Poppy Day (22 page)

She smiled at him; he was funny.

‘Well, that’s me done; I only know those four languages. Well, five including the language of lurve, which I am very happy to converse in with you, Freckles, any time…’

‘Leave her alone, Jase.’ It was Max Holman, freelance, that had come to her rescue.

Jason sat down and the group commenced discussing a
prestigious
award that one Miles Varrasso had been given only a month before. Jason, especially, seemed more than a little impressed by the accolade, saying very loudly how Miles was ‘the man’. Poppy was curious to know what her Mr Subversive had done, having never heard of the particular award or the ‘scoop’ that had earned him the prize.

The bus engine roared as the chassis shuddered into life. Once again Jason burst into song, ‘I’m on my way from misery to happiness today…’ Poppy liked his energy; at least she knew her adventure wasn’t going to be dull with Jason around. Little did she know…

The bus slowed as the barrier was manually raised by an armed airman; it then hurtled along a straight road flanked by large aircraft hangers on either side, before negotiating several mini roundabouts. A few minutes later, the bus started to brake and halt. It would have been quicker to walk to the terminal than to sit and wait; the security aspect wasn’t something she considered. Poppy got off the bus and loitered next to the guys; wanting to feel like part of their group, wanting to feel like part of anything, other than face the reality that she was completely alone and didn’t know what came next. The press guys seemed to have a huge amount of bags and equipment; for this she was grateful and could pretend that at least one of those black zipped-up holdalls was hers.

The terminal inside was one huge room, about two thirds of it filled with plastic chairs that were screwed into the floor. What did the MoD think? That a daring soldier in transit may try and sneak a couple onto the plane or into their hand luggage? There was a small cafe which looked far too tiny to cope with the throng of soldiers, servicemen and -women that stood around in their desert combats, looking alternately nervous and excited.

Three young girls with buggies and babies stood together just inside the door. They were wearing tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirts. Their blond striped hair was pulled back into ponytails; they sported the obligatory graduating gold hoops and necklaces. Poppy wondered if they knew each other before they had arrived, or whether they had all bunched together for support, happy to have found someone like them. They looked like the sort of girls that she would have been friends with, reminding her of Jenna. They looked like her. She stopped herself going over to them, to try and join in, to seek out kindred spirits.

One of the girls was red-eyed and inconsolable. She held a soggy, disintegrating paper tissue against her blotchy face. Her body convulsed every time she tried to breathe in, every time she cried. With her free hand she scooted a small, sleeping baby back and forth in its buggy, whilst waving occasionally to a soldier who looked younger than the rest. The young private stared mostly at his feet, as the queue in which he stood wound its way into another room. He laughed at the inaudible things the bloke behind him was saying, but chewed his bottom lip in between the laughing, his shoulders hung down. He wasn’t fooling anyone, for the want of an ounce of confidence or another year of maturity, he would have run to his woman, taken her in his arms and told her that it was all going to be OK. One final kiss, one final hug.

Poppy wanted to shout at him, ‘You’re right to feel like that, don’t go! They’ve taken my Mart! My husband is missing! Stay here with your baby, please don’t leave them, whatever you are thinking, this is not worth it!’ She kept quiet. She thought about Martin then, flying out from that exact spot. Had he stood there? Had he thought about her as he had
disappeared
through those double doors that led to who knows where? She knew the answer was yes, yes he had thought about her, of course he had. Oh Mart, where are you?

Poppy noted the way the men and women in uniform reacted to the orders being barked; it was almost instinctive. ‘Weapons to be checked in! Make sure you have no prohibited items in pockets and hand luggage! Bags in the crate! Helmets to be properly labelled and kept on your person at all times!’ All
military
personnel appeared comfortable with the instructions. It was nothing that they hadn’t done a million times before, but this wasn’t a drill, it was the real thing. They were shipping out, off to the action, Afghanistan.

