by Teresa Crane
And two dead brothers. He turned to look down at her. ‘Your brothers must have been a good deal older than you.’
She nodded. ‘Mmm.’ Her attention had been caught by a bird that flittered amongst the bines. There had been a sudden shower a few minutes earlier and glittering drops of water caught the light. ‘So’s Isobel. I was the last. There were two others in between but they died of the fever before I was born. Mama was poorly after that. Do you like reading?’
‘Yes.’ He grinned. This ability to change the subject without drawing breath was, he had discovered, as characteristic of her as her frank and unselfconscious curiosity. If Poppy wanted to know something, she asked.
‘So do I. It’s one of my favourite things. Have you read The Wind in the Willows?’
‘I have.’
‘That’s what I’m reading now. It’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Mama says I’m always off in a corner with a book. She thinks it’s bad for me.’ Something in her tone made him glance down at her. Her attention had been distracted; she was looking past him to where, in the shadows of the far side of the hopfield, there was movement. Cheerful voices called. Women, skirts kilted about their knees, trudged two by two into the rows of bines, hauling with them the simple wood and sacking bins into which they picked the hops. Muddy-legged wild-haired children whooped and called. Reluctantly, Poppy stood up. ‘Oh, bother. I suppose I’d better go.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not supposed to play with the hopping children. Papa doesn’t even like me to talk to them.’
‘Oh?’
She was watching the influx with a certain wistfulness. ‘They are a bit rough,’ she said, ‘but they seem to have a lot of fun.’
He ruffled her hair.
She sat down again, her small mouth set in a sudden, obstinate line that Kit was coming to recognise. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t stay for a little while. I’m with you, after all, aren’t I?’
Kit nodded, amused. From the things she had told him over the past couple of weeks and from what he had gleaned from his usually benignly tolerant uncle, he did not somehow get the impression that ‘Papa’ would be any happier to know that than he would be to discover his daughter pelting round the hopfields with the pickers’ children, but he did not say so. Harold Matthews had come as close to being caustic as his charitable nature allowed when questioned about Poppy’s parents. ‘One would have thought,’ he had said gently, ‘that losing the boys so tragically would have taught them that there is more in life than the pursuit of wealth and the niceties – or otherwise – of social climbing. The father, I’m afraid, is an old-fashioned martinet of Victorian inclinations, and the mother, whilst charming, is an unmitigated snob.’ Not for the first time Kit found himself wondering how such a pairing had produced his friendly, open, inquisitive little Mouse.
Two children, a small boy and a girl of about Poppy’s age, barefoot, dark of skin and eye and thin as rails were approaching them. They stopped a few yards away, faces wary. Poppy watched in fascination as the mud oozed between their bare toes. The girl smeared at her nose with a filthy hand. Poppy was enthralled. Kit had turned a leaf of his sketch book, and his pencil was flying.
The older child looked at him suspiciously. ‘What yer doin’, Mister?’
Kit for a second did not reply. Poppy had climbed on to the box to watch. ‘He’s drawing you,’ she said.
The girl, unsmiling, grabbed the boy’s hand and stepped back a little. ‘Wha’ for?’
‘Because it’s what he does.’ Poppy was patient. She glanced back at the other girl. ‘He’s ever so good at it,’ she added reassuringly.
Kit’s lips twitched.
The dark eyes narrowed. ‘What d’yer pay?’ she asked.
Kit’s pencil stilled for a second. He tilted his head, looking at her. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘What d’yer pay? Fer drawin’ someone?’
Poppy answered for him. ‘He doesn’t pay. People pay him.’
The tousled head shook emphatically. ‘Oh, no. No fear! You wanna draw me, you pay me.’ She tapped her narrow chest with her thumb, then stuck out a thin, dirty, well-shaped hand, flat out.
Poppy stared at her.
Kit laughed outright, parked the pencil behind his ear and fished in his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said.
Long, dark-skinned fingers with nibbled nails curled about the penny. A brief, wicked, smile flashed. ‘Ta, Mister.’ And with one fleet movement she turned and was gone, hair tossing, bare legs flashing as she ran.
Kit looked at the little boy, who had shoved a filthy thumb in his mouth and was watching them with huge black eyes. ‘Would you like a penny too?’ Kit asked gently.
