Poppy Day

by Amanda Prowse

  Miles grimaced; leaving a ringing phone unanswered was as alien to him as not balling socks correctly or replacing a CD in its non-alphabetised slot, all acts that caused his OCD receptors to twitch.

  ‘Miles, don’t worry, I’ll call him later. You’re such a worry pants.’

  ‘That’s me, Mr Worry Pants!’

  ‘You go ahead. I’ll only be a mo. I’ll see you down there.’

  She reached for the bathroom handle. Poppy placed great faith in her intuition, but on this occasion, she was wrong. It wasn’t Rob, but Martin on the other end of the unanswered line. As Miles closed the door of the hotel room, Poppy’s husband began leaving his message, ‘Pop… it’s me. I understand if you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to tell you that I am sorry baby. I love you, Poppy. I love you so much. I’m sorry for leaving you like that. I felt so angry for all sorts of reasons; none of them seem to make any sense now. I was bloody useless and I wasn’t there for you, the one time that you really needed me and I was only a room away… Please come home, Poppy, come home so that we can talk. I love you. I’ll be right here, waiting…’

  Miles squinted as he walked into the late afternoon sunshine; it was a good day. As he pulled the key fob from his jacket pocket and walked to the driver’s side of the vehicle, he was thinking about Poppy’s words. He’d come to the conclusion that she was right; an uncomplicated life, simple and boring, without pain and heartache would be preferable.

  It was almost simultaneous. As he pressed the button to open the door, so the man in the shadow pressed the small button on his little black box. The car exploded in a hail of fire and debris. Bits of metal, glass, wire and plastic that had only seconds before been recognisable as a car were reduced to an assembly of junk. A complex Meccano puzzle, with each component fragmented and twisted.

  People standing within earshot of the blast dropped to their knees and held their heads in their hands, waiting for the fallout. The windows of the hotel popped, then flexed, before exploding into a million tiny prisms that flew through the air as shards of silver, seeking and embedding themselves in anything soft that would give them refuge, from clothing to flesh. The noise echoed in a ripple of sound waves that cracked the air, tearing it open, a hammer upon the peace of the day.

  Following the blast, there was an eerie and disturbing silence that lasted too long for anyone to feel comfortable. For those embroiled, it was like watching a movie in slow motion. People saw blood trickle from new cuts and slashes, marvelling at its warmth and redness.

  The hotel concierge laughed as his tongue slipped through a gap in his face that wasn’t his mouth – which was now missing – seconds before being robbed of consciousness.

  A student, on her way to a date at the cinema, teased her hair behind her ears. A split-second later, she was staring at her lower limbs, trying to understand why and how they were detached, before slipping into the swirling icy current of death.

  A man staying at the hotel kicked the hand of his wife that lay alone on the step as he stumbled forward. He knew it was hers because of the distinctive engagement and wedding rings that glinted in the sunshine. She, meanwhile, sat bemused and fascinated by her shortened arm; shock and adrenalin rendering her devoid of pain and understanding. Birds flew far away, and those that saw them go envied them their escape.

  Miles Varrasso was no more. He was returned to matter; no part of him remained intact. He was deconstructed, destroyed, dismantled, obliterated and erased. Gone forever. A valid, full and young life wiped out by the cowardly single press of a small button.

  As the spirit was wrenched from his body, it headed for a leafy suburb in the West Country, where a middle-aged Classics teacher of Italian lineage sat at the desk in her study, preparing her class plan for the next day. When the news came through that would destroy her world and her faith, Claudia Varrasso would not feel her son’s strong hands as they rested on her shoulders, giving her strength and inner warmth across two worlds, but he was there nonetheless, trying to draw her pain. A small white feather that had been dispatched from a jeans pocket had followed Miles’s spirit. It would be sitting on the bedside table, waiting for her to discover in a day or so’s time, and, not for the first time, it would bring a human in need great comfort…

  ‘Miles! No! Miles! Please! Someone!’ Poppy’s screams from smoke-filled lungs could be heard above the siren and shouts.

