Jubilee (Book 1 of The Poppy Chronicles)

by Claire Rayner

  If he left him there, he’d be in real stooch when the man brought himself back to the lines. He’d come back like some tiger full of lies and complaints and say that he’d been deliberately left there by one of his own men, a man with a grudge against him for beating him in the boxing ring, one Lizah Harris, who would be fit then only for court martial and the chop, no question of it –

  Lizah knew he was thinking stupidly. Even as his thoughts chased themselves absurdly through the labyrinth of his mind, he knew that he was no longer behaving like the sensible man he was, at heart. He was exhausted and frightened and confused and in a wilderness of a world that made no sense to him. That was why he was being stupid – but even though he knew it, it did not stop him from continuing to behave stupidly.

  He stood up. There was no sense in crawling any more. If there was a bullet out there with his name on it, it would find him whatever he did, he told himself, and that would happen whether he stood on his head or on his heels. So he stood up and went stumping back over the intervening yards of dry rough scrub to where Amberly lay snoring in the darkness.

  It wasn’t a snore, actually. The man had been hit by one of those bloody bullets and was lying there with his eyes half open, just the whites showing, a horrible way to look, and with his head back, and Lizah leaned over, feeling something very like irritation rather than any stronger emotion, and hauled him up to lift him and shove him over his shoulder in the sort of fireman’s hold he had so often used to fetch knocked-out boxers from the ring to their dressing rooms.

  It was still silent as he stumbled forwards, with not a shot fired, and he began to be hopeful. He could get there, get to the lines and get rid of this great lump of bleeding meat – for he could feel warm blood sticky on his hands, and knew it was coming from Basil – and lie down and go to sleep. No one could say he’d behaved badly if he brought the man in. They’d see he’d not run away from the fight for Spion Kop once he got back to the lines and made them look at Basil, and under his burden, he managed to grin, seeing himself tell them; ‘Found my officer, sir. Thought I ought to –’ and trying to salute and collapsing elegantly into the MO’s arms – a lovely picture, that was.

  There was a sudden sound ahead of him, and he stopped, frozen, and then-it came again, a hiss of a voice.

  ‘’Oo’s that? Friend or bloody foe? I got a gun ’ere, so don’t you try nothin’ –’ The words were difficult to hear as they came through chattering teeth, and Lizah thought disgustedly – another frightened sod – and said loudly, ‘Friend, you stupid bugger. Take this from me, will you? Lieutenant Amberly needs the MO. Where is he?’

  ‘Where the rest of the flamin’ brass are, mate – back over there behind the lines, safe and easy. ’Ere, I’ve got ’im –’

  Lizah frowned and opened his mouth to protest. These were the lines which he’d just reached, surely? The man had seemed to indicate the lines were behind him, that he’d gone in the wrong direction – and that couldn’t possibly have happened. He had to tell them that, explain. But there was a shuffling sound and then more voices and someone reached towards the burden on Lizah’s back and he began to ease open his fingers which had become twisted with cramp and pins and needles, for they had been so tightly clamped round Amberly’s wrist that he had lost the full use of his muscles. They’ll explain soon, he thought. Just get rid of the weight first, then he’d sort if all out; but suddenly the rifle fire began again, spitting and clattering so loudly that it seemed to be coming from just a few feet away and at once the other men around him, mere shadowy figures in the dimness which he could not count at all, disappeared and he tried to do as he assumed they had, which was to fall flat on the ground. But the dead weight of Amberly on his back made that almost impossible and he stood there swaying, wanting to unlock his hands, to let go and pull both of them down to safety.

  But he was too slow. He felt the bullet hit Amberly, for it almost whirled him round with the force of the impact, and then felt the pain in his arm as he swayed and fell and at last hit the ground, with Amberly’s dead weight on top of him. And he lay there trying to breathe and escape from the pressure on his aching chest, and the cold numbness that was spreading through his arm.

