Poppy's Hero

by Rachel Billington

  Poppy shut the door. She tried to remember why the piano couldn’t be in the downstairs living room. Something to do with her dad and his work and the TV, she thought. But now he wasn’t here, it was silly.

  Then she thought, he will be here soon. Going to the telephone, she rang Will’s number.

  ‘Hi, Will.’

  ‘Hi, Poppy. What news?’ He sounded eager but his voice was weak.

  Poppy considered what to tell him. Instead, she asked, ‘What happened to the prison pictures?’

  ‘My mum took the camera. She deleted everything without looking because she said she respected my privacy. They weren’t much good, anyway.’

  ‘That figures.’

  ‘So, now it’s Hospital Escape Plan.’

  Poppy knew she should tell him her dad was well again but didn’t want to disappoint him.

  ‘Sure, Plan B.’

  ‘Big Frank and me might meet there.’ said Will.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve got to go to hospital for some tests. Even if we’re not in the same ward. . .’

  ‘They’d never put children and grown-ups in together,’ interrupted Poppy.

  ‘No. Still, I might be able to spy the layout of the land.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Poppy. ‘Sorry you’ve got to go into hospital.’

  ‘Me, too. Boring, boring.’

  Poppy remembered that the whole Great Escape Plan was designed to give Will something exciting in his life, and went quiet.

  ‘My darling?’ Poppy’s mum put her head round the door. Her eyes and cheeks were red, her hair wild but she looked happy.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Poppy told Will.

  Irena came in and lay on the sofa. ‘I was thinking: when I first met your dad. It was in a pub – I went to pubs once in a blue moon – and he was singing. That Karaoke thing. He has a beautiful voice. He was singing for a bet, I learn later. A blue moon for him too. But it was his voice I fell in love with. First of all.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ Poppy felt embarrassed. She wished her mum had more friends so that she could tell them this sort of thing.

  ‘Sometimes, after we were married, I persuade him to sing while I play the piano. You remember this, Poppy?’ No,’ said Poppy firmly.

  ‘Too young, perhaps.’ Irena sighed. ‘Happy times. Men must always work hard, Poppy. You know this. Particularly big men like Frank. Otherwise things go wrong.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Poppy. She knew this would be a good moment to ask her mum about Big Frank going to court and pleading guilty but she couldn’t face it.

  ‘I’ve got to go and do my homework,’ she said, and she went upstairs and flung herself on to her bed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  School had become a strange place for Poppy. In the past she had been hard-working, confident and friendly. Teachers had liked her, she was respected and life had been fun.

  Now she couldn’t be bothered to please anyone. She didn’t looked anyone in the eye, and expressed no regret when she was put in the Black Book for not doing her homework three evenings running.

  Eventually, she was sent to Mr Hannigan, the headmaster. He was fairly young and jaunty. Poppy’s heart ached because he reminded her of her dad. Then she felt bitter because he was outside in the world and her dad was locked away.

  ‘We’re all very sympathetic to your situation,’ began Mr Hannigan.

  My dad’s in prison, why don’t you say it? thought Poppy, trying not to cry.

  ‘We want to help you, but I’m afraid we can’t do that without your co-operation.’

  The only way you can help me is by getting my dad out, thought Poppy, twisting her hands behind her back so hard, they hurt.

  ‘If you don’t do your work, you’ll fall behind. Do you think that’s what your dad wants?’

  Unable to control herself any longer, Poppy burst out, ‘Nobody cares what he wants. If they did, they wouldn’t have put him in prison!’

  Mr Hannigan looked down at his tidy desk, moved a few papers so they were even more perfectly in line. He looked up again. ‘I am afraid prison is sometimes necessary.’

  ‘Not for my dad!’ wailed Poppy. ‘He’s done nothing wrong!’

  ‘I see.’ Now the headmaster was looking acutely uncomfortable. ‘I’m sure your mum has talked it through with you.’

  Poppy was silent. She couldn’t say that her mum had ‘talked it through’. ‘Yes,’ she said – it seemed easier. ‘We’re going to visit him in prison again on Saturday.’