  As he walked from the wreckage, the figure in the shadows pulled out a mobile phone. Neither a drop of sweat, nor a tremor of hand was apparent. Nothing to betray his action, he was cool and calm.

  The telephone rang in Zelgai Mahmood’s study. The mobile vibrated in Major Anthony Helm’s pocket. The receptionist at eleven Downing Street punched a call through to The Right Honourable Tristram Munroe. Who knows what two of them heard? But for one, the message was succinct and chilling, ‘It’s done.’

  Martin lay with his arms around his wife, she trembled inside his grasp. He held her even tighter, he knew all about shock.

  Poppy recalled the first ever conversation held with the man that would become her dear friend.

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

  ‘Who says I want to make old bones?’

  ‘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…’

  Lying on their marital bed, with her chest gently rising and falling against his arms, Martin’s head stirred on the floral pillowcase. He couldn’t think about the what ifs, if he’d made the call a few seconds later, earlier… he was too busy enjoying the sensation of warmth against his skin. Martin inhaled the scent of her hair and closed his eyes. He felt at peace, never wanting to let her go, his love, his Poppy Day. Finally, he was home.

  One year later

  ‘ARE YOU SURE you don’t want to come with me?’

  ‘Positive. Peggy and I are going to have one last look around here and say goodbye. I’ll drop her off with Jen and I’ll meet you up there, Mart, like we agreed…’ Poppy lifted the baby girl in the crook of her arm and placed a gentle kiss on her downy forehead. The baby splayed her tiny fingers before resettling them against her dozing chest.

  ‘Maybe you could come with me now and drop Peggy off later? Bring her to say hello? We could get a photo?’

  ‘I said no, Mart, please don’t. Let’s just stick to the original plan. There’s no point.’ Tears pooled in Poppy’s eyes, her mouth contorted, ready to cry. A promise was a promise.

  ‘It’s OK, darlin’, I understand. I just didn’t want you to miss an opportunity that might not come again.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Mart. I don’t want to see her. It’s not her any more. It hasn’t been her for a long time.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain again, Poppy. I was just thinking that once we’ve moved, it’ll be harder to get up to see her. Bordon’s not exactly got a tube station…’

  Poppy pictured her new house in the Hampshire countryside. There was already a bird table and a swing in the garden and she couldn’t wait. Martin kissed his wife’s freckly nose and ran his finger over the mouth of his sleeping daughter, Peggy Alessandra, ‘Bye my beautiful girls…’

  ‘Your cap badge’s wonky; can’t have you at the Cenotaph looking anything less than perfect.’ Poppy twisted the REME horse that glinted on her husband’s beret. Martin wore his new regiment colours with pride. The transfer had been easy and in three days’ time he would start to train as a mechanic. Before they left London behind, there was the small matter of the Remembrance Day parade to attend, as guests of honour, no less. It seemed, somehow, more poignant this year; not only because of what they had been through, but because of Aaron…

  It was a quiet day, much like any other at The Unpopulars. Twenty or so people that used to have lives, sat on squeaky vinyl seats, tapping the arms of the chairs with gnarled fingers in time to the Countdown tune.
Balancing the odd cuppa and sipping the bitter liquid, trying not to think of a time when tea could be made in their own kitchen to their exact specification: a bit more milk, a bit less sugar, a favourite mug. A kitchen in a house where there were bills to be paid, calls to be made, grass to mow, groceries to fetch, the touch of human skin across the mattress at night. Trying not to think of a time when they had a life, before this…

  They had been herded together for simplicity, fed and watered until a last breath took its toll on tired lungs. It would, of course, be for the best. They’d had a good innings and at least they never suffered. Never suffered? They had no idea.

  ‘Nathan?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘There was someone that I wanted you to meet.’

  ‘Oh right. Who was that, Dorothea?’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it will come to you.’ He tried to change the subject, switch her focus, ‘How about a nice cup of Rosie Lee? I may even be able to rustle up a couple of choccie biccies, but don’t tell everyone, I save them for my favourites.’

  ‘Am I your favourite?’

