Softly Grow the Poppies (33 page)

Maggie entered the room with a kettle of hot water, some scissors and a piece of twine, glancing sympathetically at her mistress as she struggled on the bed.

‘Don’t hold it in, lass, let it go.’ They threw the covers off her and opened her legs just as Dr Standish came into the room.

‘Ah, good, nearly there, I see,’ he remarked cheerfully as a wet auburn crown appeared between Rose’s legs, followed by a screwed-up face which at once began to yell with displeasure; then the infant bounded on to the bed in a trickle of blood.

‘First the afterbirth then,’ as he cut the cord, ‘you shall hold your daughter in your arms.’ He turned irritably. ‘No, sir, you can’t come in just yet.’

‘Try and stop me,’ roared Harry, hurtling across the room, pushing the doctor and Dolly – who couldn’t wait to get her hands on the baby – both aside. ‘My darling, my darling, my two darlings,’ wrapping his arms about his wife and daughter.

Dolly and Nessie faltered at the back of Harry while the doctor disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. When he came out, wiping his hands and forearms on a snowy white towel, he told them that the infant needed bathing and again there was a tussle over who should be the one to do it. Maggie, who had been loitering at the door, flew down the stairs shouting as she went, ‘It’s a girl, it’s a girl,’ then they all went mad with joy, for at last this house that had known such sadness was filled with happiness. A mere house and hospital had been transformed into a family home as it had been before the war.

The two elderly women argued as they shuffled into the bathroom. The doctor had gone after putting a couple of stitches in Rose’s torn flesh, which she endured with no more than a flinch then Rose and Harry smiled at one another. They cuddled up together, Rose propped up on a stack of pillows, listening to the argument coming from the bathroom, Harry with his head on Rose’s shoulder.

‘It seems our daughter is no longer ours, my love.’

‘Never mind, sweetheart, we might be glad of them during the night.’

‘I suppose so. God, I could drop off this very minute. It’s hard work being a father.’

She laughed. ‘I suppose we should think of a name, my darling.’ She hesitated. ‘I would have liked to call her Alice but that’s out of the question.’

‘It is, dearest. We have lost Alice for ever, I’m afraid, but isn’t there something else that would be suitable?’

They were peaceful together, listening to the now soft voices from the bathroom. Splashes and whispering and cooing from the two women and in the garden Tom and Jossy were slapping one another on the back as if they had just given birth, watched by a bemused Wilbur, who was still new to the household. In the kitchen they were all sipping champagne which Sir Harry had ordered. The excitement was intense.

‘It must be a name that reminds us all of Alice but not
Alice
.’ They were silent then Rose whispered so low that Harry could hardly hear her.

‘What did you say, sweetheart?’

‘I said . . . I said Poppy. The poppies in which so many died. But if you think it would remind us of the war then . . .’

‘I don’t think we should ever forget it, Rose. It reminds us of those who are lost. Charlie and Alice and so many more who gave their lives.’

In a woodland, unaware of the great ‘doings’ at home, Charlie and Will sat shoulder to shoulder with their backs against the wide trunk of an ancient oak tree. They were very quiet when they spoke, for they were watching a bird, a robin, Charlie whispered, hovering above a clump of chickweed.

They were totally absorbed, father and son, when two burly men stepped into the clearing. Will frowned and stood up. He was unafraid, for nothing and no one had ever frightened him. He was arrogant in his fearlessness as he spoke. ‘What are you doing on Sir Harry’s land? This is a private wood and you are trespassing. Tell them, Charlie.’

Charlie got to his feet and some buried instinct told him he must protect young Will since it was evident these rough men were up to no good.

The men laughed and quite casually one of them advanced on Will, picking him up and tucking him under his arm. Will started to yell and kick.

‘Put that boy down,’ Charlie shouted, his fighting spirit that he had lost in France rising to his damaged mind. He ran forward, ready to tear Will from the thug’s arms but the second man aimed a huge fist and smashed it into Charlie’s face. He went down like a fallen log and that tiny shard of bone that had worried Dr Westmann all those years ago finally reached a vital spot and killed Charlie without a sound.

‘Eeh, what’s up wi’ ’im?’ the first man said uneasily, wrestling with the struggling child, ready to give him a backhander if he didn’t shut his gob. He toed Charlie’s body with a big steel-capped boot but there was no response. ‘We wasn’t supposed t’kill bugger.’

