Poppy Day

by Amanda Prowse

  Poppy visited her nan daily without fail. It was the highlight of the day for both of them. If Nathan was around, Dorothea would introduce them, ‘Nathan, this is my Poppy Day.’

  Nathan would shake her hand and say, ‘I am pleased to meet you, Poppy Day’ even though it’s probably the millionth time that they had met.

  She would then say, on cue, ‘Poppy Day, I want to leave Nathan something in my will. Can you sort it out for me?’

  ‘Certainly, Nan. What would you like to leave him?’

  To which she would reply, ‘I think about a million pounds.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Nathan would smile, thinking for one second about what he could do with that million pounds.

  They both knew the reality. Her total wealth sat somewhere between four and sixty-eight pounds, depending on what she had in her purse, and the few sentimental possessions that were scattered around her room.

  Rob left, telling Poppy that he would be in touch in the morning. She walked along the road to The Unpopulars, finding it difficult to think about the situation. Unable to picture Martin, where he was or what had happened to him. She thought about normal things, like whether her nan might need anything, wondering if the fridge needed defrosting, anything to fill her thoughts.

  She rang the doorbell, to be greeted by Nathan.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous.’

  ‘Hello yourself. How’s Dorothea?’

  ‘Oh, Poppy Day, she has been a complete nightmare today! Threw her breakfast across the room first thing, by eleven a.m. we had a dirty protest and after lunch she tried to bite Mrs Hardwick on the arm.’ Poppy loved Nathan, the way that he made even the most awful day sound almost funny. Almost.

  ‘Is Mrs Hardwick all right?’ She was used to having to apologise or mop up for her nan, the Reggie Kray of the house.

  ‘Yes, she is fine. I gave her an extra custard cream with her cuppa tonight to soothe away any angst over the whole sordid incident.’

  ‘Thanks, Nath.’

  ‘You are welcome, Poppy Day.’ He had picked up Dorothea’s habit of calling her by both Christian and surname. ‘You look shattered, honey, tough day at the office?’

  ‘Mmmnn, something like that.’

  Poppy made her way along the corridor to her nan’s room. She scanned the TV lounge, which was crowded as usual. Fourteen mismatched, high-backed chairs in various floral and vinyl finishes formed a U-shape around the perimeter; these seats the bequest of residents long dispatched. The pea-soup-coloured walls absorbed the fetid, foul breath of the decaying occupants. The linoleum floor caught drips from lax muscles, splashes of tea from shaky hands and tears shed at memories that refused to budge. The room and the people in it were fused into an amorphous mass of decrepitude. Even when empty, the ghosts and scents of the dead and not yet dead tangibly lingered. The residents of The Unpopulars had similar backgrounds; native East Enders that had witnessed the Blitz, all of whom had been around long enough to see their lives and landscapes transformed beyond recognition. They were strangers bound by common ancestry and the shared choice of their final postcode; the last place they would call home.

  Poppy watched Nathan tuck a blanket around the legs of an ancient woman, whose tiny, birdlike frame he lifted with ease. The woman reached up with knobbly fingers and touched the keys that hung from his belt. ‘Keys,’ she offered.

  ‘Yes, my house and office keys, oh and a car key, bit of a jailer’s bunch!’ He tried to lighten the mood with a touch of joviality.

  ‘I don’t have keys any more.’ She looked at him through a long grey fringe, a curtain from behind which she could study the strange world and simultaneously hide. Nathan stared; he didn’t know what to say to make it better. She was right; of course, no keys meant no property, no vehicle, no belonging and no freedom. A bit like Mart.

  Dorothea was, as usual, sitting in her little room, in front of the TV with the volume and heating both turned a little too high for comfort. She was obsessed with cookery programmes; any format, any recipe, at any time of the day or night. This, despite the fact that she had never made any effort in her own kitchen, other than the occasional roast dinner on a Sunday and the ready supply of bacon sandwiches that kept Wally the miserable sleeper from starvation. A chef with a booming voice was giving explicit instructions on how to stuff and roast a loin of lamb. Poppy bent low and kissed her forehead.

