Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  Poppy bit her lip, fighting the temptation to say, ‘Yes, he is sitting right next to me; he is just very, very small!’

  ‘No, he’s in Sy—’ She stopped herself. What had he said? ‘No specifics, just say “away”.’ She gave a small cough. ‘He’s away.’

  Poppy watched Mrs Newman inhale deeply as if preparing for battle.

  ‘I see.’ She shuffled the sheets of paper in front of her. ‘Peg has been in my class for one term now…’ She paused and looked up. ‘May I ask, is Peg an abbreviation?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, yes, it is, but not for Margaret or anything, which I get asked a lot. Her name is Peggy, but she’s always been Peg.’

  Poppy noticed the flicker of irritation around the woman’s eyes. She continued as if Poppy hadn’t spoken.

  ‘If I am being honest, it has been a most challenging term.’

  Poppy wondered if it would be okay to have the dishonest version, thinking it might be slightly easier to hear. ‘In what way?’

  Mrs Newman pushed her glasses up her nose, back to the point from which they had slid. ‘Peg asks a lot of questions.’ She smiled briefly.

  ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Shows she’s interested.’

  Mrs Newman gave a small laugh. ‘Well, I can see how one might assume that. But let me assure you, it really isn’t a good thing. Peg feels the need to question everything and I mean everything.’ She proceeded to check the notes in front of her. ‘This week’s examples include, why are children seated alphabetically and not allowed to sit with their friends? Why are some of her classmates given two goes at being register monitor, when others are still waiting for a first go? And why are Shahul and Hamjid allowed to miss assembly when others who aren’t sure that they even believe in God have to attend?’ She placed the paper face down and once again looked at Poppy. ‘The list is long, Mrs Cricket, and ever increasing.’ She put her hands on the table in front of her.

  ‘Why are they?’

  ‘Why are they what?’ Mrs Newman twitched her nose.

  ‘Why are some children given two goes at being register monitor when others are still waiting for a turn?’ Poppy understood her daughter’s need to try and fathom apparent injustice and this point seemed the most ludicrous of all.

  Mrs Newman removed her glasses and used one of the arms as an indicator, pointing in turn to herself, the wider classroom and Poppy, who found it incredibly irritating. She gave a snort before she spoke, as if surprised at this line of questioning from Peg’s mother. ‘I am not here to defend my teaching methods, Mrs Cricket, but as you ask, I use it as a means of reward. If a pupil is well behaved, attentive and courteous, I reward that behaviour with privileged duties and praise. It is a good lesson for life.’

  Poppy thought about her own class in school. Harriet, who already had a pretty cushy life, a nice house, an attentive mum, good teeth and a fabulous lunch box, was also given treats at school, to which she was slightly indifferent. What was the big deal in being given a fun-size Mars when she had a whole cupboard of sweets and goodies at home? Whereas to a child like Poppy or one of her mates it would have meant the world. This she knew because she had been given a fun-size Milky Way once by a neighbour and had got at least six bites out of it.

  She considered her response. ‘I just think that maybe if you let one of the less well-behaved, inattentive or discourteous kids be register monitor, it might encourage them to try harder. You might ignite that spark inside them to do better, if they can see they will be rewarded.’ Poppy felt awkward. Maybe she had overstepped the mark – what did she know, a hairdresser from Walthamstow.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Mrs Newman looked at the clock over Poppy’s head.

  She shook her head, positive that she hadn’t yet eaten up her allotted time. Under pressure, she was now unable to think of a single one of the pre-prepared questions she had conjured on the way over. She knew she would leave having learned nothing about how her little girl was faring academically.

  Mrs Newman stood, replaced her goggles and headed towards the door. There were no trills of laughter or suggestions that they get together soon. She reached for the handle and turned to Poppy.

  ‘I understand that having a husband in prison brings its own set of difficulties, but if I made allowances for every child with a difficulty, chaos would reign and that is something I simply can’t allow.’ Her smile was brief and insincere and at such close proximity Poppy could smell her breath, which was most unpleasant.

  Flabbergasted, she stepped from the room. Prison? Where on earth had she got that?

  Then her giggle caught in her throat. Mrs Newman had thought Poppy was going to say ‘inside’ when she’d checked herself earlier.

