Poppy's Hero

by Rachel Billington

‘That’s her friend Will who had the heart operation,’ explained Irena.

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Poppy, as if her mum had said he wasn’t. ‘He’s done great drawings, too,’ she added. She felt cross and impatient. Soon they’d have to say goodbye to her dad and she wanted it to be over now, and be back in the fresh air.

  ‘They ought to have visits outside in the garden,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be sure to suggest it to the Governor,’ said Frank, trying to humour her, ‘or you ask him on the way out, if you happen to bump into him.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot!’ exclaimed Poppy.

  ‘Of course you’re not.’ said Big Frank charmingly. ‘You’re my beautiful clever darling daughter.’

  Poppy looked down. She wanted to believe him and love him. But why had he got himself locked up? It wasn’t fair. Not on any one. Not on him, because he was innocent, and not on her mum and herself, either. Maybe she would help him escape. Then she thought of the cliffs and the tunnel and the double walls and her heart sank. If Angel’s dad was right and they could never have got him out of Grisewood Slops, what hope was there here? She hadn’t even asked her dad about the underground dungeons or whether there might be secret tunnels leading off them. Now she couldn’t ask, because they were leaving.

  It seemed a long walk back across the grassy space at the centre of the prison. Poppy looked up at the sky. It was bright blue.

  ‘The wind’s blown away the clouds,’ said her mum. ‘It’s blown itself away too,’ she added. She was right. The gusty wind had died away and the only sound was of seagulls noisily cawing and children shouting as if they were on a football pitch.

  ‘I suppose it’s better than Grisewood Slops.’ Her mum sighed. ‘Too far away from London, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Poppy, still staring at the sky.

  After that, they were both quiet as they were let out through the walls of the prison and into the car park. After all the effort and fear involved with getting in, Poppy felt a sense of anti-climax. It was all over so quickly. Now here they were with half the day to fill. The sun was hot. Some families had produced food and drink from their cars and were picnicking. Two girls had taken off their T-shirts, revealing bikini tops. It seemed strange to do that so close to a prison.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Irena suddenly, ‘why don’t we have a swim?’

  ‘We haven’t got swimsuits.’ Poppy stared at her mum. She’d assumed she was thinking sadly about Big Frank, not about swimming.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to buy you a new one all summer.’

  ‘What about our train?’ Surely mums were supposed to be sensible. ‘And we’ve got the long walk down.’

  But a car stopped by them just as they set off down the road.

  ‘Want a lift?’ A woman leant out of the window. She was quite old, smartly dressed with pearl earrings and a jaunty scarf. That is kind.’

  ‘It’s hot weather for walking.’ She had a sensible, kindly voice. Poppy couldn’t imagine her having a son in prison. She got in the back of the car while her mum took the front passenger seat.

  ‘It was cool when we started,’ said her mum.

  ‘Come from far, have you?’

  ‘London,’ said Irena.

  ‘Me too.’ The woman glanced sideways. ‘I’m Lennie. I saw you inside.’

  ‘Irena and Poppy,’ Irena said.

  Lenny smiled. ‘That’s pretty.’

  ‘She had red hair even when she was born. Like her dad.’

  Poppy sat quietly in the back seat. So many things seemed weird today but this chat was the weirdest, just as if they’d all met in a supermarket, not a prison.

  ‘You came by train, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Irena smiled. ‘We’re not going straight back. We’re going for a swim.’

  ‘Good for you!’ exclaimed Lennie. ‘In all the years I’ve been coming here, I’ve never heard of anyone going for a swim.’

  Irena actually laughed! Poppy couldn’t believe it.

  ‘‘Something nice for Poppy. Visiting your dad in prison isn’t easy.’ Poppy didn’t want to hear this said to a stranger. She tried to open a window but couldn’t find the right button.

  ‘My kids only visit their dad about once a year. It’s hard, like you say. Especially when it’s a long stretch.’

  ‘Your husband?’ asked Irena tentatively.

  ‘A lifer,’ said Lennie.

