Poppy Day

by Amanda Prowse

  She smiled at Miles Varrasso and then at Sonny. ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  They sat at the wipe-clean table, nursing hot cappuccinos. Poppy didn’t know where to start but she didn’t need to, Miles was a consummate professional.

  ‘Why did he call you Poppy Day?’

  ‘Err… because it’s my name?’

  ‘Really? Poppy Day? That’s fantastic!’

  ‘Why is that fantastic, Miles Varrasso?’

  ‘I don’t know; it’s just memorable. It’s good to have a name that people will remember. How many John Smiths are ever immortalised?’

  ‘Well, there was the Labour leader, the beer brand and wasn’t it a John Smith that helped colonise North America? I remember reading something about him and Pocahontas—’

  ‘OK, bad example, but Poppy Day is a great name,’ Miles smiled, creating those wrinkles and emphasising the word ‘grrrreaat’.

  Poppy had once asked her mum why she had called her Poppy, knowing full well that her surname was Day. Cheryl looked at her daughter with a quizzical expression, took a deep drag on her cigarette and ran her tongue over her front teeth, a habit she had of checking for lipstick that might have adhered itself to the stained enamel. A confused crease appeared at the top of her nose, the one that she got whenever she had to make a decision or answer any question that wasn’t, ‘What you ’avin?’ The answer to that was always instant and unchanging, ‘Voddie and Coke’, as though calling it ‘voddie’ made it more of a cocktail. It was, however she referred to it, the first resort of the alcoholic. She stared at Poppy as though she didn’t have the foggiest idea what she was talking about. Poppy realised then that she didn’t, bless her. Poppy Day had a name that amused other people, the quips were endless. Poppy paid it little heed. It’s who she was, who she would always be.

  She could have changed it when she got married, but decided against becoming a ‘Cricket’. She thought Poppy Cricket sounded worse than Poppy Day. Maybe that’s part of the reason why the two were drawn to each other. They both knew what it felt like to have a name that other people found hilarious or fascinating. The kind of name that when it was asked for and you gave, people would repeat, at least once,

  ‘Poppy Day?’

  ‘Martin Cricket?’

  The bemused listener would stare with one eyebrow cocked as though they had made them up. Why would they? Poppy used to wonder what it would be like to live as one of the girls in her class who never had their name repeated either in disbelief or amusement. She thought that must be nice. Martin and Poppy knew that no matter what anyone thought of their names, when you were little and when you were them it was unfortunate, but there was naff all that you could do about it.

  Poppy looked at the journalist, but said nothing. She wasn’t in the mood for the name conversation, not today. Unbeknown to the two, they were establishing the foundations of their friendship. She liked his enthusiasm and he her knowledge.

  ‘How old are you, Poppy?’

  ‘I’m twenty-two and you?’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Yes, how old are you, Miles? It’s just that you have one of those faces that could be a young forty or an old thirty that’s had a really tough paper round.’

  Miles laughed then, ‘You are right. It’s the latter, by the way. I am thirty-three but live off rubbish food, late nights, way too much caffeine and the odd cigarette, in fact lots of odd cigarettes.’ He sipped his coffee greedily, as though there was no connection between the beverage in his hands and the previous statement.

  ‘You won’t make old bones like that, Miles.’

  ‘Who says I want to make old bones?’

  ‘Mmmn… I guess maybe you don’t. I just assumed that no one wants to die before their time is up, before they have finished. I think that would be the worst thing, time suddenly running out for you without warning.’

  ‘Before they have finished what?’

  ‘Everything! Learning, teaching their kids, making the things that are important to them safe and secure. Seeing the world, making a difference.’

  ‘Goodness, I wasn’t banking on such a heavy conversation before breakfast!’

  ‘Miles, I think we both know that that’s not true.’ She smiled at him then, to let him know that she probably knew what he knew and that it was all right to mention it.

  ‘You know why I want to talk to you about Martin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Good.’ He exhaled with relief before continuing, ‘Can I ask you some questions, Poppy? I promise you that whatever I write, you can approve first if you want. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes, I think so; this is all a bit new to me.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. I can’t imagine how difficult this must all be for you.’

