by Amanda Wills
‘Yesssss!’ Charlie punched the air with his fist. ‘Fantastic idea, Mum. Can we do it now?’
‘Sweetheart, it’s gone five o’clock. There won’t be anyone in the newsroom until the morning, but we’ll do it then, I promise.’
The intrigue brightened Caroline’s mood and they spent a happy evening playing Monopoly and eating crisps in front of the fire. It was almost like old times and Poppy felt some of the unease she had been feeling about her stepmother’s frame of mind lifting.
‘I really must do a big food shop tomorrow. We’ll pop into the Herald offices afterwards if you like,’ Caroline offered and Charlie beamed.
‘Is there any chance I could go and see Tory while you two are at the supermarket? I wanted to apologise for not saying goodbye when she came for tea. With school starting on Monday I’m not going to get another chance for ages,’ Poppy said.
‘Yes, that’s fine. But I still don’t understand what happened between the two of you. I can’t imagine Tory upsetting anyone; she’s so lovely.’
Poppy swallowed. Admitting she was wrong was not something she was good at. ‘It was my fault. She was trying to help and I was mean to her. But I don’t want to talk about it,’ and, avoiding an inquiring look from Caroline, she picked up the dice, threw them and landed herself in jail.
Chapter Seventeen
This time Poppy was prepared when she turned up at the old people’s flats and walked straight bang into Mrs Parker.
‘You’re back, I see,’ said the warden, who was wearing a fitted Royal blue suit with hefty shoulder pads that matched her newly blue-rinsed hair.
‘Yes, I certainly am,’ said Poppy firmly. She’d decided that morning to take no nonsense from the old battleaxe. ‘So is Tory in?’
Mrs Parker was taken aback by the girl’s assertiveness. ‘Well, I dare say she is as her ladyship hasn’t stepped foot outside her flat for the last week. She even missed her card night on Friday. Not that it was any loss. I convinced everyone to try a few hands of bridge instead of that dreadful poker she insists on playing. So much more appropriate,’ she sniffed.
‘She’s not ill is she?’ asked Poppy, lines of concern furrowing her forehead.
‘No, she’s not ill, but she’s not herself,’ conceded Mrs Parker. ‘Not that she’ll tell me what’s wrong, of course. Says I shouldn’t stick my nose in, I ask you. Perhaps you’ll have more luck.’
Poppy headed down the corridor towards Tory’s front door. She knocked and waited. She heard the volume of the television being turned down and the sound of shuffling. She rehearsed her apology one last time.
Tory opened the door. ‘Ah, Poppy. Come in.’ Poppy felt that the welcome was more muted than before and she cursed herself for her behaviour. After all, her friend had only been trying to help. She started gabbling an apology but Tory held up a hand to silence her.
‘It’s alright, pet. Everyone says things they don’t mean every now and then. The fact that you’ve come to say sorry is enough for me. Let’s forget it ever happened.’
Flushed with gratitude, Poppy realised that she could learn a lot from Tory. She sat down and they chatted about the weather and school and Poppy told Tory about the cat-like animal they had seen the previous day.
Tory wasn’t surprised. ‘I’ve never seen any big cats myself, but it’s true that people used to have leopards and panthers in private collections. Then local councils decided they needed licences to keep them and I dare say a few were released into the wild. I bet Charlie’s pleased.’
‘You’re not wrong there. He’s beyond excited. He hasn’t stopped talking about it, and now he’s convinced he’s going to be front page news in the Herald. He’ll be unbearable,’ said Poppy, not minding in the least.
She thought of Caroline staring mindlessly out of the kitchen window and remembered why she had come. ‘Tory, I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Is it Cloud?’
‘No. Actually I want to ask your advice about Caroline.’
Tory raised her eyebrows. This was a turn up for the books. ‘What’s the matter, pet?’
‘You were right and I’m sorry again for storming off. I’ve noticed Caroline hasn’t been herself and since the day you came to lunch she’s been even worse. The house is a tip, she’s feeding us non-stop junk food and I keep finding her just staring out of the window. She always used to be so cheerful. Annoyingly cheerful, most of the time. But it’s like we’ve got her identical twin living with us. She looks the same, she sounds the same, but this one doesn’t seem to care about anything. And she’s forgotten how to smile.’