  At last Poppy managed to press the right button and shoot the window right down. Warm salty air came rushing in. The road was following the winding curves of the cliff edge and far below, the brilliant blue sea spread up to a paler blue sky. She took deep gulps and felt as if she’d been holding her breath the entire day.

  All too soon they were entering the outskirts of Blackmore Bay.

  ‘There’s a Marks & Spencer near the front,’ Lennie was saying.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Irena, adding, as she had at the beginning, ‘It is so kind of you.’

  ‘It’s cheered me up. I’ll give you my number in case you ever need to talk.’

  They got out of the car right in the centre of town. ‘Quick’. Irena took Poppy’s hand and pulled her into the shop.

  When they came out, Poppy had a new turquoise bathing suit with grey spots. Nothing for her mum, however.

  ‘I shall write to your dad and tell him all about it.,’ And she smiled at Poppy.

  ‘So I’m swimming for my dad,’ said Poppy.

  The tide was far, far out, exposing a great expanse of sand, some of it still wet, most of it covered with people.

  ‘You’d better change here,’ suggested Irena, giving Poppy her suit and holding the towel up. Then they went on the long walk to the water. Around them, children dug holes which immediately filled with water. A group of older children were building a castle with high walls and a moat. Poppy stopped and stared at it.

  ‘You know what that looks like,’ she said.

  Her mum stared too. ‘Prison follow us even to the beach.’

  They walked on, water squeezing up from the sand and oozing between their toes. ‘It tickles,’ said Poppy. ‘Like worms.’ She looked up, and the glinting water seemed as far away as ever. ‘Suppose one day we’ll get to the sea.’

  ‘It is funny, I think,’ said Irena. ‘Here we are trying to be wild and free, and the sea just goes further and further away.’

  When they did reach the line of water, it was only a few inches deep.

  ‘Even a starfish couldn’t swim in this,’ said Poppy. Laughing, she lay down, spread her arms and legs and splashed vigorously.

  ‘I wish I had a camera.’ After a few minutes, bundling all their possessions on one arm, Irene looked at her watch. ‘Time to give up, darling. Time for train.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Will opened the door to Poppy.

  ‘You’re better!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Nearly better,’ said his mum. ‘he’s got something exciting to tell you.’

  Will led Poppy upstairs to his room, walking slowly. They both sat on his bed.

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘About the prison, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Will sounded impatient.

  ‘But what about your exciting news?’

  ‘I’ll tell you afterwards.’

  So Poppy began to describe the weird place where her dad was passing his days. The ducks and the chicken and her funny swim. But quite soon, she noticed Will’s eyes darting off to a pile of books and papers on a shelf.

  ‘Come on, Will,’ she said eventually. ‘We can do prison any time. What’s the excitement?’

  ‘I was trying to be cool,’ said Will. He got up quickly and came back with a single sheet of paper. ‘It’s a letter,’ he said, unable to repress a smile. ‘And it’s for you as well as me.’ Poppy was about to snatch the letter when Will added, ‘Shall I read it aloud?’

  ‘OK.’ Poppy wondered if you always had to give ill people what they wanted. In which case, she wouldn’t mind
being ill herself now and again.

  ‘Dear Will,

  Your mother, who is my doctor, has showed me your story “The Rat Who Wanted to be Liked”. . .’

  ‘It’s not your story!’ interrupted Poppy.

  ‘Wait.’ Will carried on reading.

  ‘I know you wrote it with a friend but I don’t know her name. . .’

  ‘And my dad wrote it too,’ said Poppy, frowning.

  ‘Do you want to hear the letter?’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Poppy clasped her hands behind her head and sat back in listening mode.

  ‘I am a publisher specialising in children’s books and I like your story very much indeed. I do have a few thoughts about editing but, subject, to that, I’d like to have first option on publication rights.

  Yours sincerely,

  Ivy Underhill’

  Will stopped reading and looked at Poppy. He was grinning hugely. ‘She wants to publish it.’

  ‘Is that what all the gobbledygook about options and rights means?’ said Poppy. She was still frowning, because she was remembering back to when she and her dad had invented the rat story in Grisewood Slops, and she couldn’t help thinking how far away Big Frank was now.

