if they fit.’

‘As if I haven’t got enough to do.’ Mrs Toon clicked her tongue against her teeth. She sighed. ‘Dinner to prepare and an evacuee to feed and clothe; I just haven’t got the time to go poking about in Miss Pamela’s room. You’ll have to do that, Olive.’

Poppy leapt to her feet. ‘You ain’t going to burn my clothes. My mum sent me with my Sunday best and I haven’t got fleas. It’s only poor folk’s kids that have fleas, not people who live in Quebec Road, West Ham.’

Olive reached out a long, thin arm and grabbed Poppy by the scruff of her neck. ‘Less of your cheek, young lady. Mind your manners or Mrs Carroll will send you back to London to be bombed by them Germans.’

Poppy felt her heart kick against her ribs. If Olive
had
punched her in the stomach it couldn’t have hurt more. ‘They won’t bomb West Ham, will they?’

‘Why do you think the government sent all you kids out to pester us in the country? Silly girl!’ Olive gave her a shove towards the door. ‘Now get up the stairs and we’ll make sure you haven’t brought any little lodgers with you.’

After an excruciating time half submerged in what felt like boiling water while Violet scrubbed her back with a loofah that felt more like a handful of barbed wire and Olive shampooed her hair, digging her fingers spitefully into Poppy’s scalp, she was eventually deemed to be clean enough to be taken down to the drawing room. Dressed in clothes that were expensive but at least two sizes too large for her small frame, Poppy waited nervously outside the door while Olive went inside to announce that she was ready for inspection. Moments later she reappeared. ‘Go in. Speak only when you’re spoken to.’

Poppy entered the room as nervously as if she were venturing into a cage filled with wild animals. Mrs Carroll was seated in a large blue velvet armchair with her feet raised up on a tapestry-covered footstool. In one elegantly manicured hand she held a glass of sherry and between two fingers on the other hand she balanced her cigarette holder. She was talking to a thin, white-haired man seated in a chair on the opposite side of the huge fireplace.
She
stopped speaking to stare at Poppy. ‘She looks cleaner, Olive. It’s fortunate that I hadn’t found time to send Miss Pamela’s old clothes off to the orphanage. They fit Poppy quite nicely, considering she’s so small and thin.’

Olive bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mrs Toon would like to know where she’s to put her, ma’am.’

Mrs Carroll took a sip of sherry and sighed. ‘I don’t know. There must be a spare room in the servants’ quarters.’

A sharp intake of breath told Poppy that this suggestion was not popular with Olive.

‘The ones that aren’t used have been shut up for years, ma’am.’

The kindly-looking gentleman had been silent until now but he frowned, shaking his head. ‘You can’t put the child up there, Marina. What about the old nursery?’

‘Don’t be silly, Edwin. Pamela will need to put Rupert in there when they come to stay.’

‘Well, just for the time being then, my dear. The girl will feel more at home in the children’s room.’

Poppy cast him a grateful look. He seemed nice and had kind eyes.

‘So you are Poppy Brown,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘How do you do, Poppy? My name is Edwin Carroll.’

‘Pleased to meet you, mister.’ Poppy gave his hand a shake and thought how soft his skin was, not a bit like Dad’s which was calloused by years of manual
labour
.

Marina Carroll groaned audibly. ‘The reply to how do you do is simply how do you do, Poppy. Not pleased to meet you.’

The lines on Edwin’s forehead knotted together in a frown. ‘I think the lessons in etiquette might wait until the child has settled in, Marina.’ His eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, smiled kindly at Poppy. ‘Now you go with Olive, Poppy, and she’ll make you comfortable in the nursery. Tomorrow we’ll have a chat and you can tell me all about your family in, where was it? Caterham?’

‘West Ham, Edwin,’ Marina snapped. ‘Take her away, Olive. We’ll have dinner at eight o’clock whether Guy gets home on time or not.’

