Poppy Read Free Page B

the novelty of being deferred to, asked the waitress for a window table for two. From here she could look on to the vast station concourse at Charing Cross and watch the minor dramas being enacted outside: people meeting and kissing, parting and crying, soldiers weighed down with mighty loads of equipment, businessmen in top hats or bowlers, children with nursemaids, and a lady at the wheel of a shiny open car that was bellowing out yards of smoke (her chauffeur must have gone into the army, Poppy decided). One surprising thing was that many well-to-do ladies appeared to be unchaperoned. She had read features in the family’s discarded news­papers about this. It seemed that ladies whose husbands were at war felt that they no longer needed a man to escort them to film matinees or a maid to scurry behind them carrying their parcels – they could manage perfectly well by themselves. Indeed, wealthy lady sho p pers whose chauffeurs had joined the army were driving themselves to eat in restaurants with their female companions. They were wearing bloomers, too: on pedal cycles, to attend exercise classes – or just because they wanted to.
    When Miss Luttrell advanced across the restaurant floor – wearing a dark tweed suit, brown woolly hat and eager expression – Poppy’s first thought was that she hadn’t changed a bit in all the time that she’d known her. Did elderly ladies, she wondered, reach a certain standard of oldness and then stay the same? Unsure of how to greet her, Poppy stood at her approach just as she’d done when Miss Luttrell had come into the school room, but was waved at to sit down again.
    ‘My dear child, we don’t stand on ceremony these days,’ said Miss Luttrell, pecking Poppy on the cheek.
    Poppy sat down. ‘It’s really very nice to see you,’ she said, smiling and a little shy at the strangeness of the occasion. ‘It’s been about a year, I think.’
    ‘How time flies!’ Miss Luttrell reached for the printed tariff and ran a finger down the choices. ‘I expect you’re hungry, dear. Shall we order straight away?’
    Poppy nodded, starving because she’d been too excited at the thought of the outing to eat breakfast that morning.
    Miss Luttrell held the tariff at arm’s length and got the words into focus. ‘The steak and tomato pie is always good here, or the braised tongue is a very substantial meal. They both come with mashed potato and vegetable marrow.’
    The idea of ox tongue didn’t appeal to Poppy and she and Miss Luttrell both decided to order a pie. When the waitress left them, they stared outside for a moment, where an army truck filled with soldiers had pulled up. A small crowd gathered to watch them and cheer as they fell into ranks and marched in formation under the vast arch of the station.
    ‘Another legion of our brave boys marching to death or glory!’ Miss Luttrell said, and then, rather embarrassingly, stood up and applauded them (though no one outside the shop could have heard her) so that Poppy felt she had to stand and clap too.
    When the soldiers had all disappeared, Miss Luttrell sat down again. ‘Now, do tell me what you’re doing.’
    Poppy started on a list of her regular duties at the de Vere house, but was stopped almost immediately.
    ‘I meant, what are you doing for the war ?’ Miss Luttrell asked.
    Poppy thought. ‘On my own, I suppose not very much, but Cook makes what she calls economy puddings and the household is saving on fuel – we’re never allowed a fire in our bedrooms.’
    ‘I expect the family still have fires in their rooms, though,’ said Miss Luttrell drily. She knew the de Vere family: they gave an annual allowance to the local school in Mayfield where she used to teach, and she and Mrs de Vere occasionally found themselves serving on the same charity board.
    Poppy didn’t reply to this little barbed comment, for the family did indeed still have fires in their rooms. ‘Mrs de Vere has a knitting circle making comforts