  ‘Ah, Poppy Day!’

  ‘Hello, Nan. How are you tonight?’

  ‘They are trying to poison me. I had shepherd’s pie tonight and it smelt very funny!’

  ‘Did you manage to eat it?’

  ‘Yes I did, in fact, I had two portions. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of watching me starve. I am not afraid of their poison!’ She turned her head to shout the last few words in the direction of the corridor.

  ‘Quite right too, Nan. Apart from your near death by poisoning experience, anything else happen today?’

  ‘Now you come to mention it, yes, I’ve had a terrible day. That Mrs Hardwick’s been causing trouble again.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Was it on the news?’

  ‘Yes it was; it was the headline: That Mrs Hardwick causes trouble again!’

  ‘Well I’m not surprised, she is a right cow. Ah, Poppy Day, there is someone that I would like you to meet!’

  Nathan stepped into the room.

  ‘Nathan, this is Poppy Day, my granddaughter. Poppy Day, this is Nathan.’

  Nathan shook her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Poppy Day.’

  ‘I want to leave Nathan something in my will. Can you sort it out for me?’

  Poppy and Nathan recited their lines until Dorothea was content…

  ‘What did you do today, Poppy Day?’

  ‘I had some bad news actually, Nan.’

  ‘Oh no! It’s not Wally, is it?’ Dorothea’s breath came in short bursts as she clutched at the front of her cardigan, her anxiety evident.

  Poppy placed her hand on her nan’s knee and thought of Wally, who had died well over a decade ago, and wondered what could have happened to him that would be so bad now? Maybe he had given a worm acute indigestion. ‘No, Nan, don’t worry, it’s OK, it’s not Wally.’

  The old lady’s fingers unfurled. ‘Did I tell you about that Mrs Hardwick? She’s been causing trouble again.’

  ‘No, you didn’t mention it. Mrs Hardwick, you say?’

  ‘Yes, someone told me it was on the news!’

  ‘Did they? I think that was someone pulling your leg, Nan.’

  ‘No, it was definitely on the news.’

  ‘Who told you, Nan?’

  ‘Mrs Hardwick told me. She’d seen something about our Joan, she’s in trouble again.’

  Poppy stroked the back of her nan’s hand. This was how her evening went, verbally going around in circles, trying to find the beginning and end of a moving piece of thread, without crying, screaming or both. No matter how frustrating, this was her lovely nan and, at that point, she was all the family Poppy had and she needed her.

  The hour passed slowly for Poppy, tiredness crept into her joints and tugged at her eyelids. ‘Right then, Nan, I’m going to make tracks. Do you need anything before I go?’

  ‘Yes I do! I need you to go and have a word with that Mr What’shisname; he is trying to poison me! I fed some of my shepherd’s pie to the cat and it rolled over and died! That’s proof, Poppy Day!’

  ‘Nan, I will get right onto it, I promise. I love you.’

  ‘… and I love you. I just hope that I am still here in the morning and that they don’t poison me in the night!’

  ‘I think you’ll be OK, Nan, just don’t eat anything!’

  Poppy walked home slowly. Despite her exhaustion and the lure of her bed, she didn’t want to arrive. She twisted the key in the lock and walked into the shadowy, hushed space.

  Bedtime was now Poppy’s least favourite part of the day. Like most married couples, she and Martin had fall
en into a steady night-time routine over the years, with well-established habits. Swapping trivia about their day as they took turns to clean teeth, passing in the narrow hallway with pyjamas slung over arms, fetching glasses of water that would remain untouched on bedside tables, only to be discarded in the morning. Poppy would then submerge herself under the duvet, curled into a ball, trying to muster warmth while she waited for her husband whose job it was to switch off the lights, lock the door and unplug the telly…

  On one occasion Martin donned his wife’s pink nightdress and entered the bedroom performing an elaborate mock ballet move. Poppy watched her hairy man with his arms aloft and a dozing puppy on his chest. They had laughed like children…

  Poppy now completed her night-time ritual in silence, without the easy chatter that the two exchanged. She’d lock the door early and recheck it at least twice. The bedroom was always tidy. She missed retrieving the nest 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.

