Poppy smiled at this. Why was it always ‘our boys’ when trying to garner support, yet ‘misfits who lived on the edge of society’ when out of the army and living off benefit? Yes, an unfortunate episode indeed. ‘OK. Supposing I agree to say a few words in support of you and what you are trying to achieve, politically, what will you do in return to help me?’
He leant forward, chuckling awkwardly. ‘Goodness, Poppy, these things are jolly high-profile. I should think that the prime minister would be your best bet. That I can’t organise, but I do have the ear of the foreign secretary, a fellow old Etonian, year above me, but a good friend. We played in the first fifteen together. He would be able to advise you up the chain, as it were.’
‘Fine.’
Again that look of confusion. ‘What’s fine?’
‘It’s a deal, Tom. You get me in front of the foreign secretary and I will say or do whatever you want me to. I’ll even walk the length of Hoe Street with a sandwich board bearing a slogan of your choice!’
‘Excellent. That is excellent. I’ll get right on to it, Poppy.’
‘Great, that’s great, Tom. You have my number, so give me a shout.’
‘Will do, Poppy.’
She stood then to leave.
‘Poppy?’
‘Yes, Tom?’
‘Just one question…’
‘Fire away!’ She felt confident, more in control than this man she had judged so wrongly.
‘Where is Hoe Street?’
‘What you looking so smug about, missus?’
‘What d’you mean smug?’
There was the odd evening when Dorothea was spoiling for a fight the moment her granddaughter arrived. This was clearly one of those nights.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Poppy Day. I’m not stupid, you know.’
‘I know you are not stupid, Nan.’
‘Good, because I’m not.’
There was silence as both mentally reloaded, considering how to continue. Sometimes when she was in this sort of mood, Poppy could distract her with a carefully chosen subject, or divert her with some snippet of information.
Her nan spoke first, denying her the opportunity to deflect her mood with trivia, ‘Mrs Hardwick told me, so you don’t have to.’
‘Mrs Hardwick told you what?’ Poppy tried to sound aloof, as if there was no news…
‘About you in the paper.’
‘What about me in the paper?’ Her tone was surprised, indifferent. Inside, however, she was thinking, ‘Oh shit!’ It hadn’t occurred to her to try and stop everyone at The Unpopulars seeing the newspapers. She kept calm, trying not to show her agitation. Until she knew how informed Dorothea was, there was no point in panicking. Poppy hated the thought of her nan being given distressing news that might confuse or upset her.
‘Mrs Hardwick told me that her son had told her that he’d seen you in the paper, Poppy Day, and I believe her. He went to grammar school her boy; he is very clever.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter what you say. I know what you are up to.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. You are trying to follow in your mother’s footsteps and get into films, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’
Poppy didn’t know what to say to her lovely nan, whose greatest fear was that she had courted publicity trying to follow in the career path of her imaginary mother, Joan Collins. She wanted to laugh, as much with relief as anything. She felt the giggle bubbling in her throat. ‘You got me! Well, it does sound quite nice, Nan, making films on a warm beach somewhere, with people doing my hair and make-up every day, or being driven around in a limo. I could have a worse life.’
Dorothea leant forward, pulling her hand-knitted cardigan closer around her body with one hand and the finger of the other pointing at her granddaughter’s chest. ‘Now, you listen to me, Poppy Day, and you listen good; you have a decent job with Christine, she will always look after you. If Joan had wanted you to be an actress then she would have written to you and told you, wouldn’t she?’
Poppy thought about receiving a letter from Joan Collins saying:
Dear Poppy Day, I want you to be an actress. Best wishes, Joan Collins.
This too made her smile. ‘You are probably right, Nan.’
‘No probably about it, my girl. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject.’
‘OK, Nan.’ Poppy reached out, patting her hand.
‘That’s my girl.’
‘That’s right, I am your girl.’
‘He works at the council.’
‘Who does?’ Poppy had lost the thread.
‘Who does what?’ Dorothea countered.