  Poppy fastened her coat and stepped out into the cold night air feeling deflated and frustrated in equal measure. She wanted Peg to question everything and knew how hard she worked. What did Mrs bloody Newman know? Questioning things and having courage had proved invaluable to Poppy in her life. Without that, she wouldn’t have escaped the deprivation into which she’d been born; she wouldn’t have known that she could.

  Jade’s mum and dad swung their car into the car park and jumped out, obviously running a little late.

  ‘Hi, Poppy! How are you? We are so late, he’s only just got in.’ Jade’s mum jerked her thumb at her husband, still in his uniform and rolling his eyes.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she lied, nodding, wishing that Mart had only just got in and had been by her side to face Mrs Newman.

  ‘We can have a proper catch-up tomorrow after the play?’

  ‘Yes, great.’ Poppy nodded again.

  ‘How did it go?’ Jade’s mum looked towards the school.

  Poppy sighed. ‘Not great. Mrs Newman is a meanie poo-poo breath.’

  Jade’s mum laughed loudly. ‘So I’ve heard!’

  Poppy loosened her scarf, shook the damp from her hair and strode up the path to her front door, stamping her boots to rid them of the residue of snow. As she put her key in the lock the telephone on the little table at the foot of the stairs rang. Jo answered it.

  ‘Oh! Hello, mate… No, it’s Jo next door. One sec, she’s just coming in, Mart! Quick, quick!’ She beckoned to Poppy with her brightly painted fingernails as she held the receiver out towards her friend, knowing that every second counted.

  Jo grabbed her cardigan and shut the front door on her way out. These calls were precious, and she wanted to give them privacy. She’d pop in tomorrow for a catch-up and a cup of coffee.

  Peg, hearing it was her dad on the phone, threw herself face down into the sofa cushions, kicked up her heels and screamed into the soft pillows. Excitement turned her into a mad thing. She jumped up and pulled her nightie over her head to reveal her knickers and ran around the room with her arms flapping.

  Poppy had grabbed the phone from her friend and sat on the stair a couple from the bottom. ‘Hello, love! All okay?’ Until she had heard his voice and his words of reassurance she wouldn’t be unable to control her heart rate and irregular breathing.

  ‘All fine, it’s all fine.’ Mart knew enough to give her the words she craved, quickly and without preamble.

  She exhaled sharply. ‘We miss you.’ Poppy pushed the phone into her face, trying to get as close to him as possible, cupping it with both her hands.

  ‘I miss you too, so much. Kids okay?’ This was the nature of their calls: no time for pauses or detailed descriptions, explanations or plans; it was all about exchanging the basics, ticking the boxes of concern so that when the receiver was replaced, you knew all was well.

  ‘They’re great. Maxy’s getting so big and Peg, well… here she is. Hang on.’

  Poppy handed the phone to her daughter, who was now right in front of her, having restored her nightie. She was pogoing up and down on the spot, her fists tightly clenched, her hair flying with every bounce.

  ‘Calm down, Peg. Here he is. Speak slowly so he can hear you properly.’

  Poppy handed the
phone to her little girl, who, like her mother, cradled the mouthpiece out of which would come her dad’s voice. She beamed at her mum. ‘Hello, Daddy! I miss you a lot. I made you a card and I got Maxy to sign it, but he just scribbled on it. I’ve got my play tomorrow and I’ve been practising my lines with Jo after I did her makeover and we are gong to Granny Claudia’s in two more sleeps.’

  Poppy watched and listened. She returned her daughter’s grin and strained to hear the faint tinny echo of the voice she loved, coming from so far away.

  ‘I am being good, Dad, and I’m looking after Mummy… Yes… Yes I will.’

  Peg’s eyes grew wide with the effort of keeping her tears in check. Her lips trembled and her cheeks reddened until finally she could hold back no longer. Fat, hot tears tumbled down her face, turning her eyes bloodshot and making speech difficult. She tried to carry on smiling and it was this combination of distress and bravery that tore at Poppy’s heart.

  ‘Yes.’ Peg nodded, attempting another smile as her mouth clogged with tears. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Poppy whispered as she stroked her daughter’s arm beneath her nightie. ‘It’ll be okay.’ ‘It will. Everything will be all right, Poppy Day, I promise.’ It was her nan’s voice once again in her ear.