  Mr Hannigan nodded gravely. ‘There is one other thing.’ He paused. ‘You’re seeing a bit of Angel Smith. Now I know you have – er – certain things in common – but Angel is older than you and has not had your advantages. His attitude to school will not help his future.’

  Poppy almost laughed. She certainly couldn’t see Angel listening to Mr Hannigan.

  ‘He is only eleven, of course, but I’m afraid he’s already going in the wrong direction.’

  Poppy pictured Angel in the prison holding his baby brother. ‘I like him!’ she said defiantly. ‘He understands.’

  ‘Naturally. Yes.’ Mr Hannigan leant forward. ‘But don’t give up all your old friends. And just try and get a bit more work done. Things will improve, I promise you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Poppy, because he seemed to be expecting an answer.

  ‘That’s all, then.’ He stood up, obviously relieved.

  Poppy knew he was trying to be kind but, as she walked away, all she could think of was her visit to prison the next day. Her mum had told her that it was something called a ‘family day’ when you stayed longer and got to do things in a big hall. When she’d asked what you got to do, her mum had said irritably, ‘I don’t know. Painting or something. Not riding a bicycle or playing a piano, that’s for sure.’

  It seemed to Poppy that spending hours with her parents in a big hall was not likely to be much fun.

  It was different going to the prison a second time; just knowing where the visitors’ centre and the lockers were made things easier.

  There was the usual atmosphere of dismal anxiety. A woman with twin toddlers had just whacked one of them, and he was bawling.

  It was nice to see Angel, as usual, carrying round his baby brother. His mum looked glamorous in a white lacy blouse (no wonder she didn’t want to carry the dribbling Gabriel) and his little sister had her hair tied up with gold thread. Even Angel had a glinting chain round his neck.

  ‘You look as if you’re going to a party,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Celebrating, aren’t we. He’s out Thursday. Last visit.’ Angel winked. ‘For this round.’

  Poppy looked at her mum’s pale, wistful face. The only jewellery she was wearing was a medallion of the Virgin Mary. Poppy wondered if Big Frank would go in and out of prison lots of times, and whether she’d get used to it. Somehow she didn’t think so.

  ‘How’s your Great Escape?’ whispered Angel, his mouth half-hidden in Gabriel’s curly hair.

  Poppy shook her head.

  ‘Going nowhere?’ suggested Angel.

  Poppy looked at his confident face and knew that he’d never really believed in her plans. ‘Don’t know,’ she muttered, and turned away to look for her mum.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Irena pushed her hair back from her hot face. ‘It’s so crowded and noisy today. It’s not that I don’t like kids, but this isn’t the best place for them.’

  ‘You said it was family day,’ said Poppy. ‘I suppose their dads want to see them. Why don’t you sit down?’

  It felt better being protective of her mum. Better than being cross. She took out a book and began to read.

  ‘You’ll have to put that in the locker,’ said Irena.

  ‘But then I’ll have nothing to do.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Her mum patted her hand.

  ‘Give me the key and I’ll lock it away, Mum.’

  As Poppy went to the lockers, she realised she was dreading seeing her dad. Last time t
he whole thing had been such a shock – the dogs, the searching, the unlocking and locking – that she’d hardly been able to take it all in. But now she knew about the prison, and Will was in hospital, and the Great Escape was going nowhere, she’d see her dad more clearly.

  He was still innocent, though, she reminded herself, even if he had to plead guilty, for whatever reason. Would she dare ask him about that?

  It took longer to get through the prison than it had last time.

  First of all, they were very thoroughly searched – including inside her mouth, which was worse than the dentist rummaging around. Then she had to take off her shoes and she was patted all around her legs which she didn’t like at all. Her mum squirmed so much that the female prisoner officer said sharply, ‘Mind I don’t strip-search you.’

  ‘What’s strip-searching? asked Poppy.

  ‘You are green,’ said the woman with an unpleasant smile. ‘Ask your mum.’

  But Irena wouldn’t answer, murmuring, ‘It’s humiliating, Poppy. That’s all.’

  The dogs were less controlled too, frolicking about all over the place. One jumped up at a three-year-old, who began shrieking with terror.