The child nodded. Kit put his hand in his pocket again, handed a coin to the boy. The boy snatched it, turned and scampered after his sister.
Poppy fidgeted a little uneasily on her box. Papa says you shouldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘He says they’re here to work, not to beg, and that if you give them things they’ll only come back for more. He says it encourages them to steal. And anyway—’ she added, suddenly stern ‘—he didn’t say “please” or “thank you”.’ She jumped from the box, brushed industriously at her skirt.
Kit tucked his book away into his satchel. ‘Well, neither did he,’ he said peaceably. ‘Perhaps no one’s ever told him that he should?’
That startling thought silenced her for a while. That there could possibly be a world not dominated by ‘pleases’ and ‘thank-yous’ and ‘may I?s’ and such like was a notion of such novelty it took some considerable stretch of the imagination to get to grips with it. It went, she supposed, with bare feet and uncombed hair and wiping your nose with the back of your hand. And – wonderful thought! – no times tables, no samplers to embroider or, in Poppy’s case to spend hours unpicking and re-embroidering, no lists of dates of the birth and death of kings. But no books either. None of Mrs Butler’s delicious apple pies. No comfortable bed each night, in your own pretty room with fresh sheets and a nightlight and Mama’s sweet perfume as she bent to kiss you goodnight. Poppy had seen the huts being disinfected and readied for the pickers; she knew the families slept together on a single plank bed and a mattress stuffed with straw, that they cooked on open fires and ate off tin plates. She thought of the gypsy girl, of that sudden, wicked, flashing smile, of the bare legs and the tossing hair. That one didn’t lie awake at night fretting at the thought of being sent away to school, that was for sure. But then – what of comfort, and the fire in the drawing-room on a winter’s evening, when Mama or Isobel would give in, laughing, and read you a story? The other girl hadn’t given the impression that she even knew of such things. Poppy frowned ferociously. It was all such a puzzle.
‘Do you want one too?’
She looked up at her companion. Kit had taken another penny from his pocket and held it out. She liked his hands. They were long, and competent, and the nails were square and very short and clean. ‘Pardon?’
‘A penny—’ His eyes were laughing ‘—for your thoughts.’
She giggled. ‘I was just wondering—’ Her voice faded. It was difficult to put into words exactly what she had been wondering ‘—what it would be like to be that girl,’ she finished, lamely.
Kit regarded her for what seemed like a long time, his eyes suddenly sober. Then he sat down on the box, bringing his face down to the level of hers, and took her hands in his. ‘Don’t be fooled, Poppy. There’s precious little romance in destitution. Precious little dignity, either.’
She kicked at the box with the toe of her boot and gloomily voiced the thought at the forefront of her mind. ‘I’ll bet she’s not going to have to go away to school.’
‘Almost certainly not.’ His voice was dry.
The pickers had settled at the far end of the field, the pole-pullers were hooking the bines from the wires, ready for stripping. The women – for in this, the fourth year of the war, most of the p
ickers were women, supplemented by a few older men and a few, maimed, young – settled themselves on the sides of the bins, their backs against the uprights, fingers and tongues flying with equal alacrity. Dogs and children tumbled about them. A cool wind had begun to blow and once more there was the scent of rain in the air. ‘They aren’t doing this for fun, you know.’ Kit’s eyes flickered to the pickers and back to hers. ‘They’re doing it for money. And it’s damned hard work. They could probably live for a year on what your Mama and your sister spend on perfume. Security is not to be sniffed at. And, unfortunately, security is money. It’s all very well to be a free soul but even a free soul has to eat occasionally.’
She watched him as he stood, swinging his satchel on to his shoulder. They fell into step companionably, following the rutted cart track that led along the side of the field and back to the footpath. A great, ambling carthorse passed them, pulling a cart with wheels as tall as Poppy. The driver saluted her with his whip and she waved back. She cocked her head, looking up at Kit. ‘Have you got any money?’
The typically direct question brought a smothered snort of laughter. After a moment he shook his head. ‘No, Poppy. I don’t have any money. None at all. Well, not the kind you’ve got, anyway.’