  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 against her chest, 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. She could sometimes fool herself that he was there, keeping her safe. To wake in the night and reach for him, only to find him gone, meant a night of cold and lonely musings. It didn’t get any easier.

  She would often reread the one letter Martin had written her in reply; an innocuous three sheets, penned in haste by torchlight, using his knees as a desk. It would become a talisman, a thing so precious that Poppy would keep it close, fingering the pale blue airmail paper and learning each loop of script by heart.

  She no longer needed to unfold the sheets and feel their feather-light weight in her palm; she could simply close her eyes and visualise each pen stroke and each smudge.

  Well Poppy,

  Here is a surprise for you, a letter from your old man! I miss you baby, more than you can imagine.

  Time passes very slowly or very quickly, depends if I’m mega busy or bored stupid. When I’m mega busy its fine, but when I am bored and missing you, it’s bloody miserable.

  I want to come home Poppy, I want to come home and be with you in our flat. I want to take you to bed and hold you tight and feel your arms around me. I hate sleeping on my own and I always reach out for you in the night.

  I want to make our baby with you Poppy, I want our little family. I want to see you with our baby.

  I know we are solid and that’s the one thing that keeps me going and stops me going mental.

  I think about you every minute.

  I love you Poppy, always have an I always will. I think about the wedding a lot.

  Sometimes I am homesick Poppy and I imagine you holding my hand and it helps. I can hear your voice in my head and it’s as good as sitting with you on the settee.

  Got to go now baby, never forget how much I am loving you and missing you.

  Mart xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  It had become increasingly difficult for Poppy to write with any originality. She found herself repeating the content of previous letters, always trying to think of new and different ways to tell him about her boring life.

  Self-censorship meant she avoided telling him anything that would make him miss home too much, make him worry or jealous, not that Martin was the jealous type. It was more out of consideration than self-preservation.

  Poppy carried with her a low-level guilt. It wasn’t always at the forefront of her mind, but was more of a hum, like distant motorway traffic; the more you strained to hear it, the louder it became. She never exactly lied to Martin, but, rather, doctored the facts to make for more palatable reading. She would neglect to mention an evening at home with the girls and a Chinese takeaway, as they watched the football and drank plonk. It didn’t feel fair, doing the stuff that he loved. Instead, she kept to neutral topics, particularly her nan. Pages could be filled with the wonderful conversations that took place at The Unpopulars and some of Dorothea’s more crackers ideas. She knew these insights would make him laugh, as well as keeping him updated. It was good for Poppy too, to be able to share her worries and thoughts.

  She neglected to tell him that she’d seen his mum and dad, who had ignored her. Poppy had been perusing the fruit and veg in the supermarket when she looked up from the shrink-wrapped broccoli and caught his mum’s eye. She knew that they had seen her; could tell by the way his mum concentrated on looking the other way to prove that she hadn’t seen her, when it was really obvious that she had… Poppy felt embarrassed, what did they think? That she might want something from them? God forbid.

  There was little point in sharing this with Mart, it would only have angered and possibly upset him. It wouldn’t be pleasant to know that they had not wanted to find out if there was any news on their son. Was he well? Alive? That sort of thing.

  Poppy looked through the open door into the kitchen, where she spied the burnt fish fingers stuck to the grill pan, dumped in the sink. She slid down the door until her back was pushed against the wood. Her legs finally submitting to fatigue, crumpled beneath her and she started to cry. Placing her arms around her trunk in a self-soothing hug, she didn’t have to pretend or think about her prepared reaction, it was real. Fat tears ran from her eyes, clogging her mouth and nose. ‘Mart…’ she whispered through her distress, ‘Mart…’ She willed him to hear her calling to him across the sea and sand. Her heart ached with longing for her husband, her man, her best friend. ‘Where are you?’