  ‘Not an animal-lover, is he?’ joked the handler. This so infuriated the mother of the boy that she let loose a stream of swear words.

  Instantly she was surrounded by officers who grabbed her arms on both sides, which made the three-year-old shriek even louder.

  ‘It was the dog’s fault,’ began Poppy.

  But her mum took her hand and led her forward. ‘I expect they’re nervous because there are so many of us,’ she said, adding under her breath, ‘Bastards’.

  Poppy had never heard her mum swear in her whole life, and was so shocked that she gasped, ‘Mum!’

  ‘I am so sorry. I thought I say it only in my head.’

  They walked on. Groups of ten were being led across a courtyard with a guard behind and a guard in front. There were high wire fences on either side and walls beyond. The smaller children obviously thought they were in a kind of playground – they kept trying to escape, and were recaptured by bigger brothers or sisters.

  ‘Lucky things,’ said Irena, as one little girl shot out from behind her mother and nearly tripped up a prison officer by diving through her legs. ‘At least they’re having a good time.’

  Poppy was remembering what the prison had looked like from the outside when she and Will had prowled round it. Now Will was in hospital and here she was behind at least two sets of walls. She looked and saw first the sky, a square of blue above her head, and then the narrow barred windows in the buildings all round. Not much of the sky to be seen from those buildings. And how stupid to think that a big man like her dad could ever get out through one of them! That man who escaped must have been a lot smaller – or the windows a lot bigger.

  ‘Oh, look!’ Two small birds had suddenly flown from the park beyond the walls and were circling above the yard.

  ‘Sparrows,’ said Irena without much interest. But to Poppy, they represented freedom. She felt tears forming in her eyes and blinked hastily.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Well, here we are again, then.’ Big Frank gave Poppy a warmer hug than last time, but he still didn’t lift her off the ground or swing her around.

  ‘Hello, Dad!’ Poppy found herself blushing because, despite everything, it was so nice to be with him.

  ‘Where is your beautiful hair, Frank?’ exclaimed Irena in horror. His curls had been cut off, and what remained was cut close to his head.

  ‘There was a barber in,’ said Frank indifferently. ‘It gave me something to do.’

  Poppy missed the curls, too. Without them, her dad looked more ordinary.

  ‘Poppy’s got enough for the two of us,’ Frank smiled, as he pulled out one of her long curls and then let it spring back. ‘Now, where’s all this “activity” we’ve been told so much about?’ He looked round the big hall, gradually filling up with hoards of children. They were more cheerful now, hugging their dads and showing off. ‘There was even some talk of football,’ added Frank.

  Poppy made a face and her mother frowned. ‘OK. No football. There’s no room for it anyway.’

  At that moment, a woman approached Poppy with a pile of pads, pens and pentels. ‘There you are, dear.’ She was a motherly woman squeezed into a tight purple T-shirt. ‘How about Dad, then? Is he into art?’

  ‘I am not into art,’ grimaced Frank.

  ‘More the macho type, are we,’ said the woman, smiling and moving on.

  Somehow her cheery warmth left them all feeling better. They found a table and settled round it.

  ‘Go on, Mum,’ encouraged Poppy, ‘You’re the artistic one.’ It was true: Irena didn’t just play the piano, she could draw beautifully, too – not that she ever had time. Sometimes, Poppy wondered whatever her parents saw in each other, with her dad such an outgoing character and her mum so private and talented. Perhaps coming from different countries meant they didn’t really have to understand each other.

  ‘I’ll tell you, Popsicle, my darling’ – her dad was definitely making more of an effort this visit – ‘you and I will write a story and your clever mum can do the pictures. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get it published and make our fortunes.’

  ‘Oh, Frank,’ protested Irena, but she was smiling.

  ‘We’ll take turns, Pops and me. Two lines each. I’ll start:

  One day a sleek black rat peered out of a hole. “Why does everyone hate me?” he said, and twitched his whiskers crossly.’

  Poppy thought hard: ‘”Because you’re a thief and a bully,” squeaked a mouse bravely, before darting away. “And a coward,” hissed a snake from the long grass.’

  ‘Slower, slower,’ said Irena, who was drawing as fast as she could. ‘Drawing three animals takes much longer than telling their story.’