  ‘I forgot the P.S.’ said Will, looking down at the letter again. ‘I like the drawings too, although they may need some work.’

  ‘Great.’ Poppy wanted to be excited, but still felt held back by thoughts of her dad.

  ‘I’m sure your dad would be really pleased,’ said Will defensively. ‘He doesn’t want everything to be bad.’

  Poppy considered ducks and chickens for a moment, then said in the same bitter voice, ‘He’s still innocent, you know. And he’s still in prison. But I don’t hear you talking about escape plans any more.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Will went bright red in the face. ‘I wanted to talk about your visit. It’s you who made me tell you the news first.’

  ‘Only because you weren’t listening to a word I was saying.’

  ‘If that’s how you feel, I’ll tear up this letter. What do I care!’ With shaking hands, Will began ripping up the letter, flinging bits on the floor.

  Poppy watched, horrified. How had it come to this?

  They heard Will’s mum coming up the stairs. She stood looking in at Will, who was now crying tears of frustration while Poppy sat stunned. Will’s mum stared in disbelief.

  ‘Poppy? What’s happened’

  Poppy felt like crying too. ‘I didn’t want my dad to be forgotten,’ she said.

  ‘I see.’ Will’s mum went over to him and patted his shoulders.

  ‘It’s the letter,’ he sobbed.

  Poppy thought how brave Will had been all through his operation and afterwards.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’ She knelt on the floor and began collecting scraps of paper. Her hands were shaking. She put the scraps on the bed. Soon there was quite a pile. ‘We could Sellotape them,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know why I was so horrid.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Now Will’s mum was patting her shoulder.

  ‘I tore them up,’ said Will. ‘It was my fault too.’

  ‘No worry about that.’ Will’s mum even seemed to be smiling a little at the children’s tragic faces. ‘Ivy Underhill’s sure to have a copy.’

  Poppy went closer to Will. ‘I am excited about the Rat getting published. I think it’s wicked, brilliant, amazing! I just got in a tangle, that’s all. Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ said Will, sniffing and grinning.

  So Poppy and Will, with the help of drinks and biscuits from Will’s mum, began to read out loud to each other, ‘The Rat Who Wanted to be Liked.’ Soon they were laughing at the good bits and suggesting changes to the not so good.

  Unsurprisingly, neither of them thought about prison for one moment.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Will, as Poppy was leaving, ‘We’ll be real published authors!’

  ‘It’s amazing!’

  Poppy ran the two streets home and told her mum the news.

  ‘Oh, darling! Darling!’ cried Irena, and burst into tears.

  ‘Mum, it’s good news,’ Poppy put her arms round her.

  ‘I know. That’s why I cry. It is the first good news for so long.’ Irena blew her nose. ‘Now you will write this to your father and he will be so pleased.’

  Poppy pictured Big Frank shaking a pail among quacking ducks and pecking chickens. ‘OK.’ She thought a bit, then sat down at the kitchen table. Her mum had moved to the stove and had her back to her. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, my darling?’

  ‘What is Dad supposed to have done?’ She saw her mum’s back stiffen. She remembered those first days when her mum wouldn’t tell her anything about her dad. Or told her lies. Were they back to that? Would she turn round and shriek?

  Poppy sat rigidly in her chair.

  Irena turned round. Her face was contorted in an effort to look calm and normal. ‘You need never know that. Never. Your dad is good man.’ She turned back to the stove and began stirring briskly.

  Poppy took a deep breath and realised she didn’t really want to know the answer. The main thing was to remember that Big Frank was innocent.

  Her mum poured two bowls of soup. She brought them to the table and sat down. ‘Our flights are booked to Poland,’ she said. ‘They’re only a little more expensive than the coach.’

  Irena had told Poppy several times about this holiday to Poland but, until now, she hadn’t quite believed it. ‘Jude’s back in three days,’ she protested. ‘And now there’s Will and the Rat book.’