  ‘Yeah, everyone keeps saying that.’

  ‘What’s he like, Martin?’

  ‘What does he look like? It’s difficult to describe someone that you know really well, isn’t it? There are so many expressions and different faces that I’ve lodged in my memory, that when I think of Mart, it’s difficult to think of just one. I can picture him in a zillion different ways, and places. They’re like tiny snapshots of an expression or a glance. He is five foot seven; just tall enough, is how I describe him. He had very blond hair when he was small, almost white. In his early teens it was just blond, now in his twenties it’s dirty blond. I can see him ending up sandy with a little bit of grey. It makes me smile to think of him like that. I’ll know then that we have come full circle, beginning, middle and end. He is solid. You know, one of those men that are square and firm to touch. My mum used to say if Mart got hit by the number ninety-seven bus she wouldn’t take bets on who would come off worst, the silly cow. His nose got broken when he was small. Noses don’t just break, do they? More specifically, someone broke his nose when he was small. He won’t tell me how it happened, but I suspect it had something to do with his dad. He never got it fixed, so he looks like a bit of a bruiser. This makes me smile because he could not be more unlike that. He’s sweet, gentle and kind. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, well unless he had to, like for work and stuff, obviously.’

  Miles cleared his throat, searching for the right words to politely ask for less detail, he didn’t have all day.

  Poppy took the hint, his fidgeting leg and cough put her on track. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you tell me what you know about Mart’s current situation and I’ll see if I can fill any gaps, then we can go from there?’ She sounded confident.

  Miles was surprised, but happy, to let this girl take the lead; so much for the kid gloves that he had assumed he’d be wearing. He unbuckled his satchel and was thoughtful; trying to decide if she was naive and hadn’t fully appreciated the situation in which her husband had been placed, or whether she was cold, hard. The dilemma drew his brows into an upward ‘v’. If she was naive, then she would have little idea of what this level of publicity might mean and if she was a hard-nosed opportunist then her motive was probably money.

  It was as if she read his thoughts. ‘I think I know roughly how this works, Miles. I know what I want from our meeting. I’ve been thinking over the last few days that unless I take control and make things happen, it’s all going to continue moving too slowly for my liking. I know it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better, but at least now I feel like I’m doing something.’

  Miles nodded. She had answered his questions. He had underestimated this girl, she was smart and aware. ‘Right then, shall I kick off?’

  Poppy nodded. He pulled out a cheap spiral-bound notebook and flipped over the cardboard cover. Poppy noticed the doodles that adorned the cover; random shapes and patterns, reminding her of an ornate Maori tattoo. He held his pen like a cigarette, whether consciously or not, he was telling the world that he wanted a fag; maybe that was why he spoke so quickly. He read without censorship. It made Poppy’s stomach clench and her insides flip over. He knew more than she did, more than she wanted to. It was awful and fascinating
at the same time. She wanted to hear it, wanted to know what he knew, but at the same time, she didn’t.

  He blew out from inflated cheeks, mimicking the exhaling of smoke. ‘Right, what have we got, a sortie in support of an American patrol code-named “Kryptonite”. They were intercepted in the Garmsir area of Helmand province and that was… four days ago. Two were taken, both Brits, one Aaron Sotherby, they decapitated and shoved his body, complete with severed head, at the gates of the barracks. Eyewitnesses confirm that one other, namely Martin, was taken hostage, certainly beaten upon capture, but probably not dead. Bundled into the boot of a car and taken further into the residential area of the province. We know it’s the ZMO and there has been one failed rescue attempt, with no further rescue attempts currently planned. So far negotiations have failed and it’s all gone a bit Pete Tong.’

  He exhaled again and looked at Poppy. She could tell by his expression that he had forgotten who he was talking to, delivering the facts as though he were briefing a fellow hack and not the wife of ‘the other, namely Martin who was beaten… but probably not dead… bundled into the boot of a car.’

