Poppy Day

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Good morning, Poppy.’ The way she spoke made Poppy feel ordinary. Harriet was the sort of girl that always had Tipp-Ex, a spare pen and a sharpener in her pencil case, while Poppy and her mates scrabbled around in the disused ice-cream cartons to find something to write with. No matter what topic was being discussed, from Victorian railways to the Egyptians, Harriet always had a relevant book, relic or objet d’art to bring from home. In later years, Poppy wondered if she had an ‘in’ at the British Museum.

  Harriet was very clean and very pretty, but the most amazing thing about her on that particular day was her lunch box. It was a pink plastic suitcase, the perfect size for sandwiches and a couple of treats. Poppy was desperate to look inside. Ten minutes into the journey she was rewarded when Harriet casually flipped the lid to reveal the most wonderful sight. Tiny brown bread triangles, the crusts missing, were filled with ham. It made Poppy think of her nan, who would have said, ‘No crusts? She’ll never ’ave curly hair!’ This was one of her many sayings, turned into belief based on nothing more than repetition. The sandwiches were on one side, making space for a carton of orange juice with its own little plastic straw. An individual pot of yoghurt with a teaspoon sat neatly in one corner and there were not one but two chocolate biscuits. Most intriguing of all was the plastic twist of cling film with four washed, sugared strawberries in it. It was a glimpse into another world, a fantastic sugary, crusts-deliberately-missing-on-your-sandwiches, world.

  Poppy was transfixed.

  Harriet saw her staring. Lifting the box, she held it towards Poppy’s face. ‘Would you like something, Poppy?’

  Again, with that way of speaking that made Poppy think she should definitely do Harriet’s bidding, whatever it might be. Poppy wanted all of it, but how could she say that? Instead, she shook her head, too shy to be honest, trying to ignore the rumble in her tummy. Poppy dug deep, plucked up the courage and found her voice, ‘I like your lunch in its little box, Harriet.’

  ‘Thank you, Poppy.’

  ‘Did you make it yourself?’

  ‘Did I make it?’ Harriet’s eyes widened, her eyebrows shot upwards towards her blond fringe. It was as if she had heard something outrageous, unfathomable. She laughed, revealing flossed and polished teeth. ‘Of course not, silly! Mummy made it for me, but I chose what I wanted from the fridge and she said I could have treats even though it isn’t Thursday, which is sweetie day in our house!’

  Poppy was enthralled. There were two things about Harriet’s fabulous insight that gripped her completely. Firstly, she couldn’t imagine living in a house where these sorts of goodies were hanging around in a fridge waiting to be picked. Secondly, in Harriet’s house they had a sweetie day, which Poppy now knew was Thursday. This information left her with a large void in the base of her stomach, an acute ache that she carried with her until she fell properly in love with Martin Cricket some years later. These facts filled her throat with the bitterest of bile, making her feel utterly hopeless.

  Cheryl would not know if her daughter had eaten much less what she had eaten. If Poppy didn’t get supper for her and Dorothea they would both go to bed without food. Cheryl would be too busy putting on her face or watching something on the telly. Harriet’s mum not only had a fridge bursting with treats, but crucially cared enough about Harriet’s health, teeth and well-being to only allow her sweets once a week! Poppy felt bloody sick and bloody jealous. She realised at that precise moment, looking at her squashed jelly cubes and the jam sandwiches with big holes in them that had gone hot on her lap, that her mum was really quite crap.