  He felt himself sliding into a different sort of blackness. It was no darker than it had been when he had been stumbling across the scrub with Amberly on his back, but he knew it was different and was inside his own head, and a small inner voice screamed at him, ‘No – no, no, no! I’m not dead, I’m not, I won’t be, I won’t –’

  And then he felt the blackness recede and become the real blackness again, the blackness of the night, as a hand was clasped over his mouth and a voice hissed in his ear, ‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake, shut up – they’ll get a bead on us if you don’t shut up.’ And he knew it was he who had been screaming aloud, not any inner voice.

  And he stopped screaming and turned his head pettishly, so that he could breathe more easily and closed his eyes. He was now deeply, exquisitely, tired and wanted only to sleep, and he lay there, his lids clamped tightly over his eyes and he heard them whispering around him.

  ‘Stretcher-bearers,’ someone said. ‘See if they can get both of ’em up the protected side to the ridge. We’ll get reinforcements there by morning and we’ll be sure to be able to get the wounded away then –’

  ‘Lieutenant’s dead, sir, no point shifting him,’ someone said. ‘The other chap’s breathing though. He’s got a nasty one, upper arm, left side. Bleeding a lot –’

  ‘Then stretcher-bearers and tourniquets,’ the other voice said brusquely, and Lizah sighed softly behind his sleeping eyes. Soon he’d be asleep, comfortably asleep and then they could talk as much as they liked about these people, whoever they were. Soon he’d be asleep –

  ‘It could be worse,’ the brusque voice was saying. ‘We’ve lost a good number and there’s a deal of wounded. But we’ve taken Spion Kop. That’ll show Kruger we mean what we say –’

  And then Lizah did go to sleep, sliding contentedly away into a world where there was no pain and no heat and no cold and no Basil Amberly. Only peace and quiet.

  34

  ‘Nineteen hundred,’ Poppy said. ‘It sounds so funny. Nineteen hundred –’ And she went on saying it, thinking that might make it sound less strange. But it didn’t; it just sounded funnier and funnier.

  ‘Poppy, for heaven’s sake be quiet!’ Mildred said sharply and Poppy subsided but she didn’t stop saying the words inside her head.

  She said a lot of words inside her head these days. She had to, because Mama had become so silent and so unwilling to talk and so cross and snappy when Poppy talked that it was all she could do. She couldn’t go out to the park any more to play with the other children after school, and she couldn’t go and walk through the market any more and look at the stalls and the people, because Mama wouldn’t let her. So all there was was sitting at home and reading and talking to herself inside her head, which was getting very dull and miserable.

  At first Poppy thought it was because she had been ill; for a long time after that Mama had been very careful about everything she did and where she went and made her wrap up every time she so much as went out into the yard to the lavvy, but now she was quite well again, it seemed to Poppy to be almost as silly as the fact that the year was now called nineteen hundred instead of eighteen ninety-nine. She had tried to say that to Mama and been roundly scolded for being saucy and sent to bed early; which had made Poppy very quiet all the next day.

  Mama had been a bit easier then. She had made Poppy come and sit on her knee before bedtime that day and talked to her.

  ‘Dear one, I don’t want to make you miserable, truly I don’t. I would very much like to be able to let you go out and play as you used to, but now I know that it isn’t safe for you –’

  ‘Why not?’ Poppy stared at her unblinking. ‘It used to be safe enough when I was still only four, and now I’ve had a birthday and that means I’m getting on for six, so it ought to
be more safe now. I’m a big girl –’

  ‘Yes, I know. And it ought to be safe, but it isn’t.’ Mama said. ‘And anyway, I don’t think it was so safe before. I think we were just lucky.’ And she suddenly held Poppy in a close grip, so tight that it made her breathless, so she pulled away.

  ‘I’m ever so careful when I go out,’ Poppy said. ‘I always look out for puddles so I don’t get splashed, and I only cross the road after looking ever so carefully, or I ask someone to take me over and –’

  ‘That isn’t what I mean,’ Mama said. ‘If it were only dirt and traffic –’ and she shook her head, looking so worried and confused that Poppy almost wanted to cry. But she didn’t.

  ‘The thing of it is –’ Mama said and then suddenly stopped and looked so strange that Poppy leaned forwards and stared into her face.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mama?’

