She was screaming at him, talking too quickly for it to make a lot of sense. He sat looking at her with tears pouring down his face, his arms around his body. He looked like the Martin that she knew when he was a little boy. She wanted his arms around her, needed him to put his arms around her and tell her it was all over and it would be OK, he was taking her home and they would start over… But he didn’t.
Martin could hear what she was saying, but it didn’t make any sense to him. It was like watching TV when the words and pictures are out of sync and you have to concentrate on making it all match up. She was talking too quickly for him to take it in. There were two facts that swirled around, settling on every surface of his brain: ‘He told me that you were in the house’ and ‘He made me have sex with him.’
It was all he needed.
Martin cast his mind back to the day before his release. He had been dozing on the mattress when the door opened and in walked his old friend Man U. He was, of course, pleased to see him. He was always pleased to see him, someone familiar and friendly. Martin knew that he would never forget his small kindnesses that made the biggest of differences to him.
He was beaming as usual. Martin could always tell when he had brought him something, or had something really urgent to tell him; well, to try and tell him. This was one of those times. He bent over; a bit too close, personal space wasn’t his speciality. He said, ‘David Beckham.’
Martin nodded, ‘Yes, David Beckham!’ knowing that this could mean anything from soldier, to man, or footballer, or English, or any other number of bloke-associated words. It was what came next that now resonated.
‘Victoria Beckham!’ Man U pointed at the wall over his head.
Without really knowing what he was getting at, Martin repeated, ‘Ah yes, Victoria Beckham!’
Man U was practically jumping up and down, he was really agitated. ‘Victoria Beckham! Victoria Beckham!’ Again he was pointing at the wall and then the window.
Martin smiled and nodded. Man U seemed satisfied, but the reality of what he was trying to say only dawned on him now. He was trying to tell him that David Beckham’s wife was in the house; only David Beckham was him and it wasn’t Victoria, but his wife, his Poppy Day. She was bricks away, feet away and he didn’t know. He didn’t know that she…
Poppy and Martin had been brought up surrounded by sex: her mum, always catching up on it with any bloke that she could get to hang around for longer than five minutes; the kids on the estate laughed about it; the boys at school bragged about it, some of them even practised it. Their attitude, however, was prudish. A lack of liberalism meant that for Martin and Poppy, it was only ever each other. It was important that no other hand had touched his skin, no other eyes seen her naked. It was part of their commitment and a big part of what made them special.
On the day that Poppy became his wife he felt a shift in his world. He stood on the steps vacated by Courtney and her brood, looking at his mum and dad, who hovered on the edge of the crowd, not wanting to join in. The sour twist to his mum’s mouth told him that she wasn’t impressed with the day or her son’s choice of wife. He didn’t care; he knew the reality of his parents’ life. What he and Poppy shared was beyond comparison, thank God. Martin felt a surge of joy as he held the hand of this woman that wasn’t his mate, girlfriend or fiancée; she was his wife, the most amazing girl on the planet.
Yet, he had been in the house, lying on that bed, beaten and captive, while his wife had been under that same roof, a few metres away, having sex with the man that had kidnapped him; the man that had taken away his normal life; the man that had beheaded Joel’s dad.
The tears streamed down his face. He had never cried such desperate tears in his whole life. ‘No, no…’ he whimpered over and over as if, by saying it enough, he could erase it from his mind and make it all go away. Nothing that he had been through could have prepared him for the pain of her words. Poppy and he had only had each other; it was sacred, special.
She tried to reach out and touch him. He shrugged and flinched simultaneously at the very thought of their skin making contact. This made her stomach flip; she had to concentrate on not being sick. She tried to talk to him, tried to make him focus on her. ‘I did it for you, Mart. I did it for us. I pulled on my heartstrings as hard as I could, but nothing happened. I tried, Mart, I really did. I pulled and pulled, but you didn’t come! I wanted you home and that was the price that I had to pay, I paid it, Mart! I am still paying it! Mart, please talk to me, baby!’
Then he started laughing and Poppy didn’t know what to say or how to act. He thought again about Man U and how it hadn’t made any sense to him at the time, but it was now crystal clear, they had all known about it. His wife was in the next room with that bastard while he was lying there, his own fucking wife! He laughed because it was so horrendous, that if he hadn’t laughed, then he honestly didn’t know what he would have done. He thought about when she came to him that morning. He thought she was a dream, his angel, his beautiful Poppy Day and she had only minutes before left the bed… where she, where she had…
Martin tore around the room like a crazed thing, ignoring the pain in his ribs and the throb of his broken finger, shoving his possessions into a carrier bag and putting on his shoes. Poppy tried to get hold of him at one point, tried to physically stop him from leaving, but he made a noise not dissimilar to a growl, it was just like a growl. She shrank back on the bed. He left, crying and muttering to himself, as if consumed by madness. It was frightening and upsetting all at the same time.
