Poppy Day

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ He paused, pursing his lips, remembering his training, allowing the information to be received slowly in bite-sized chunks.

  She wanted to say, ‘For God’s sake hurry up. We all know what comes next!’

  Again, he coughed. ‘As you know, Martin is currently deployed in Afghanistan.’

  Poppy tried to control her quivering legs and nodded to show understanding.

  ‘We are here because we have some news about your husband and it isn’t good news… I am very sorry to have to tell you that Martin is missing.’

  It took a second for his words to reach her brain and a further second to digest the fact, two seconds longer than usual.

  ‘D’you mean dead?’ she prompted, loudly. Her wide eyes told him her abruptness was a symptom of shock. Her body wasn’t wasting precious reserves on pleasantries.

  ‘No, not dead. Not at this stage. He is missing.’

  His response only served to confuse her more, not at this stage? So dead, but not confirmed? Dead, but not discovered? Dead, but not yet? All permutations had him very definitely dead. The rest was semantics.

  ‘But that means dead doesn’t it?’

  ‘No. Not dead, he is missing.’ He glanced at Sergeant Gisby, silently asking if he had any better suggestions on how to clarify the facts.

  ‘Isn’t that just because you haven’t found him or had it confirmed yet or something?’

  Major Anthony Helm visibly coloured. She had accurately called the situation and similarly was asking him the question that he’d dreaded the most. Had Poppy looked closely, she would have seen the vaguest twitch to his right cheek; he wasn’t a man that knew how to respond to questions from a girl like her. Despite his years of service, these encounters would always be outside his comfort zone. It was alien to Anthony, sitting in a council flat in Walthamstow on a muggy Tuesday with fish fingers crisping under the grill, telling Poppy that Martin was possibly dead whilst being subjected to questions that he couldn’t answer. It was an element soldiers rarely considered when enlisting, the pastoral responsibilities, the pressing of the flesh, the human face of the MoD machine. It was a world away from kicking in doors and crawling through undergrowth with a gun in your hand.

  Poppy felt his unease and might have felt sorry for him, were it not for the fact that she had decided to blame him. Well, she had to blame someone, didn’t she?

  His tone was clipped, not through any lack of compassion, but because that was how he operated; whatever the task in hand he retained absolute control.

  ‘No, that is not the case at all. Martin at this stage is missing. We have no other useful facts, but we do believe in keeping you informed of every development as soon as we have it. At the moment, that is all the information we have.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Major…’ she hesitated as his surname slipped from her memory, ‘Major Thingy, but what exactly does it mean?’ Poppy hadn’t intended to be rude, but she did want to know what was going on.

  Major Helm licked the sweat from his top lip, lizard-like in his dexterity. ‘It’s Anthony.’ His smile was fleeting. It had taken one slip-up of his name for him to reach a point of intolerance; he was not about to be known as ‘Major Thingy’ especially in front of the sergeant. It had been twenty-four years, eight tours and a clutch of service medals since he had answered to a name he disliked.

  Sergeant Gisby stepped forward. He bent low in front of Poppy, addressing her while resting on his haunches, his fat thighs pressed against the double seam of his combat trousers. ‘What it means, Mrs Cricket…’

  ‘No one really calls me Mrs Cricket. I’m Poppy.’

  ‘What it means, Poppy, is that he was on patrol in Helmand province and he didn’t come back when he was expected to. He went out on patrol in a group of twelve and so far only ten have returned to base. That’s all we know at this point. We are trying to get information for you from those that did come back and as soon as we have more we’ll pass it straight on to you. What we do know, is that something went very wrong on that patrol. Martin and one other infantryman are missing.’

  ‘So he could be dead?’

  Sergeant Gisby didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, giving Poppy the impression that he was on her side. ‘Yes, Poppy, that is a possibility.’

  She nodded, grateful for his honesty. There was a minute of silence, each gathering thoughts. ‘When did it happen?’ Poppy addressed the sergeant. She wanted to try and picture what she was doing while her husband was getting into trouble, possibly even killed.

