Poppy's Hero

by Rachel Billington

  If Polish ‘fun’ became too much, Poppy picked up her Nintendo or one of the books she’d brought, or wrote in her diary. The diary had become a habit, a friend.

  ‘Well, it was nice to see where my mum comes from,’ she wrote on their last day in Poland, ‘even if I’m glad to be going home.’

  There was only one day left in London before Poppy went to Cornwall. Her mum, trying to cope with the washing, sent her out to buy some milk.

  Poppy walked slowly along the pavement. It didn’t seem solid under her feet. I don’t think my body’s quite arrived in London yet, she thought to herself. It can’t find my old self who used to walk along these pavements.

  ‘Hi, Poppy,’ said Zita in the corner shop. ‘Had a good holiday, did you?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Poppy, thinking that even Zita look different, her eyes bigger and darker, set off by the scarf drawn tightly round her face. Would everyone seem different now?

  While she and her mum were re-packing her bag for the next morning, Poppy asked, her voice a bit quavery, ‘Will you be going to see Dad next week?’

  Irena jumped, dropped a T-shirt she’d been folding, and said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How could you not know?’

  ‘I mean to say, it depend on your dad. He hasn’t sent a visitor’s order. He hasn’t...’ She faltered to a stop.

  ‘What’s a visitor’s order?’ Poppy’s heart was sinking. Was everything to be muddled and horrid again?

  ‘I must have a visitor’s order before I can go into the prison. I expect Frank forget.’

  ‘Forgot,’ said Poppy. Since Poland, her mum’s English had definitely got worse.

  She thought of the sea. Cornwall had a very rocky coastline, Jude had told her. They’d leap off rocks into deep water. Not like Blackmore Bay where she’d had to walk for miles over the sand and then the water didn’t even reach up to her knees.

  ‘Yes,’ said her mum, ‘He hasn’t written yet, so I expect he’ll send the visitor’s order then.’ She turned back to the packing.

  Poppy could have asked, ‘Why hasn’t Dad written?’ But she didn’t. ‘I’m going to ring Jude,’ she said.

  ‘Do it on the landline. It’s more cheap.’

  ‘Cheaper.’

  ‘Cheaper,’ repeated Irena, sighing.

  Poppy and Jude had a thrilling chat about what they were going to do in Cornwall. Then she phoned Will and had a thrilling chat about meeting the publisher Ivy Underhill when she got back to London.

  My heart’s responded well,’ he told her. ‘So I’ll be back at school. Can’t decide if I’m pleased or sorry.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Thanks. Guess who I saw the other day?’

  ‘Angel,’ said Poppy.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your voice. Everybody uses a special voice when they talk about Angel.’

  ‘Not surprising, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘He had a policeman on either side of him.’

  ‘What!’ shrieked Poppy.

  ‘I think he’d been arrested.’

  ‘But he’s only eleven!,’ said Poppy.

  ‘I think he’d stolen something.’ Will went on, ‘At least, a man by a street stall was standing on the pavement telling the police something or other. It was on Portobello Road.’

  ‘Were you just sitting there staring?’ Poppy asked crossly, as if whatever had happened was his fault.

  ‘I was in the car waiting for my mum,’ said Will, defensively. ‘I didn’t want to watch.’

  ‘They can’t put a child in prison, anyway.’ Poppy sucked her fingers, then her hair, ‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ she added.

  ‘I know. I wasn’t going to tell you. I thought you’d be worried.’

  ‘I am,’ said Poppy. But at that moment she began to think of the car journey from London to the far West of England. They were going to stop at an adventure playground on the way. ‘I’m only gone for a week,’ she said. She pictured Angel on his bike when she’d last seen him, just before she left for Poland. So he was spending the holidays in London. Every day of them.

  The week in Cornwall was as different as could be from her holiday in Poland. Every minute Jude was there beside her; they shared a bedroom, shared clothes, shared games on their Nintendos, shared books, shared food, jumped into the water at the same time, scrambled out together, lay wrapped in towels on the same rocks, sheltered from the rain together. Watched the same TV programmes in the evening.

  Poppy supposed this was what it was like to have a sister, and Jude, who only had brothers, thought so too. The only time Poppy spent on her own was when she wrote up her diary. Let me have a look,’ Jude asked once.

  ‘It’s a secret diary.’ Poppy replied, although really, there was nothing secret in it. She never mentioned Big Frank, Angel, nor even Will. They could wait until she was back in London.

  The week in Cornwall passed quickly. Early on Friday evening Poppy was dropped back at her house.

  ‘See you at school!’ Jude shouted, and waved out of the car window as Irena opened the front door.

  ‘My darling! You look so very very well.’ Poppy’s mum alternated between hugging her so tight she could hardly breathe, and pushing her away so she could get a better look.

  ‘I’ve only been away a week,’ protested Poppy. But it was nice to be home. Her mum had made blinis, Polish pancakes filled with sour cream and blueberries and honey.