Poppy didn’t know how long she sat in that same position on that massive six hundred quid a night bed after he had gone. It was about two hours. She kept repeating the same logical argument in her head over and over, ‘What had been the point? I did what I thought was best to get him home because I love him so much. I did what I had to do because I had no choice. It was the only way to secure his freedom and because of that I have lost him. It’s all been for nothing, it’s destroyed us.’ It was poetic, ironic and very sad.
Martin hailed a cab; breathing deeply he fought to control the rage inside him, the like of which he had never experienced.
The phone rang, stirring Poppy into action, rousing her from her stupor. She thought it might have been Martin, she hoped it was Martin. It wasn’t.
‘Car is ready and waiting for you, madam, come on down!’
‘Oh Rob…’ she cried into the receiver, there was no need to say anything else. He was in the room within what felt like seconds. He was suited, booted and obviously ready for the big day out. Poppy was sitting in her nightie with her hair still wet in places, no make-up, and her face streaked with tears. ‘He’s gone.’
Rob sat on the end of the bed. He didn’t get angry or remind her that she was supposed to be hosting a press conference. It didn’t matter to him that in an hour or so she would be keeping the foreign secretary waiting. He didn’t mention any of it. He exhaled slowly as though they had all the time in the world. He took his hat off and raked his hair with his fingers.
‘He’ll come back, Poppy, eventually.’
‘How long is eventually?’
He didn’t lie to her, or make some crappy comment that might have made her feel a little bit better for a little while. Instead he was honest, as she knew that he would be, as he always had been. ‘I don’t know, love, but I suspect that he doesn’t either. Neither you nor I can begin to understand what he has been through. The few people that I know that have been through similar or worse have come back changed, if they come back at all.’
Poppy knew that he was talking about Aaron.
‘The thing is, Poppy, Martin will be as confused as you are. There is no right way to cope with what has happened to him. He will have to figure it out in his own way and he will, eventually.’
‘There you go again with your “eventually’’.’
‘It’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid.’
His company and words were much appreciated, but
she couldn’t see a glimmer of hope or a light at the end of any tunnel. She saw a black hole and everything she had counted on and thought that she knew was disappearing into it.
Martin sat with his hands clasped in the back of the taxi. His muscles bunched, his vision blurred. He had to get out of that room and away from her. He felt a mixture of fury and sadness. The only thing that he had ever been able to rely on had been taken from him. He had always felt like he and Poppy were in a little club, a team of two that no one else could touch. They lived in an impenetrable bubble; untouchable, unbreakable, he and Poppy Day.
Poppy was the one person in the whole world that he could trust. If you gave him a situation, any situation that you can think of, he would guarantee that he could predict how she would react, what she would do and say, how she would feel because he knew her. Or at least he thought he did.
He never would have thought or guessed that she… A small voice reminded him that she had no choice; that it was a matter of survival for them both and, of course, he believed her. It wasn’t a case of not believing her. He couldn’t imagine the situation that she was in, but he still felt really angry. Why did she put herself in that situation? Why didn’t she take greater care? Take more people with her? Anything! He couldn’t shake the thought that she could have done more, should have been more aware. If she hadn’t been so headstrong and impatient…
It was a dilemma that raged in his head. All the things that he loved most about her, her strong will, her toughness and the way that she would go for it, whatever ‘it’ was, were also the things that made him the most angry now. He wanted to shout at her ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking?’ He felt like a bastard because she had done it for him, for the love of him and yet, if he was being one hundred per cent honest, he looked at her after she had told him and he felt differently about her, not massively different, but a bit, enough. Martin couldn’t reconcile the fact that she had broken one of their rules, whether she wanted or not. Spiritually they had separated and he couldn’t see how they were going to repair the damage, or, even, if they could.
Rob made all the necessary calls to cancel their appointments. They could hardly have gone ahead, what with Martin having done a runner and not wanting to talk to or see his wife, and her still in a nightie, snivelling into a handful of Andrex. It was hardly what people were expecting, was it? Not so much Lara Croft as Lara gone soft.
Poppy felt the weight of blame. What had been the bloody point? She had done something reckless and, as it transpired, pointless, because in the process of trying to rescue and preserve their love, their life, she had destroyed it, had destroyed them.
Rob stayed with her for a couple of hours. Poppy was grateful. She hoped that he would always be in their lives. She could do with someone like him to turn to, they both could. He suggested that she get out of the hotel and go for a walk, go home, go anywhere other than sit and brood while staring at the six hundred quid a night wallpaper, lovely though it was. He was right, of course; it was exactly what she needed. There was only one place in the whole world that she wanted to go.
It felt wonderful to be walking up the path of The Unpopulars, not like coming home exactly, but pretty close. Poppy hoped that, by doing the ordinary things that she had done before, she could get back to how she used to be. Back to normal; well, kind of back to normal.
