by Clare Allan
47. How I remembered and how it done my head in
This ain't The Wizard of fucking Oz and I ain't Judy Garland, but when I woke up I did, I honestly thought it was all just a crazy dream. Fact the first thing I done was I leapt out of bed on account of the clock shown 10.22 and I thought I was late for Poppy. But the moment I stood up I felt so dizzy I had to grab hold of the radiator to stop myself falling over. My arse hurt as well and my legs was so stiff had to shuffle about like a penguin or something holding the wall with one wing. 'Something ain't right, girl,' I says to myself as I sat on the toilet pissing pure tranquilliser. 'They slipped me some drugs,' I says to myself. 'They don't want me going up there, that's why! They's scared of what I got to say! Well I ain't letting Poppy down now!' But as I got up I nearly fainted again, had to grab a hold of the sink this time else I would of passed out, smashed my head on the bath, most probably broken my neck as well; they don't think of that when they give you a jab up the arse. And that's when I seen my face in the mirror. I thought the mirror was shattered at first, run my fingers over the glass to check. But it weren't the mirror was cracked it was me. My face was all criss-crossed and shattered with lines where the dried-up foundation cracked through.
And then I remembered, not slowly but sudden like a huge fucking wave come crashing in and taken the whole world with it.
It weren't like I hadn't been there before. I mean, everyone I ever known, like my dad before I was even born, my nan - my other nan too most probably, reckon I must have had one — then my mum when I was twelve years old, no goodbye or nothing, do you know what I'm saying and even Mandy down Sunshine House who I had to go and find her. But with Poppy, I'd only known her six months, and it don't make no sense and I ain't saying it does, and she weren't like flesh and blood or nothing but I reckon that hit me harder than anyone. Well, saying that, I don't want to do my mum down, but Poppy was different, do you know what I'm saying: Poppy weren't s'posed to do it; there weren't nothing wrong with her.
Them first few days, I don't mind admitting, I found myself pretty confused. I thought about it all the time, and the more I thought, the more it done my head in. It got to the point where I didn't know nothing. I weren't even sure if she was dead or alive or if she'd ever existed to start with. Even all of her stuff in my flat it didn't seem real no more. Like I'd walk in the sitting room half-expecting the lot to of just disappeared.
But the one thing I carried everywhere, solid, cutting into my hand, the one thing convinced me I couldn't of dreamt her, and that was the keys to her flat, the ones she give me.
The first time I gone round I only stayed like a minute. All the way there I was shitting myself, kept wanting to turn back but something made me go on. It was night-time but a light was on as I gone past Saffra's school. I could see in this classroom, a wall full of pictures on coloured sugar paper. I suddenly wondered where Saffra was. What if nobody told her, I thought. What if she's sat in the flat on her own? It can't have been more than a week gone by but I seen her turned into skin and bone like one of them little African kids you get on Comic Relief.
As I put my key in the lock downstairs, it made such a racket I thought I'd woke up the whole house. I stood there holding the open door, like caught in the act, not daring to move. The entrance light shone in from outside, lit up a pile of old papers and post laying on the floor by the wall. 'The Occupier, 43 Selby Street . . .' I kicked it aside and the next one as well. Then before I know it I'm squatted down, one arm stretched behind me holding the door, while my other hand's rifling its way through the mail, Thames Water envelopes, credit-card deals, faster and faster, more and more panicked till all of a sudden there she is: 'Miss Poppy Shakespeare', black on white, and it jolts me so bad I fall off of my balance, the door slams behind as my arse hits the floor, and I'm froze stock still on the cold hall tiles, heart thumping, clutching the envelope, a 0% finance offer from Lombard Direct.
After all that, the flat was a bit of a come-down. I don't know what I expected to find but it weren't there that first visit. All it was was a bunch of empty rooms. A couple of coats hung up in the hall, the sitting room bare except for the sofa and the TV with the video blinking beneath it. I don't know if someone been in and cleaned up but everything looked all dusted and hoovered made it seem even more emptier. The fridge been switched off and the door held open with a neatly folded tea towel. On the drainer two mugs stood upside down with the cafetiere besides them.
I tried to imagine her washing up before she gone and done it. I couldn't believe she gone and done it. I couldn't believe I was stood in her flat and Poppy was dead, do you know what I'm saying. I just couldn't get my head round it. It didn't make no sense.
When I left I was certain I wouldn't be going back. I had a quick glance in Saffra's room just to check she weren't laying there starving or nothing but it all been packed up, or most of it. There was still a few clothes stacked up on the shelves, her blue school sweatshirt draped over the chair. As I shut the front door I got this urge to drop the keys back through. Like over and done, do you know what I'm saying; I ain't even sure why I didn't but I never.
