Poppy Day (36 page)

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 rubbed the back of her nan’s hand, holding it in both of hers. Her own tears came thick and fast then. ‘It’s all right, Nan; it’s all OK. It was a long time ago.’

‘I know that it was a long time ago, darlin,’ but how, Poppy? How is it all right? You never had a proper family. You never had anything at all; you were a poor little cow. Even though I loved you and your mum loved you in her own way, we were all so busy fighting our own demons that no one looked after you. I am sorry, Poppy Day, I am so sorry, my darlin’ girl, but you have turned out wonderful! I’m so proud of you, and your mum would be too if only she would take her head out of her arse long enough to see what she’s got. You’re my whole world, Poppy Day, and I think the day that you stop coming here is the day that I will give up and fall over. There’ll be no point because you are everything to me.’

‘Don’t talk like that, Nan. I am not going anywhere. I’ll always come and sit with you, always. I promise.’

‘That’s good for me to know, Poppy Day, but I don’t want you here when I have disappeared.’ She was emphatic.

‘What do you mean when you have disappeared?’

‘You know very well what I mean. Like now, Poppy, I am here and I know that I am here, but often, in fact, more and more often, I am not here. I don’t know where I go, but I know that I am not here. It’s like I’ve vanished and the gaps between me being here are getting bigger and bigger until I won’t be here at all and I will disappear. You know that, Poppy Day, don’t you? Tell me that you know that because it is very, very
important
to me that you understand. I want to know that you understand.’

‘I do, Nan, I do. I know that one day you will disappear.’

‘I want you to know that I would never choose to leave you, but I can’t help it, and when I have gone I don’t want you to waste your life sitting here with me because I won’t even know it. It is the most terrible thought that you might see me and I won’t know you. Promise me, Poppy Day, that when I have gone, you won’t come here, please don’t do that to me, please!’

Poppy understood. She had never and would never lie to her. ‘It’s OK, Nan, I
do
understand and when that happens, when that day comes, I promise I’ll do what you want.’

They held each other tight.

M
ILES SET UP SHOP
while Poppy looked on. Initially the unfamiliar surroundings of the hotel room gave an element of formality to their interactions. It didn’t last long.

He thought it was funny that she was holed up in the
flashiest
hotel in London, a slightly better arrangement than she was used to of late, at least now she had room service. The rules of the interview had been established before his arrival. He
understood
how important it was that their story be told truthfully and openly in a way that didn’t glorify any aspects, giving a respectful account of what happened to Aaron. It was also best for all that he interview them separately, considering the current circumstances.

He positioned a small microphone on the table top; twisting the plastic stand to ensure that it would be facing her
throughout
. ‘Righto. Have you got everything that you need?’ He used his index finger to push his black square spectacles up and over the bump on the bridge of his nose, as was his habit.

‘Well I think so. I’m only going to be talking, so I guess apart from my gob I won’t need anything else!’

‘OK, clever clogs. I meant are you comfortable, happy to start, in need of a bathroom break?’

She liked the way that he phrased things, most people would say, ‘D’you need the loo?’ or worse. Not him, he made it sound quite genteel. ‘I’m fine thanks, Miles. How about yourself? Do you have everything you need?’

He smiled, liking the way she responded to him. ‘Yes, thank you. I have done this once or twice before.’

‘Well pardon me. What’s that? A tape recorder?’

‘Yes. I record everything and only make brief notes as you talk. It allows me to concentrate on what you are saying and ask any questions without missing anything. I often use the recordings to edit my work at a later date.’

‘I see. Well, let’s get started shall we?’ She rubbed her palms together, trying to muster an enthusiasm that she didn’t feel inside.

‘Yes. Right, Poppy. I’m pressing record if you are ready?’

She nodded.

Miles opened his notebook and unscrewed the lid of his ink pen, smiling, trying to reassure her. ‘Here we go.’

‘How does this work? Do I just start talking?’

‘Yes, I have some questions that I’d like answered, points we need to cover, but essentially just talk and be comfortable. If I need to direct things, I’ll chip in.’

‘OK.’ Poppy swallowed.

‘I know it’s hard to get started, Poppy, so why don’t you tell me in one word what your life was like before this whole adventure started?’

‘God, that’s tricky. I guess my one word would be,
uncomplicated
. Actually, can I have two words? They would be uncomplicated and simple. Actually, I’m going to have three, uncomplicated, simple and boring. Don’t think of this as a bad thing though, in fact, quite the opposite. Compared to what the last few weeks have taught and shown me, I now think that uncomplicated, simple and boring is a great way to live. I can imagine what you are thinking, that you’d rather have anything other than that. Well, you’re not me. Is this OK, Miles? Do I just carry on talking?’