By now Will was screaming, calling out Charlie’s name, but the man holding him shook him and told him to ‘shurrup’.

With one last look at the prone figure lying in a shaft of sunlight that lit his dark curls as though he was already with the angels and wore a halo, they left the glade and sprinted off along a woodland path.

The baby was bathed and had been fed at Rose’s magnificent breast, watched by her doting father, and was asleep in the cradle in which both Harry and Charlie and before them several generations of Summers had slept. She lay in perfect peace, her infant needs taken care of, her tiny hand like a pink starfish resting on the satin-edged blanket. Her parents were sharing a delicious meal off a tray beside the bed, for Mrs Philips produced a nourishing clear soup, fresh salmon and vegetables and a splendid tipsy cake. It was almost dark and the lamplight and the firelight were dreamlike as the shadows from them flickered against the wall. They were quiet, the three of them, the man and woman smiling at one another in great content. They had everything they wanted. They had each other, their lovely old home which was being slowly restored and they had their child. What else was there?

They were startled when there was a faint tap on the door. The servants knew better than to disturb the master and mistress, for who knew what state of undress they might be in.

Harry sighed in annoyance and took his hand from Rose’s. ‘Now what is it?’ he asked irritably, opening the door to find Maggie on the other side.

‘Yes,’ he snapped irritably.

‘Yes, sir . . .’ Maggie knew he was not best pleased but she went on bravely. ‘I’m that sorry to disturb you, sir, but . . . you see—’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it, girl.’

‘Well, sir . . . Dolly sent me to . . .’ Maggie faltered.

‘What, for God’s sake?’

‘To see if Master Will was with you; we—’

‘Master Will? Of course he’s not with us. Shouldn’t he be in bed by now? Isn’t he—’

‘No, sir, that’s just it. He’s not. We’ve looked everywhere but we can’t find him. Or Mr Charlie,’ she said as an afterthought.

‘What is it, Harry?’ Rose asked from her bed, ready to leap out but Harry shooed Maggie away and shut the door. ‘You stay where you are, sweetheart. Don’t you dare get out of that bed. It’s that rascal Will and my brother. The pair of them have lost track of time and they’re off somewhere having what they call, or at least Will does, one of their adventures. I’ll go down and find them. Take some of the lads. Don’t worry, my love. Stay in your bed and I’ll come and tell you when I’ve found them.’

‘But Harry, Charlie’s not quite . . .’ Rose was filled somehow with a sense of foreboding but Harry was having none of it.

‘I’ll give that lad a damn good spanking when we find him. It’s about time someone did.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Unfortunately I can’t spank Charlie. Promise you’ll stay with the baby and in your bed. You know what the doctor said. At least two weeks before you can get up.’

‘Rubbish,’ cried Rose, but she sighed and looked down into the cradle and Harry knew she would do as she was told with her own child. She relaxed on her pillows.

The servants were in a right old state of confusion in the kitchen, milling about and telling one another when and where they last saw the lad.

‘He had his lunch with us . . .’

‘Tucked in like a good ’un . . .’

‘Mr Charlie an’ all . . .’

‘Them dogs was under our feet, wantin’ ter get goin’ . . .’

‘Will you all please calm down,’ Sir Harry roared and at last they became quiet. Tom was there waiting for Nessie who would cook them a meal in their own cottage kitchen but the rest of the lads who worked the estate and slept above the stable were over there, ready for a glass of ale and a game of cards.

‘Tom.’ Sir Harry turned to the gardener.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get the rest of the men and start a search outside,’ for by now it was almost fully dark. One small boy and a man with a damaged mind might not be able to find their own way home.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Tom, find out if they were on their horses.’ An accident perhaps, they all began to imagine, the women putting their hands to their mouths, for though he was worse than a cartload of monkeys they all loved the little imp. And Mr Charlie was a lovely man, so polite and kind and really only a child himself.

‘Have we got those old lamps in the stable? Tom, find out. Or perhaps a torch of some kind.’

Tom was hopping backwards and forwards as his master shouted more instructions to him, hoping he could remember them all. Polly, as was her way, began to cry but a sharp word from Dolly to pull herself together since she might be needed, though none of them could imagine for
what
, staunched the flow of tears.

