One of the girls was red-eyed and inconsolable. She held a soggy, disintegrating paper tissue against her blotchy face. Her body convulsed every time she tried to breathe in, every time she cried. With her free hand she scooted a small, sleeping baby back and forth in its buggy, whilst waving occasionally to a soldier who looked younger than the rest. The young private stared mostly at his feet, as the queue in which he stood wound its way into another room. He laughed at the inaudible things the bloke behind him was saying, but chewed his bottom lip in between the laughing, his shoulders hung down. He wasn’t fooling anyone, for the want of an ounce of confidence or another year of maturity, he would have run to his woman, taken her in his arms and told her that it was all going to be OK. One final kiss, one final hug.
Poppy wanted to shout at him, ‘You’re right to feel like that, don’t go! They’ve taken my Mart! My husband is missing! Stay here with your baby, please don’t leave them, whatever you are thinking, this is not worth it!’ She kept quiet. She thought about Martin then, flying out from that exact spot. Had he stood there? Had he thought about her as he had disappeared through those double doors that led to who knows where? She knew the answer was yes, yes he had thought about her, of course he had. Oh Mart, where are you?
Poppy noted the way the men and women in uniform reacted to the orders being barked; it was almost instinctive. ‘Weapons to be checked in! Make sure you have no prohibited items in pockets and hand luggage! Bags in the crate! Helmets to be properly labelled and kept on your person at all times!’ All military personnel appeared comfortable with the instructions. It was nothing that they hadn’t done a million times before, but this wasn’t a drill, it was the real thing. They were shipping out, off to the action, Afghanistan.
There seemed to be lots of banter, jostling and childish humour. Poppy suspected these were the tactics deployed to hide how they were really feeling. It wasn’t the ‘done thing’ to admit to anxiety, nerves or even the underlying excitement; particularly the excitement. It probably induced guilt to be finding any joy in their situation, but Poppy could see that there was joy. It was actually happening, it was real. They were going to work, to do the job that they had been trained for. The thrill must have been tempered if not cancelled out by self-reproach. It must have been hard to feel happiness, knowing that the people you were leaving behind would worry and miss you. Poppy knew for a fact that the last thing those left behind would be feeling was excited or happy, she knew they would be feeling desolate.
An RAF bloke with a clipboard stood in front of the group and coughed loudly. It made Poppy laugh. Was that how he thought he could get everyone’s attention, a jolly good cough? ‘Righto, ladies and gentleman of the press. I am Flight Lieutenant Ward and I am your press liaison officer for the duration of your trip. I know you are all seasoned hands, but any questions please do shout.’ There was the rumbling of gentle laughter at the very idea of having any questions.
He shouted out a name, and a chap that she had not seen before put his hand up and walked forward. He was given something; it looked to be a folder of some description. This went on for some minutes. Poppy watched with fascination as men, all similar types, were called and marched up like little children at a school prize-giving; all eager to be seen and collect their scrolls.
She was concentrating on what was happening, trying to think of her next move, when he said it again. And it was only because he repeated it that she became aware that he had said it once before, ‘Nina Folkstok?’ Only the second time he went up at the end.
Poppy glanced around and no one was responding. Every other name that he had called had caused a hand to shoot up immediately and claim the identity. This one, however, seemed to be going spare. Poppy didn’t know why or how, but she put her hand in the air. Not half-heartedly, or in a way that anyone watching might suspect that she was not Nina Folkstok; it was, instead, a full confident raised arm, like the one she used in school. ‘Capital of Peru?’ ‘Lima’! Up her arm would shoot! ‘Oberon’s Queen?’ ‘Titania!’ … up it would go again. Poppy couldn’t help it, when she knew the answer, she wanted everyone to see that she knew the answer; it was important to her.
