Poppy Day

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Fire away. Anything.’

  ‘I’m meeting the foreign secretary tomorrow and I’m not sure how best to get into Downing Street. It’s usually closed off at the end, isn’t it? Do you think they will have a note of my appointment and just let me in?’

  The room was silent. Anthony Helm looked angry, whereas Rob looked proud. Eventually Anthony found his voice. ‘Let me get this straight, you are seeing the foreign secretary tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at Rob. ‘Is this the first you’ve heard of this?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Poppy, I don’t know what you are trying to prove, but I will not condone or authorise a dedicated team to be at your beck and call if you are insisting on playing the maverick, pulling stunts like this. You seem intent on doing the very opposite of what we recommend, but if you want to go it alone, then so be it…’ He wasn’t shouting, but was concentrating on controlling his tone and pitch. ‘… although I would have thought that to be kept fully up-to-date with any development concerning your husband would have been foremost in your thoughts.’

  ‘That’s just it, Anthony, what developments? What news? We are no closer to getting Mart back than we were when he was first taken and I need to do something, just like you would if it was your wife or partner. You wouldn’t sit back and wait for something, anything to happen, you know you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Actually, Poppy, that is where you are wrong. I would sit back and wait, because I have great faith in the British Army to act in the right way and do the right thing.’

  ‘Then you have more faith than me because they have given me no reason to.’

  ‘Where did this lack of faith, this hostility come from, Poppy? Why are you so cynical?’

  She laughed then, loudly. ‘I think my lack of faith, my hostility and cynicism probably started on the day that my husband was failed by you and your army. Taken hostage while trying to do his bloody job! That has been further compounded by the fact that, over a week later, we have no idea where he is and are no closer to getting him back! Try looking at it from my point of view; night after night I climb into our bed and I don’t know where my husband is, or how he is, or even if he’s alive. If he is alive, I know that he will be desperate and I don’t feel like anyone cares…’

  Again no one spoke. Poppy didn’t know how she kept getting herself into these situations. It felt like she was the only one that could see the reality of the situation and no one was listening.

  Anthony stood and jammed his hat on to his head. He walked towards the door. ‘Goodbye, Poppy.’ His voice was clipped, curt.

  Rob stood in the lounge with his hands on his hips; he rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head. ‘Well, that went well.’

  Poppy bit her lip to stop herself saying anything else inappropriate, in fact, to stop her saying anything at all.

  The following day Poppy smartened up. She scraped her hair back into a ponytail and checked her face in the hallway mirror. She thought she looked like an idiot, but it would only be for a few hours. She considered ignoring the telephone that rang as she was about to make her exit.

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Miles. Did you see the paper?’

  ‘Ah Mr Subversive! Yes I did.’

  ‘Okaaay. You don’t sound as happy as I thought you would. I had to fight for that front page slot.’

  ‘In that case, thank you.’

  ‘I accept your thanks even if it’s not graciously given!’

  Poppy snorted her laughter.

  ‘Thought I would give you a shout, Poppy, as I won’t be around for a while.’

  ‘Oh right, off on holiday, lucky thing?’

  ‘I wish. No, I’m off to Afghanistan.’

  Poppy felt a surge of jealousy, first Mr Veerswamy and now Miles; it felt like everyone could get within a few feet of her husband except her.

  ‘I’m leaving from Brize Norton tomorrow, but I promise to give you a ring as soon as I get back and, obviously, if I hear anything while I am out there…’ He didn’t need to say any more.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Miles.’

  ‘Fear not, care is my middle name! Actually it’s Alessandro after my great uncle, but that’s another story.’

  Just as Poppy predicted, she walked to the end of Downing Street where a policeman stood in a little booth with an armed colleague a few feet away. He looked well past retirement age, and had one of those big, fat, bulbous noses that you only get with old age and the consumption of too much port.

  Poppy consciously tried to avoid looking at his huge proboscis; wondering why it was that when she met anyone with even the slightest affliction or deformity, it was so fascinating to her, that she was the one that was acutely embarrassed.

