by Amanda Wills
‘That’s Hope and Shelley!’ The pair gazed out below an enormous headline, Hope for Hope. She picked up the paper and started reading.
A Waterby mum has launched a £10,000 appeal to send her daughter to America for life-saving cancer treatment.
Brave Hope Taylor was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of leukaemia almost a year ago and has spent the last 10 months having chemotherapy.
But the 10-year-old, who moved to Waterby with her mum Shelley earlier this month, faces an uncertain future as the chemotherapy was not successful.
‘We’ve been told that there’s nothing more doctors in the UK can do for her,’ said single mum Shelley, 36.
Her only hope for Hope is a radical new treatment, which is being pioneered by a team of cancer specialists in California.
Shelley has launched a fund to raise money to pay for the treatment. She hopes people will throw their weight behind the appeal, which she has called Hope for Hope.
‘We need to reach £10,000 and the sooner the better as Hope is getting weaker all the time,’ she explained.
‘I want people to imagine how they would feel if their only child had terminal cancer. I’ve set up a special Hope for Hope Facebook page where they can find out more about the treatment and how to make donations -’
Poppy stopped reading and studied the photo. Shelley’s arm was draped protectively around her daughter’s slight shoulders. Poppy could just make out the butterfly tattoo on her wrist. Hope wasn’t wearing a hat and her eyes looked huge in her pale face. Poppy decided there and then that she would do whatever she could to help her new friend get the treatment she so badly needed.
Chapter Seven
When she’d settled Cloud and Chester for the night, Poppy found Caroline laying the kitchen table while her dad stirred a saucepan on the stove. Charlie was lying on his back waving his legs and arms in the air. Freddie was watching him, his head cocked, a bemused expression on his black and tan face.
‘What on earth are you doing, Charlie?’ asked Poppy, shaking off her boots and dropping the newspaper on the worktop.
‘Teaching Freddie some tricks for the Waterby Dog Show. It’s on the second Saturday of half term. Ed’s mum told me about it,’ he replied. ‘If Freddie’s foot’s better we’re going to enter one of the classes, aren’t we Fred?’ The dog thumped his tail.
‘There’s probably something about the dog show in the Herald. Did you see the story about Hope and Shelley?’ asked Caroline, as she took four pasta bowls out of the cupboard.
Poppy nodded. Her dad started heaping spaghetti into the bowls, followed by spoonfuls of Bolognese sauce. He called it his speciality dish. In fact it was the only dish he knew how to make. Caroline was definitely the cook of the family.
‘What are they like then?’ he asked, as he grated parmesan cheese over the four steaming bowls.
Poppy gave her hands a cursory wash under the tap and sat down next to Caroline.
‘Shelley is quite -’ Caroline paused, searching for a word that wouldn’t sound too judgemental. ‘Single-minded, I suppose you could say. She must be, to go through all that and still come out fighting. Hope’s very quiet, isn’t she, Poppy?’
Poppy remembered the exchange she’d overheard in the village shop. ‘Mmm,’ she replied, through a forkful of spaghetti. ‘She wants to learn to ride. I told her Scarlett might let her have a go on Flynn but she doesn’t think her mum would let her. I suppose she thinks it’d be too dangerous, what with the cancer and everything. I also thought that Scarlett and I could have a go at baking some cakes and if they’re any good we could ask Barney if we could sell them outside the shop one Saturday morning to make some money for the appeal.’
‘That’s a lovely idea, sweetheart. Shelley’s got her work cut out, raising all that money. Perhaps we can make a donation?’ Caroline asked her husband.
‘Of course we should. It sounds as though Hope needs all the help she can get. Now I might sit down with the paper if that’s OK with you lot? It’s going to be the last chance I get to put my feet up for a couple of days.’
Poppy helped Caroline clear the table and they chatted about the weekend. Tory Wickens, the former owner of Riverdale, was coming for Sunday lunch. Since the McKeevers had bought the house she’d become a close family friend. Poppy tried to pop in to see the old woman in her sheltered flat in Tavistock every couple of weeks but it would be good to spend the day together and she was looking forward to showing her how well Cloud was looking.