  Peg handed the phone back to her mum and walked slowly to the sofa, where she sat with her hands in her lap and her back straight.

  ‘It’s me again, love.’

  ‘Is she upset?’ Poppy heard Mart swallow as he asked.

  ‘A little bit, but she’s fine now, playing and right as rain!’ she lied, not wanting him to worry later. She knew how important it was to keep his mind on the job; that was how you stayed safe, that and a whole heap of luck.

  ‘I love you, Poppy Day. I can’t wait to get home and take you in my arms.’

  ‘I can’t wait either. I love you, Mart. I need you here, not there. But not much longer, baby.’ Another eight weeks.

  ‘That’s right, not much longer.’

  The phone went dead abruptly, but they were used to that. It could be for a million reasons, most of them down to a failure in technology or a dropped connection. It no longer sent her into a blind panic.

  Poppy held the phone for a second or two after he’d gone, letting his final words linger in the atmosphere and waiting to see if by some miracle he might still be on the line. Then she took a deep breath and walked into the sitting room, where Peg sat with a steady stream of tears beating the same path down her face, which was ruddy from crying. She sat next to her on the sofa and placed her arm along her little girl’s back, pulling her into her chest with her spare hand, cradling her little head into her neck. She kissed her and held her tightly.

  ‘M… mummy?’ Peg stuttered through her tears.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘He’s… he’s not coming home.’ Peg struggled to catch her breath.

  ‘No, he’s not, not yet.’

  ‘But I wished really hard and I said a prayer and everything and that’s what I wished for! I just wanted my dad back, but it didn’t work. I thought he was phoning to tell me it had reached him, but he wasn’t.’

  Peg shook her head and wriggled free of Poppy’s grip so she could face her as she tried to sniff her tears back from where they had come.

  ‘I’m sorry, Peg. I know it’s tough. I hate him being away as much as you do and if I could wave a magic wand and make it all better, then I would.’

  Peg smacked the sofa. ‘It’s not even a proper Christmas without Daddy here. I hate the stupid army!’ She sank back against the cushions and both sat in silence, ordering their thoughts and replaying the words Mart had spoken.

  ‘What did Mrs Newman say?’ Peg piped up as she remembered the reason for her mum’s outing, forgotten in the excitement of her dad’s telephone call.

  ‘Oh, she said you were fabulous!’ Poppy smiled. ‘She said you could do anything you set your mind to and that you were a smart cookie. I am so proud of you, Peg.’ These last words were the absolute truth.

  Peg’s face broke into a grin and she wiped away the residue of her tears and runny nose with the back of her hand. ‘Do you think she might let me be register monitor next term, Mum?’

  Poppy swallowed the emotion that rose in her throat. ‘I reckon, if you pay attention and are very polite, she just might.’

  ‘That’d be brilliant, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, darling, it would.’ She smiled at her little girl. ‘I know, as a reward for doing so well, why don’t we treat ourselves to one of the special chocolates from the tree?’

  Poppy jumped up and walked in an exaggerated fashion over to the window. She lifted one of the little packets and shook it next to her ear. ‘What on earth…?’ She gasped and placed her hand on her chest. ‘Peg! I’m afraid I have some very bad news! Something terrible has happened. We have been visited by greedy little mice who have eaten all our tree chocolates!’

  Peg sank back against the sofa, giggling.

  Poppy placed her hands on her hips. ‘But they are the cleverest mice I have ever seen! How did they manage to put all the empty packets back on the branches without me ever suspecting a thing!’

  Peg now howled.

  ‘Unless…’ Poppy stroked her imaginary beard. ‘Maybe it wasn’t mice. Maybe it was Max! Where is that big stick?’

  Peg laughed through her words. ‘It wasn’t Maxy. It was me, Mum! I ate them all, but I did give him two.’

  Poppy flopped down next to Peg and gathered her into her arms. The two of them sat quietly for a moment. ‘It’ll all be okay, baby, I promise you.’ She felt her daughter nodding against her chest.

  As she made her weary-footed way to bed a few minutes later, Peg stopped halfway up the stairs and poked her head over the bannister. ‘Jade McKeever said you’d sort Mrs Newman out.’ With that she plodded on towards her bedroom.

  Poppy was beginning to like Jade McKeever more and more.

