Poppy's Garden (9 page)

Poppy stood in front of the painted wall, trying not to look as nervous as she felt. She couldn’t remember
any
of the stuff she was supposed to say.

“Are you all right, Poppy?” Mr Finlay asked her. “You’re a bit pale.”

“Just nervous,” Poppy said apologetically. “I keep forgetting my words. And I wish they’d hurry up. They keep fiddling about with the microphone and it makes me nervouser.”

“Sorry!” Joe called. “Bit of a problem with the sound. Give us a minute!”

Mr Finlay smiled. “You’ll be fine, Poppy. Just tell them all the stuff you told me, about the different parts of the garden, and how you wanted it to be a place where everyone could see how amazing the world was, and how we had to look after it.”

Poppy nodded doubtfully. As long as she didn’t sound crazy, like Cam Morris. Mr Finlay hurried off to stop some of the boys throwing soil at each other, and Poppy stuck her hands in her hoodie pockets, trying to think of a way to make her garden sound interesting instead of mad. She wished she could have Izzy and Maya and Emily with her but the production team had shooed everyone out of the
way. She was on her own.

“Poppy.”

Poppy glanced round and jumped back, almost falling into the raised bed. Ali was standing next to her, smiling. She looked poisonous.

“What?” Poppy asked, hating the way her voice wobbled.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.” Ali nodded earnestly. “I shouldn’t have said you cheated. I know you didn’t. Well done. I know your design was the best.”

Poppy stared at her. She didn’t believe a word of it.

“And all the spell stuff – we shouldn’t have done that. And I can see why you thought it would be fun to scare us with your ghost story.” Ali smiled tightly.

Poppy looked at her nervously. What was all this about?

“So I brought you some chocolate. To say sorry.” Ali was smiling hugely now, showing her perfect little teeth. She stuffed something into Poppy’s pocket, and Poppy flinched.

“Um. Thanks... I can’t eat it now. The filming – I have to talk.”

Ali’s mouth twisted crossly for a second, and then she was back smiling again. “Oh, sure. Don’t worry. Have it later.” And she slid away again, as
quickly as she’d come.

“Ready, Poppy?” Joe called, and Poppy nodded doubtfully, trying to forget the weirdness of Ali and concentrate on what she had to say.

“OK. Now, don’t worry. Remember we can edit this, so if you say something wrong, just pause and then start again. But try to smile!”

Poppy smiled tightly and started to talk, hoping the words she needed would appear somehow. It helped having her Green Lady behind her.

“Hi, I’m Poppy, and I’m from Park Road School in Millford. We’re building a sensory garden, which I designed. It’s a bit like a medieval herb garden – that’s where I got some of my first ideas. But also I wanted it to be a garden that made people remember our planet and how amazing it is, and how we have to look after it…”

Poppy swallowed anxiously. Was that all she was meant to say? Had she missed something out? Nerves fluttered in her tummy as she tried to remember, and she jammed her hands in her hoodie pockets to stop herself twisting them together. She was so panicky that her hands felt itchy.

“I – um – designed a mural, because I wanted the garden to look bigger than it really is,” she added,
pulling out one hand to wave at the wall behind her. Then she screamed. The itching wasn’t nerves. There was a massive brown and grey spider sitting on the back of her hand.

Even though Poppy loved the idea of using spider’s webs as a natural dressing for cuts, and she’d designed bug shelters for the garden, she didn’t actually like spiders all that much. And even someone who positively loved spiders would scream if they happened to find a huge one on their hand. She shook it frantically, but the spider clung on.

“Poppy, your pocket!” Izzy yelled, darting round the cameraman and running towards her. “They’re in your pocket!”

Poppy looked down in horror and saw other things climbing out of the pocket of her hoodie: other wriggly, leggy things. She screamed again, scrabbling madly at her zip with the other hand, and still trying to shake the spider off.

“It’s OK, Poppy.” Mr Finlay grabbed the spider – he actually just picked it up, Poppy saw, suddenly realising that he was the best teacher in the history of the world. He hurried away to the other end of the garden with it cupped in his hands.

Izzy was undoing Poppy’s zip, and Maya and Emily
wrenched the hoodie off and then hugged her.

“Ali must have put them in my pocket,” Poppy sobbed. “She said it was chocolate.”

“That was Ali?” Mr Finlay snapped. Poppy hadn’t seen him come back. “Ali Morgan, get over here now! And you, Elspeth. And Lucy. All of you.”