  ‘Are you OK, Poppy? I thought that you would know that stuff, I’m sorry if I—’

  ‘It’s OK, Miles.’ She tried to focus on what to say next, but all she could see was Aaron Sotherby and his decapitated body, his smiling photograph at the top of her TV screen, but without the head. If they had done that to Aaron, what would they do to Martin? Her legs shook under the table; tiny tremors that made the ketchup-filled plastic tomato jiggle. Her earlier feelings of confidence and control had disappeared, replaced with fear and shock. Beaten… bundled into the boot of a car… that was her husband they were talking about, this had happened to Mart, her Mart. She pictured him in the park in his teens, swigging from a can, laughing loudly and suddenly until beer foamed from his nose. How had he ended up like this?

  ‘Poppy, are you all right? You look really pale.’

  She refrained from uttering, ‘No shit.’ ‘I’m really tired. It’s just the last few days taking their toll.’

  ‘So, is that about the gist of it or have I missed anything out? Is there anything that you can add to that?’

  It was Poppy’s turn to laugh out loud, snorting pig-like into her cappuccino, most unladylike.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miles; it’s just that I don’t have anything to add to that. You have more than got the gist of it.’

  ‘I want to run the story tomorrow, Poppy. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think that would be fine.’ It didn’t occur to her to check or get permission. Why would it?

  ‘Can I have a photograph of you?’

  ‘Oh God, I guess so. I hate having my photograph taken and I haven’t got any of me on my own…’

  Miles was prepared. ‘That’s OK. I can take one now. You can see it first.’ He pulled out a small digital camera and started to click. He turned the small screen to face her. ‘What do you think?’

  Poppy looked at the image of a girl that looked a bit like her, but was thinner in the face, with dark circles under her eyes and an expression combining abject terror with exhaustion. She was a girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. ‘Fine,’ she muttered, neither caring nor understanding where this picture would go and what it would mean.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Poppy?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What would you say to the people that are holding Martin if you could get a message to them right now?’

  She considered her response. It was her turn to speak honestly and without censorship. ‘I would say, please let him go. What’s going on out there is nothing to do with him, nothing to do with us. I want him to come home where he belongs. He shouldn’t be mixed up in this whole thing. He didn’t even know where Afghanistan was. He just wanted a better life for us, that’s why he joined the army. I always knew it was a mistake.’

  Miles looked at her for a second. ‘Thanks for that, Poppy Day.’

  ‘You are welcome, Miles Varrasso.’

  ‘Here’s my card. I want you to trust me, Poppy.’

  ‘I trust you.’

  He smiled. ‘Call me if you need anything or want to discuss anything, anything at all.’

  ‘Will do, thanks, Miles.’

  As they stood to leave, he turned to Poppy. ‘They would have killed him by now, Poppy, if they were going to, so don’t you worry, you will get him back safe and sound.’

  She smiled at his superior knowledge; really, really wanting to believe him and, at that point, she probably did.

  Eight

  POPPY THOUGHT SHE was dreaming of the loud thuds that filled her head – she wasn’t. It was the sound of fists hammering on the front door. Jenna shouted through the letter box, ‘Oh my God, Poppy! Open the door! It’s me!’

  Her heart pounded as she ran up the hallway in her pyjamas, shaking off the last fog of sleep, whilst trying to negotiate the moving armholes of her dressing gown. She unlocked the bolt and twisted the lock. ‘Jesus, Jen! What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh my God, Poppy!’ Jenna didn’t say anything else, but instead unfurled the red-topped newspaper, holding it three inches from her friend’s face before doubling over with hands on hips trying to regain her breath.

  Poppy was looking at her own face, almost actual size, on the front page!

  POPPY DAY PLEADS FOR HUSBAND’S SAFE RETURN

  Then the print got smaller.