  She scrunched up the bread bag with its sordid contents and pushed it down the side of the coach seat. It was a crappy packed lunch that reminded her of her crappy life. She wasn’t sure if the empty aching feeling in her tummy was hunger or something else entirely. Sadly, this was Poppy’s overriding memory of that day. She couldn’t remember if she got to study a sea horse and didn’t recall the elephant that sprayed its trunk on cue. Instead, her strongest recollection was of her packed lunch and the fact that she grew up a bit more; lost even more of the magic…

  Back in the real world, Poppy tried not to think about the man with the gun in the front seat. It wasn’t a little pistol that she might have been able to ignore, but was one of those great big machine guns, the ones you see in films, where the owner also has a large row of bullets over his shoulder accompanied by a big droopy Mexican moustache and a fat cigar clamped between his teeth. Miles and Poppy sat in the back seat; they’d handed over their bags and their pockets had been emptied. They looked out of the windows, purposely not looking at each other. Poppy felt sick. She had always had a tendency to feel sick in a car, but this was different. There was an element of her ailment, but she was also frightened sick, it was horrible.

  She looked at the empty dusty roads as they bumped along; wondering if this was where he had been captured. The image of Martin on his knees, winded, with his head covered, came into focus again. It was still relatively dark outside; the car headlights threw two beams out to light the way ahead. The landscape was that of her vision, it could have occurred anywhere; the image of him on his knees was, in fact, everywhere she looked.

  The driver had his face wrapped in a scarf and was wearing sunglasses. He reminded Poppy of The Invisible Man; she considered the possibility of unwrapping the man’s headgear and finding nothing.

  As the journey continued, the day cast its light over the sand until it was bright. The creamy terrain caught the early sunlight, giving the whole landscape a pink hue. As the morning progressed and the light changed, the dunes went from yellow to gold until the large red sun shone high in the sky and the earth positively glowed the colour of burnt cinnamon. It was beautiful. The spectacular scenery, however, did little to relieve her anxiety. Supposing Martin wasn’t there? Supposing he was hurt or worse? She had wanted this for a long time; it had been her dream since the day that he’d been taken, to get him back and to make a difference. Yet now she was getting close to achieving some or all of that, she felt nothing but fear. She whispered under her breath, ‘I am coming, baby. You hang in there, I am coming.’

  After some hours she spied a small settlement ahead of them; a selection of houses, a larger building and what looked like a derelict mosque. It had to be where they were heading. Poppy’s heart rate increased and she was sweating. Miles turned towards her and placed his finger on his closed mouth, reminding her that she was Nina Folkstok and that she mustn’t speak, as if she could have forgotten. She smiled at him with her mouth, but her eyes were frozen with an expression of trepidation.

  The car began to slow and then stopped. The man with the gun opened the back door; apparently they were going to walk the rest of the way. She wasn’t prepared for what happened next. He went to Miles and placed a black scarf over his eyes and tied it tight. Miles spoke loudly, ‘That’s right, we are now blindfolded and will be until we are inside, all quite normal and it won’t be for long.’

  Miles, bless him, was telling her not to be scared, that it would soon be over. It went against all her instincts to stand still, allowing the man to cover her eyes. She wanted to pull it off and shout in protest.

  The scarf man then took her hand and placed it on Miles’s shoulder. Poppy could tell it was Miles’s shoulder by the fabric of his shirt beneath her fingertips, thin corduroy. This was how they walked the rest of the way, in a blind conga without the music or leg kicks. This would have made Poppy laugh under any other circumstances, but she was too scared to find anything funny.

  It was a further twenty minutes before they were inside and their blindfolds removed. Poppy found herself in a large hallway, with a wide staircase and a wrought iron banister that wound around in a circle. It reminded her of an entrance to one of those posh hotels that you saw in the West End. There were several doors leading from the hallway, each had a guard with a gun. There were more men with weapons on the stairs and one or two hanging down over the ornate balcony; they were surround
ed. Poppy couldn’t have spoken if she’d wanted to, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and there was no spare spit to loosen it.

  One of the doors opened and a tall man in traditional Afghan dress came out. His beard was really long, almost down to the middle of his chest and on his head was one of the scarves that all the men seemed to own, but it was wound around into a turban. He stepped forward,

  ‘Hello and welcome. I hope that your journey was a good one.’ With palms upturned and hands splayed, he looked and sounded like the perfect host, not the fearful warlord that she had been expecting. It was surreal; he seemed oblivious to the guns and the tension. Poppy stared at him.