  ‘Shall I get drinks?’ offered Poppy. When she came back after fighting her way through a long queue, her mum had produced a page of brightly coloured animals: a rat in a flashy suit, a mouse in outsize trainers and a snake wearing a baseball cap.

  ‘That’s brilliant!’

  ‘Seeing the snake,’ her dad continued, ‘the rat shot down his hole. He sat in the darkness and thought, “I shall go on a charm offensive so that I can be loved like everyone else.”’

  Poppy carried on: ‘”Perhaps my smart suit puts people off,” Rat thought. So he dug about till he found a pair of tattered jeans. He had to hold his nose as he put them on because they’d been near some badger poo, but he decided it was worthwhile if it made him more likeable.’

  ‘I don’t think you can say “badger poo” in a book,’ objected Irena, her pencil poised above the paper.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Frank waved his hand, ‘a touch of raw reality is always popular with publishers.’

  Poppy knew that her dad hardly ever read a book and probably had never met a publisher but didn’t say anything because, unbelievably, they were having a good time. In fact, she couldn’t think when they had had such a good time at home. Usually they all did their own thing, which meant she read, Irena made music and, if Big Frank was in, he was on the telephone or the computer or watching TV – in other words, what he called ‘working’.

  ‘The first day Rat went out in his new look,’ continued Frank, ‘he had the misfortune to meet the Wise Owl. “I think you’ve forgotten to dress properly,” hooted Owl, who was correctly attired in a waistcoat and watch chain.’

  Poppy: ‘“It’s my more relaxed look,” growled Rat. “Hmm,” said Owl. “You may not realise it but you smell awful, too,” and he flew away.’

  Frank: ‘Not a big success, thought Rat, but I mustn’t give up. So he walked on, trying his best to squeeze his mean mouth into a charming smile.’

  Poppy: ‘“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.” Rat hadn’t noticed a Mother Rabbit with six baby bunnies in a patch of daisies. “Please go back to your hole, Rat,” said Mother Rabbit, “before my kiddies catch a nasty disease off you.�
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  Frank: ‘So Rat went back to his hole, quite depressed. He realised it wasn’t easy to be liked and decided to sleep on it.’

  Poppy: ‘The next morning he remembered something his mother had taught him: if you want to be liked, be helpful. This seemed easy, so, changing back into his nice clean suit, he left his hole once more to find someone who needed help.’

  Frank: ‘What should he see straight away but a very small squirrel carrying a very large nut! “May I help you, young Squirrel,” said Rat in what he hoped were kindly tones, “to carry your nut wherever you wish to go?”’

  Poppy: ‘“Aarghh! Eeeech!” cried the squirrel in terror, and, dropping the nut, fled up the nearest tree. “Maybe my dear mother got it wrong,” thought Rat, and even more depressed, returned to his hole.’

  ‘This is the best story, I’ve ever heard’, interrupted Irena.

  ‘Poppy looks as if she could go on and on,’ said Frank, looking pleased, ‘but I’m storied out. Why don’t you write it down, Pops, as much as you can remember, then we can continue another day.’

  So Poppy took some paper and a pen and began to write. As she scribbled, her mum and Dad talked. Soon it was time for a snacks-and-sweets lunch.

  When Irena went for coffee, Poppy sat closer to Big Frank. She didn’t want to spoil the friendly atmosphere but she did need to ask him.

  ‘Dad, you still want to get out, don’t you?’

  His face, which had been relaxed, became fixed – until he decided to make a joke of it.

  ‘My darling Pops, you can hardly imagine the joys of being in here: no shopping, no cleaning, no working, no boring demands from my wife and daughter – in short, no worries! Why would I want to leave such a paradise?’

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ said Poppy reproachfully.

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ Frank imitated her. ‘That’s what I mean: demands. I’ve only just got settled in, hardly time to recognise my cell-mate by his smelly feet – and he’s swapped for one who snores. And now you want to get me out!’

  Poppy stared at her dad’s big fake-cheerful face. She sighed, and wondered whether he would ever answer her seriously. ‘But after you appear in court, you might be out anyway. Mightn’t you, Dad? Mightn’t you?’