Poppy breathed out deeply, relieved to have voiced the concerns that had been building over the past few weeks.
‘I think she’s probably suffering from depression,’ said Tory matter-of-factly. ‘Has she ever been like this before?’
‘Never. But I had a friend at school whose mum was depressed and had to take tablets for it. She called them her happy pills.’
‘They’re called antidepressants. I had post natal depression after Jo was born, although we didn’t call it that in those days, it was just the baby blues.’ Poppy looked at Tory in surprise. ‘It’s more common than you think, you know. But it is treatable. We’ll keep an eye on her for a couple of weeks and if she’s still no better perhaps we need to convince her to go to see her GP.’
Poppy smiled at Tory gratefully. ‘Thank you. I didn’t want to worry Dad – he’s too far away to do anything anyway. And Charlie’s too young to notice anything’s wrong. He’s just happy to have chips for tea every night.’
‘I’m glad to help, pet. And if you are in the slightest bit worried about Caroline phone me. Don’t feel as though you have to sort it all out on your own. I’ll do whatever I can to help. Now, should you be making a move? I don’t want to make you late for Caroline and Charlie.’
Poppy said goodbye, glad that she and Tory were friends again, and set off for the café where she had arranged to meet her stepmother and brother.
‘They’re going to send a reporter and a photographer to interview us tomorrow!’ Charlie said, the moment she sat down.
‘Us?’ she replied, puzzled. This was Charlie’s obsession, not hers.
‘You were there, too. I’m only six so they want you there to collaborate my story,’ he said importantly.
‘Corroborate,’ corrected Caroline gently and Poppy stole a quick look at her stepmother. There were still dark shadows under her eyes and she looked wan, but at least she seemed to be interested in the big cat story. Perhaps she was over the worst.
Later that afternoon Poppy cornered Charlie in his bedroom, where he was making a complicated three dimensional version of his big cat trap with Lego and K’Nex.
‘You need to help me clean the house before the people from the Herald come tomorrow. It’s a pigsty,’ she told him.
Normally the mere suggestion of helping around the house invoked a storm of protest, but Charlie was so excited about the reporter’s arrival that, for once, he was happy to oblige.
‘I’ll do the kitchen. You can make a start on the lounge. We’ll get up early tomorrow and do it. It’ll be a nice surprise for Caroline,’ said Poppy. Unaccountably the thought of helping her stepmother gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was too weird for words.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlie was as good as his word and the next morning he was already sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal when Poppy came in from feeding Chester. She gave him the beeswax polish, a duster and a set of instructions.
‘The first job is to tidy up. The old newspapers can go in the recycling bin and put any grubby clothes you find in the washing basket. I’ll put a wash on later.’ Poppy eyed a dirty sock, lolling like a diseased rodent under the sofa. ‘Bring the dirty mugs, glasses and plates into the kitchen and plump up the cushions on the sofa and chairs. Then you can dust. Once you’ve done that I’ll bring you the vacuum cleaner. By the time you’ve finished the place shoul
d look like new. Got all that?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie, counting the jobs off on his fingers. ‘I’m to put the grubby clothes in the recycling, polish the glasses and plump up the newspapers. Only joking,’ he added hastily, seeing the exasperated expression on his sister’s face.
It took almost an hour for Poppy to load the dishwasher, wipe down the surfaces, clean the sink, empty the bin and sweep and clean the kitchen floor. She was pleasantly surprised when she went into the lounge to inspect Charlie’s handiwork. The wooden floor gleamed and the rug in front of the fire was no longer covered with crumbs. Cushions had been plumped and the mess tidied away. Charlie was beaming with pride.
‘Well done, little bro. Caroline will be pleased.’
‘I certainly am.’ Caroline’s voice made Poppy jump. She was standing at the doorway, with a smile on her face that for once reached her eyes. ‘The kitchen and lounge look amazing. Aren’t you two good to me. Come here, let me give you both a hug.’
Charlie ran straight into her arms. Poppy hesitated. Being the outsider was her default setting, the part she had chosen to play. But Caroline beckoned her close and she found herself walking slowly over, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
‘Thank-you, darling, I expect it was all your doing. What a lovely surprise,’ she murmured into Poppy’s hair as she held the two children close.