The door was opened by Bisma, who visibly flinched when she saw who it was. Poppy missed the open-mouthed smile that she was usually greeted with. In its place was the tight-lipped reluctance of someone who’s faced with a political agitator whose image had been plastered all over the papers. It almost overwhelmed her. Poppy wondered if this was how she was now destined to exist, with all those who had previously loved and liked her shunning her for undertaking a task to save the man she loved. How many more individuals would make her pay the price?
‘Hello, Bisma, how are you?’
The girl nodded, her eyes cast downwards.
Poppy decided to spare her any further embarrassment. ‘Good…’ she concluded as she walked down the corridor. She could feel beautiful Bisma’s eyes on her back and wondered what she saw.
Poppy stood in the doorway and watched her darling nan sitting exactly as she had left her. She recalled the high hopes with which she had left this very room less than two weeks before. How she had changed in a matter of days; her spirit was raw and her trust in tatters. Poppy had envisaged standing before Dorothea in triumph, instead, she felt an overwhelming sense of desolation and despair at what she had endured and for what lay ahead. The relief at seeing Dorothea was wonderful.
Poppy didn’t know what she had expected. The chances of her nan having got her nose pierced or taken up fire juggling were slim, but it felt as if she had been gone for a very long time, time enough for changes to have occurred. They hadn’t. She was still her old nan, sitting in the chair in her little room with her cardy wrapped around her, watching a crappy cookery programme on the telly with the volume too loud. Poppy stood and reacquainted herself with her look, her manner. She thought she was studying her unnoticed, when the old lady turned quite suddenly, ‘You coming in then, girl, or what?’
Poppy ignored the belligerent tone and sat on the plastic visitor’s chair, kissing her nan’s head as she passed. ‘What are you watching?’
‘Anything, Poppy. I watch anything, any old rubbish to fill my time.’
‘I have missed you, Nan.’ She held Dorothea’s hand and watched as her skin wrinkled up under the pressure of her thumb. It didn’t go back into place immediately, like scrunched up tissue paper.
‘Of course you have, love, because coming here and sitting in this shitty room with me every day is bloody wonderful…’
‘It is wonderful for me. I love you. You are all I’ve got.’
‘You got him back then?’ Dorothea dismissed any sentiment by ignoring the words and cutting to the chase.
‘Yeah I got him.’ Poppy felt like she wanted to cry but didn’t. What was the point? There was no way she could have told her nan about the price she’d paid, how part of her had been lost forever.
Nathan appeared in the doorway and stood waiting to be introduced. They smiled at each other. To their mutual shock Dorothea turned to him, ‘Give us a minute please, Nath…’ before continuing, ‘It was on the telly. I said to Mrs Hardwick, “That’s my girl. That’s my Poppy Day. It wasn’t any special bloody soldiers that got him back, it was my Poppy Day.” She told me to shut up and said I didn’t know what I was talking about! The old cow. But I did know, it was you, wasn’t it, Poppy Day, just like we talked about? You went and got him back, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Nan, you were right, that Mrs Hardwick doesn’t know what she is talking about. I did go and get him back.’
‘Did you take your mother with you?’
‘Mum? No, no I didn’t.’
‘She wrote to me you know, saying that he was being well looked after and that if I wanted she would send me a photo, but I didn’t bother. I couldn’t see the point really.’
‘Who? Mum? She wrote to you about what? Mart?’
‘No, Poppy! Why don’t you listen? Simon’s mother, his new mother. She said she’d send me a photo but I didn’t reply. I knew there was no point; I wouldn’t have been allowed to keep it anyway.’
‘How did Mum feel, Nan, about giving him up?’ Poppy decided to pry, to grab the chance of salvaging a fact before it slipped through the net; something, anything that might give her a clue to her shitty childhood.
‘She didn’t know about him, no one did.’
Poppy sighed, another dead end, more frustration. ‘I see.’
‘Well why should she? I never told her. I never told anyone, not even Wally. I’m sure he heard the rumours, but he wouldn’t have cared, as long as he was fed and was left in peace to sleep… His dad was St Lucian and he shone to me, Poppy, like a bright light in a very ordinary world; made me feel special. Our baby was my secret, my lovely little secret. My Simon, my
little boy, my beautiful baby. “That Dorothea is no bloody good; we’ll send her away for a whole year! We won’t even write to her and ask her if her heart is breaking or if she is ready to come home, and when she comes back we’ll have no mention of it in this house!” That’s what my dad said, Poppy. I still hear it over and over. A whole year, Poppy Day, one whole year. It felt like a lifetime. No one came to rescue me and I was only in Battersea not bloody Afghanistan. I wasn’t even allowed to say his name, not ever, not once, let alone have a bloody photograph. My little boy, my Simon.’ She cried, sending her eyes instantly bloodshot. Dorothea’s tears clogged her throat and muffled her voice. It was rare to see someone of her advanced years in such a release of emotion. Life experience had usually taught people in their eighties a certain level of containment, or was it that they had simply cried all their tears? Maybe any skeletons that were going to fall out of the closet had already fallen, been exposed and subsequently grieved over. Maybe, but not always.
Poppy Day Page 31