Harry stepped out into the stable yard where the men waited, Ned, Eddie, Jossy, and even Mark, hobbling on the cobbles on his false leg having heard the hullabaloo, limped to join them. He had not seen Will all day, he told them, it being Saturday and their day off lessons.

Both Charlie’s mare Misty and Will’s pony Molly were in their stalls so it seemed father and son had gone out on foot. Nessie said she had given them a few of her chocolate buns and a bottle of home-made lemonade because Will had told her they were to have a picnic, ‘so they’ll not starve’ she said as though they had been about to trek across the Sahara Desert.

The sound of the men’s voices calling to Will or Charlie could be heard over at Beechworth where the new tenants were just sitting down to dinner.

‘Now what’s that rascal done?’ Edward Atkinson asked his wife. They had been plagued a couple of times by Master Will who could not seem to get it into his child’s head that Beechworth was no longer his home and thought he had a perfect right to go there when he pleased.

‘Goodness knows,’ said Mrs Atkinson. ‘He’s a real imp.’

The men thrashed about in the stand of trees at the back of Summer Place, venturing out on to the moorland where Sir Harry was rearing his game but got no answer. The were tired after a full day’s work and hours of blundering about in the dark wood.

Harry would not let them give up and really neither did they want to. They even peered up into the branches of the sturdy oak trees because Master Will had told them about his tree-house.

It was nearly midnight when they found him. He was lying at the edge of a small glade, his head on a clump of moss, his eyes still wide open. Mr Charlie, dear Mr Charlie who had been loved and admired by them all. Sweet-natured, generous, kind and ready to do anything for anybody.

Not asleep. No, they soon realised, not asleep, but dead and no sign of Master Will. Harry gently turned Charlie’s head, and there was a concerted gasp from the men at the sight of his face. His nose was obviously shattered and bruises had begun to form beneath his eyes.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ whispered Billy who was a Catholic. He crossed himself reverently.

Their master fell to his knees beside his broken brother and seemed ready to weep, as did they all, wondering how they were to tell the womenfolk who loved him, that Mr Charlie was dead and Master Will had disappeared off the face of the earth. Who in hell’s name had done this to him, to a man who wouldn’t hurt a bloody fly?

S
he was in the kitchen with the rest of the women, her hours-old daughter in her arms when they returned, carrying Charlie’s body on a makeshift stretcher made from jackets and stout branches.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ and all His angels,’ cried Dolly, her hand to her mouth.

She had been doing her best to coax Rose back to her bed. ‘It does no good, hanging about ’ere, lass. It won’t bring them back any sooner. See, your milk’ll dry up if you’re not careful an’ what will poor babby do then, bless ’er. Sir Harry’ll find them tinkers an’ fetch them home, you’ll see an’—’

When the silent procession carried the improvised stretcher over the doorstep with Charlie’s lifeless body on it, Rose began to wail and so did the baby.

‘Take my wife to her room, Dolly,’ Harry said sternly.

‘Dear God in heaven, haven’t I bin trying to do just that for the last hour, sir, but . . . Oh, dear Mother of God, what’s bin done to Mr Charlie?’ staring at his still body and battered face. ‘Lad’s black an’ blue. Who did this?’

She flapped about, tears steaming down her wrinkled old face and in seconds all the women were crying, clinging to one another in horror and distress while the men just stood there with their burden, faces grim, bodies rigid.

‘Clear the table someone,’ Harry snapped, and as one they rushed forward, taking everything, pots, pans, cutlery, placing them anywhere out of the way.

‘Put him on . . . on . . .’ Harry ordered the men and gently, with great respect and care, they laid Charlie on the table.

‘It should’ve bin wiped over first,’ Nessie moaned. ‘I . . . I were baking; there’s flour on it.’

‘Charlie won’t mind, Nessie.’ And before them all Harry flopped down into a chair, put his face in his hands and began to shake with sorrow.

At once Rose thrust her newborn infant into the nearest arms, which happened to be Jossy’s. He held her tenderly until Maggie took her from him. Rose knelt at her husband’s knee, putting her arms about him. He clung to her and nobody spoke.

Then, ‘Who did this to him and why?’ Harry wept. ‘Look at his face.’