  ‘It was yesterday, yesterday afternoon.’

  Yesterday afternoon, where had she been? In the supermarket, oblivious. Poppy had always thought that if anything happened to Martin she would know. Like the twins you read about in National Geographic, when one breaks a leg and the other feels the pain even though they are hundreds of miles apart. Poppy thought it might have been like that, but it hadn’t. She hadn’t felt a thing. Instead, she’d been perusing the three-for-two offers, trying to choose between pepperoni and Hawaiian, while her man was being killed, going missing.

  ‘What was he doing in that Helmans province, or whatever it’s called? I thought he wouldn’t be in any danger.’

  The major piped up, ‘You should be very proud of him, Poppy. He had been selected to aide an American patrol as part of a special task force.’

  She looked at him long and hard. Her thoughts went briefly to what her husband had put up with every day of his childhood, how he had joined up to give them a better life.

  When they were little, Martin would knock for Poppy after school and the two would head to the Recreation Area, a rather grand term applied to the dilapidated swings in the central courtyard next to the car park. There, they invented games like collecting a stick off the floor while swinging, or daring each other to shout things out. It used to feel really brave when it was cold, dark and everyone else was inside safe and warm, having their tea. They would take it in turns to shout out ‘BUM!’ louder and louder until someone would hang over a balcony and tell them to ‘Shut it!’ That used to make them laugh even more. Poppy’s mum never came to check that she was OK, if she was warm enough, where she was or who she was with. Sometimes it got really late, but still she never appeared. Martin’s mum never came to find him either, she probably thought he was safer out on the streets, taking his chances with the paedophiles and pushers than he was in his own house.

  Poppy and Martin thought about it sometimes and agreed that if they had a little girl, or a little boy for that matter, they wouldn’t let them wander about with no idea of where they were for hours on end. They would instead have them safe by their side or they’d be outside with them, teaching them the pick up the stick or the shout out ‘bum’ game.

  ‘Oh I am proud of him, very proud, but not because he was helping some Americans doing God knows what, God knows where. And what do you mean special task force? He only finished his training five minutes ago!’

  Major Helm smiled, but kept his eyes downcast, making it hard for Poppy to read his expression. ‘They only select the best. He was a very good soldier, Poppy.’

  ‘Was? So you think he’s dead too?’

  ‘No… I… Is… He is a good soldier.’ He was scarlet.

  Poppy didn’t wait for the major to start uttering further clichés. ‘I haven’t got any more questions right now.’ Her voice sounded sharper than intended, like she was conducting an interview and didn’t know how to wrap it up. It was her polite way of saying go. Please go now. She wanted to be by herself; well, she did and she didn’t.

  The silent tableau was fractured as Poppy leapt from the sofa, alerted by the acrid scent of burning. ‘Oh shit!’ She ran into the kitchen. Pulling the grill pan from the cooker, she watched the tray and its blackened content clatter into the water-filled sink and then, almost instantly, was sick on the floor, retching until her gut was empty.

  Sergeant Gisby’s voice came from the doorway, ‘Can I call anyone f
or you, Poppy? Is there someone that can come and sit with you?’

  Poppy shook her head, no on both counts. She remained at a right angle, trying to free strands of hair that were glued to her face with vomit. There was only one person she wanted and he was missing, probably dead, in some dusty landscape on the other side of the world. ‘I don’t even know what he is doing out there. It’s so far away.’ She addressed the black and white chequered lino. The sergeant ran her a glass of cold water and steered her back to the safety of the sofa.

  Major Anthony Helm sat awkwardly, rearranging his hands again and again until they were comfortable. He looked like an unwanted guest that knew as much.

  ‘So, what happens now?’ Poppy prompted.

  ‘We’ll assign you an information point of contact that will be in regular touch, keeping you up to date with any developments, no matter how small.’

  ‘Can it be Sergeant Gisby?’ she interrupted him; once again throwing his rehearsed rhetoric into touch.

  ‘Well, I don’t see why not.’

