Fall of Poppies

by Heather Webb

  “Will do.”

  The postmaster tips his cap and walks back down the garden path, his heart heavy with the burden he carries in his bag. He wishes Arthur had invited him in for tea. Wishes he could stall time.

  Arthur waits for Harry to cycle off before he closes the back door. He rests his forehead against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief. The envelope shakes in his hand.

  He returns to his buttered toast and says a silent prayer of thanks as he sits at the kitchen table and reads his son’s words.

  Somewhere in France. October 30th, ’18.

  Dear Mother,

  I hope this finds you well. Not much to tell this time. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday for next week. I hope the bonfires will be burning for Guy Fawkes. I’ll be seeing a different sort of fireworks, of that you can be certain. There is talk of an agreement with Fritz. They say there’ll be an Armistice before the year is out. I can hardly let myself believe it, so we fight on.

  Thank you for the OXO cubes—­they really do make the soup taste so much better. And if you could see your way to a packet of smokes next time you write, that would be good of you. I am collecting the little cards in the packets. It is cricketers this time. I only need two more for the set.

  I hope Father is well and that the influenza is not affecting the village too badly.

  I remain your loving son,

  Will

  The cat stands, stretches, and meows to be let out. Simple, ordinary things that punctuate the hour, the day, a year, a life.

  Time moves on.

  11:00 A.M.

  AS THE CHURCH bells chime the first stroke of the hour of eleven, Annie flinches. Two minutes have passed. Two minutes is too long. Each chime sends a chill to her heart. Still the infant struggles to breathe; to be.

  The echo of the eleventh chime passes. All is silent for a heartbeat and then the bells begin to peal, crying out their news, sending the message rushing over rooftops and barns, through open windows and down chimney pots. The villagers of Brimsworth stop to listen. Like a wildfire sweeping the land, England hears. Parish after parish, city after city, town after town, village after village learns the news they have all been waiting to hear for so very long.

  “It is over!” they cry, falling into the arms of friends and neighbors, grasping the hands of strangers and lovers as they absorb the news. “It is over.”

  After four long, dreadful years, it is over. Their boys, their husbands, their brothers and fathers can come home. The tears fall with a thousand thanks and sorrows. In quiet corners of dimly lit homes, mothers and wives sink to their knees, lamenting the loss of their husbands and sons more keenly than ever before. It is over, and yet the ringing of the bells seems to mock them. It feels as though their struggle has only just begun.

  At the public baths, young Agnes Robson rushes in to tell the women. “Did you hear? The war—­it’s over? They’re coming home. Our boys are coming home!”

  Of the five women she tells, only one has any cause to celebrate. She puts her head in her hands and sobs silently. The others have lost everyone: sons and husbands. Gone.

  They look at young Agnes, absorb the news for a moment, and continue to scrub their weather-­beaten skin.

  “That’s as may be, Agnes,” one of them remarks. “That’s as may be. But I’ve still a week of grime to shift.”

  “But . . . aren’t you pleased? We can all get back to normal now. It’s over!”

  The woman stops her scrubbing and looks at the young girl. “Nothing will ever get back to normal, Agnes. Nothing is over for the likes of me. Nothing can bring them back. Not even the end of the war means the war is over. It will never be over for some of us.” She picks up the soap and scrubs with renewed vigor at her arms. “Not all the water or soap in the country can wash away our suffering.” Her tears slide down her ruddy cheeks. “What was it for, eh? What the bloody hell was it all for?”

  Tom and Beth Miller are at their cottage gate when Bill Lacy comes running toward them, his arms flailing in great circles like the sails on the flour mill.

  “Did you hear? Did you hear? It’s over, lad. It’s over!”

  Tom nods. “I did, Bill. I did.” He takes his daughter’s hand and they rush inside.

  THE WHITE CAP is the first thing Will sees when he stirs. A white cap, standing in a stiff peak, like the Alps when they have snow on them. He will go there, someday.