  Miles took a step forward. ‘Thank you for your welcome. The journey was fine, although we are glad to arrive.’

  ‘Glad to arrive, yes I am sure,’ he laughed in acknowledgement of the shitty roads and the whole blindfold incident. It was bizarre, the whole thing. Poppy had pictured him as a monster, but he was chatting to Miles like an old friend of the family, someone you might meet in the supermarket that you only know a little bit. So you talk about traffic and the parking, enquire after their health… Then hope that you don’t bump into them again in the fruit and veg because you have exhausted everything you might possibly have to say to them. It was like that, they stood making small talk. It was the weirdest moment for Poppy. He shook Miles’s hand. ‘I am Zelgai Mahmood.’

  ‘I am Miles Varrasso.’

  Zelgai bowed his head slightly. Poppy knew he was coming to her next. She knew it, anticipated it, yet Miles hadn’t told her that she could speak. But it was too late; he was there, in front of her, with his hand outstretched, ‘You must be Nina.’

  She placed her shaking hand into his. ‘Yes, I am Nina Folkstok.’

  Again he bowed slightly. ‘I have never been to Denmark. It can be very cold, I understand.’

  She drew breath and spoke quietly, not wanting to give away too much of her accent, ‘Yes it can be very cold but beautiful.’

  ‘Your homeland is always the most beautiful place in the world, is it not? No matter where it is.’

  Poppy nodded and glanced at Miles, who winked at her quickly. It told her all that she needed to know; so far, she had done well.

  Zelgai put his arm out to indicate the rest of the house. ‘Shall we go into my office?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ Miles was happy to speak on their behalf. Poppy was happy to let him.

  Zelgai walked slowly, the two followed at an almost reverential pace. The man from the car with the gun walked behind them, another conga-like procession. They approached some double doors made of dark wood with elaborate carvings. The armed guard who had been blocking them turned the handle and pushed them open. The room was vast and could have been Tristram Munroe’s office, if you replaced the rugs with pictures and the tiled floor for carpet.

  There were two Arab men already seated at either side of the desk. Zelgai took the vacant leather seat in the middle, Miles and Poppy sat on smaller chairs in front of the trio. Poppy crossed and uncrossed her legs before clasping and unclasping her hands. Zelgai laid out the rules of the interview, ‘You may make notes with a pen and paper, but not use any electronic equipment.’ The two were still without their bags and their pockets were empty; where he thought they might be hiding electronic equipment, God only knew.

  ‘We will tell you what questions to ask and we will refuse to discuss anything that we do not wish to discuss. The interview will be over when we say it is and you will be taken back to the base in the same way that you arrived. Is that all straight forward?’

  Miles again leant forward, the official spokesman. ‘Yes, that is all understood. May I please take this opportunity to thank you for speaking to us today, Mr Mahmood?’

  Zelgai nodded. The man in the chair to the left of the desk spoke in a low whisper. Zelgai turned around and listened. They spoke in the throaty Arabic that barred Miles and Poppy. The conversation was brief. Zelgai suddenly stood, as did the man sat to his right; this man now addressed them, as he and Zelgai did a form of do-se-do and swapped seats. Poppy glanced at Miles who kept his eyes facing forward.

  ‘I must apologise for the subterfuge. I am Zelgai Mahmood.’

  Miles seemed totally unfazed, whereas Poppy was thinking, what the shitting ada is going on here?

  Miles bent forward slightly, with the hint of a bow. ‘I am most grateful for the opportunity to meet with you, sir.’

  The real Zelgai just nodded as if to say, ‘Yes, you should be’. He was fastidiously groomed, his beard close and neat, his brows trimmed, his nails had the perfect almond shape and lustre of a recent manicure. His eyes were like tiny chips of grey flint, cold and blank. Whether it was because Poppy knew who he was and what he was capable of, or whether it was the truth she would never know, she was certain that she had never seen such malevolence in any eyes. It was as if she could see into his soul and the colour was black. A shudder ran along her spine, causing her shoulders to jerk.