This was like that, a straight up instant reflex, in no way bashful or apologetic, an ‘It’s-the-God’s-honest-truth-look-how-straight-my-arm-is’ response, ‘Yup’. No one laughed or challenged her. No one questioned or even looked at her. She walked forward and the crowd seemed to part slightly. Flight Lieutenant cough-a-lot handed her the plastic A4 wallet, without looking at her face. He nodded in general acknowledgment as he searched his list for the next name, using his Montblanc as a pointer. Poppy walked back to the space that she had previously occupied. She opened the package and studied the contents; not because she was particularly interested, but it was the only way she could guarantee not to catch anyone’s eye. She could deny herself the chance to smile and say, ‘I’m not really Nina Folkestone or whatever her bloody name is, not really. I don’t even know why I put my hand up! I am actually Poppy Day and I live in Walthamstow. I’m a hairdresser, you know.’
There was a pass in the envelope, laminated plastic on a yellow thread with the name ‘Nina Folkstok’ on it and then the word, ‘Denmark’. Shit! Of all the countries that Nina could have hailed from! Had it been France, Spain, or Germany, Poppy could have picked a city, faked some history, dropped in some plausible facts and even had a stab at the language, but Denmark? Thanks a bunch, Nina. Poppy had to think fast. What was the capital city? Oslo? No, that was Norway… Denmark’s capital city was… Copenhagen! Of course! Wonderful, wonderful, Copenhagen.
Poppy was smiling, happy to have this fact in her head, when a man sauntered over. She missed what he said the first time because she was thinking about Copenhagen and not how she should react if someone spoke to her. She heard him clearly the second time. ‘Hi, Nina, would you like to accompany me outside for a cigarette? We are going to be a long time up.’ He then pointed with his index finger towards the sky. Poppy looked at the familiar animated palm of the smoker and recognised the owner of that hand. It was her Mr Subversive, Miles Varrasso.
She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’ Poppy felt the creep of embarrassment over her neck and face. She spoke quietly so as not to alert anyone in close proximity to the fact that she was actually from Walthamstow and not West Jutland.
Miles Varrasso stood by her side. ‘Are you sure?’ His emphasis was on the last word ‘sure’.
‘I… Yes,’ she almost stammered, but not quite; managing to sound quite normal for a very scared Danish journalist that had never been to Denmark or flown on a plane before. She had been identified by the one person that she had hoped she would not bump into. Her heart thudded inside her ribcage.
Miles leant closer towards Poppy, bending his head until their fringes were nearly touching; he was too close for her to feel comfortable. She could see dust on the inside of his glasses, and tiny pinpricks where blackheads used to lurk on the side of his nose. She wanted to take a step backwards, but she couldn’t move. She was stuck. He seemed to hesitate before speaking. He breathed out; she could smell his aftershave, minty chewing gum and the tang of cigarette smoke. He put one arm across his stomach and his other hand up onto his chin, the elbow of that arm resting on the one across his stomach, making a little frame. He had two of his fingers raised, almost hiding his mouth, as if someone might be trying to lip-read and this would stop them. Poppy looked up from under her fringe and waited for him to speak.
He ran the point of his tongue over his top lip. ‘What are you doing here, Poppy? Are the MoD shipping you out? Has something happened? Is there anyone incoming I should know about?’
Her mouth had gone dry; her lips were somehow stuck to her teeth. She smiled at Miles’s interest, keen to secure the scoop. If only. She closed her eyes, thinking for a glorious second that if she couldn’t see anyone or anything then they couldn’t see her, like an ostrich or baby playing peek-a-boo.
She opened her eyes slowl
y; he was still there with his long curly hair and his fixed expression. ‘No, Miles, nothing like that. I’m here on my own.’
‘It’s OK, Poppy; you don’t have to look so scared.’
‘I look scared because I am.’ She had to concentrate on not crying because the truth of the matter was, she was really frightened. Afraid of so many things, like crying in front of all those people and making an idiot of herself, of being thrown off the base, not being allowed to fly, being made to fly; but primarily she was scared of not getting to the place she needed to, so that she could find her husband and bring him home.
‘Miles, what am I doing?’