“Oh, they’re in big trouble,” Emily said blissfully. “They’re dead.”

Poppy sat down shakily on the edge of the raised bed, and one of the crew handed her a bottle of water. She looked a bit shaky too.

“Are you OK?” she asked. “I can’t stand spiders, and that one was massive. I’d have run a mile.”

“Do I have to do it all again?” Poppy whispered miserably, glancing up at Joe, who was crouching next to her, looking worried.

“Actually, what you said before the spider was great. We’ll be fine with that. Wow, I’d forgotten how mean girls can be sometimes. You lot should go on over to the catering van and get yourselves some cake. That’ll make you feel better. Honestly.”

“You’ll feel even better if you look at Mr Finlay yelling at Ali,” Izzy whispered, nudging Poppy with her elbow.

“Oh, look.” Maya gave a little sigh of delight. “That’s just mean. Mr Finlay is amazing.”

Poppy nodded fervently, remembering the spider. “Totally amazing. What’s he done?” She was trying to eat a piece of lemon cake – Maya had been right, the catering van had yummy food, much, much better than school lunches – but it was mostly a pile of crumbs on her plate. It seemed to catch in her throat when she tried to swallow it. She craned her neck to see over Maya’s shoulder – they were sitting on the edge of one of the new raised beds with their cake.

Mr Finlay was standing in the middle of the garden, with his arms full of bright-orange high-vis vests. A bit like the ones the girls had used when they were doing their canal clean-up.

“I didn’t know we were supposed to wear those for the gardening,” Poppy murmured.

Maya patted her shoulder gently. “We don’t have to, Poppy. Wake up.”

“Who’s that with him?” Izzy asked curiously, and Poppy frowned. “That’s Rachel. The one who did my make-up.” She’d had to have some base and blusher before they filmed her, just to make sure she didn’t looked washed out, Rachel had said. “What’s
she doing? Are they going to film Ali and Elspeth and Lucy?” Her mind was still half on the scratchy feeling of little spider feet, and she knew she was being slow.

“Yes, of course they are! And she’s making them take all their make-up off!” Emily squeaked. “Oh, wow… No make-up, and bright-orange high-vis vests. They’ll die if they have to be on TV like that. With millions and millions of people watching them. This is even better than the Green Lady. We need to get Mr Finlay a present.”

Poppy smiled slowly, watching as Rachel stood in front of Ali with a packet of cotton wool pads, making her take off every last bit of mascara. Ali looked furious – and oddly pale and pink-eyed.

“She must wear mascara to school every day,” Maya muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without make-up on. She’s brilliant at getting it past the teachers.”

Joe came by and winked at Poppy. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure we get this bit in. Your little mates digging in their lovely orange outfits.”

“Girls! Come down and see this!” Poppy’s mum called. “You’re in the paper!”

Poppy bounced up off her bed, and Maya, Emily
and Izzy raced downstairs after her. She’d begged Mum to let her have a sleepover for the last weekend of the Easter holidays. It wasn’t her birthday or anything, but she felt like she wanted to say thank you to her friends for looking out for her over the last few weeks.

“Look!” Her mum spread the paper out on the kitchen table and the four of them huddled together to read it.

“Park Road School to star in new TV series!” Poppy read. “Well, one episode. Still, it’s sort of true.” There was a big photo of her standing in front of the Green Lady in the middle, and loads of other photos. Poppy shivered, realising she was wearing her hoodie – this must have been taken just before the spiders climbed out of her pocket. She hadn’t worn that hoodie since.

“The production company must have given them these as stills,” Maya said. “I didn’t see anyone from the paper around.”

“What are stills?” Emily whispered to Poppy, and Maya went pink.

“Sorry. Mum talks about all this kind of stuff. It’s a photo taken while you’re filming. You know. Still instead of moving.”

“You look really nice, Poppy,” Izzy said, reading the captions under all the photos. “And the mural looks amazing!”

“Oh, wow, I hadn’t seen this one!” Emily burst out laughing and pointed to the picture in the corner. “Look at them!”

Ali was glaring out of the photo, looking furious. She had a streak of mud down one cheek, and the orange vest had turned her face a sickly sort of colour. Elspeth and Lucy just looked fed up.

“It’s going to be great building the rest of the garden, and planting everything, but I really can’t wait for September,” Poppy said, giggling, as they went into the living room to watch a DVD. “It’ll be like a proper garden by then, or almost. All the plants will have grown a bit and they won’t just look like they’ve been shoved in.”