  ‘Oh yes, you most definitely are.’

  ‘Can you get my mum for me? I haven’t seen her for a long time and I miss her.’ Dorothea’s breathing became irregular; she couldn’t understand where her mum had vanished to.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Now, let’s see about that cup of tea.’

  Nathan looked up from the task in hand. ‘Ooh look, Dorothea, you have a visitor.’ He and Martin shook hands. ‘Wow! You brush up well! On your own, soldier?’

  Martin nodded, ignoring the slightly accusatory tone. It was hard to explain just how difficult it was for his wife.

  Poppy wandered the small rooms in the flat that had always been home. She felt a strange pull in her chest, desperate to be gone from the concrete confines of E17, yet reluctant to walk away from the host of so many memories. She pictured Wally, asleep of course; her nan laughing in the kitchen; and she thought about her mum, Cheryl, who, having given birth to Poppy at sixteen, had been denied the opportunity to ‘’ave a life’ in her early years, and had been determined to ‘’ave a life’ since… actually, since as early as Poppy could remember.

  ‘You have no idea, Poppy, what I’ve given up for you. I was going to go to sec-a-terriall college.’ Poppy could hear her saying that throughout her childhood and teenage years. It was, of course, total rubbish, complete and utter crap. She never gave up anything for Poppy; she didn’t have anything to give up in the first place. Instead, her daughter became, in her mind, the reason that she was not an air hostess, a croupier on a cruise ship or catalogue model. Why, generally, she had not set the world on fire, achieving all the things that she may or may not have dreamt about. It took the responsibility away from her; it was all someone else’s fault. More specifically, it was Poppy’s fault.

  Poppy knew, however, that with or without her child in existence, Cheryl would rather have drunk, slept or smoked all day than haul her hung-over arse out of bed. Poppy never told her this. What would have been the point? She smiled at her sleeping daughter and knew that she would be a very different kind of mum.

  In every recollection from her childhood, Dorothea was present like bold wallpaper or a loud song on repeat. She’d displayed a particular brand of eccentricity that was a combination of comforting and funny. It was both of these things until the ‘Dementia Express’ quickened its pace. As Poppy grew up, Dorothea made her life as happy as it could be. She never tried to make up for Cheryl’s shortfalls, but, whenever and wherever possible, she made her granddaughter laugh, making everything feel slightly better.

  It used to puzzle Poppy that her nan felt no sense of responsibility for the way her mum was, as if she didn’t understand how her daughter had turned out to be quite so useless. In fact, similar to her mum in that respect, both seemingly believed that you could opt out of responsibility and, therefore, culpability. It was only now she could see that Dorothea was fighting her own demons and was also cleverer than Poppy had thought, encouraging her granddaughter to be independent and strong. Silently pulling all her strings, wise enough to know that the one thing she did have to ensure was that Poppy could live without her…

  ‘Hello there,’ Martin called to Dorothea.

  ‘You ’ere for me?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Martin, Martin Cricket.’

  ‘Martin Cricket?’

  Martin smiled, ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bloody stupid name. Ooh, I’ve remembered! I was just saying to Nathan, there’s someone I want to introduce him to. It’s a girl, I think.’

  ‘Now I’ve already told you, Dorothea, the only girl I need is you.’ Nathan again tried to divert her.

  ‘I think she might be a relative, not of mine, of Mrs Thingy’s…’

  Nathan turned away. Five months ago, the net had finally widened, allowing Poppy Day to slip through the gaps, turning her from tuna to minnow in a matter of moments.

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘Yes, darlin’?’

  ‘Don’t mention the girl to Mrs Whasername.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It might make her sad. It doesn’t make sense…’

  ‘What doesn’t, my lovely?’

  ‘That girl, it’s odd… I miss my mum. Can you get her for me? I don’t know where she is?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I haven’t seen my mum for ages. Can you get her for me? I need to tell her something, but I don’t know where she is. She never came to see me, you know. I was only in bloody Battersea…’ Dorothea chewed her bottom lip and plucked at the buttons on her cardigan.