‘Who works at the council?’ Poppy tried to maintain a placid tone.
‘Who works at the council?’
‘Yes!’ Poppy was tired. She struggled not to sound impatient, suppressing the instinct to snap.
‘I don’t bloody know, Poppy Day, lots of people, I expect. Although, judging by the state of the flats, not enough of them!’
Poppy stood, knowing that in her state of fatigue she was in no shape for a verbal game of chess with half the pieces missing. She kissed Dorothea on the forehead. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Nan. Have sweet dreams.’
‘Will do, darlin’. Night night.’
‘Night night, Nan.’
‘Mrs Hardwick’s son.’ Dorothea caught up.
‘Mrs Hardwick’s son what?’
‘He’s the one that works at the council. He does all the typing.’
‘Well, good to know that grammar school education wasn’t wasted.’
Dorothea turned towards the telly, whilst reaching for the remote control, her constant companion.
Poppy wandered home, smiling. Her nan, even in her often confused state, seemed more ‘with it’ to her than Tom Chambers had. She couldn’t understand how he had got to where he had without any nous, or anything about him that would encourage Christine to employ him to sweep up the hair cuttings every day. He had come across as vacuous. Poppy considered this further and had to admit that she knew exactly how he attained his position; his ticket into the first round would have been an education at Eton, the rest would have been easy. The second statement was untrue, as well, of course. Christine would have employed him. He wore trousers, didn’t he?
Coincidentally, when she got home there was a message on the answerphone from him, along with three others. His loud voice was instantly recognisable, ‘Poppy. Hi. It’s Tom. Yup all sorted for Tristram. He’s completely on board and has suggested day after tomorrow about three-ish, at number eleven. He’s had a cancellation. You’ve probably got half an hour, so plan it a bit. So, well excellent. Will be in touch. Very good then. Cheerio!’
Poppy replayed it a couple of times. He was really unbelievable. ‘All sorted for Tristram.’ Luckily she knew who he was referring to. ‘He’s had a cancellation.’ Ah! So that was why he was seeing her. No burning desire to help with her cause, but a spare half an hour that she could occupy. ‘Plan a bit!’ This made Poppy smile. ‘Thanks for that, Tom. What, like you did, you mean? Not even knowing who my husband was, or whether he was alive or dead! Bloody brilliant. Excellent, in fact.
‘Don’t you worry, Tommy boy, I’ll be prepared.’ She spoke to the machine which was still blinking.
Pressing play again, she heard Rob’s voice, ‘Hello, Poppy. It’s Rob. Major Helm and I are hoping to come and see you tomorrow morning at ten. Remember, Poppy, that Anthony Helm is the media liaison officer for Martin’s deployment. He can really help you, so… well, you know… You have my number, if you need me at any time just call. Good night, Poppy.’
She could hear the vague sounds of a TV in the background, could picture him in his slippers with Moira sat beside him on the sofa, it was a nice image. She replayed his message and considered the pauses, ‘… can really help you, so…’ She mentally filled the gaps, ‘so be nice and don’t rub him up the wrong way.’
Once
again it sounded like dad advice and once again she liked it. Her diary was filling up thick and fast. Luckily Christine was paying her, letting her take whatever time that she needed. Poppy was grateful.
The third message was from Miles: ‘Hi, Poppy, Miles here, give us a shout, just trying to find out what’s being done to get the boy home. Call me.’
The best, however, was the final message, drum roll please…
‘Oh my Gawd, my baby, my poor baby. I seen you in the papers today, we get them a bit late and I said to Terry, that’s my baby! That’s my girl and her poor bloke is about to get ’is ’ead chopped off by them bloody Iranians. It’s just so awful, you are so young to be widowed, but you listen to me, my girl, you listen to me because I know. Don’t let it get you down, you get your lippy on and you get out there, because you are still young and there will be more fish in the sea for you, Poppy Day, you keep your chin up. If you want to come out for a bit of a holiday, me and Terry would love to see you. I’m a bit of a celebrity, now my little girl is plastered all over the papers; don’t think we’ve paid for a drink all night! Oh, it’s me, Mum, by the way, I was—’ The lack of tape cut her off mid flow, thank God.