‘It was Poppy’s idea. I just did what I was told, as usual,’ admitted Charlie with a grin. ‘I did a good job though, didn’t I? Did you see how shiny the floor is now?’
For once Poppy allowed herself to relax into her stepmother’s embrace. The three of them clung together until Charlie started fidgeting and wriggled out of their arms. Caroline took Poppy’s face in her hands and tilted it up to hers. ‘You don’t know how much that means to me. Thank-you, sweetheart,’ she said softly, and kissed her forehead before letting her go. Poppy wasn’t sure if Caroline was referring to the clean-up operation or the hug, but realised that for once it didn’t actually matter.
A rap at the door sent Charlie into orbit. ‘They’re here! They’re here! Quick, where’s the photo?’ he shouted, and they swung into action, Caroline going to answer the door, Poppy grabbing the laptop from the dining room and Charlie bouncing off the walls in excitement.
The reporter and photographer from the Tavistock Herald were waiting on the doorstep with polite smiles on their faces.
‘Mrs McKeever?’ inquired the shorter of the two. He glanced down at his notebook. ‘And you must be Charlie and Poppy. I’m Stanley Smith, though people call me Sniffer. And this is our photographer Henry Blossom, though people call him Henry.’ No-one smiled at the joke.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the photographer, who was a tall, thin man with a camera slung around his neck, a camera bag on his shoulder and a long-suffering expression on his face. Caroline shook their hands and they followed her into the lounge, Charlie and Poppy in their wake.
‘So, we’ll have a chat and then go out onto the moor to see where you said you saw this ‘ere puma, shall we?’ said Sniffer, winking at Charlie.
‘I didn’t say I saw the cat, I actually saw it. And I don’t think it was a puma, I think it was a jaguar,’ answered Charlie with spirit, and Poppy saw shades of their dad in her brother. Charlie may have only been six, but he wasn’t about to be patronised by a middle-aged hack from a local paper, not when his dad was a famous war correspondent for the BBC. Sniffer didn’t endear himself to either of the children when he shoved a sleeping Magpie off the comfiest of the armchairs so he could sit down. The cat shot him a look of pure disdain and stalked off to the corner of the room, where he proceeded to wash himself, stopping every now and then to look daggers at the reporter.
‘Tell me what happened on Thursday then, Charlie,’ Sniffer said, thumbing through his notebook until he reached a blank page.
Charlie recounted how they’d decided to have a picnic on their tor. ‘Usually there are sheep everywhere but on Thursday there weren’t any. I thought that was a bit strange.’
Poppy couldn’t remember Charlie saying as much at the time, but she kept the thought to herself. She didn’t want to rain on his parade.
‘Anyway, we were just about to go when something caught my eye. I saw the head of a big cat poking up from behind this huge boulder. I told Poppy to look and I got out my camera and took some photos. Then the cat jumped onto the boulder and we got a really good look at it. It was massive!’ said Charlie.
‘Unfortunately the camera battery ran out before the animal jumped onto the rock, but Charlie did manage to take a few pictures before it packed up,’ said Caroline, swivelling the laptop so the two men could see the screen. They both leant forward, poring over the photos. Within seconds the scepticism vanished from Sniffer’s face.
‘Interesting, very interesting,’ he said, half to himself. He turned to Charlie. ‘You could have something here, young man. I have contacts on the nationals and they love a genuine big cat story. We might get some mileage from this.’
‘Don’t forget where your loyalties lie, Stanley,’ said Henry. ‘The Herald has the exclusive.’
Fortunately Caroline knew the ways of local journalists who liked to make a bit of extra cash selling stories to the national newspapers. ‘And you’ll not be forgetting that these are Charlie’s pictures, taken on Charlie’s camera and are therefore his copyright,’ she said pleasantly.
A nasty expression flitted across Sniffer’s face, although Henry Blossom looked at her admiringly. ‘Too true, Mrs McKeever,’ he said, in his gentle Devon burr. ‘I’ll make sure no-one takes advantage of him,’ he added, eyeing his colleague pointedly. Caroline smiled her thanks and the five of them headed outside and up onto the tor, where Henry took pictures of Charlie and Poppy by the boulder where they’d seen the big cat.