‘Blimey! Looks like Charlie’s big cat has struck again,’ said Poppy’s dad from the lounge. He walked into the kitchen, the Herald in one hand, his reading glasses in the other. ‘Listen to this,’ he said, perching his glasses on the end of his nose.
‘A big cat expert has claimed that the Beast of Dartmoor was responsible for the mutilated body of a sheep discovered near Waterby, the Herald can exclusively reveal.
‘The ram’s half-eaten body was found in a dense area of woodland on the outskirts of the village by two birdwatchers on Sunday morning.
‘The twitchers called police and officers took the body to Tavistock Veterinary Surgery where a post mortem was carried out on Monday afternoon.
‘Vet Sarah Brown told the Herald: “The ram’s throat had been crushed, which is consistent with an attack by a large dog like a Rottweiler or German Shepherd.”
‘But when pressed by the Herald Mrs Brown said she could not rule out the possibility that an even larger animal – such as a panther – had attacked the sheep.’
Mike paused to check he still had everyone’s attention. Poppy and Caroline were sitting at the kitchen table, listening avidly. Charlie was gaping at him, open-mouthed.
‘Farmers fearing for the safety of their flocks urged dog owners to keep their animals under control and warned that any dog caught chasing sheep would be shot. But big cat enthusiast John Clancy, who has been tracking the fabled Beast of Dartmoor for the last five years, said he was certain that the ram had been killed by the large black cat seen by two local children near the Riverdale tor last month.
‘“Although I have yet to see this majestic animal with my own eyes I am so convinced it exists that I and my fellow members of the Big Cat Society are spending every waking hour trying to track the panther down so we have proof that we have been right all along –”’
‘Why can’t they leave him alone!’ howled Charlie, his arm around an anxious-looking Freddie.
‘Don’t they realise it’s a wild animal, not an exhibit in a zoo?’ Poppy added with feeling. When she and Charlie had glimpsed the panther on the tor she’d been in awe of its raw, untamed beauty. She hated the thought of big cat fanatics trying to track it down just to prove the cynics wrong.
‘You must promise me you won’t go looking for it again. Remember what happened last time,’ said Caroline, concerned by the fervent expressions on the children’s faces.
‘Why would I? I’d be as bad as all those men chasing after him if I did. I want him to be free on the moor, not caught by the big cat men or shot by a farmer,’ said Charlie, tears trickling down his cheeks.
‘I know, sweetheart. Don’t upset yourself. That big cat of yours knows how to stay out of everyone’s way. You and Poppy are the only people to have ever seen him, don’t forget. Come on, let’s see if we can find anything in the paper about that dog show.’ Caroline patted the chair beside her but Charlie, his thumb in his mouth, shook his head. He clung briefly to Freddie’s warm neck before running out of the kitchen and upstairs to his room.
‘Nice one, Mike,’ Caroline said shortly, pushing back her chair and following Charlie out of the room. Poppy shot her dad a withering look.
He shrugged his shoulders. Sometimes he didn’t understand his family at all. ‘What did I say?’
Chapter Eight
By the time Mike’s taxi drew up outside Riverdale the following morning all had been forgiven. After stowing his overnight bag in the boot he jumped in beside the driver and
Poppy slid into the back seat. At the bottom of the Ashworthy drive they picked up Scarlett and the three of them chatted about school all the way to Tavistock. Outside the school gates he gave Poppy a hug. ‘Be good for Caroline and keep Charlie out of trouble. I’ll see you in a couple of days.’
She and Scarlett stood and waved as the taxi did a three point turn and accelerated off towards Plymouth. Scarlett linked arms with Poppy and they joined the stream of students walking through the school gates.
‘Let’s try out our baking skills tonight, shall we Poppy? I could come round to yours after tea. What d’you reckon?’
‘Good idea. I keep thinking about Hope. What must it be like, having no hair? And imagine being told that all the chemotherapy was for nothing? But I have to warn you, I’m about as good at cooking as I am at algebra, and that’s not saying much.’
Poppy snorted with laughter when Scarlett arrived at the back door that evening wearing a Superman apron.