  She has her back to him, standing perfectly still, gazing out of the small gap at the side of the field tent. She is bathed in a soft peach light. It is a peculiarly pretty light. Will wishes he had his brushes and oils. He would paint her. Right here. He tries to lift his hands to frame her between his fingers, but winces with pain as he tenses his muscles. His fingers brush the cool of the sheets. His arms lie idle at his sides. A light breeze tugs at her skirt, moving it around her ankles like seaweed beneath the waves. She takes small sips from a mug—­tea, he presumes—­or perhaps she prefers coffee. He would like to know. He would like to know so much more about her.

  He turns his head carefully the other way, looking around, trying to remember. Slowly, it comes back to him: the explosion, the smothering earth. He starts to panic, the bile rising in his throat. The bedsheets are pulled so tight across him that he cannot move his arms or legs. He tries to cry out but he cannot hear. He cries again, louder. She rushes to him, her mouth moving, but he cannot hear her. For an awful moment, he is back in his earthen tomb. Her mouth keeps moving as she looks at him, her eyes fixed on his so that there is nothing and nobody else in the world.

  She has the prettiest eyes. Her hand, in his, so soft like velvet. She loosens the blankets, shakes his pillow, helps him to raise his head, gives him something to drink, and lays him gently back down. She stays with him, sits on the side of the bed, holds his hand. He grips it tight in return.

  His breathing slows. His heart beats softer within his chest.

  “You’re very pretty.” His words the softest whisper.

  Her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of pink, just like the carnations in his mam’s garden.

  The nurse straightens the edge of her starched white apron and moves on to the next bed, but she looks back over toward him and in that very moment, he feels alive.

  He says a prayer of thanks as he thinks of his mother and the words that brought him back from the earth. “Thank you, Mam,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

  He closes his eyes and drifts into a peaceful sleep, visions of pink carnations dancing in the breeze in the garden.

  THE COLOR SPREADS outward from the center of the infant’s chest, like paint in water. It moves over him, blotting out the blue and turning it a beautiful glowing pink.

  Annie gasps. “Oh, Lord. That’s it, little one. That’s it.”

  The color floods his body with life. It is so astonishing it is like watching him being born all over again. His tiny fingers flex and scrunch into the tightest of balls. His toes and legs jerk and while the church bells ring out, Annie hears the most wonderful sound, as the child lets out the biggest cry. It is the greatest affirmation of life that Annie has ever heard. She swaddles him quickly, hugging him tight to her chest. She can feel his tiny little sparrow’s heart fluttering against her breast.

  “There, there, now,” she whispers, laughing through her tears of relief. “There, there, now. That’s the boy. You let it all out. You tell us all about it.”

  Tom and Beth rush into the room.

  “You have a mighty fine son here, Mr. Miller. A mighty fine son indeed.”

  She carries him toward the narrow window, where the sun is just peeping out from behind a cloud. The light dances into the room, brightening everything. “He’s a real beauty, Mr. Miller. A real beauty. Gave us a bit of a fright there for a minute or two, but everything seems to be quite all right now.”

  With the sound of her child
’s cry, Vera Miller stirs from her dreaming. She takes the tiny bundle from Annie and lets the child suckle hungrily and noisily at her breast.

  As the Miller family huddles together on the bed watching their tiny miracle learn how to be alive, Annie busies herself, tidying away the soiled rags and towels and bedsheets. She sets coal on the fire until it catches and the flames lick and spit with life. She leaves the small room then, sets the kettle on the range, and makes everyone a good strong cup of tea.

  Only when she is leaving does she ask Tom what the church bells were pealing for.

  “It’s over, Annie. The war. It’s over.”

  Her fingers fall still as she buttons her coat to the collar. “Well, well. Isn’t that wonderful news. The news we’ve all been waiting for.” She puts out a hand to steady herself against the dresser as she snaps her medical bag closed. Her knees are weak beneath her skirt. Her hands tremble.