  ‘Mmm? Oh, nothing. It’s just that – I meant to say, the problem is that we’re living in the wrong place.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘Oh, Mama, of course not! We’ve always lived here. This is our house!’

  ‘But it shouldn’t be,’ Mama said grimly. ‘I knew I couldn’t make you understand. Why should you, after all? A baby like you –’ And she hugged Poppy and looked over her head into the fire.

  ‘I’m not a baby!’ Poppy said, indignantly and scrambled down to stand on the floor, her hands deep in the pockets of her pinafore and her face scowling. ‘I’m a big girl – and I want to go out like a big girl –’

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ Mama snapped. ‘Not while we live here. And that’s an end to it.’ And she leaned forwards and began to riddle the fire with the poker so violently that the sparks began to fly and the embers rattled in the grate.

  ‘But when I go to school again –’ Poppy began but Mama shook her head almost as violently as she was poking the fire.

  ‘I’m not sure what to do about that. If I could make arrangements soon enough you wouldn’t have to go there at all – but I just don’t know – it’s all so difficult –’ And she dropped the poker and leaned back in the armchair and rested her head on the back and lay there with her eyes closed, looking so miserable that Poppy couldn’t talk to her any more. All she could do was sit on her own small stool by the fender and stare at the flames and try to understand. Were they going to live somewhere else? That seemed to be what Mama was saying, and yet where could they live except here? She had a bright thought then; perhaps with Auntie Jessie in Jubilee Street? Now that would be lovely – and she let her mind wander off into imagining how it would be to live in that house with its red, red kitchen and its red, red bedrooms, and to come home from school (which school? It couldn’t be Baldwin’s Gardens, for that was too far away. Well, another school, then. Any school) and find Auntie Jessie waiting with delicious things to eat. And she liked the thought so much that she turned her head to talk to Mama about it. And then, seeing that she was still lying back in her chair with that same bleak expression on her face, thought better of it. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was very certain that Mama would not want to talk about Auntie Jessie just at present.

  And so it had gone on day after day, as the winter weather outside became colder and colder and the market outside the front room window looked gloomy and wet and dull with none of its usual liveliness, for once Christmas was over no one seemed to have much money to spend and that made the stallholders morose and far from interested in waving to her through her net curtained window, even old Solly from the vegetable stall. Weeks and weeks of it, it seemed to Poppy. Weeks of dullness and quietness and a cross, silent, worried Mama, and she spent more and more time dreaming and imagining and being a Princess. But even that was beginning to get dull now.

  But then something happened to change everything. She woke up one morning to find her bedroom had gone a strange colour, all light and yet grey and she got out of bed – and the lino under her bare feet was so cold it made her toes curl up – and ran to the window and looked out to see the rooftops across the street covered in snow. Even the street below had some, though already it was mostly grey slush because so many people had walked on it.

  She ran downstairs, full of excitement; surely Mama would let her go out now, to play in the park? She had only ever played in snow once before, years and years ago – or so it felt – and she could only just remember it. There had been that wonderful whiteness that filled her hands and then gently and slowly disappeared like magic and she had made a slide and slipped along on it on her bottom and that had made everyone laugh, Mama as well. It would be good to make Mama laugh again, and she burst into the kitchen to find Mama and explain to her how important it was that they go together to the park this morning at once.

  Mama was standing by the fire, a letter in her hand, and staring down at it. The kitchen was rather nice this morning; Mama had been baking apple pies, Poppy decided, for the smell was there, all spicy and warm in her nose. Mama had told her once that the smell was cinnamon and cloves and she had liked the words, and now she said them out loud.

  ‘Cinnamon and cloves! Can we have a pie as well, Mama?’

  ‘I’ve made us a small one,’ Mama said absently, and then looked at Poppy and frowned. ‘Silly child! Where are your slippers? You’ll catch your death!’

  ‘I’ll go and put them on,’ Poppy said, full of compunction. How silly to make Mama cross when she wanted to coax her to come to the park! And she turned to run upstairs again, but Mama called her back.

  ‘No, wait here, by the fire. I’ll fetch what you need –’ And she went upstairs and Poppy went and curled up in the big armchair, listening to her footsteps overhead and wondering why it was taking her so long to find her slippers. Surely she’d left them at the side of her bed where they were supposed to be?