He pushed the glasses up on his nose. ‘Come outside, we haven’t got long.’
Poppy didn’t know where she was going or what he meant, but she followed him anyway. Sometimes in life you just have to go with your instinct and listen to that little voice that tells you to trust, to follow. It is usually right.
They turned left out of the automatic doors and, once outside, stood against the wall of the terminal building. Poppy looked at the red bricks that firmly placed its construction in the nineteen seventies. She was trying to think of anything other than what he might be about to say to her. She had been asking herself a question; how far do you honestly think that you will get, Poppy? Now she was only seconds away from the answer, she had made it to the flight terminal, and that was that, only to be busted by Miles.
He held her arm as though this was the best way to get her attention. She noticed that his fringe was far too long and thought about offering to snip it for him, she was fully qualified after all. Gone was the jovial banter of their coffee shop encounter, he looked deadly serious; no trace of anything in his expression other than urgent.
He spoke quickly. Poppy understood that time really was of the essence. ‘Poppy, what are you doing here?’
‘Truthfully? I’m not too sure. I’ve got half a plan…’
‘Christ, I shouldn’t have told you I was flying out today. Is it my fault that you’re here?’
Poppy shrugged, unsure how to answer, it was partly his fault. She wouldn’t have known there was a flight today if he hadn’t told her, but she hadn’t expected to bump into him directly, figuring there must be several flights a day and if you missed one, you could hop onto the next, like the circle line but with fewer stops and better air conditioning.
Miles ran one hand through his hair and with the other he held his chin. ‘Shit.’
‘Is that good or bad shit, Miles?’
‘Honestly?’
Poppy nodded.
‘I don’t know.’ He paced to the left and right before stepping closer; once again Poppy felt he was too close to her. He spoke quickly and sounded even posher than he had before. ‘How did you get to this point? Did you use a false name?’
‘A false name?’ She laughed out loud accompanied by one of her unattractive nose snorts that she had a habit of producing. Who the bloody hell did he think she was? She was Poppy Day not James Bond! ‘No, I didn’t use a false name. I used my own name and I didn’t have my passport, so I showed them my bank card and my library card.’
It was Miles’s turn to laugh. ‘You are kidding me, right? You waltzed into the security checkpoint with no passport, you filled out the relevant documentation with your real name and details, that being the wife of the most highly publicised British soldier at this point in time, and they allowed you to breeze through; and you have now taken the identity of a Danish journalist who is probably stuck on the A40 right now, hoping that she doesn’t miss her flight?’
‘Yes, that’s about it.’
Miles shook his head as though it was unbelievable, but believe her he did. ‘Poppy, we haven’t much time. I need to understand the situation, because if you are trying to do what I think you are trying to do, I just might be able to help you and if you are not, then you just might be in a whole heap of trouble, so speak to me and do it very quickly.’ He looked at his watch, making Poppy feel as if she was being timed, which only made her gabble and rush. She wasn’t sure that she made any sense.
Poppy swallowed, knowing that she had to trust him, and that she had to talk. ‘I have decided to go and get Mart. I am going to find him. I know that sounds crazy, but no one is looking for him, Miles. I know this for a fact because I trust Rob and he’s already told me way more than he should have done. I said to him, what if it was Moira? I think that made him understand a bit of what I was going through. I feel that if I don’t go and look for him then he will be lost, possibly gone for good. The idea that you and Mr Veerswamy can jump on planes and be minutes away from him while I’m stuck at home is horrible. The foreign secretary told me that I should go and get Mart as a kind of joke and then my nan, Dorothea, said that I should bring him home. It wasn’t just one of her turns, like the whole Joan Collins thing or leaving Nathan a million pounds. She had that look in her eye like she does when she talks about things that she remembers, like Wally. It felt real and it felt like the only solution that I had been offered. I can’t stand looking at the walls of the flat for one more day, knowing that he is being held and possibly hurt and I wasn’t doing anything to help him. It’s like I have no choice. I have to find him and bring him home because he is my husband. And I know, for a fact, that if it was the other way around, that he would be on his way to get me, without even thinking about it, without blinking, because he loves me.’