‘Yes, well, I didn’t want to get my new top dirty. My brother bought it for Dad last Christmas, not that I’ve ever seen him cooking. It was the only one I could find. Anyway, it’s not that funny,’ Scarlett grumbled, as she unpacked eggs from a carrier bag. ‘Mum sent these over in case we needed them. We’ve got a glut at the moment.’
Caroline poked her head around the door. ‘Hello Scarlett! I’ve left the cupcake recipe on the dresser. Give me a shout if you need anything.’
Within a few minutes the kitchen looked like the set of MasterChef. Scarlett lined up bags of flour, caster sugar and chocolate chips from the cupboards while Poppy ferreted around in the fridge for the butter.
‘I should have got it out earlier. It’s as hard as a rock,’ she said, giving the butter a hopeful squeeze.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ said her friend breezily. Scarlett’s mum Pat was renowned across Dartmoor for her baking skills and her creations usually won first prize in the village show. As a result Scarlett considered herself to be something of a cake connoisseur. Unfortunately she hadn’t inherited Pat’s light touch in the kitchen. She wiped her hands on the Superman apron. ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road.’
Fifteen minutes later Scarlett’s freckles were covered by a light dusting of flour and Poppy’s jumper was smeared with streaks of egg and butter. She tucked her hair behind her ears and looked dubiously at their cake mixture.
‘It looks a bit…lumpy,’ she said, picking out a shard of egg shell.
‘Nah, it’ll be fine once it’s cooked. Let’s spoon it into the cases and stick it in the oven. I think it says twenty five minutes, doesn’t it?’ asked Scarlett.
‘Gives us just about enough time to clear up the kitchen a bit before Caroline sees it,’ giggled Poppy. How they had managed to use quite so many bowls and utensils to make twenty cupcakes was beyond her.
Just as the timer on the oven started beeping Charlie ran into the kitchen, swaddled in his fleece dressing gown and his hair smelling of shampoo. Caroline followed him in.
‘They smell lovely! Can I have one, Mum? I’ll clean my teeth again,’ he promised.
‘You two can be our guinea pigs, although I’m sure they’ll be delicious,’ said Scarlett.
But when Poppy lifted the tray out of the oven she and Scarlett gasped.
Charlie was puzzled. ‘I thought you were making chocolate chip cupcakes?’ he said. ‘Those look more like dog biscuits!’
‘They do look slightly well done,’ Caroline said. ‘And are you sure you used self-raising flour?’ She picked up the packet. There was silence as they all read the label. Plain flour.
‘Oops,’ said Scarlett, grinning. ‘I was in charge of flour. My mistake. Shall we try again?’
But Poppy had a thought. She turned to Charlie. ‘What did you say they looked like?’ she asked him.
‘Dog biscuits. I bet Freddie would love them,’ he said. Freddie looked up from his basket and woofed softly. ‘See?’ he added.
‘I don’t think dogs are supposed to have chocolate, I remember reading it somewhere. But we could have a go at making proper dog biscuits. I’m sure we could find a recipe on the internet,’ Poppy said.
‘We could sell them at the Waterby Dog Show!’ said Scarlett. ‘We’d have a captive audience. We’d sell loads!’
‘That’s an excellent idea, you two. I’ll have a look for some recipes later. Come on Charlie, let’s get you to bed.’ Caroline paused at the door. ‘By the way, I love the apron, Scarlett. But I’m not sure you fully channelled Superman’s powers tonight.’
Chapter Nine
As November approached the Riverdale wood had never looked more beautiful. The cold nights had quickened the transformation of the wood’s acid green shades to vibrant autumnal hues. The horse chestnuts had been the first to turn gold and amber, closely followed by the ash and sycamore trees. But as the days raced by even the oaks and beech trees caught up, their leaves a stunning array of burnt orange, saffron and cinnamon.
Four enormous pumpkins in Caroline’s vegetable garden were growing plumper by the day, as was Freddie, whose once matted black and tan coat now shone with good health. Charlie, who never let a brush near his own hair, was meticulous about grooming the dog every evening after school. Freddie sat patiently in front of the fire while the six-year-old brushed and combed, preened and primped. Charlie was still deciding which class to enter at the Waterby Dog Show. ‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to go in for the agility ones this year,’ he told his family over dinner on Friday night. ‘Freddie’s leg might not be better in time.’