‘When will the story be in the paper?’ demanded Charlie.
‘I want to show the photos to the head cat keeper at the local zoo first to get his take on them. But the story should make the next edition,’ replied Sniffer.
‘Cool! Do you think I’ll end up on the telly like my dad?’
Sniffer stood stock still, his eyes fixed on Charlie. He reminded Poppy of a hound that had just picked up the scent of a fox. ‘Who’s your dad then, young man?’ the reporter asked, thinking privately that this story was getting better and better.
‘Mike McKeever. He’s a war correspondent for the BBC,’ Charlie said proudly.
Sniffer took a pen from behind his ear and made a few more indecipherable squiggles in his notebook. ‘Good, good. Right then, Henry. We’d better be heading back.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea first?’ asked Caroline.
‘Aye, that would be champion, Mrs McKeever,’ said Henry Blossom, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder and giving Caroline a wide smile. Poppy noticed that he had a lop-sided gait, the result of years spent hefting about bags laden with lenses.
Back at the house Caroline switched on the kettle and disappeared into the lounge to light the fire. Henry and Charlie joined Poppy in the kitchen. Sniffer stood outside the back door among a pile of abandoned wellies trying, without much success, to get a signal on his mobile phone. Poppy was setting out a row of mugs and dropping a teabag in each when she heard a cry and an almighty crash from the lounge. Her stomach flipped over. Henry and Charlie stopped talking and were rooted to the spot. Poppy dropped the teabags and rushed into the lounge. Caroline was lying on the wooden floor, clutching her left wrist. Her face was white. ‘I think I’ve broken my arm. It’s the floor – it’s so slippery,’ she gasped.
Poppy took a look and flinched. Caroline’s hand was bent at an unnatural angle to her arm and her wrist was already starting to swell. She looked as if she was about to pass out. Suddenly the reassuring presence of Henry Blossom loomed behind them. ‘Oh dear. What have we here?’ he said in his gentle voice.
Assessing the situation in a flash, he started giving instructions. ‘Right Popp
y, where’s the phone? I think we’re probably going to need an ambulance. Charlie, you go and find a blanket for your mum. We don’t want her going into shock.’
He knelt down beside Caroline. ‘I think it’s safe to say you’ve broken your wrist. And a proper job you’ve made of it too, by the looks of things. We’re going to call an ambulance. You’re going to need to go to hospital. And the paramedics will be able to give you something for the pain.’
‘What about the children?’ whispered Caroline, as Henry took a patchwork blanket from Charlie’s hands and wrapped it gently around her shoulders.
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll stay with them until we get something sorted. I’ll get Sniffer to ring the boss and let her know. She’ll understand. Is there anyone else who can look after them until you get back from hospital?’
‘My husband’s in the Middle East. I could ask my sister but she has children of her own and lives in Bromley anyway. It would take her hours to get here.’
Poppy thought. ‘What about Tory? She’d come and look after us.’
‘Tory Wickens? Do you have her number, Poppy? I’ll give her a ring once the ambulance is here and arrange for her to come over,’ said Henry.
Satisfied with the arrangements Caroline slumped down against the sofa and they waited together in silence for the ambulance.
Chapter Nineteen
The next few hours passed by in a blur. The ambulance arrived and two cheery paramedics took charge, strapping Caroline’s wrist into a sling and giving her gas and air for the pain. Henry Blossom was as good as his word and phoned Tory, who promised to ring her nephew at once to bring her over. Sniffer prowled around the lounge, picking up photos of the McKeevers and examining the family’s assorted curios and ornaments, from fossils found by the children to Caroline’s collection of old Chinese vases. Poppy watched the journalist, seeing the room through his eyes. Caroline had spent a week painting the walls and sanding and waxing the floorboards. Two huge squashy damson-coloured sofas, a battered leather armchair and their eclectic collection of painted furniture were arranged around the open fireplace. Patchwork throws and cushions the colour of jewels made the room warm and welcoming. Poppy realised with a jolt that Riverdale already felt more of a home to her than their house in Twickenham ever had.