‘Yep, you’re doing great, just keep talking…’

‘Fine. I can do that. Some would say it’s getting me to shut up that’s the trick. Sometimes, when I think about what I’ve done and what has happened to me, it feels unreal, as though it has all happened to someone else. It’s like I’ve seen a film or read a book that was so all-consuming that some bits of it have stayed with me and replay in my head. Sometimes I wish it
had
all happened to someone else. In fact, that’s not true; I wish it all the time.’

‘Can you explain what you mean by that, Poppy?’

‘Well, I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that life can be, ordinary. Then one or two things happen and POW! Your whole life is skyrocketed into extraordinary and
everything
you thought you knew or could rely on has changed. I keep waiting for things to go back to how they were before, back to normal, but I’m beginning to understand that this is it from now on, my new normal. I guess you could say it for any life-changing event, couldn’t you? Like having a baby, or losing a loved one. What was unimaginable one minute becomes “normal” the next! Maybe not the baby thing so much because you do have nine months to try and get used to the idea, although having said that, I am twenty-two and I don’t think my mum has ever got used to the idea. I think she is the
exception
. God, I hope that she is the exception!’

‘You don’t mention your mum much. Are you close?’

Poppy snorted her laughter. ‘Err, no, not close at all. But I don’t want you to think that my situation can in any way be filed under “if only my mum had loved me more”. It’s got nothing to do with her. I do try to take stock, if only I’d made a different choice, said yes, said no, said nothing, whatever. I’ve done a lot of that. Could I have? Should I have? What on earth was I thinking? It always brings me to the same conclusion; that there is absolutely no point. I think of it like my whole life; my world was put in a wok and thrown up in the air, and when it landed, it was different. I once read a poem or had it read to me, I can’t remember which, about a man who spent his whole life looking at the floor. He walked bent over, looking at the
pavement
, studying the carpet and looking at his toes. Then, one day, a bird called to him and he looked up. For the first time he saw trees, the sky and aeroplanes, the tall roofs of buildings, clouds and pylons, a whole world above his head. Similarly, when he got home, he looked up at the ceiling. He saw lights and cobwebs, all the detail that he had been missing. His whole world had changed because he looked up. What fascinated me was that this man had a very specific outlook on the world, yet there was so much more all around him every day. If only he had looked up sooner! I’m like that man, Miles. I was walking looking down, studying my toes and now that I have looked up, I’m not sure I like the world that’s above my head. Actually, if I could have one wish, it would be that I could go back to looking at the carpet. The poem never mentioned that, the fact that once you’ve looked up, you can’t go back to only looking down ever again, because it’s always there. I now know there are things outside of my postcode and beyond my immediate horizon that I didn’t know about before; not necessarily good things.’

‘Surely it’s a good thing that you looked up, Poppy, and that you widened your horizons, because you have achieved a lot? You must be proud of what you’ve accomplished?’

Poppy looked towards the tree tops of the park opposite, at girls on horses cantering along the track, shiny-haired, white sock-wearing girls. ‘Am I proud of my achievements? No. No I’m not. I don’t mean to sound curt, but that’s the truth, that’s the way I feel. There’s no pride, just a feeling of stupidity; I was naive.’

‘Maybe it was your naivety, as you put it, that enabled you to be so brave. Could it be that an awareness of all the possible danger might have made you think twice, altered your
decisions
? I’m thinking about a stunt man who used to jump across canyons on a motorbike. His manager used to tell him that the distance was less than one he had already successfully jumped, and it was only after he landed safely on the other side that he’d tell him it was so many feet further. There is definitely something powerful about mentally taking something in your stride, having the belief that it will all be fine because you are unaware of the dangers. I guess the defining question is; would you do it again?’

Poppy held his gaze. ‘He raped me, Miles.’

‘What?’ Miles stared at her.

She shook her head, unable to repeat it.

‘Who?’ His finger jabbed at his glasses, as though visual clarity could help him mentally. He focused on the tape recorder, unsure if he should stop recording.

‘Zelgai. He threatened to kill me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I hoped never to tell anyone, but Mart knows and it’s only right that you do too.’

‘Oh no, oh Poppy… I don’t know what to say.’

Poppy reached across the table and rubbed the back of his hand.

His words were both apologetic and self-reprimanding. ‘I should never have taken you there, I…’

‘No, Miles, you can stop that. It is not your fault. I would have found a way to get to him, with or without you, and in answer to your question; yes, I’d do it again because I needed to bring my husband home.’

It was some seconds before Miles answered; he knew that her words would resonate in his mind for always. That bastard had hurt Poppy. ‘I am so sorry, for you, for you both. It’s the most awful thing. I had no idea. You are amazing, Poppy. Martin is very lucky.’

‘I’m not so sure he sees it that way at the moment.’

The two sat in silence, digesting the newly shared revelations.