She regarded him with wide, guileless brown eyes. ‘I haven’t got any money.’
He nibbled his lip, suppressing his amusement. ‘No, I suppose that’s true. And that reminds me—’ He fished in his pocket again, drew out a coin, ‘I owe you a penny.’
She took it. ‘Thank you.’ The grins they exchanged were the very currency of friendship.
Some ten minutes later they crossed the river by a narrow footbridge and came to the fallen tree where their paths diverged. As had become their habit they paused there, Kit leaning against the huge fallen trunk, Poppy scrambling with his help on to it. Clouds billowed and built in the sky. Something the child had said earlier had recurred to Kit. ‘Don’t you want to go away to school?’ he asked.
‘No!’ The word was so quick and so vehement that he glanced at her in surprise.
‘Why don’t you want to go?’
She shrugged, looking down, picking at her fingernails. ‘I just don’t. That’s all.’ How to find the words to explain? How to express the terror of finally, and with absolute certainty, losing her freedom? Isobel laughed at her. Isobel told her what fun she would have. Isobel had loved school. Isobel had belonged. Isobel had left St Beatrice’s with regret, with everyone’s approval, with the undisputed accolade of being the most popular head girl in the history of the school, and with no academic qualifications at all. Her eager accounts of the friendships, the crushes, the small-mindedness and the conspiracies of school life had appalled Poppy… I just don’t,’ she said again.
He shrugged. ‘Fair enough,’ he said gently.
She looked up in genuine surprise. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me off? Everyone else does.’
He eyed her, pulled a face. ‘Poor Poppy,’ he said in mock sympathy, and in a moment she was gurgling with laughter, bouncing on the tree like a monkey.
‘Poppy? What on earth are you up to now?’
The voice, light and musical but with an edge of exasperation to it, came from above them, from the top of the grassy slope of the river bank. Both of them looked up. Silhouetted against the angry, billowing clouds stood a strikingly pretty young woman. She was dressed in dark blue, a jacket and skirt of fashionable military cut, the skirt short enough to show the fetching turn of her ankle. The braided jacket was belted round a waist that looked slender enough to be spanned by Kit’s two hands. Her wind-blown curly hair, drawn back from her face into a loose bunch on her neck, was the colour of marigolds, and even from where he stood Kit could see that her eyes were the clearest blue: forget-me-nots after rain.
‘Oh, Lord,’ Poppy said under her breath. ‘It’s Isobel. Now I’m for it!’
Chapter Two
Kit was the first to recover himself. ‘Miss Brookes,’ he said, smiling, ‘it’s nice to meet you. Poppy has told me a lot about you.’
But not that this older sister of hers was a beauty; that the child had omitted to mention.
Delicate eyebrows lifted. Isobel did not smile. She watched him, gravely and questioningly.
‘Kit Enever,’ he offered, limping up the slope to extend his hand.
Poppy had hastily slid from the tree-trunk and was surreptitiously dusting at her skirts. ‘He’s my friend. He’s an artist. He hurt his leg in the war.’
Isobel hesitated a moment before, very briefly, taking the proffered hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Enever. Poppy, for goodness’ sake – I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Mama’s waiting for you. Do come along.’ The words were addressed to her sister, but her eyes, wide and thoughtful, stayed upon the young man’s face. Though thin and tired-looking it was an interesting face, dominated by clear, long-lashed eyes of gold-flecked brown that now were surveying her with an intentness that, as their fingers brushed, brought a slight and becoming flush to her cheeks. His thick hair, curling at his collar a little longer than was fashionable, was tousled and damp from the rain.
Poppy was standing on one leg, polishing a dirty boot on the back of her already snagged stocking. She looked from one to the other, a slight frown on her small face. ‘All right, I’m coming,’ she said loudly.
Still their eyes held.
‘Well?’ Poppy said, a little crossly, ‘Come on, Isobel. We shouldn’t keep Mama waiting. You know she doesn’t like it.’ She was obscurely put out by this encounter, and by the strange way the two grown-ups were looking at each other. Kit was her friend. Hers. She didn’t want to share him. Especially not with Isobel.
Her words attracted her sister’s attention at last. The eyebrows lifted again, faintly exasperated. ‘Since when did such things bother you, young lady? You were supposed to be back at the house half an hour ago.’
