Poppy Day by Annie Murray Page B

meant it, was humbled and full of gratitude.
    Mary barely managed to smile. She was falling asleep.
    He stayed there in the deep quiet of the night, the creaks of the old house and their breathing the only sounds. He watched the child, her face twitching in sleep. He had not yet seen her with her eyes open. He felt his sense of himself expanding, taking in this new responsibility. New life. Family. This was where his duty lay. Eventually he climbed gently on to the bed beside them, and they all slept.
    ‘We must take her and show her to Mrs Beeston,’ Mary said.
    It was Sunday morning. Little Ruth was ten days old, and though tired, Mary was well recovered from the birth. She sat holding the baby, suckling her, smiling down into her face. ‘She’ll be ever so annoyed with us if we don’t pay a visit. We promised, daint we?’
    Ned was in the scullery, bent over in his shirtsleeves, trying to unblock the sink. For a moment he froze. Mary didn’t see him.
    ‘No hurry. Why don’t we leave it for a bit? You’ll get tired traipsing all the way over there. It’s even further now they moved.’
    ‘Ned!’ Mary laughed. ‘I want to take ’er out and show ’er off a bit! She’s starting to look quite bonny. And Mrs Beeston said she wanted to see the babby, soon as it arrived.’
    Ned hesitated. ‘We ought to give ’em a bit of warning – take a note to say we’re coming . . .’
    ‘Why? What the ’ell’s got into yer? You always said she’d be pleased if you turned up anytime. She sent ’er new address, din’t she? So she wants to see yer. We’ll go after we’ve ’ad some dinner. ’Ow about that?’
    ‘What’s the matter with yer, Jess – yer poorly or summat?’
    Jess was lying on her bed in their room in the new house in Oughton Place. Olive had insisted they move. Apart from the fact that the neighbours on one side, the Bullivants, who had nine children, were a raucous and sometimes quarrelsome lot, they’d had a lucky find. The new house was on a terrace which backed on to the railway, close to Camp Hill Goods Yard. It was much more roomy than the back-to-back they’d been in before, with an extra bedroom, and although there were the usual problems of damp and bugs, the previous occupants had done their best to keep it nice. All the rooms were papered and the roof was sound. Olive kept saying they should have done it years ago.
    ‘I’m awright.’ Jess lay on her side. Bert had the smallest room, and there was just enough space to squeeze three proper beds into theirs. The wall in front of her eyes was covered with a cream paper patterned with trailing blue roses.
    The house was quiet. Olive, feeling more herself since the move, was bolder about going out, and had gone with Sis up the road to the Baptist Church. She wasn’t fussy about the denomination, but liked to go to church somewhere. She said she’d had help from all sorts and she’d pray with all sorts, and Sis liked a singsong when it was on offer. Bert was outside, below their window, slopping whitewash on to the little wall of the yard.
    Polly was, as usual, tidying up. They had a small chest of drawers between the three of them, and she was kneeling in front of it taking everything out, folding and refolding their few garments, even the stockings, which Jess had patched and darned until they were almost unrecognizable.
    Jess wished she’d go down and leave her alone.
    ‘What yer doing that for?’ she snapped. ‘Yer always fussing and fidgeting – yer’ve done that I don’t know ’ow many times before and no one’s touched it since.’
    Polly sat back on her heels. Her mousy hair was scraped back and tied with a piece of string, her face pale and strained. She also looked annoyed at Jess’s attack.
    ‘It makes me feel better, that’s all. Keeping the place a bit nice. What’s wrong with that? If it was left to you we’d live in a right heap. When Ernie and I . . . when we ’ave our own ’ouse I’ll keep it nice I can