  It had always been a problem for Poppy, with her ‘mouth in gear but brain not engaged’ habit. It meant that she often said what was in her head before fully censoring it. She wasn’t in the same league as Jenna, there was no verbal diarrhoea, it was more of a ‘why did you say that, Poppy?’ thing. If she met a nun or a priest she would say ‘Jesus Christ’ in every sentence, and respond with, ‘Oh my God’ to everything they said. If there was a lull in conversation, she would have to physically stop herself from saying, ‘So, immaculate conception, no one really believes that, do they? Surely Mary just got caught out and had to think fast before her dad got home and found her standing there with the Clearblue in hand registering positive!’ That would be her icebreaker, her starter for ten. It wasn’t always easy being her.

  ‘Hello.’ Poppy spoke to the nose.

  ‘Hello there. What can I do for you?’

  It felt embarrassing, incredible and unreal; not only the schnozzle thing, but the very fact that she was standing there saying to this bloke, who expected her to ask for directions to the nearest Pizza Hut, ‘I have an appointment with the foreign secretary at three o’clock.’ It was a quarter to; Poppy thought this was just about the right amount of early.

  To his credit, he didn’t raise an eyebrow. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Poppy Day.’

  For a split second he hesitated, swallowing the desire to repeat it. He lifted the receiver of a clumsy-looking black telephone, which looked more like a prop than a working phone, and spoke into it, ‘I have a Miss Poppy Day here for Mr Munroe at three p.m.?’ It was a statement, but, as mentioned before, he went up at the end so it was, in fact, a question as well. He nodded a couple of times as though the person on the other end could see him, maybe they could.

  He then replaced the receiver and looked at Poppy. ‘Thank you, Miss Day, someone will meet you at the door.’ That was it. Through the gate and off she trotted, walking up Downing Street to go and meet with the Right Honourable Tristram Munroe, Foreign Secretary. As you do.

  Poppy didn’t know what she imagined it to be like behind the famous front door. If she had to guess, she would have gone with a beautiful lounge-like hallway, with a large fireplace and grand portraits hanging on the walls, one of those little tables shaped like a half moon with a decanter on it and crystal glasses sparkling on a silver tray, in case someone in a dinner jacket fancied a brandy after supper. She also imagined uniformed staff to be floating around silently, but busily, a bit like Downton Abbey or the original Upstairs Downstairs with that bloke in it from The Professionals or ‘The Professnials’ as her nan used to call it. It was nothing like that, more like posh offices than a house and huge, really big! Lots of staircases, rooms, corridors and walkways leading to goodness knows where. Poppy was sure there were more places to live, work and hide in this building than anyone would ever need.

  She was met by a middle-aged lady, smartly dressed in a navy suit, but with the kind of grey curly perm and face, without make-up, that made her look more dinner lady than important-working-for-the-foreign-secretary type. Dorothea would have christened her ‘a right old chatterbox’. She opened the door without checking to see if she was ‘Poppy Day, expected visitor o
f Tristram Munroe’ or, in fact, someone down on her luck selling household goods, dusters and the like.

  ‘Do come in.’

  Poppy stood like a lemon in the big hallway, feeling so much like a fish out of water, she had to gasp for breath before she suffocated on the air.

  Poppy was thinking about his name, ‘Tristram’. It’s such an obvious class thing, isn’t it? The instant you hear someone’s name, particularly a name like that, you place them in a class. If any boy had been called Tristram and lived on Poppy’s estate, he would have had a good kicking on a daily basis, as would Miles Alessandro Varrasso. Where Tristram lived, he was probably one of several, in the same way that Deans and Darrens had to be slightly renamed in her world, so that she and her mates knew who they were talking about. For example, there was ‘Gingerdarren’, obvious as to why; ‘Veggiedarren’, who, born with an intolerance to protein, couldn’t eat meat; ‘Upandoverdean’, who could make the swing in the park go right over the bar; and ‘Deanthepoof’. Poppy wondered how his peer group would differentiate between Tristrams: Tristramfiftyacres? Tristramwiththe-Thaiaupair? Tristramtherighthonorourable?