The next night I gone back, and the next night too, and the night after that and all. I become like a burglar laying in all day, waiting till everyone gone to bed. You could hear it almost, 10 p.m., all over the Darkwoods the sound of pills, popping out of blister packs, rattling out of bottles as everyone downed their meds. Half an hour later out I gone, hurrying down to Borderline Road, hood up and head down, past flat after flat of snoring drugged-out dribblers. I couldn't of said why I kept going back. It felt weird to be honest, like pervy almost; I didn't want no one to know. Sometimes as I was walking down Sniff Street — I always walked, never taken the bus - I'd suddenly stop, feel my face turn red, like really boiling red-hot red, and I'd stand there for several seconds unable to move.
I think what it was, I was looking for something; I didn't know what, do you know what I'm saying, and most probably it weren't even in Poppy's flat, but I didn't got nowhere else, so I had to keep trying. My third, or maybe my fourth night there, I was sat on the bed in Saffra's room, not nosing or nothing, just like sat on the bed, when I noticed these couple of exercise books on the little shelf next to her desk. There was other books too, like reading books and a book about Animal Hospital, 'Love Grandma and Grampy' it said inside, but the exercise books was what caught my eye. They was blue and yellow, Maths and English, Saffra Shakespeare, Ruby Class, Year Two. And they weren't hardly started — fact the Maths weren't started and the English was only like five pages in, two pages of spelling and a bit of a story, like once upon a time sort of thing, weren't much of a writer to tell you the honest truth.
Seeing them books made me think of Mr Pettifer. And I'd almost forgot Mr Pettifer but now I remembered him really clear and my fox poem too and my highly commended and what he'd said, not bragging I mean, just like what he said: 'There's a poet in you, N.' And I taken the books and a pencil as well, gone back through the kitchen and sat myself down at the table, same table as where I'm sat writing this, same table where me and Poppy was sat when we filled out the MAD money forms. And not thinking or nothing, do you know what I'm saying, I just started to write it all down. And never stopped neither, not even once, or only to grab like a couple of Penguins or have a look round find other stuff to write on.
48. How the last piece fallen into place
General speaking, if you want to live, jumping in front of a train ain't your easiest option. According to the Sniff Street Gazette, most people die straight off. A few survive with 'severed limbs'. Only Poppy come through without a scratch.
The article was on the front page: SNIFF STREET WOMAN RESCUED UNDER TRAIN! There was a photo of these two men got her out, stood with their arms crossed on the station platform, smiling 'cause they'd give them a bravery award. Witnesses said she just jumped in front, 'like diving into a swimming pool'. Nobody couldn't believe she'd survived. Course it didn't actually give Poppy's name specific.
I stood reading it in the newsagent's. 'Are you buying that?' the woman said. I'm like, 'Alright! Who rattled your cage.' But I paid anyway just to get out the shop and I sat on the wall of the school opposite like staring until the words moved around on the page. It was weird, I didn't feel jealous or nothing. Like every dribbler's dream you'd of thought. High High High by return of post for the rest of forever, no need to fill out a form. But the honest truth was I didn't want none of it. I didn't want none of the Abaddon. All I felt was the last piece fell into place. Or almost the last; there was one thing left, one more thing I still got to do before I could write 'The End'.
It weren't nothing like I'd remembered it. The hill weren't hardly a hill at all, just a bit of a slope, what a ball wouldn't know to roll down it. Either side was an ugly great housing estate, row after row of brown brick flats, stacked three storeys high with walkways between them, stunking of piss and stale beer. I ain't saying I didn't recognise it, of course I did, ain't fucking stupid. But it weren't the Darkwoods . . .At least it was, but it weren't if you know what I'm saying. I'm like 'Jesus!' all the way up the street, like 'Jesus, N, where you been!' 'Cause it weren't how it was was freaking me out, it was how it been before.
The Abaddon Mental Health Centre was this red brick building, halfway along the street. Seven floors; I know 'cause I counted. Seven rows of windows. Then it stopped like someone just chopped it off, flat roof and cloudy sky. I stood there and I give it a look, like a look, do you know what I'm saying. 'Fucking wankers!' I said out loud. This couple of flops was sat out on the wall, sharing a can of Tennent's. 'Not you,' I said, but they weren't even listening anyway. 'Fucking wankers!' I said again. It was like, I don't know, it was like I been conned. Like the tower and all that; I ain't saying it makes sense, but you know what I mean, I'd give it thirteen years of my life and it was all just a big fucking con.
The sign by the entrance was new alright. 'The Abaddon Mental Health Centre' it said, and right underneath, where you couldn't hardly miss it, this picture of a lighthouse, or that's what it looked like, and 'Beacon of Excellence 2005'.
'Visiting's two till six,' says Sharon. He was alright, I s'pose, nothing special.
'It's five to,' I said but he didn't say nothing, just shrugged and gone back to his mag.
I stood there, arms folded, leant on one hip. I'd been dreading it to tell you the truth, but now I was here, I needed to see her; I needed to get it over.
'Alright, seventh floor,' he said.
'Thanks,' I said and I smiled like thanks for nothing.