‘It was my fault,’ Kit said quickly. ‘I’ve been sketching in the fields. We forgot the time.’
‘You didn’t know I had to be back, anyway,’ said the scrupulously honest Poppy. ‘And I forgot.’
Isobel shook her head resignedly. The wind caught a bright strand of hair and blew it across her face. She tidied it back with slender fingers. Her skin was pale and smooth as pearl. Kit found himself wondering if it would be as cool and silky to the touch as it looked.
His fingers itched for a pencil. Isobel held out her hand to her sister, who slipped her grubby paw into it. The huge eyes flickered back to Kit. ‘Goodbye, Mr Enever. It was nice to meet you.’
‘Goodbye.’ Again the intensity of his gaze brought the blood to her face.
Poppy tugged on her sister’s hand. Isobel ducked her head and turned away.
‘’Bye, Poppy.’
Poppy waved to Kit with her free hand. ‘’Bye.’
Kit watched them as they set off towards the house, the older girl tall, slim and graceful, the little one bouncing, small and sturdy beside her.
Poppy turned and waved once more. He lifted a hand.
Isobel did not turn. ‘You really are naughty, you know,’ she said. ‘You know very well you aren’t to talk to strangers.’
‘He’s not a stranger,’ Poppy said. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Is he indeed?’
‘He’s staying at the Rectory with his uncle until his leg gets better. He’s an artist. He was drawing pictures of the war when he got shot. He’s been up in a balloon. They send people up in balloons to see what the Germans are doing, and he went up in one and took some photographs—’
‘You seem to know a remarkable amount about him.’
‘I told you. He’s my friend.’
Isobel stopped walking for a moment, turned to survey her young sister with serious eyes. ‘Poppy – I’m sorry, but I don’t think Mama and Papa would—’
‘Oh, no!’ Poppy interrupted fiercely, her small face passionate. ‘Isobel, no! Please don’t tell them. Please! They’d spoil it. I know they
would! I’ll be good, I promise I will. I won’t be late any more and I’ll come when I’m called and I’ll keep my clothes clean – but please, Isobel, don’t tell Mama and Papa about Kit.’
Isobel nibbled her lip, started walking again. Poppy ran to keep up with her. ‘Isobel! Please!’
Isobel was trying with little success not to dwell on the recollection of a pair of intent, gold-flecked eyes. ‘We’ll see,’ she said.
*
In the eighteen years of her privileged life Isobel Brookes had seldom been denied anything she really wanted. There were few people she could not beguile into indulging her. Only circumstances had balked her – she hated the war that had killed her brothers and deprived her of the admirers and the bright social life she knew would have been her natural due in more normal times. Her mother’s wistful and nostalgic recollections of the parties, the dances, the picnics, the gentlemen callers of her own youth served only to make things worse. Isobel was convinced that life was passing her by, that nothing interesting or exciting would ever happen to her, as it did to the heroines of the romances she loved to read. She was absolutely certain, despite her mother’s gentle reassurances, that buried here in the country her looks would fade, her figure thicken before her dream – her only dream – of love and marriage could be fulfilled. Vivacious and self-centred, as warm-hearted as she was light-minded, in common with her young sister she could be remarkably stubborn in pursuit of something she wanted; the difference between them being that Poppy had never acquired the talent – and probably never would – of disguising it behind guileful smiles and pretty words. Isobel felt cheated. She felt that through no fault of her own her life was being wasted. Isobel was bored.
It was a dangerous state of mind for an attractive and impressionable young woman who had just met – and made an impression on – an utterly unsuitable but equally attractive young man.
*
‘Did you get into trouble?’ Kit threw a stone into the slow-flowing stream, watched as the ripples widened around the spot where it had disappeared. He had come across Poppy on the stone bridge playing an arcane game of her own that involved dropping sticks into the water, then racing to the other side of the bridge to watch them appear from beneath the moss-covered stone arch, and tossing grass into the fierce wind to see how far it would fly before dropping into the water. He had watched her, amused, for a long time, struck as he so often had been by her single-mindedness, her ability to concentrate totally on what she was doing. Her apparently total self-sufficiency.