Poppy reached for the Tavistock Herald and flicked through until she came to a report on the forthcoming show. ‘You could try for the dog with the waggiest tail or the most appealing eyes,’ she suggested. ‘Or there’s a class for the most handsome dog and another for the dog the judge would most like to take home.’
‘I’m not entering that one - I don’t want the judge taking him home!’ cried Charlie, horrified.
‘I don’t think that’s what it means, Charlie. But look, here’s a perfect one for Freddie – the best rescue dog. He’d have a really good chance of winning that.’
The phone rang and Caroline disappeared into the lounge to answer it. She came back and sat down. ‘That was Shelley. She’s invited us over for coffee tomorrow morning.’
Charlie pulled a face. ‘Do we have to? I’d much rather go and see Ed.’
‘Yes,’ she replied firmly. ‘It won’t do you any harm to keep poor Hope company for an hour or so.’
Privately Poppy agreed with Charlie. She’d much rather spend the morning with Cloud. And she had a ton of homework to do. But she had a fleeting image of Hope standing alone at the window of George Blackstone’s ramshackle farm cottage and felt a tug of sympathy for the girl.
‘I don’t mind,’ she told Caroline. ‘We can tell Hope and her mum about the dog biscuits. They might even like to come to the dog show.’
‘Thank-you, sweetheart,’ Caroline said, flashing Poppy a grateful smile. It wasn’t so long ago that Poppy had felt alienated by her stepmother, despite Caroline’s best efforts to connect with her. These days she basked in Caroline’s approval. What a lot of time she’d wasted. She smiled back, her heart as light as a feather. ‘Anytime, Mum.’
Flint Cottage looked slightly less dilapidated than when she and Scarlett had last visited. Someone had hacked down the brambles and nettles in the front garden and the grimy windows had been treated to a perfunctory clean. Poppy and Charlie followed Caroline up the uneven path and watched as she rang the bell. This time Shelley flung open the door.
‘Alright? Welcome to the madhouse. Hope’s in the front room. Why don’t you kids go and find her and I’ll put the kettle on.’
The children slipped off their shoes. Charlie stopped in his tracks when he clocked the massive flat screen television on the wall in the lounge. It was about three times the size of the McKeevers’ aging set.
‘I wish we had a telly like that!’ he
said.
Poppy, meanwhile, had noticed the brown-haired girl sitting curled up on a scruffy armchair in the corner of the room. Her shiny conker-brown bob had fallen forward, hiding her face as she read a book. White wires trailed from her ears to an iPod on her lap. Her head was nodding in time to the music.
Was it Hope? But this girl had a glossy head of hair. She seemed oblivious to their presence.
‘Hello?’ said Poppy tentatively. The girl didn’t react so Poppy tried again, louder. The girl still didn’t look up.
‘HOPE!’ Charlie bellowed at the top of his voice, the sound reverberating around the small, square room. ‘IS THAT YOU?’
The girl gave a start and looked up from her novel, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Underneath the heavy fringe was Hope’s pale face. For the briefest second Poppy saw a look of apprehension – or was it fear – sweep across her features. She took her earphones out, wound the lead around her iPod and closed the book. Her actions were slow and deliberate, as if she needed time to compose herself. And when she looked up again the expression on her face was blank.
‘Crikey, your hair grew back quickly,’ remarked Charlie, heading for a closer look at the television.
‘Charlie!’ Poppy admonished.
‘It’s a wig,’ Hope said in her breathy voice. ‘My mum sent for it the other day and it arrived in the post this morning. It’s made with human hair.’
Charlie turned from the television and stared at Hope in fascination. ‘What, from a real live dead person?’
‘Charlie!’ cried Poppy again, her face flushing with embarrassment. Sometimes he had the sensitivity of a gnat.
‘S’alright,’ said Hope, with the barest hint of a smile. ‘Some people donate their hair to charities that make wigs for people like me. It doesn’t come from dead people.’