  He turned to Miles and said, ‘I am familiar with your writing, Mr Varrasso. I like your work.’ His voice was accentless, with the clear-cut precise vowels of a BBC announcer. His perfect English placed him firmly on the playing fields of a good public school; he might even have been in the first fifteen with Tom and Tristram…

  Miles piped up, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I think that your view is balanced, which is not something I can always say of your colleagues.’ Zelgai and his associates laughed. Miles chortled softly so that he wasn’t left out; although Poppy bet that he didn’t find it that funny.

  ‘Tell me, are you a rugby man, Miles?’

  ‘Err… not overly. I’ll watch if it’s on, six nations, that sort of thing.’ It was diplomatic, concessionary.

  Zelgai nodded, noting there was little point in asking Miles for an update on the Harlequins’ progress. It was the thing he missed most.

  Without warning, he sat back in his chair, resting his chin on his hand. He turned to Poppy. ‘Who are you?’

  She lowered her head slightly; when she spoke her voice was again quiet, ‘I am Nina Folkstok.’

  He stared at her for some seconds, before exhaling loudly with a low, irritated hum. When he spoke again, it was as if time stopped; her stomach shrunk around her intestines, which had turned to liquid. She clenched her buttocks to prevent an accident. Her heart had moved into her throat, which she could not only hear beating, but which prevented her from breathing. He smiled at her, now sitting upright with his long fingers forming a pyramid over his lap. ‘No. No you are not.’ He shook his head. ‘I asked you a question and I would like an answer. Who are you?’ He was still smiling, but it was the sadistic smile of a madman, not the friendly smile of someone trying to put you at ease.

  ‘I… I… am…’

  Miles started to speak, ‘She is a journalist, she—’

  ‘You shut up!’ Zelgai’s voice boomed around the room. He stood as he shouted, pointing at Miles. He conversed with the guards in his native tongue, the double doors opened; the gun-toting, blindfold man came in. He marched over to Miles as Zelgai fired off short bursts of instruction. The guard yanked Miles from his chair and spun him around until he was facing the door; with his gun in Miles’s back, the man began to push him from the room.

  Miles stammered over his shoulder as he was forcibly removed, his sentences fragmented as the pleas stuttered in his mind, ‘Please, she… I, let me, it’s not… please…’

  Poppy didn’t move, couldn’t move. She sat repeating in her head, ‘Please don’t kill Miles. This is my fault, it’s nothing to do with him, please don’t kill him!’

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ Poppy hadn’t realised that she’d spoken aloud until Zelgai answered.

  ‘That depends on how honest you are. If you lie to me, I will kill him.’ She could tell by his tone that he meant it. Poppy was terrified. Zelgai sat down, all the while looking her squarely in the face. ‘I ask you for one final time,
who are you?’

  Poppy could hear Miles’s words in her head, ‘Don’t speak! You are Nina, don’t say a word, you are Nina Folkstok.’ She didn’t have the strength to lie; too frightened to think straight, let alone concentrate on an elaborate story. She took a deep breath. ‘My name is Poppy Day. I am English. I’m a hairdresser. No one knows that I’m here, no one has sent me. I came here because I believe that you have taken my husband and I want him back, please.’

  No one spoke for what seemed to Poppy like an age. She felt as if her legs did not belong to her body. She was shaking. Zelgai spoke to his compatriots without averting his gaze. They stood and left the room. Poppy thought that without the scrutiny of the audience it might be less scary, but it was quite the opposite. She did not want to be alone with him. He stroked his beard. ‘Tell me one more time, exactly who you are and what it is you want.’

  Poppy held his gaze and told him the truth, ‘My name is Poppy Day. I am married to Martin Cricket, a British soldier. I am English, I’m a hairdresser. No one has sent me or knows that I am here. I have come because I believe that you are holding my husband hostage. I felt that nothing was being done to get him released and I want him to come home. I really want him to come home.’