  They were both silent for some seconds.

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘What’s the girl’s name?’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Mrs Thingy’s special girl. What’s her name?’

  He placed her dry palm inside his hand and stroked her fingers. ‘It’s Poppy Day. Her name is Poppy Day…’

  Keep reading for an extract from Amanda’s next novel, What Have I Done?, available from all good bookshops and e-retailers in March 2013

  Acknowledgements

  I WOULD LIKE to send an all-enveloping virtual hug to everyone that has been instrumental in getting Poppy Day out there.

  The beautiful (inside and out) Caroline Michel and her amazing team at PFD – to whom I shall always owe a huge debt of gratitude…

  The Pink Chair Crew at Head of Zeus, especially Mr Cheetham himself, Laura, Mathilda and Becci who know how to take a good book and make it GREAT!

  Ami (www.cabinlondon.co.uk) for being brilliantly clever.

  A huge thank you to Ian Dale and Grant Tucker for all their brilliant advice, encouragement and support.

  The amazing Rhiannon Fox and Allison Williams who run @PoppyDayFans

  Paul Smith (www.paulsmithphotography.info) who is responsible for the sigh of disappointment that follows me into every room – he makes me look so darn good in a photo that real life always disappoints!

  All my boys: Dad, Simeon (love of my life), Pauly, Simon, Nicky, Luke, Josh, Ben and Noah.

  All my girls: Mum, Nan, Josie, Ali, Abi, Stevie and Amelie.

  My Best Friend In The Whole Wide World Ever – Carol, who does so much for me, she knows… (and who may be beautiful and clever, but couldn’t make a decent cup of tea if her life depended on it… if you don’t believe me, ask Lou!)

  … and finally to Henrietta who is the closest thing to a fairy godmother that a girl can have – Henrietta, these two words do not seem enough – Thank You xx

  TONIGHT, KATHRYN BROOKER WILL KILL HER HUSBAND.

  TOMORROW, SHE WILL FACE THE CONSEQUENCES.

  Keep reading for an exclusive preview of Amanda’s new book,

  WHAT HAVE I DONE?

  Published February 2013.

  CHAPTER 1

  TEN YEARS AGO

  Kathryn Brooker watched the life slip f
rom him, convinced she saw the black spirit snake out of his body and disappear immediately through the floor, spiralling down and down. She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply. She had expected eu phoria or at the very least relief. What she couldn’t have predicted was the anaesthesia that now gripped her. Picturing her children sleeping next door, she closed her eyes and wished for them a deep and restful sleep, knowing it would be the last one they would enjoy for some time. As ever, consideration of what was best for her son and daughter was only a thought away.

  The room felt quite empty despite the blood-soaked body lying centrally on the bed. The atmosphere was peaceful, the temperature just right.

  Kathryn registered the smallest flicker of disappointment; she had expected to feel more.

  Having changed into jeans and a jersey, she calmly stood by the side of the bed on which her husband’s pale corpse lay. With great deliberation and for the first time in her life, she dialled 999. It felt surreal to put into practice the one act that she had mentally rehearsed for as long as she could remember, although in her imagination the emergency had always been a child with a broken leg or a fire in a neighbouring empty building, nothing too dramatic.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

  ‘Oh, hello, yes, I’m not too sure which service I require.’

  ‘You are not sure?’

  ‘I think probably the police or ambulance, maybe both. Sorry. As I said, I’m not too sure…’

  ‘Can I ask you what it is in connection with, madam?’

  ‘Oh, right, yes, of course. I have just murdered my husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you have what? This is a terrible line.’

  ‘Oh, I know. I’m sorry, I’ll try and speak up a bit. It’s always a terrible connection from here, even if I’m phoning someone locally. It’s because I am up in the main bedroom and the reception is very bad. My son thinks it may be because of all the big trees around us; we did cut them right back one year, but I can’t remember if it made any difference. Plus we get interference from the computers in the next building; we’ve been meaning to get it looked at, but that’s by the by. Right, yes. I said, I have murdered my husband.’