  She slipped down on the sofa and, hugging a cushion to her chest, closed her eyes. She didn’t want to sleep alone in their empty bed tonight. I miss you, Mart, I really, really miss you. She remembered his first tour, when she slept in their bed alone in the empty flat. Then, like now, she missed retrieving the little pile of dirty linen that gathered on the floor seven days a week – the pants, jeans, T-shirt and socks, evidence of a life lived in harmony with hers. And in the half an hour or so before falling asleep, she wondered what her man was doing, where he was sleeping, what he was thinking. Holding his pillow, she imagined his protective arms around her. She would talk to him about her day, how she was feeling, ask about his. She would hear his response and it was as good as chatting – ‘Goodnight, baby, sweet dreams’ – as if he was dozing by her side. It gave her comfort then and it still did.

  Two days later, Poppy slammed the boot of their little Golf and then patted the door, as if a little TLC might make the difference between the engine finally going pop and it getting them to Oxford and back safely. Bags and brightly wrapped gifts and toys were stashed in the boot space and the back seat was crammed with everything the children might need to keep them occupied for the journey. Each had a piece of electronic wizardry, a book, pens, colouring pencils, their pillow and a little lunch box filled with healthy snacks and a few not so healthy ones to see them through the arduous hour and thirty minutes spent on the A34. Poppy took particular pleasure in making their little packed lunches, something she would have loved when she was little, instead of two slices of white bread glued together with lumps of hard butter and a thin smearing of jam, shoved inside an empty bread bag.

  ‘You off, mate?’ Jo called from her front door, tea towel in hand.

  Poppy nipped up the path of the house next door. ‘Yes, just leaving. You’ve got a key if there are any disasters, haven’t you?’

  Jo nodded.

  ‘See you when we get back.’ Poppy winked at her friend.

  ‘You bet.’ Jo smiled. ‘Happy Christmas, Pop.’

 
; ‘You too, honey. Have a nice relax, spoil yourself a bit and then come over for supper when we are home.’ She felt a little guilty, leaving Jo on her own.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. My mum and dad are coming down at some point and my sister will pop in on Boxing Day. I’ll be fine!’ She smiled with false bravado. ‘I meant to ask, how did the play go?’

  Poppy bit her bottom lip. ‘It was…’ She searched for the words that failed to materialise and leant on the wall. ‘Oh God, Jo, it was awful. It only lasted an hour, but I felt like we were there for days. Peg, bless her heart, had to say, “I will follow the farmer anywhere. He is my friend!” And she put her heart and soul into it, as though she was at the Palladium. Her head teacher said they wanted to give her a bigger part but couldn’t rely on her to stay on-script.’

  ‘Bless her. Well, if her acting doesn’t work out, she can always do manicures for a living.’ Jo held up her stripey fingernails.

  Poppy jumped into the car. ‘All set, kids?’ she asked as she tilted the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Yep, prepare to move!’ Peg gave the rolling hand signal her dad had taught her.

  Max tried to copy her. Poppy laughed and pulled out, heading towards the A303.

  As they drove past the parade of shops, Peg waved and shouted, ‘Happy Chritma!’

  Poppy giggled and she too waved at anyone she saw. ‘Happy Chritma! Happy Chritma, Larkhill!’

  The Cricket family made the journey to Claudia Varrasso’s house regularly, but twice a year, once in the summer and again at Christmas, they went and stayed. In the warm months they would potter around the neat walled garden, collecting soft fruit and transforming it into golden, butter-coloured crumbles eaten with sloshes of double cream at the garden table, under the shade of the gazebo. After the feast they would paddle in shorts and wellies, bucket in hand, in the stream that ran along the bottom of the village. With their brightly coloured nets they fished for sticklebacks and other tiddlers, which they would examine, name and then set back in the water with a ‘Bon voyage!’.

  At Christmas, the cottage always smelt of spiced apple and cinnamon. The gauzy summer nets that fluttered in the breeze were replaced with dark tartan curtains, drawn to ward off the chill of winter. The fire roared in the grate and their summer night-time tipple of Pimm’s, drunk on the grass with the last of the day’s rays warming their skin, was traded for ruby-red port that glazed their throats as they sat with feet curled under their legs on the wide sofa.