Izzy nodded. “We’ll even have had tomatoes and beans and things by then. Grown in our own garden! And then the TV series will be on.”

Poppy smiled. “Yup. I can mute the part where I’m talking, but there’s one bit that I really have to see…”

The four friends laughed. It was great to have something so amazing to look forward to, but first they had a sleepover to get on with!

Bing bong
. The doorbell.

I listen, but nothing happens.

Bing bong
. The doorbell again.

My baby brother, Syd, pauses. He’s feeding dinosaurs to the laundry bin. He smiles and hands me a slimy stegosaurus.

Bing bong, bing bong, bing bong.

Rats. Mum must be deaf or something.

I lower myself from the top bunk, headfirst. I’ve got the sheet wrapped round my waist. It’s how I’d like to escape from a burning house, but this time all the bedding comes with me and I end up
crashing to the floor.

Bing bong!

“Coming!” I yell. I pull on some jeans and peer out of the window. I can only just see through the glass because all the rain there ever was seems to be trying to fall on our house, and most of it’s racing down my window. There’s a battered half-timbered car wedged between the large concrete rectangles that make up the watercress beds at the back of our house. Mr Hammond, the watercress-bed man, is talking to whoever it is, pointing at our front door, but I can’t actually see anybody.

I don’t recognise the car and, for one second, I wonder if something exciting might be about to happen. Perhaps someone’s come to tell me I’ve won something.

I drag on yesterday’s dirty T-shirt, and try to remember if I ever did enter the Sugar Puffs “Honey Monster challenge” or whether the cardboard packet’s still stuck behind the toaster. I’m pretty sure it’s stuck behind the toaster.

Putting my hands on the banisters, and without using my feet, I slide over Syd’s stair gate and arrive silently at the bottom of the stairs.

I look round for Mum. She’s doing her morning
yoga with earplugs. She hasn’t even heard the door.

I stop in the hallway, looking out.

Somebody’s standing on the other side of the glass, pressing against it; but because our front door’s made of this ancient cloudy glass with little ships on, I can only see a shadow. I’m guessing they don’t have an umbrella and they’re trying to get out of the rain.

Bing bong.

For a moment I wonder if it’s a mad axe murderer, but then decide that mad axe murderers probably never call at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning.

I look again at the shadow. I don’t think it’s a scary shadow, it’s really no taller than I am.

I’ll take a chance.

I yank open the front door.

“Scarlett? Scarlett McNally?” It’s a round shiny man in a sheepskin jacket, with a Father Christmas beard. He is definitely not a mad axe murderer but he doesn’t look like he’s come to tell me I’ve won anything. He looks more like someone buying watercress. I’m sure people who tell you you’ve won something drive cars that were built this century. He’s holding a box.

“Yes?” I say, looking round at Mum, who’s
stretching now. She still hasn’t noticed anything but I expect I can handle this.

“Morning, Scarlett. I was your father’s solicitor.” He’s standing right in the doorway now; half of his jacket’s dark with the rain.

Solicitor?

I don’t know what to say, so I stare at the man. I go on staring at him. I can stare at people for ages, and they can never do it back anything like as well. It gives me the upper hand. I can see he’s getting uncomfortable, so I give him a chance and blink.

He’s looking really confused now. “I’m acting on your father’s instructions.”

“Dad’s – but he’s…”

“Yes, Scarlett, but he left these items in my care, to be given to you on, or around, your eleventh birthday. You were eleven last week, weren’t you?” He grips the box as if he’s about to whisk it away.

“Yes – Tuesday.”

“Well, happy birthday last Tuesday. It’s yours now.” He plonks the box on the carpet, fumbles for the door handle, touches his hat and trips out through the door.

“Why did I have to be eleven?” I ask, calling into the rain.

“Haven’t a clue – perhaps he thought you’d be old enough to avoid some of his less lovely friends?” He scuttles back to his car, his shoulders hunched against the rain. “Don’t get too excited.” The door squeaks as he clambers in and when he closes it, a small piece of wood pings off the side.

Reversing, he narrowly misses one of the watercress beds and lurches off through some puddles. The battered car swings out on to the main road and disappears.

I stare at the box, then I pick it up and shake it. It rattles, but only a little.

Dad.

It’s from my dad.

My dad the burglar. My dad the thief. The person that no one mentions.

He’s been dead for five years.