  “You get home now to Arthur and wait for your Will to come home. How about that then, Annie. We’ll never forget this day, will we?”

  “We certainly will not, Tom.” She instinctively offers her hand for him to shake. It is a gesture. An olive branch on behalf of all the women in the village. “I’ll be back a little later to check how everything is. A good feed and some rest should see him right.”

  As she opens the door to leave, the postmaster props his bicycle against the low stone wall at the front of the house. His cheeks are pinched; his face is drawn. Annie notices a telegram in his hand.

  “Morning, Annie.”

  “Morning, Harry.” She keeps her head down, pulls her shawl around her shoulders as she passes through the gate.

  Harry places a hand on her arm. “Arthur says to hurry on home. Letter from Will.”

  She stalls; looks up at him. She wants to drop to her knees and weep but she is too proud. “Thank you.” Her voice is a whisper on the breeze. “Thank you, Harry.” She glances at the piece of paper in his hand, looks back toward the door to the little cottage. He shakes his head. “And God bless you, Harry. God bless us all.”

  She puts her head down and makes for home, the knock on the Millers’ door behind her a sickening punch to her stomach. There is nothing more she can do here; whatever words are contained in that telegram, they will have to face it without her.

  She walks briskly through the village, along the rutted lanes and roughshod roads, autumn leaves skittering along beside her. She enjoys the sun at her back now that it has won the battle with the clouds. The breeze tugs at her cap and hair. It feels urgent, blowing her along. She feels alert; alive. She can’t wait to get home and begins to run.

  Arthur is waiting for her, standing in the sunshine on the back step. She runs to him, throws her bag down onto the shale path, and throws her arms around him.

  “It is true, Arthur? Is it true it’s over?”

  He looks at her, takes her face in his hands. He nods. “It’s over, love.”

  They look into each other’s eyes and understand as they hold each other, weeping for the son they have lost and for the son who will return to them and for everything that has passed in the years between.

  IN THE STATION master’s cottage, Tom Miller puts the slim piece of paper onto the table and walks over to the sideboard. He picks up the photograph and runs his fingers over the glass to brush away the dust that has settled there. Such a proud lad in his uniform. So like her. It seems especially cruel that they should learn of his death on this day, of all days. Killed five days ago.

  “They took you five days too soon, Danny,” he whispers to the face in the photograph. “Just five days.”

  From the bedroom, Vera hears the muffled exchanges at the back door. She watches the postmaster cycle away. Head down. The baby lies at her breast. Pink and warm and content.

  Her daughter sits at her side, watching. “What will we call him, Mam?”

  “I don’t know, love. What do you think?”

  Tom walks into the room. He is tired-­looking. He has something in his hand.

  Vera flinches. “What did Harry bring?” She looks at her husband and all the years collapse in on her so that everything becomes this one small moment. A second, to change everything.

  He hangs his head.

  She looks down at her sleeping child. “Is it our Danny?”

  “Yes. Yes, love. It is.”

  She steadies herself. “When did it happen?”

  “Five.” He can barely say it. “Five days ago.”

  “How?”

  “Sniper. Wouldn’t have known a thing. Quick and clean.”

  They have learned to do this over the years, to pray that when the time comes it will be quick and clean. Not a gas attack. Not lying for hours, dying in a filthy field. Not panicked and afraid and alone and in pain. “Quick and clean?”

  “Yes, love.”

  She closes her eyes. Sees her twin brother. Young, smiling, fresh-­faced, ready for whatever might come. He was brave. He had nearly made it. She rubs the top of her child’s downy hair. “We’ll call him Danny, after his uncle who gave his life so that our son could have his.”

  The child opens his eyes and looks at his mother. He understands. The smallest sigh escapes his rosebud lips. It drifts around the room, collecting all the worry and sadness, pushing it out of the open window, setting it free to play with the clouds.