  Sergeant Gisby looked at her. He had one of those bushy moustaches that looked like it must be irritating. She decided that the letters ‘R’ and ‘W’ were the most likely to tickle.

  ‘Please call me Rob. I’d be happy to keep you informed with any news.’

  Poppy counted two tickles.

  ‘Mrs Cricket, we are here to help you in any way that we can. I only wish that our meeting was under different circumstances.’

  She smiled at his comment and thought that if circumstances were different, they would not be meeting in a million years. Their worlds would not have overlapped were it not for this bloody awful situation, and if he had known anything about her he wouldn’t be calling her Mrs Cricket. ‘Thank you. Please call me Poppy. Mrs Cricket always makes me think of Martin’s mother and she’s a right old cow.’

  He nodded, not sure how to respond. Logistics and support were discussed before the military men left quietly and quickly.

  Rob Gisby drove as the major sat in quiet contemplation on the back seat. Rob figured he was feeling as sad for Poppy’s situation as he was. Anthony was preoccupied with Poppy; her lack of ambition and seeming acceptance of her humble circumstances were beyond his comprehension. He wondered if her acceptance was down to low intellect. Thank God he wasn’t similarly afflicted or he might still be living under his mam’s roof. The thought made him shudder. He ran his fingers over the shiny buttons of his tunic, tangible proof that he was an officer, a fact that still delighted and amazed him. Anthony carried with him a furtive air as if at any moment he might get found out. ‘Fortitude Fortunately Forgives’; he mentally practised the sounds that helped eradicate the Geordie accent, banishing it to another time, a different person.

  Anthony Helm was wrong. Poppy’s expectations were small, her horizon within reach and her world navigable by foot; a mere eight hundred metres from her front door in any direction. But she was clever. Not Mensa, PhD, rocket science genius, but more able than most and smart enough to know what made people tick.

  Poppy left school when she was sixteen as realisation dawned that staying on to get qualifications was pointless for someone like her. The standard question was, ‘If she’s so clever, how come she didn’t go to university and gather an armful of degrees to see her on her merry way?’ There was a single response she gave to the teachers, heads of year and careers advisers that she sat in front of on more than one occasion, ‘There’s absolutely no point!’

  They sighed on cue, tapped the rubber-stoppered ends of pencils on their clipboards and looked at her with vexed expressions, imploring her to recognise that they knew better, if not best. She stood her ground because actually they did not know what was best for Poppy Day. She did.

  Poppy’s role in life was to make sure that no one fell out of the net that kept her strange little family snug and safe.

  This, she could never have made the academic hierarchy understand. The simple fact that had she gone off to university, there wouldn’t have been anyone to collect Dorothea’s many and varied prescriptions. No one to make sure she took the daily drugs that stopped her wandering off down the High Street with her knickers on her head. No one to keep the fridge stocked with food and pay the bills. On and on the list went. The demands and responsibilities were endless; Poppy was needed at home several times a day.

  Of course the standard argument was ‘If she went off and got qualified, think medicine or the law, she could then secure a wonderful future for herself and her family.’ This was probably true, but still failed to answer Poppy’s question of who was going to wash her nan’s soiled bed linen, sober her mum up enough to collect her benefit and lock the door every night while she was off securing their future? Poppy was smart enough to know that this was her life and there was naff all she could do about it.

  Her sunny disposition meant she wasn’t bitter. She did sometimes think about a life with a different kind of luck. A life that had seen her born into a circumstance that allowed her the freedom to study and become whatever she wanted! This was not bitterness; try to find one person on the planet who doesn’t also ponder some aspect of their life, a different choice, a different person, a different career that might have kept their husband safe from harm…

  Poppy pulled her knees up under her chin and sat back on the sofa, feeling surprisingly numb. She had expected hysteria or at the very least anger. What she couldn’t have predicted was the anaesthesia that now gripped her. She rubbed the back of her wedding ring with the thumb of the same hand and found herself repeating his name, ‘Mart… Mart…’ She tried to invoke his image with the self-soothing mantra. The room was once again silent, as if the soldiers had never been there.