  ‘You will love where we go,’ said Irena, spooning her soup with a nostalgic look on her face. ‘We stay with my grandparents. They are very old and very kind, in a little village in the country. My brother too will come and my parents not so far away. They will love you so much.’

  ‘I don’t speak Polish.’ Poppy burnt her mouth on a big gulp of soup.

  Irena frowned. ‘That is because you were a naughty little girl and wouldn’t learn. And your dad did not help. Perhaps now you will learn. I am told there are other children in the village also on holiday.’

  ‘And what about Dad?’ said Poppy.

  ‘We will write to him,’ said Irena simply. ‘And perhaps you will keep a diary. My brother and I will show you the country. My country. Partly your country too.’

  After that, Poppy didn’t argue. They were leaving in five days, so she still had time to work with Will on the book. She only saw Jude once. They were in Jude’s bedroom and she insisted on showing Poppy the line where the sunburn met the white skin under her swimsuit.

  ‘Have you ever seen such a difference!’ she exclaimed proudly.

  Poppy honestly couldn’t see what was so terrific. ‘I only go scarlet or freckle in the sun,’ she said.

  ‘Poor you,’ said Jude with exaggerated sympathy. ‘It’s such a burden being a redhead.’ She considered Poppy. ‘Although, really, you’re more orange.’

  Poppy began to think she wouldn’t miss Jude that much.

  ‘I forgot to tell you.’ Jude flopped down on the bed. ‘’We’re going to Cornwall for a week at the end of the holidays and Mum said you could come.’

  Suddenly Poppy felt keener on Jude. ‘I’d love that! It’ll be something to look forward to while I’m wasting my time in Poland.’

  As the time grew closer, Irena grew more and more excited, loading their bags with books and maps. I want you to see everything! You never know when we go back again.’

  From Poppy’s point of view, this was good news.

  At last they were off, hurrying down the pavement to the Underground, each pulling a suitcase and carrying a bag on their back. Poppy looked up to the sky and saw puffy white clouds sailing across a blue backcloth. Soon we’ll be flying through that, she told herself with shivery excitement.

  ‘Hiya.’

  Poppy was about to follow her mum down the steps to the Underground. She turned round.
<
br />   ‘Angel!’

  ‘Off somewhere, are you?’

  ‘Poland. My mum’s family.’

  Angel was astride yet another new bike, this one a flashy purple. The hood of his sweat-shirt was pulled up.

  ‘Coming back, are you?’

  ‘In four weeks.’

  ‘See you around, then.’ Angel turned to go.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ Poppy called after him, then bumped her case down the steps.

  ‘Whatever kept you?’ Her mum was waiting at the bottom.

  Poppy didn’t answer. Clearly, Angel wasn’t going anywhere for his holidays.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Holidays either seem to stretch out endlessly or flash by. The weeks in Poland were so unlike anything Poppy had known before that they seemed like a different time zone altogether.

  Every day she woke up to new experiences. Sometimes she and her mum were staying with her grandparents deep in countryside which was so old-fashioned, with its neat little fields and dark forests, that it felt like a fairy tale. Other days, they were in a tiny flat in a tall modern block on the outskirts of Warsaw. The fact she spoke no Polish and most of her relatives spoke no English made the whole experience even stranger.

  In all the time they were away, her mum only mentioned her dad when someone asked. She answered in Polish, but Poppy guessed from their happy nods and smiles that her mum wasn’t telling them where he really was. As far as she could make out, Irena hadn’t even told her close family about prison. She didn’t blame her mum. There was no point in them knowing. But it made everything even more unreal.

  Her mum was happy, though, which made Poppy happy.

  ‘You like my country?’ she asked Poppy when they were visiting a beautiful old city called Krakow. They were eating ice cream in a huge square, waiting to meet some more cousins.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Poppy. ‘It makes me closer to you.’

  ‘That is true. When you are older, I will tell you more history, much very sad.’

  ‘Is that why you live in England?’ asked Poppy who’d never wondered about this before.

  ‘Sadness is everywhere,’ said her mum, and Poppy knew she was thinking about her dad. Then her mum added firmly, ‘Now we are having fun.’