  Her mind was wandering, she was suddenly nervous, feeling out of her depth. She thought of Tom’s words ‘plan it a bit’. Poppy thought she had planned it a bit, certainly on the bus on the way up. She had rehearsed her piece, sounding smart and credible, but now as she stood in that vast hallway, she didn’t think she would have known her name if someone had asked it. She felt like shite.

  Dinner-lady-woman had disappeared, so Poppy stood alone and adrift, until eventually a man in a flash suit appeared from around a corner. ‘Is it Poppy?’

  She nodded and smiled, that was it! She was Poppy, Poppy Day, on a crazy mission to save her husband!

  ‘Follow me, Poppy. I will take you up to Tristram’s office.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He stopped walking and turned to face her as if she had given him a big compliment. ‘Why you are most welcome!’ He sounded to Poppy like a character from Gone With the Wind; one of the southern ladies, not Rhett Butler. He was incredibly smart and smelt like fresh laundry, walking quickly and neatly, and taking up no more space in the corridor than was absolutely necessary. He reminded Poppy of a little bird, a sparrow man. They wandered along corridors and through rooms until they came to the end of a hallway. He knocked on the door.

  ‘Yep!’ called the voice from within.

  ‘Don’t look so nervous, Poppy. You will be absolutely fine!’ he whispered. His words of encouragement gave her confidence. She remembered her speech and all the points that she needed to make, in the words of Tommy Cooper, ‘just like that’.

  Her little sparrow-man escort pushed open the door and there he was, Tristram Munroe, stood behind a big desk. A desk that was much bigger than Tom Chambers’, proving that the more success you had, the bigger desk you got. Poppy figured that the prime minister’s desk must be vast; acres of polished wood, probably with the telephone in the corner, so far out of his reach that he would have to jog around to pick it up every time it rang. No wonder he looked so trim.

  Tristram Munroe looked slightly different from how he did on the telly. He was taller, slimmer, but still with an ample stomach, pushing the buttons adrift on his striped shirt. He had one hand on his waist, as though he was about to launch into ‘I’m a little teapot’; the other held a phone to his ear. He cupped his teapot hand over the receiver, ‘Sorry! Shan’t be a mo! Sit down! Sit down!’

  She sat. After all, who was she to refuse a direct instruction from the foreign bloody secretary? Poppy tried not to eavesdrop on his conversation, but it was difficult. She tried to concentrate on a picture above his head, trying to give him a bit of privacy.

  ‘Patrick, it’s a real honour, really is. Only difficulty is the timing. Pretty sure we have a state visit going on. Can’t remember which lot it is. Want to say China, but possibly not. Doesn’t matter. Point is, I think I am tied up so it’s a no can do. Simply because I can’t physically make it, not because I don’t want to.’ He spoke in shorthand, a man so busy that he couldn’t waste time linking his thoughts with needless words. He paused while whoever Patrick was answered him. ‘Yup, yup, absolutely. OK, buddy, will do. Love to Charity and the little man. Yup, excellent. Cheerio.’

  He ended the call with a touch of a button as he simultaneously jogged around the desk with not one but two hands outstretched. This was an entirely new handshake tactic to the ones that Poppy had been used to. Thankfully he took the lead, sparing her the dilemma, holding her left hand between both of his. ‘Poppy, thank you so much for coming to see me today. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  She smiled. This was great, any remaining trace of nerves evaporated. He sounded pleased to see her, it was wonderful! He continued talking before she had a chance to answer him.

  ‘That was my nephew on the phone, Patrick. He and his good lady Charity have bestowed upon me the honour of asking me to be the godfather to their little boy. Sadly, I don’t think I can tie in the christening dates-wise. More’s the pity; the poor little chap may not be with us much longer…’

  ‘Who, your nephew?’

  He let go of her hand, which she was glad about. ‘No, no, not Patrick, his son, Teddy. He has lots of difficulties, bless him.’

  ‘Oh God. That’s a shame.’ Poppy didn’t know what else to say, what he wanted or expected her to say.