The lift stunk of fag smoke and months of no washing. I tried holding my breath but it gone so slow, like half an hour practically every floor, by the time it reached the seventh my eyes was popping out their sockets.
First person I seen was Sue the Sticks, sat in the TV room with a crowd of flops.
'N!' she called.
'Shit,' I thought. 'Alright?' I said. 'I never seen you there.'
'You got a spare fag, N?' she said.
I give her a pack. 'You sure?' she said.
'Go on,' I said.
'You sure?' she said. 'I don't want to take advantage.
'You just come in this morning?' she said.
'Ain't in,' I said. 'I'm visiting!'
'Oh,' she said. 'Oh! I thought you was in! I thought there's N back in again! Didn't I Mohammed; that's what I thought!' Mohammed grunted, whoever he was, fat flop sat watching the telly.
'You alright though, N?' said Sue the Sticks. 'You coping? You getting the help you need?'
'I'm fine,' I said.
'You look alright. I thought that when you come in, I thought, she looks alright, but you just can't tell. That's one thing I've learned, you just can't tell. Not any more you can't anyway. You heard about Poppy?'
'What?' I said.
'You ain't offended are you, N? I didn't mean there weren't nothing wrong with you. The opposite, that's what I meant to say . . .'
'What about Poppy!' I said.
'Oh!' she said. 'Well what they've found out is: Poppy weren't never right in the head to begin with! She got this flaw in her psychic, they said. Didn't show up when they done the testing. Most probably born with it, they said, and all her life she'd been covering it up, trying to survive by pretending she was normal. It weren't till she got to the Dorothy Fish and started to get the support she needed, she could finally admit to herself there was anything wrong.
'She's told me all about it,' said Sue. ' "Just think if I hadn't of come!" she said. "Don't bear thinking about," I says to her. Thirty-three diagnoses, N, and they's finding more every ward round!'
'So how come they missed it then?' I said. 'How come it never shown up in the tests?'
'Just one of them things, I suppose,' said Sue. 'Something with the computers they think.'
'A bug,' said Mohammed.
'That's it. That's the word. Middle-Class Michael's furious, writing letters all over the place, threatening to sue; you know what he's like. "Leave it Michael," I says. "Let it go. Every cloud got a lining," I says. "If it weren't for the whatsit . .
'The bug,' said Mohammed.
'If it weren't for the bug then they'd never of found her at all.'
It was the same room we'd come to see the fireworks. The old men's dorm, must of swapped them around. Poppy was laying on a bed at the end, elbows bent, hands under her head, staring up at the ceiling. A nurse was sat in a chair by her feet, swigging at a can of Diet Lilt as she rung round words in a wordsearch magazine.
'Alright, Poppy?' I said. 'I brought you some fags.'
She turned and looked. Her eyes was blurred.
'I brought you three packs but I give one to Sue. I can go out and get you some more if you want, if you's running low. Ain't a problem,' I said. The nurse didn't move so I had to climb around her.
'Least you got a window bed,' I said. There was six beds in the room altogether, three along each side. Opposite Poppy someone was snoring, bedding pulled right up over her head like a seal trapped under the covers.
'Least you got a window bed,' I said. 'Wish they'd turn their fucking radio's down.' Three different stations was playing at once from three different bedside lockers.
'Ain't nobody even listening,' I said. 'Do you know what I'm saying! Don't it do your head in . . .?
'I can get you out of here,' I said. 'I'll go and see Leech first thing Monday,' I said. 'You's on MAD money now, innit, Poppy,' I said. 'You must be on MAD money now,' I said. 'We got to get you out of here.' I was crying. I never fucking cry. 'This place'll do your head in,' I said.
Her face was like all pale and puffed. She was looking at me like she didn't get it.
'I'll get you out of here, Poppy,' I said.
'You want to get out, don't you, Poppy,' I said.
'Least you got a window bed,' I said.
'You can see right the way round the world,' she said. 'When it's clear.'
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my parents, Liz and Graham Allan, for their tremendous support and encouragement.
Tash Aw, Bobby Baker, Leala Padmanabhan, Ben Rice, and Kate Weinberg all read the manuscript at various stages and gave generous and insightful feedback. Many thanks.
Thanks also to Clare Alexander and to Alexandra Pringle, Emily Sweet and all at Bloomsbury.
And to Juliet Allan, Gail Block, Helen Jowett, Kirstin Nicholson, Joanna Price, Jessica Rimmington and Andrew Whittuck.
And, of course, to Bernadette.
And a Palmerston steak for Billie.
A Note on the Author
Clare Allan was the winner of the first OrangeHarpers short-story prize. She lives in London. This is her first novel.
Copyright ©2006 by Clare Allan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury Publishing,
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Bloomsbury Publishing, New York and London
Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers
All papers used by Bloomsbury Publishing are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
eISBN: 978-1-59691-711-8
First U.S. Edition 2006
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed in the United States of America by Quebecor World Fairfield