Miles shook his head slightly. He took off his glasses, pinched his nose and closed his eyes. He opened them again. Poppy wondered if he too was hoping that when he opened them, she might be gone. This she understood, having herself only recently played a similar game. But she wasn’t gone; she was standing in front of him and wasn’t going anywhere, like one of those enormous tuna fish stuck in Dorothea’s net.
‘What?’ His confusion was evident.
‘What do you mean “what”? You’ve said that twice to me now, Miles, and it makes me really flustered.’ Poppy genuinely didn’t understand the question.
‘What do I mean what? I mean, what do you mean? I still don’t get the plan. What is it you are planning to do and why?’
‘I am going to go and find Mart! I know that sounds crazy, but no one is looking for him and I think that if I don’t there is a danger that he won’t ever come home—’
‘OK, stop there. I don’t need to hear about Joan Collins or whatever the hell that other stuff was.’ Miles was confused, words were his craft and it was very unusual for him to be hearing and using words that did not make perfect sense to him. ‘Does anyone else know that you are trying to get over there, Poppy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘I’ve already told you, my nan.’
‘Your nan?’
‘Yes, as I said, my nan Dorothea. She’s in a home and she’s a bit bonkers some of the time. In fact, most of the time.’
‘Are you sure no one else? Poppy, this is very, very important.’
‘No. No one else.’
‘No one?’
Poppy looked him in the eye and repeated what she had already told him, ‘Absolutely no one.’
‘Right, OK, think, think.’ He pinched his nose again. Poppy wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. ‘Are you sure that you want to do this?’
She nodded.
‘Do you have any concept of how dangerous this could be for you, Poppy? For others? Even for your husband?’
‘Yes,’ she lied. It was obviously convincing.
‘If you are absolutely determined, Poppy, then I am going to have to ask you to trust me and do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?’
Poppy’s thoughts were whirring. What did he want from her? What was in it for him? Could she trust him? The answer to all three was that she didn’t know. Once again she had that feeling of being backed into a corner. By her reckoning she had two choices; she could sink down onto the floor and give up the game, or she could come out fighting and face the challenge
that was ahead of her. ‘I understand.’ A deal had been struck, he was to lead and she was to follow.
Poppy felt relief at handing over the reins to someone that might have a better idea of what was going on than she did. It gave her a feeling that wasn’t dissimilar to when Dorothea had stroked her hair the previous night. Was that only the previous night? It could have been a lifetime ago.
‘Stay close to me, Poppy. Do not speak unless you absolutely have to, OK?’
‘OK.’ She smiled at him, feeling far from OK. She, in fact, felt terrified and sick with fear.
Poppy ambled behind Miles back into the terminal, where they joined the press group. The three girls once again caught Poppy’s eye. They had formed a triangular hugging monster, reminding Poppy of those Siamese stuck-together-for-life twins that feature on freak shows masquerading as documentaries. The ones where the reporter asks the question that the whole world is willing him to; namely, how one of them managed to get married and have S-E-X whilst joined to the other one. Random arms sticking out from the mess clutched at used tissues. They had collapsed; each dependant on the other to remain upright.
There was no one left for them to wave to. The soldiers were no longer in sight; having passed through the double doors, they were now out of reach. Poppy decided this must be the hardest part; their men were gone, yet still close. They were the furthest point in time they would be from seeing their loved ones again, but were, in reality, only a few feet away from them on the other side of a swing door.
Flight Lieutenant Ward was coughing again. The media teams looked in his general direction. ‘Righto, chaps, and chapesses,’ this was the cue for titters from those who found his particular brand of humour amusing, ‘your body armour and helmets are ready for collection before you pass through. No need to put it on until you’re boarding the final flight to your transit destination, the usual drill.’
Poppy Day Page 20