There seemed to be lots of banter, jostling and childish humour. Poppy suspected these were the tactics deployed to hide how they were really feeling. It wasn’t the ‘done thing’ to admit to anxiety, nerves or even the underlying excitement; particularly the excitement. It probably induced guilt to be finding any joy in their situation, but Poppy could see that there was joy. It was actually happening, it was real. They were going to work, to do the job that they had been trained for. The thrill must have been tempered if not cancelled out by self-reproach. It must have been hard to feel happiness, knowing that the people you were leaving behind would worry and miss you. Poppy knew for a fact that the last thing those left behind would be feeling was excited or happy, she knew they would be feeling desolate.

An RAF bloke with a clipboard stood in front of the group and coughed loudly. It made Poppy laugh. Was that how he thought he could get everyone’s attention, a jolly good cough? ‘Righto, ladies and gentleman of the press. I am Flight Lieutenant Ward and I am your press liaison officer for the duration of your trip. I know you are all seasoned hands, but any questions please do shout.’ There was the rumbling of gentle laughter at the very idea of having any questions.

He shouted out a name, and a chap that she had not seen before put his hand up and walked forward. He was given something; it looked to be a folder of some description. This went on for some minutes. Poppy watched with fascination as men, all similar types, were called and marched up like little children at a school prize-giving; all eager to be seen and collect their scrolls.

She was concentrating on what was happening, trying to think of her next move, when he said it again. And it was only because he repeated it that she became aware that he had said it once before, ‘Nina Folkstok?’ Only the second time he went up at the end.

Poppy glanced around and no one was responding. Every other name that he had called had caused a hand to shoot up immediately and claim the identity. This one, however, seemed to be going spare. Poppy didn’t know why or how, but she put her hand in the air. Not half-heartedly, or in a way that anyone watching might suspect that she was not Nina Folkstok; it was, instead, a full confident raised arm, like the one she used in school. ‘Capital of Peru?’ ‘Lima’! Up her arm would shoot! ‘Oberon’s Queen?’ ‘Titania!’ … up it would go again. Poppy couldn’t help it, when she knew the answer, she wanted
everyone
to see that she knew the answer; it was important to her.

This was like that, a straight up instant reflex, in no way bashful or apologetic, an ‘It’s-the-God’s-honest-truth-
look-how
-straight-my-arm-is’ response, ‘Yup’. No one laughed or challenged her. No one questioned or even looked at her. She walked forward and the crowd seemed to part slightly. Flight Lieutenant cough-a-lot handed her the plastic A4 wallet, without looking at her face. He nodded in general acknowledgment as he searched his list for the next name, using his Montblanc as a pointer. Poppy walked back to the space that she had previously occupied. She opened the package and studied the contents; not because she was particularly interested, but it was the only way she could guarantee not to catch anyone’s eye. She could deny herself the chance to smile and say, ‘I’m not really Nina Folkestone or whatever her bloody name is, not really. I don’t even know why I put my hand up! I am actually Poppy Day and I live in Walthamstow. I’m a
hairdresser
, you know.’

There was a pass in the envelope, laminated plastic on a yellow thread with the name ‘Nina Folkstok’ on it and then the word, ‘Denmark’. Shit! Of all the countries that Nina could have hailed from! Had it been France, Spain, or Germany, Poppy could have picked a city, faked some history, dropped in some plausible facts and even had a stab at the language, but Denmark? Thanks a bunch, Nina. Poppy had to think fast. What was the capital city? Oslo? No, that was Norway… Denmark’s capital city was… Copenhagen! Of course! Wonderful, wonderful, Copenhagen.

Poppy was smiling, happy to have this fact in her head, when a man sauntered over. She missed what he said the first time because she was thinking about Copenhagen and not how she should react if someone spoke to her. She heard him clearly the second time. ‘Hi, Nina, would you like to accompany me outside for a cigarette? We are going to be a long time up.’ He then pointed with his index finger towards the sky. Poppy looked at the familiar animated palm of the smoker and recognised the owner of that hand. It was her Mr Subversive, Miles Varrasso.

She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’ Poppy felt the creep of embarrassment over her neck and face. She spoke quietly so as not to alert anyone in close proximity to the fact that she was actually from Walthamstow and not West Jutland.

Miles Varrasso stood by her side. ‘Are you sure?’ His
emphasis
was on the last word ‘sure’.