  ‘Yes, it is damn bloody shame. It’s a weird one; they couldn’t have any kids so they adopted her sister’s boy. She apparently took one look at him, heard about all his issues and potential problems and promptly decided to give him away to the highest bidder. Then she hot-footed it to Spain to start a new life with some Spanish lover! What do you make of that?’

  ‘She sounds awful, selfish. I don’t know how any mother could abandon her baby, it’s not normal is it?’ She thought about adding that she knew how his nephew’s son felt. Her own mum having also hot-footed it to Spain and yes it was shit, really shit. That little boy was lucky in some ways, not with his difficulties obviously, but he did have a mum and dad that would love him. At least he wasn’t left with his loopy nan in a stinking flat.

  ‘Exactly right, awful and selfish. No, Poppy, not normal at all. It’s hard to fathom some people, isn’t it? Still she will have to live with herself and thank God she had Charity and Patrick, who are a couple of soft touches really, to pick up the problem. Appalling woman. Never met her, don’t particularly want to.’

  Poppy was aware that they only had half an hour and, interesting though it was, didn’t want to waste her precious minutes talking about Tristram’s dysfunctional relatives and their problems. She had enough of that in her own family, thank you very much. It was as if he read her thoughts.

  ‘Right, Poppy, time being of the essence and all that. Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ He sat in his chair and leant forward onto the desk. His expression and tone were now completely different, as if he had switched into work mode. ‘I cannot begin to imagine what you are going through, it’s a horrendous situation. I want to give you and your family all of my sympathy and best wishes…’

  She nodded, not sure how else to respond.

  ‘How are you bearing up?’

  Poppy had looked up the term that very morning. The dictionary definition had read: To withstand stress, difficulty, or attrition; To hold up; support; Raise one’s spirit, not despair… So how was she bearing up? Not too well actually, but what did she say? ‘Fine.’ But you knew that, right?

  ‘When exactly was Martin taken, Poppy?’

  She was impressed. Without referring to notes, he had correctly assumed that she had never been married to Aaron, and managed to recall her husband’s name, so far so good. ‘It’s nearly a couple of weeks now.’

  ‘A couple of weeks? That must feel like an eternity.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘I can imagine. Are the army supporting you, Poppy, keeping you up to date?’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes, yes they are, not that there is much to report…’

  ‘I heard about the attempt to recapture him, bit of a disaster by all accounts.’

  ‘You could say that and what is worrying me, sir—’

  ‘Tristram, please,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Thanks. What is worrying me, Tristram, is that no one can give me any concrete proof or any information that makes me believe that he is ever going to come home.’ Poppy felt the tears gathering at the back of her throat.

  He placed his hand over his mouth, splaying his fingers and holding the bottom of his face. He nodded, deep in thought.

  Poppy carried on, liking the feeling that he was interested in her and what she had to say. Inside she was thinking, ‘You’re right, Poppy, this rallying of support for Mart is the right thing to do, you go, girl!’

  ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful for what the army is doing, Tristram, and I don’t want to put anyone at risk, or demotivate anyone.’ Anthony Helm’s words flashed into her mind. ‘I just want to get my husband home and I would be grateful for any suggestions as to how I can do that.’

  He spoke through his fingers after a pause, ‘The first thing to say is that you can’t do that. It is up to other people to get him home, I know how tough that must sound. It’s not an easy situation, Poppy, as I am sure you can appreciate. Being completely honest with you, whilst I can give you a sympathetic ear, the best I can do is put you in touch with someone that might be able to help you better.’

  ‘That’s what Tom Chambers said, that’s how I ended up here.’ Poppy was beginning to find the lack of progress frustrating; she wanted an answer, a solution, a way to get Martin home.

  ‘I can imagine what it feels like, that you are being passed around or fobbed off, but that is not the case. One thing you have to realise is that, whilst this is your absolute priority, it might not be for others and that will prove to be your biggest frustration.’

  She liked his honesty, he was right, of course. ‘It is my biggest frustration, but how do I make Mart’s return their priority, Tristram? I am genuinely worried that no one cares apart from me, almost as if he is expendable, currency that can be spent for the cause.’