‘I’ve been wondering, Miles, do you think prayers have to be specific, you know like, “please send down a bolt of lightning and get this bastard off me,” or whether it’s OK to keep them general, hoping that the person or thing that you are praying to will instinctively know what you need or want? I need to give it some more thought. I read an article that asked the question, “does everybody pray?” The conclusion had been, no, not everybody prays. I don’t believe that. I really don’t. I think that believer or non-believer, in the right circumstances in
everybody’s
life, everyone would pray. What else is there at that final moment, when you hover in that black space of total despair, when all that remains is the possibility of an outstretched hand, a little bit of hope?’

‘Everyone I have ever met that has been in that position has certainly prayed. Call it whatever you like, wishing, asking, projecting, but essentially it’s praying, so I guess if people pray, it’s because at some level they believe that there is someone or something in existence to answer that prayer… You are
shivering
, Poppy, are you cold?’

‘No, I’m not cold. I can’t help it. It doesn’t matter how warm I am, when I talk about it, or think about it, it’s as if I am cold on the inside, really cold and I can’t seem to get warm.’

Miles swallowed to remove the ball of grief that had
gathered
in his throat. Poor Poppy, beautiful Poppy…

The Crickets’ flat was stifling; Miles loosened his collar before placing the laptop on his knees. It was unbearably hot. The central heating was turned up despite the relative warmth of the day. He drew his long legs together within the confines of the armchair. A cursory glance around the living space revealed Poppy in every detail. It was a fresh, light room with the odd quirky accessory. A wedding photo on the mantelpiece showed the couple in their finery, sipping Guinness through a straw from a shared pint glass. They looked happy.

Martin flopped down on the sofa opposite, barefoot and unshaven, his eyes swollen and red. Whether from crying or an ailment it was hard to tell. His sweatpants were spattered with food. A stained shirt with
Herrick
printed on it, looked
crumpled
and slept in; it bore the whiff of sweat and stale beer. He looked in bad shape. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

Miles guessed from the way Martin tilted the neck of the beer bottle in his direction that he wasn’t suggesting tea or coffee. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Goodo.’

Miles registered the sarcastic tone; there would be no point in conducting the interview if the subject was confrontational, reluctant or too drunk. ‘How are you doing, Martin?’

‘Peachy thanks, Miles.’

‘Martin, if you would rather not do this then I can come back another time. You seem a bit pissed off.’

Martin was quiet; he pulled his fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. He dug his toes into the carpet and chewed on his lip. ‘Well, Miles, I guess I am a bit pissed off. In fact, not a bit; a lot. It’s a bloody living nightmare. Every night when I close my eyes while I’m sitting up in bed… oh did you know that? I’m too scared to lie down, how funny is that? I fall asleep, then I wake up almost immediately because I don’t know whether I’m at home in my bed or still there, in that place. I’m afraid to sleep. I try and doze during the day so that I wake in the light and it’s not so frightening, but that’s difficult. Having no real sleep pattern, no routine makes me feel confused. I’m frightened of something that doesn’t exist, so how can I fix it? It’s not the monster in the wardrobe or the spider in the bath, nothing tangible that you can look for, remove or plan against. I’m afraid of something that has already happened, so I can’t prevent it. I’m scared shitless of a memory, so what exactly can I do about that? Bloody nothing, that’s what. So, yes, Miles, I’m angry. I keep asking, why me? Not that I’d wish it on anyone else. My anger is mixed with guilt; what wouldn’t Aaron and his family give to have him sat here feeling angry? Why did they kill him and not me? Who made that choice?’

‘I don’t know, Martin. There are people that you can talk to—’

‘Yes, yes I know; very helpful, good-natured people. Truth is, no one can help me, Miles, because it’s something only I can figure it out. Not some do-gooder that wants me to go to a paint therapy class, or to keep a bad dream diary; it’d have to be a fucking big book!’

‘These people are trained, they know what they’re doing, Martin, it might be worth—’

For the second time Martin’s diatribe cut across Miles’s good intentions, ‘I’ve heard about blokes coming back from tours and going a bit nuts. Those who’ve seen and done things that send them over the edge, but I thought I was different. I thought I was stronger, more together; more able to cope. The thing that’s hardest for me to explain, is not how it’s changed me physically, although what they did to me was pretty lousy, but how it’s changed me as a person; how I am and how I think. It might not be immediately obvious to people, but I feel … I don’t know what the right word is … jumpy. I’ve always been fairly
confident
that I could look after myself if I needed to, that I could defend Poppy. I’ve always been quite fit, but also because I’ve always lived where we live. All the local head cases and tough nuts are either people we were at school with or related to people we know. I felt protected, immune, I guess. Since I’ve been back, I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for something bad to happen. I don’t answer the telephone or the front door, I’m hiding away. I was making a cup of tea earlier and my hand was shaking so much that I couldn’t pour the water from the kettle. That made me feel even weaker, more edgy; it’s a vicious circle.’