  IT IS DARK when he wakes again. She is still there, beside him. The candlelight casts a shadow across her face.

  “What day is it?”

  “November eleventh.”

  His hearing is still affected. Her words are muffled and far away, yet he hears her. He knows that date. “Still?”

  She smiles. Nods. “Still.”

  “The day the war ended.”

  “That’s right. The day the war ended. Or so they tell us.” She turns her head, looking around the rows and rows of stretchers and makeshift beds. “Not that you’d know much about that when you look around this place.”

  “Where am I?”

  “A clearing station.” She stands up, smooths the creases in the sheets. “You’re going to be all right, you know, Private Rawlins. You’re one of the lucky ones.”

  “What happened?”

  She busies herself with a jug of water and a towel. “A shell.” She sees the muscles tighten at his jaw. The tremble in his hand. “But you mustn’t think about it. You’re here now. Safe.”

  “My mam came to me,” he whispers. “She told me I had to live.” The nurse smiles and checks his temperature. “Is it over then?” he asks. “Like they say?”

  “They’ve agreed an Armistice, yes. The fighting has stopped.” She pauses for a moment. “Listen.”

  Will strains to hear. The only sounds are muffled coughs and moans from the beds around him. “I can’t hear very well.”

  “You can. It’s just so quiet. No explosions. No guns. It’s so strange. I’ve forgotten what that sort of silence sounds like.”

  Will thinks about this for a moment. She is right. “It really is over, isn’t it?”

  She nods. “It just came too late for some.” Her eyes fill with tears that break Will’s heart. “Oh, it’s silly of me to be crying when we should all be celebrating, but I can’t stop thinking about the men who died yesterday—­and this morning, and a few minutes ago. After all this time, all these years. What a dreadful, dreadful waste.” She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs her cheeks before smoothing her skirt and apron and adjusting a pin against her cap. “Anyway, you don’t need me making you all maudlin, Private Rawlins. You’ve to get better so we can ship you out of here and get you home to your mother.” She makes a note of something on a small pad of paper. “And your wife.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Well, to your sweetheart then.”

  He looks at her. He has never seen anyone more bea
utiful. “And what if my sweetheart were already here. Right here, beside me. What then?”

  She smiles, her cheeks as pink as rosebuds.

  Somewhere in France. November, ’18

  Dearest Mother,

  I am sure you will all have heard the news that the hostilities are at an end and the war is over. I know how much this will bring such happiness and relief to everyone in Brimsworth. We cannot quite believe it ourselves. It will be some time before we are demobilized and can finally come home, but for now please know that I am alive and well!

  I am under the care of the nurses at a field hospital. I was involved in a shelling bombardment on the day hostilities ceased but am recovering well under the care of a very kind young nurse—­from Tadcaster would you believe! Her name is Rosemary Bright and you really couldn’t wish to meet a lovelier lass. I hope she might come for tea when we are home. I have told her all about your famous apple pie so I hope the trees have been generous this autumn and that the larder is full.

  Please know that I think about Jack often. We have all spoken of those who fell. We think about them more now that it is at an end than at any other time.

  There is not much more to say so I will sign off. How strange to think this will be the last letter I will write from here. So many words have been written, but so much remains unsaid. And perhaps that is how it should be. I never want to talk of this war again. I want to forget I was ever here. I want to walk along the stream barefoot and feel the slippery stones. I want to watch the tadpoles in the pond. I want to sit in the chair in the front room when the sun slips through the window and listen to the blackbird singing in the hedge outside. I want to lie in bed at night and watch the stars and hear nothing other than the church bells and the hoot of an owl. So much has changed, but I also know that much has stayed the same. It is that which we must cherish.

  I remain your loving son,

  Will

  P.S. I saw a single red poppy in a field as we left the clearing station for the field hospital. I asked the ambulance driver to stop and pick it for me. I have enclosed it in this letter. It is for Jack and for all those who fell among those fields where the poppies once grew.