‘Yes’m.’ Olive seized Poppy by the arm and dragged her out of the room.

Mrs Toon said she was too busy with dinner to think about minor details like Poppy’s comfort and she put Olive and Violet in charge of settling Poppy in the old nursery.

Grumbling all the way, Olive trudged up three flights of stairs with the reluctant Violet carrying a pile of clean bed linen and Poppy following wearily carrying nothing but her gas mask and toothbrush, which was all that was left after Mrs Toon had incinerated her few possessions in the thing they called an Aga.

Olive and Violet made up a bed in the night
nursery
. After a great deal of bickering and a little half-hearted flapping around with a duster, they agreed that they had done enough for one day, and Olive flounced out of the room followed by Violet, who popped her head back around the door and poked her tongue out at Poppy. ‘Sleep tight, Popeye. Don’t worry about the ghost. The white lady don’t do much more than tug off the bedclothes and throw things about the room.’

The door slammed shut and Poppy remained motionless listening to their footsteps retreating down the staircase, and then silence closed in around her. She was unused to quietness. In the cramped living conditions of number 18 Quebec Road, the house reverberated with the sound of men’s deep voices and the clumping of Dad’s and Joe’s heavy boots on bare linoleum. Mum and Gran chattered noisily as they pounded washing on the ridged glass washboard, riddled the cinders in the boiler or beat the living daylights out of the threadbare carpets as they hung on the line in the tiny back garden. Poppy’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of her mum with her tired but still pretty face and her work-worn hands. The smell of Lifebuoy soap hung about her in an aura unless she was going to the pictures with Dad, and then she splashed on a little of the Californian Poppy perfume that Poppy had saved up for and bought from Woolworth’s to give her as a birthday present.

The day room was furnished with what looked
like
odd bits of furniture that were no longer needed in the reception rooms. A child’s desk and chair were placed beneath one of the tall windows and a battered doll’s house stood in one corner of the room. A tea table and two chairs occupied the centre of the room and two saggy armchairs sat on either side of the fireplace. It was not the most cheerful of places and Poppy shivered even though the room was hot and stuffy. She could imagine the white lady sitting in one of the chairs or coming to her in the middle of the night. She had read about haunted houses and they were always old and large, just like Squire’s Knapp.

She hurried into the night nursery, closing the door behind her. This room was slightly smaller and more homely. A baby’s cot stood in one corner, with a large fluffy teddy bear lying face down on the pillow. Twin beds took up the rest of the floor space, separated by a white-painted bedside cabinet that some bored child had scribbled on with wax crayons and pencil. Momentarily diverted, Poppy climbed on the bed beneath the window and dangled her legs over the side as she tried to read the scrawled writing. Apart from matchstick men with six fingers on each spiky hand, the only word legible after many applications of Vim was the name
GUY
, printed in thick block capitals and repeated over and over again. Poppy lay down on the pink satin eiderdown and closed her eyes, too exhausted to go into the nursery bathroom and clean her teeth or to put on
the
flannelette nightgown that Olive had left under her pillow.

When she awakened next morning Poppy thought for a moment that she was back in the boxroom at home, but the brightly coloured cretonne curtains that floated in the breeze from the open window were not her bedroom curtains. The Beatrix Potter prints on the walls were nothing like the pictures of film stars that she had cut from movie magazines and pinned over her bed at home. She sat up, rubbing her eyes as memories of yesterday flooded back in an overwhelming tide of misery. She strained her ears for sounds of life in the house but there was silence except for the birds singing away in the garden below. She knelt on the bed and rested her elbows on the sill as she looked out of the window. Her room was at the back of the house overlooking a wide sweep of green lawns, just like the cricket pitch in West Ham Park. She caught a glimpse of the mirror-like sheen of the lake between a stand of silver birch trees and a dense shrubbery. A movement down below caught her eye as a disembodied hand shook a yellow duster out of a window and was withdrawn almost immediately.