  But Mama was not carrying her slippers when she came down. She had her best dress and a clean white pinafore and her best polished boots, though usually in the mornings she wore yesterday’s pinafore, putting on a clean one after dinner. And she also had her coat and her black straw hat and gloves.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Poppy leapt to her feet and began to jump on the chair, up and down, up and down, so that her nightie flew around her legs, loving the movement and almost delirious with excitement. Going out? Oh, to be going out at last, after so long! ‘Where are we going? Oh, Mama, where –’

  ‘Not so much noise now,’ Mama said and piled the clothes on the table. ‘First a wash, and then dressed as far as your chemise and stockings and then some breakfast. Afterwards I must dress and then you may put on your frock and –’

  ‘It’s my best dress,’ Poppy discovered, staring at the clothes on the table and stopped jumping. Best blue serge was not the sort of thing people wore to play in snowy parks, and she stared at the clothes and was so disappointed that she felt the crying begin and that made her feel so angry and cross with herself that she couldn’t stop it happening and the tears spilled over the edges of her eyes and ran down her face and made it itch so that she had to rub it hard.

  Mama didn’t seem to notice. She had gone out to the scullery to fetch the bowl of warm water for Poppy to be washed. ‘Now, Poppy, I have a great deal to do, so you must be quiet and sensible and let me get on without any fuss. Then we shall go at eleven. It will give us just enough time –’

  ‘Time for what?’ Poppy managed to say without Mama hearing she was crying. It was hard to make her voice sound ordinary but she could do it if she tried hard. This morning she tried very hard.

  ‘I – I’ll explain on the way,’ Mama said and came back with the bowl of water. ‘Just let me get on now and I promise I shall explain on the way.’

  And that was all she would say. So Poppy was washed and half dressed and ate her bread and milk and then finished dressing and at last stood with Mama in the street outside as she carefully locked the door and tucked the key back in her reticule. Inside the house it was all quiet with the freshly baked pies standing in rows on the table cooling, for Mama
had worked very fast and very hard to make sure they were all ready in time, and it was strange to think of the house quite empty of people. Usually there was someone there – Nellie, mostly – to look after things and Poppy said, as Mama took her hand and started to walk down the road towards Holborn, ‘Why isn’t Nellie coming any more? Shouldn’t she be at home now?’

  ‘You know she isn’t coming to us any more,’ Mama said and didn’t look at her. ‘Not since – I told you. We are never to speak to any of those people ever again.’ She looked down at Poppy then for a moment and then looked away. ‘That is why I won’t let you out on your own. I did explain, you know I did. They are bad people –’

  ‘Nellie isn’t bad,’ Poppy said a little breathlessly, for Mama was walking so fast she had to run to keep up. ‘And Ted wasn’t bad really. Just –’

  ‘We won’t speak of it,’ Mama said. ‘Not ever. Now, we are to take an omnibus –’

  Poppy stopped running then, dragging back on Mama’s hand as hard as she could.

  ‘An omnibus? Where are we going? Is it to that horrible house like last time?’

  ‘I –’ Mama looked at her and it was as though, Poppy thought, she was asking me for something, for her face looked so hopeful and yet worried. And she stood still and wouldn’t move even though Mama tugged on her hand.

  ‘Poppy, I told you, I shall explain on the way,’ Mama said. ‘Please don’t be a silly girl and just come along –’

  Oh, Poppy, please, Mildred was beseeching her child silently, the words framing themselves behind her lips. Please, don’t make it more difficult than it is. It’s going to be dreadful, dreadful. Please, darling Poppy, don’t make it worse –

  ‘Tell me what we’re doing and where we’re going,’ Poppy said, almost, it seemed to Mildred, in answer to her unspoken plea and Mildred bit her lip and then looked at the watch pinned to the bosom of her heavy braided serge coat by a short chain and made a sudden decision. They would go straight there; she had planned to go to the house and travel to the cemetery with the family, as was seemly, but sometimes things did not work out as you had planned, so there it was; she would explain when she saw them.