  The human face of our futile struggle in the Middle East is represented here by the wife of Private Martin Cricket (22) of The Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment, who is being held by terrorist faction, the Zelgai Mahmood Organisation (ZMO) in Afghanistan. Mrs Cricket, or Poppy Day as she is known, confirmed that her husband did not know where Afghanistan was prior to being deployed. Yet another fine example of British Army training, sending our boys out to a place they couldn’t pinpoint on a map. Poppy Day (22) a hairdresser from Walthamstow, East London, said, “Please let him go, what’s going on out there is nothing to do with him, nothing to do with us. I just want him home where he belongs; he shouldn’t be mixed up in this whole thing. He just wanted a better life for us, that’s why he joined the army. I always knew it was a mistake.”

  The MoD has declined to comment on her statement. But we can only agree with you, Poppy Day, when you say, ‘What’s going on out there is nothing to do with us…’

  On it went, detailing what had happened to Martin, how he had been taken and revealing the full horror of Aaron’s death. It made her think of his wife, his little boy. They didn’t need to know this stuff.

  She looked at Jenna’s shocked face.

  ‘Oh my God, Poppy!’

  ‘Yes, you’ve already said that, Jen.’

  ‘Now everyone will know and you won’t get a moment’s peace! I’m worried about you, more than I was before, and let me tell you, that was a lot.’

  Poppy smiled, ‘I’m sure no one will pay any attention to it, Jen, people are too busy with their own lives.’

  They were interrupted by the broken bell. Poppy pulled the dressing gown taut around her body. It was Rob. ‘Morning, Rob.’

  ‘Poppy!’ His tone was sharp.

  ‘What?’

  He looked at her with an expression of disappointment. She knew in that split-second what it was like to be a daughter with a dad, and what it felt like to let that dad down. She considered singing her pre-prepared hymn, but decided that it probably wouldn’t help the situation.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen the article?’ His tone was clipped.

  ‘Some of it yes, just now.’

  ‘When did you speak to him?’

  ‘Yesterday, yesterday morning.’

  ‘Without speaking to me first?’

  ‘I… I didn’t…’

  He shook his head.

  Poppy felt terrible, like a naughty child that has been caught crayoning on the wall.

  ‘No, Poppy, you’re ri
ght, you didn’t.’ He scanned the article, hoping to find something that he had missed, something misconstrued. ‘Is this accurate, Poppy? Is this what you said to him?’

  She looked away briefly. ‘Yes, pretty much. I mean it’s what I said, but not necessarily how I said it, if that makes any sense.’

  Rob didn’t speak.

  ‘I thought it was a good idea, Rob.’

  ‘You thought what was a good idea?’

  ‘To get publicity. I was thinking about Terry Waite and that other one who came out with the big beard, whose girlfriend chucked him.’ She repeated Jenna’s dire summing up of the event.

  Rob shook his head again.

  She wished he would stop doing it; it made her feel foolish, like she’d missed the point, or was going outside of the plan.

  He closed his eyes and raked at his moustache with his fingers. ‘Poppy, promise me that you will not talk to anyone or do anything like this again without checking with me, with us first, OK?’

  She nodded without speaking, without looking at him, because she didn’t want to lie to him and couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure that she could keep that promise.

  Jenna shrieked, jolting Poppy into reality with both her volume and message, ‘Oh shit, Poppy! You can’t let Dorothea see this!’

  ‘Shit! You are right, Jen!’

  Poppy ran into the bathroom to scoop up jeans and a sweatshirt that were waiting to be hurled into the washing machine and shoved them on. She was still wearing slippers but it was going to have to do. ‘I’m sorry, Rob. I need to go and make sure that my nan doesn’t see this. You can wait here if you like, I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll wait here for you.’ He shook his head in a ‘you-have-really-let-me-down’ kind of way.

  Once again, he sounded and felt like her dad, or how she imagined her dad to sound, when he wasn’t very happy with her. For some reason this made her smile; it felt quite nice.

  She ran to The Unpopulars, arriving in a matter of minutes. Poppy knew there was little chance of her nan seeing anything about Martin’s situation on the telly. Unless Zelgai Mahmood was making a guest appearance on Ready Steady Cook or helping Jamie with a pasta creation, it would be outside her viewing spectrum. But she knew for a fact that every morning Dorothea devoured the tabloids along with her cornflakes.