  Is that what it would be like now for Martin? As if he had never been there at all? The flat was now quiet and empty, without the telly on for background noise and without the two men that had filled the small space only a few minutes before. It had been four years since the space had been home to a family; a rather unconventional one, but a family nonetheless. Death and desertion had seen the group eroded, leading up to that moment, when it was just Poppy, alone.

  Her mum, Cheryl, had never been cruel, intentionally neglectful or deliberately spiteful. Similarly, she had never been affectionate or proud of her little girl. Never glad to see her or interested to know about her day. Never shared an event with her, told her a secret or cleared her clothes from the end of the sofa so that her child could sit down. Never brushed her daughter’s hair if it was ratty or trimmed her nails so she wouldn’t have to bite them. Whether Poppy was fed or not, whether she was in bed asleep or sitting alongside her mother on the settee at eleven o’clock on a school night with no clean uniform, none of these were important to Cheryl, so they had to be important to Poppy.

  Wally, her grandad, was a professional snoozer. His dozing form fascinated Poppy; she wondered what the point of Wally was. He slept all night in his bed and all day in his chair. His skinny frame permanently concertinaed into a snoring ‘z’ shape, a human onomatopoeia. His slumber took precedence over all other household activity; he sat like a queen bee whose activity and lifestyle is supported by all those around her. Wally held court over his kingdom of Somnolence. In this dreary realm, many restrictions were put in place to curb the behaviour of a growing, inquisitive girl: ‘Keep the noise down, Poppy Day, your grandad is sleeping’; or ‘Turn your music off, Poppy Day, your grandad is sleeping’; or ‘Stop hitting the floor with that bloody yo-yo, your grandad is…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah I know… he’s sleeping!’

  Wally’s death was a strange non-event in Poppy’s life; the most memorable consequence being that there was now an empty chair with an indent of his dead arse in it. She felt no sadness at his passing; figuring that Wally must be delighted to be permanently turning up his toes in readiness for the ultimate snooze…

  The main difference for Poppy was that now when her mum or nan wanted her to be quiet they said, ‘Turn that bloody rack
et off, Poppy Day,’ or ‘Keep quiet, Poppy Day!’ In her head she heard, ‘… your grandad is sleeping’ and had to fight the urge to shout out really loudly, ‘Yes! I know he is sleeping, but my yo-yo banging sure as hell isn’t going to wake him up now!’

  Poppy’s nan, Dorothea, had always been slightly nuts. She watched the tumble dryer instead of the telly, and made jelly with peas in it instead of fruit because it looked nicer; as opposed to now when she was completely crazy, proper full-blown bonkers.

  Poppy lived with her mum and Nan in the flat until her mum went off to the Canaries with her latest beau. There was no discussion concerning the new domestic arrangements, largely because Cheryl made the decision, packed her bags and was Heathrow-bound within a twenty-four-hour period. It was assumed by all that Poppy would continue in her unofficial role as Dorothea’s nursemaid, jailor and confidante. If anything, her life was easier without her mum’s drunken presence and the procession of wastrels that followed in her unsteady wake.

  Dorothea and Poppy plodded along amicably until the old lady’s mental health deteriorated and her behaviour became increasingly odd. Poppy came home one lunchtime to find her sitting on the loo, wearing nearly all of her clothing including coats, hats, scarves and gloves, clutching a rolling pin as a weapon.

  ‘The bloke in the flat upstairs has been crawling through a hole in the ceiling and trying to turn our water off, the bastard!’

  Poppy tried to hide her disbelief. ‘Who, Nan, Mr Bennett? The eighty-four-year-old with the double hip replacement and the Zimmer frame?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. He’s been crawling through a hole in the ceiling and scurrying around the flat while we sleep, trying to turn our water off?’ she needed clarification.

  ‘Yes, Poppy Day, did you not hear me the first time, girl?’

  ‘I heard you, Nan, and I understood, but what I don’t get is why are you sat in the loo wearing all your clothes?’