Poppy hadn’t heard from her for a couple of months. She sounded older and slightly pissed, of course. Poppy started to laugh; quite unexpectedly it turned to crying. She sat for a while, long enough for her legs to go numb on the carpet and the light of day to give way to darkness.
It was an odd thing for Poppy; she knew that Cheryl was a crap mum, yet, no matter how much time passed or how much older she got, it was always the same. As soon as she heard from or saw Cheryl, in fact, any contact at all that confirmed how totally useless she was… It was like she was six again.
Poppy didn’t love her mum. It’s difficult to love someone who doesn’t love you back. It could be a wife, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, a mum or a dad; you can do it for a while, but not forever.
Poppy did it for about six years until realisation dawned that she was alone in her strength of feeling. It then started to feel pointless and embarrassing, even at that tender age. The energy she had wasted on this one-sided love made her slightly resentful. The process of unloving her mum began without conscious design or pre-planning, but by the time it was under way, she realised that it was fine not to love her. Poppy would still be who she was, she would be OK.
The standard gift for her daughter for both birthday and Christmas was make-up from the Avon lady, when all she really wanted was books, any books. There was no overt abuse like you see in the papers. It was more as if Cheryl didn’t realise what she had to do with a child, as if it never occurred to her that Poppy couldn’t look after herself, that she had to do something for her, or to her. She treated Poppy like a neighbour’s child or someone that she didn’t know very well. That last part was true actually; she didn’t know her very well.
When Poppy spoke to her mum, no matter what Cheryl was doing, watching TV, smoking or putting her mascara on, she would look at Poppy and say, ‘What?’ as though she hadn’t realised her daughter was in the room until she had spoken. Poppy would then have to repeat what she’d said. Her mum never listened. It was a bit like she wasn’t interested; in fact, exactly like she wasn’t interested.
It’s not that Poppy expected anything different, yet it was still somehow disappointing. Poppy would have been more shocked if she HAD asked after her ageing mother, who, for all she knew, might be dead and buried. Or if she’d said that she was jumping on the next available flight to come and be by her side at this terrible time. Of course, she never would and Poppy knew this. She knew the best she could expect was exactly what she got, a suggestion to go and see if she could pull while her ’usband was gettin’ ’is ’ead chopped off by them Iranians!’ Poppy’s disappointment turned to anger; she felt that her nan deserved more, deserved better.
The message left her feeling empty and let down. It was as if there was a physical cut on her heart that, despite being healed and hidden, at the very second that she heard her mother’s terrible, misunderstood, stupid suppositions and rantings, opened the scar up instantly and painfully. Poppy would then bleed inside until she could figure out how to put it to the back of her mind.
She gathered her thoughts and emotions, tidying them up the best that she could, and called Miles Varrasso. She got his answerphone. ‘Hey, Miles, in response to your question, “What is being done to get the boy home?” The answer is “absolutely nothing”, as far as I can tell. It’s shocking, Miles, really, a bloody disgrace. Anyway, call me back and we can catch up, thanks.’
Poppy didn’t know how Miles did it. She left her message for him at about six o’clock and the headline that stared up at her from the newsagent’s rack the very next morning was:
Poppy Day disgusted as Army do absolutely nothing to bring one of our boys home!
Poppy couldn’t believe it. The rest of the story was a rehash of what had already been printed, along with several ‘quotes’ from Poppy and that same crappy picture.
She started to lose her nerve, wondering if the maximum publicity strategy was the right one. She bought the paper, as well as the milk that she had gone into the shop for. Pulling her collar up, she scurried home, feeling slightly embarrassed, exposed and desperate to put a call into Nathan. She couldn’t face another mid-morning sprint in her slippers.
Her guests arrived at ten o’clock, sharp. They couldn’t manage to get her husband back to safety, but if they said ten o’clock, then ten o’clock it was! Rob walked into the lounge and removed his beret, as was now the custom.