‘I… Yes,’ she almost stammered, but not quite; managing to sound quite normal for a very scared Danish journalist that had never been to Denmark or flown on a plane before. She had been identified by the one person that she had hoped she would not bump into. Her heart thudded inside her ribcage.

Miles leant closer towards Poppy, bending his head until their fringes were nearly touching; he was too close for her to feel comfortable. She could see dust on the inside of his glasses, and tiny pinpricks where blackheads used to lurk on the side of his nose. She wanted to take a step backwards, but she couldn’t move. She was stuck. He seemed to hesitate before speaking. He breathed out; she could smell his aftershave, minty chewing gum and the tang of cigarette smoke. He put one arm across his stomach and his other hand up onto his chin, the elbow of that arm resting on the one across his stomach, making a little frame. He had two of his fingers raised, almost hiding his mouth, as if someone might be trying to lip-read and this would stop them. Poppy looked up from under her fringe and waited for him to speak.

He ran the point of his tongue over his top lip. ‘What are you doing here, Poppy? Are the MoD shipping you out? Has something happened? Is there anyone incoming I should know about?’

Her mouth had gone dry; her lips were somehow stuck to her teeth. She smiled at Miles’s interest, keen to secure the scoop. If only. She closed her eyes, thinking for a glorious second that if she couldn’t see anyone or anything then they couldn’t see her, like an ostrich or baby playing peek-a-boo.

She opened her eyes slowly; he was still there with his long curly hair and his fixed expression. ‘No, Miles, nothing like that. I’m here on my own.’

‘It’s OK, Poppy; you don’t have to look so scared.’

‘I look scared because I am.’ She had to concentrate on not crying because the truth of the matter was, she was really frightened. Afraid of so many things, like crying in front of all those people and making an idiot of herself, of being thrown off the base, not being allowed to fly, being made to fly; but primarily she was scared of not getting to the place she needed to, so that she could find her husband and bring him home.

‘Miles, what am I doing?’

He pushed the glasses up on his nose. ‘Come outside, we haven’t got long.’

Poppy didn’t know where she was going or what he meant, but she followed him anyway. Sometimes in life you just have to go with your instinct and listen to that little voice that tells you to trust, to follow. It is usually right.

They turned left out of the automatic doors and, once outside, stood against the wall of the terminal building. Poppy looked at the red bricks that firmly placed its construction in the nineteen seventies. She was trying to think of anything other than what he might be about to say to her. She had been asking herself a question; how far do you honestly think that you will get, Poppy? Now she was only seconds away from the answer, she had made it to the flight terminal, and that was that, only to be busted by Miles.

He held her arm as though this was the best way to get her attention. She noticed that his fringe was far too long and thought about offering to snip it for him, she was fully qualified after all. Gone was the jovial banter of their coffee shop
encounter
, he looked deadly serious; no trace of anything in his expression other than urgent.

He spoke quickly. Poppy understood that time really was of the essence. ‘Poppy, what are you doing here?’

‘Truthfully? I’m not too sure. I’ve got half a plan…’

‘Christ, I shouldn’t have told you I was flying out today. Is it my fault that you’re here?’

Poppy shrugged, unsure how to answer, it was partly his fault. She wouldn’t have known there was a flight today if he hadn’t told her, but she hadn’t expected to bump into him directly, figuring there must be several flights a day and if you missed one, you could hop onto the next, like the circle line but with fewer stops and better air conditioning.

Miles ran one hand through his hair and with the other he held his chin. ‘Shit.’

‘Is that good or bad shit, Miles?’

‘Honestly?’

Poppy nodded.

‘I don’t know.’ He paced to the left and right before stepping closer; once again Poppy felt he was too close to her. He spoke quickly and sounded even posher than he had before. ‘How did you get to this point? Did you use a false name?’

‘A false name?’ She laughed out loud accompanied by one of her unattractive nose snorts that she had a habit of
producing
. Who the bloody hell did he think she was? She was Poppy Day not James Bond! ‘No, I didn’t use a false name. I used my own name and I didn’t have my passport, so I showed them my bank card and my library card.’