neighbour who had been injured or killed. Despite all the positive stories in the newspapers, the idea was slowly taking root that the impossible might happen: the Allies might not win the war.
To her delight, however, Poppy also found that the courtesies afforded to men in uniform were now extended to her: people called her ‘nursey’ and beamed at her, she was ushered to the front of the queue in the newsagent’s shop, and from Euston went second class to Mayfield for the price of third.
On the train, she opened the weekly paper she’d bought. This had a supplement giving brief details of some of those who’d died the previous week and how they’d died.
Maurice Green, drowned face down in a trench; Arnold Tallis, killed as a result of a sniper’s bullet; Percy Jones, shelled whilst carrying an injured comrade to cover; Edward Topper, died after receiving the full force of a grenade during a skirmish at Gallipoli; George Brown, postie, killed whilst delivering mail to the troops; Frank Cotton and John Tiplady, comrades-in-arms, died together as a result of treading on a land mine . . .
Poppy, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, put the paper down. It was one thing to read a report stating that a certain number of men had died, but this particular newspaper personalised them so that one felt one almost knew them. Even worse was the list of names of boys ‘Missing in Action’, whose families were desperate for information. Were they dead, captured – or, horrendously, still out there, dying slowly on the contested land?
The leaves on the trees outside Mayfield station were beginning to turn an autumnal gold, but the day was fair and Poppy decided to walk across the parkland in order to see if Airey House looked any different. Sixty officers had now taken up residence in its spacious rooms, and as she made her way through the shrubbery, Poppy could see that a dozen or so hospital beds had been wheeled on to the terrace so that their occupants could receive the benefits of the afternoon sun. Slightly worried, therefore, that one of the men might think she was a real nurse and hail her to ask for something, she ducked behind the hedge and kept out of sight as she passed through the grounds.
She reached the little path which led down to the chapel fifteen minutes before the service was due to start. Some mourners had already gathered outside and Poppy recognised several of the ladies from the Mayfield Comforts Group. There were also two nurses, a small group of army officers and some women from the village, all speaking together in low voices.
After a moment she saw, through the trees, the family’s two large black motor cars coming through the iron gates. A man in a black frock coat took his place in front of the first one and, as if at a funeral, walked ahead of the vehicles as they travelled slowly towards the chapel.
She had to get inside before they did! Increasing her pace, Poppy went down the path into the chapel and took a space at the back behind a marble pillar. As the organ began playing, she did some deep breathing to try and gather herself. Please let him be here, she thought, and then chastised herself for thinking of Freddie instead of praying for the soul of his dead brother.
The chapel began to fill up. Two women and a child joined her in the pew, and Poppy became aware of the admiring glances of the little girl.
After a moment she whispered, ‘Are you a real nurse?’
Poppy nodded. Well, she was nearly.
The child gave a gasp of awe and her hand reached out to stroke the material of Poppy’s coat. ‘Have you been in the war?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Your coat has lovely gold buttons . . .’
‘Yes, it has, hasn’t it?’
‘I’m going to be a nurse when I grow up.’
‘So you can have a coat with gold buttons?’ Poppy asked, smiling, and then realised that the organ music had changed to something more sombre and that Freddie de Vere, his elder
To her delight, however, Poppy also found that the courtesies afforded to men in uniform were now extended to her: people called her ‘nursey’ and beamed at her, she was ushered to the front of the queue in the newsagent’s shop, and from Euston went second class to Mayfield for the price of third.
On the train, she opened the weekly paper she’d bought. This had a supplement giving brief details of some of those who’d died the previous week and how they’d died.
Maurice Green, drowned face down in a trench; Arnold Tallis, killed as a result of a sniper’s bullet; Percy Jones, shelled whilst carrying an injured comrade to cover; Edward Topper, died after receiving the full force of a grenade during a skirmish at Gallipoli; George Brown, postie, killed whilst delivering mail to the troops; Frank Cotton and John Tiplady, comrades-in-arms, died together as a result of treading on a land mine . . .
Poppy, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, put the paper down. It was one thing to read a report stating that a certain number of men had died, but this particular newspaper personalised them so that one felt one almost knew them. Even worse was the list of names of boys ‘Missing in Action’, whose families were desperate for information. Were they dead, captured – or, horrendously, still out there, dying slowly on the contested land?
The leaves on the trees outside Mayfield station were beginning to turn an autumnal gold, but the day was fair and Poppy decided to walk across the parkland in order to see if Airey House looked any different. Sixty officers had now taken up residence in its spacious rooms, and as she made her way through the shrubbery, Poppy could see that a dozen or so hospital beds had been wheeled on to the terrace so that their occupants could receive the benefits of the afternoon sun. Slightly worried, therefore, that one of the men might think she was a real nurse and hail her to ask for something, she ducked behind the hedge and kept out of sight as she passed through the grounds.
She reached the little path which led down to the chapel fifteen minutes before the service was due to start. Some mourners had already gathered outside and Poppy recognised several of the ladies from the Mayfield Comforts Group. There were also two nurses, a small group of army officers and some women from the village, all speaking together in low voices.
After a moment she saw, through the trees, the family’s two large black motor cars coming through the iron gates. A man in a black frock coat took his place in front of the first one and, as if at a funeral, walked ahead of the vehicles as they travelled slowly towards the chapel.
She had to get inside before they did! Increasing her pace, Poppy went down the path into the chapel and took a space at the back behind a marble pillar. As the organ began playing, she did some deep breathing to try and gather herself. Please let him be here, she thought, and then chastised herself for thinking of Freddie instead of praying for the soul of his dead brother.
The chapel began to fill up. Two women and a child joined her in the pew, and Poppy became aware of the admiring glances of the little girl.
After a moment she whispered, ‘Are you a real nurse?’
Poppy nodded. Well, she was nearly.
The child gave a gasp of awe and her hand reached out to stroke the material of Poppy’s coat. ‘Have you been in the war?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Your coat has lovely gold buttons . . .’
‘Yes, it has, hasn’t it?’
‘I’m going to be a nurse when I grow up.’
‘So you can have a coat with gold buttons?’ Poppy asked, smiling, and then realised that the organ music had changed to something more sombre and that Freddie de Vere, his elder
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