She noticed that the major had a folded copy of the paper in his gloved hand. He followed Rob into the lounge. The three sat in a triangle arrangement around the room. Poppy decided to take the lead, ‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea?’
‘No thank you.’ Major Helm had again apparently spoken for both of them. He removed his hat and placed it on his lap, next he peeled off his gloves and laid them in the upturned hat, preparing to begin; ready and action! ‘How are you bearing up, Poppy?’
Why did people keep asking her that? Was there not some more appropriate phrase that they could use? Bearing up? What did that mean exactly? She reminded herself to look it up. ‘Well, I’m OK, I guess. As I said to someone yesterday, I’m fine as long as I know that things are being done to actively get Mart back. It’s the idea that efforts have stopped, or that nothing is happening that worries me the most. That is the one thing that keeps me awake at three in the morning, that idea that he is just… gone and no one is doing anything to get him home safely.’
‘Well, let me reassure you on that point. Lots of things are being done to ensure his safe return. Even if the efforts aren’t obvious, there’s masses going on behind the scenes and on the ground, but I totally understand your frustration that it doesn’t appear to be happening fast enough, it must feel like that. I can only imagine what it must be like for you.’
It was her turn to nod. ‘Well that’s good to hear, Anthony. What things are going on behind the scenes and on the ground?’
He cast his eyes towards Rob. ‘It is complicated, Poppy.’
‘Yes of course,’ she concurred. Rob coughed to clear his throat, but to Poppy, it was a ‘remember my phone message and don’t be rude or wind him up’ cough. Thanks for that, Dad.
‘It’s not as easy as just storming in and getting him out.’
‘Well no, we tried that last week, didn’t we, and it was the wrong house. What a cock up!’ Inside her head Poppy was reprimanding herself, for God’s sake shut up! He is on your side. He didn’t seem to take offence, but rather felt that it confirmed his stance.
‘That’s exactly right, Poppy. That’s a good example of how difficult it can be to get the right intelligence and act on it, but it doesn’t mean that we have stopped trying.’ Touché, Major Anthony. He wasn’t done, ‘I did want to talk to you about the interview that you gave to Miles Varrasso, if that’s OK?’
‘Sure.’ She felt
confident, cocky almost.
‘Miles Varrasso is a subversive. He and plenty others like him are anti the whole campaign. If they can use someone like you at this difficult time to further their cause, and get their message across, they will. You seem very together, Poppy, but believe me when I tell you that at this time you are vulnerable and people like him will take advantage of you if they can. He has no regard for your well-being, and will do whatever he can to convince whoever he can that we shouldn’t be out there, and that our servicemen and women are acting in futility. Can you imagine how demotivating that is for the troops that are deployed believing that they are doing a vital job? Or how insulting it is to families that have lost loved ones in the line of duty, families like Aaron’s?’
Although she couldn’t warm to him, Poppy realised Anthony was cleverer than she had first thought. His words resonated. She thought about Aaron’s family.
‘I wanted to give the interview because I figured that the more people know about Mart, the more he’ll be spoken about. He won’t be forgotten, will he, if everyone is talking about him? Then they are more likely to let him go.’ It didn’t sound quite as convincing as she had hoped.
‘I can see that sounds logical, Poppy, but have you considered the whole reason these groups revert to taking hostages is that they get publicity for their cause? It therefore makes it beneficial to take people like Martin, and the more you publicise their activities, the more you are encouraging them, supporting them.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it like that, no.’
‘Well luckily you have a great team in Rob and me to help and advise you at every step. I’m here to make sure that you are being kept informed and to do everything that I can to ensure that, from your perspective, we are handling this in the best way possible.’
His words offered Poppy little comfort; they sounded scripted and insincere, spoken through an unsmiling mouth as his knee danced in restless anticipation. He wanted to leave. He didn’t care about Martin and he didn’t care about her. ‘Actually I do have a question.’
Poppy Day Page 16