  Four

  MARTIN LAY IN captivity, still tied to the bed, trying to work out how many hours had passed since he had woken safe and happy in the camp. He figured it was the same day, but without the guidance of daylight and no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious, he could only guess.

  As with anyone that’s suffered trauma, it’s not only the incident, but the whole of that day that takes on significance. There is a temptation to analyse the surrounding events, looking for clues that might help you understand how a day can start off in such an ordinary way, yet end so unexpectedly.

  On his final morning in camp, Martin had woken early and whistled his way to the shower block. The Portakabin housed a row of showers along its back wall, several sinks to the left of the central door and a long, slatted, wooden bench that ran across the middle of the room. It reminded Martin of the changing room in the public swimming baths he had frequented whilst at school; although here there was marginally less towel whipping and no one dared nick your clean pants. Martin stashed his body armour and helmet on the long bench and stood inside the cubicle, hoping it was a day when water was available and dreaming of the privacy, fluffy towels and sparkling tiles of home, where after a shower, he would join Poppy on the sofa. There, they’d drink tea and watch the news, her knees curled up against his thigh, her head on his shoulder…

  Unlike some, Martin didn’t mind the routine of camp life. He’d divided his time away into chores, having calculated that when he had completed one hundred and eighty-six ablutions, he’d be heading home. As his eighty-fourth shave dawned, he reflected that there were only one hundred and two to go before he would be packing his kit, shipping out.

  The day of his capture had indeed started out routinely. Wearing his towel as a scarf he pulled his chin with his left hand into a taut and unnatural angle, whilst scraping at the whiskers with the razor in his right. He knew that Poppy liked to watch him shave, finding the nature of the task intimate and sexy. At home, he would speak to her pyjama-clad reflection as it hovered over his right shoulder. Standing in the Portakabin, his eyes darted to that space in the mirror’s corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face. Every touch to his skin of the razor’s bl
ade took him one step closer to Poppy.

  The previous night had been relatively peaceful; one siren and subsequent attack meant he had enjoyed six consecutive hours of sleep. He was in good spirits.

  Martin and Aaron stood side by side, exchanging small talk that would, with hindsight, become significant. The men tended to keep their conversation to the current or amusing; safe, gossipy topics that kept emotions in check. Aaron had only mentioned his son maybe once or twice before, yet uncharacteristically, he wanted to discuss him that morning.

  ‘I got a picture from Joel today, not really sure what it’s supposed to be, but it’s a bloody masterpiece. I’ll keep it safe in case he’s ever a famous artist. I mean, look at what those Sunflowers fetched! I can’t believe he’s nearly two already. I really miss him, Mart.’

  Martin nodded, unsure of what to say or how to make it better. He didn’t know what it felt like to miss anyone other than your wife. It was especially hard for him to envisage a happy father and son relationship. He considered the love between Aaron and Joel with fascination and something close to envy.

  Martin, like Poppy, had lived in E17 all his life. The Crickets’ maisonette, situated in a block adjacent to Poppy’s, was a decorative homage to the 1960s. The lounge boasted swirly patterned carpets, a Pepita clown print over an electric fire and a glass topped, kidney shaped bar that gathered dust, pizza flyers and out-of-date copies of the Yellow Pages. His mum, a nervous chain-smoker, had been a dinner lady at their school and his dad was… his dad was a complete bastard. Martin couldn’t imagine his dad hanging on to one of his works of art. He was one of those men that in his whole life never went anywhere or achieved anything, yet was able to confidently mock and correct those that had. He knew better than anyone about everything! It was quite a talent for a shithead that had only ever sat in the front room, throwing his weight around, dispensing wisdom from his grotty chair in front of the telly.

  He was a big man, fat and slovenly, who wore remnants of his last meal on his exposed vest and whose grey stubble sat as a dark shadow, designer-like in its uniformity. He carried with him the sour odour of fried food and sex. Martin grew up knowing that his dad was mean, unable to fully explain how frightened he was of him. When he looked back, he realised that for most of his childhood he held his breath. This he did in the belief that it made him feather-light, undetectable, and Martin Cricket wanted to be invisible.