  With her mouth full, Poppy asked, ‘Any news?’ Then she regretted the question She was not sure she was ready for the answer.

  Irena looked down at her plate and didn’t answer immediately. Then she said quietly, ‘I had a letter from your dad. Two days ago.’

  Poppy’s heart did a little flip like a pancake in a pan. An image of her dad as he used to be, strong and loud, filled with warmth and good humour, brought quick tears to her eyes. She blinked them back firmly. ‘How is he?’ She too looked intently at her plate, as if it was more than the remains of a delicious pudding.

  ‘He is good.’ Irena spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. ‘His ducks and chickens are good too.’

  Poppy felt a hysterical need to laugh, which she managed to suppress.

  ‘He is helping other,’ she hesitated, ‘other prisoners. It is a special programme; he teaches them to read.’

  ‘But they’re grown-ups!’ exclaimed Poppy. ‘They must be able to read.’

  ‘Very surprising to me, like you. Frank says that some of the men are not educated.’

  ‘I could read when I was five,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Yes. You are a clever girl. So your dad is being a teacher. And also he says he is going to the gym.’

  ‘Dad in the gym!’

  ‘That is surprising to me too. Your dad always say exercise is for the unfit and he is fit and strong.’

  ‘What else did he write?’ asked Poppy. She knew from her mum’s manner that there was something not quite so good. It was a long letter, telling me many things. He even sees a priest on Sunday.’

  ‘A priest?’ exclaimed Poppy. Her dad had never been keen on church, saying that in Irish families, the women went to the church and the men went to the pub. He had come to her First Communion, though, and had given her a mother-of-pearl rosary he told her had belonged to his mother.

  ‘Also,’ Irena brightened, ‘he is singing. There is a choir. I don’t know properly. People come from outside. He has joined to please me, he said.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Poppy had heard the story of Big Frank’s beautiful singing voice often enough to know just how happy this piece of news would make her mum. ‘So are you,’ Poppy paused, ‘are we going to visit him soon?’

  A long silence followed this question. Poppy waited, frowning.

  ‘He say no.’ Irena mumbled, and bit her lip.

  Poppy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was all very well if she decided not to see her dad, but for him not to wan
t to see her, his only daughter, his only child, seemed extraordinary.

  ‘Just me?’ she said in a self- pitying voice.

  ‘No. Both you and me. He says it is too disturbing ‘to see us. He say he likes letters. He will write. He is sorry. He is very very sorry.’

  Poppy thought about this. She thought about their last visit to the island. Then she remembered how she and Will had talked about ‘The Rat Who Wanted to be Liked’ instead of how to help her dad escape. If he didn’t even want to see them, how could she get him off an island in the middle of nowhere?

  ‘So what does he want us to do?’ asked Poppy. ‘Does he want us to forget all about him?’ She knew this wasn’t a very friendly thing to say, but she couldn’t bear the idea of her mum going all miserable and murky again. What joy it had been swimming through the green sea waters in Cornwall! Everything had seemed so clean and clear.

  ‘Your dad loves us very much,’ said Irena. ‘That is why it is difficult for him. He just sees us for an hour or two and then we are gone. I am sorry too,’ she added. ‘I think partly he is sparing us pain.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Poppy tried to sound agreeable but she thought she would never call her dad ‘Big Frank’ again. ‘So do we just get on with our lives?’ She couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice.

  ‘He wants us to be happy,’ said Irena helplessly. ‘You are a young girl so I don’t tell you too much, but he is ashamed of what happens. He is a good man.’

  ‘Of course he’s a good man, because he’s innocent,’ said Poppy in a quiet voice.

  Irena frowned, then leant over to take away her plate. ‘Enough blinis?’ She turned round again, her voice falsely cheerful. ‘And this weekend we prepare for school. So much to be bought.’ She looked at Poppy hopefully. ‘And I have new students too. It seems parents have forgotten I have a husband in prison. Maybe they are mini Mozarts. We have much to keep us busy.’

  ‘Yes. We do,’ said Poppy, trying hard to be hopeful too. And actually, even if she did have an unloving dad in prison, she was looking forward to the new school term.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Poppy, Jude and Will walked together to school most mornings. They had to leave a littler earlier than usual to allow for Will’s slow pace, although he insisted he was fine. Jude’s mum said she’d drive them when it was too wet or cold.

  One morning, Will quietly asked Poppy, ‘Shall I tell Jude about Angel? About the police?’

  ‘Why not?’ Poppy frowned. Angel had been part of the Great Escape Plan, but that was all in the past. When she thought of her dad, she had an ugly, cross feeling. She listened as Will made Jude gasp with his description of Angel’s arrest.

  ‘A policeman holding both arms! How strong do they think he is?’ Jude sounded so outraged that Poppy felt ashamed of her own lukewarm response, even if she suspected that it reflected more Jude’s liking for drama than her liking for Angel.

  ‘I think we should check he’s OK,’ said Will. He’s not at school any more and we don’t know where he lives,’ pointed out Poppy.

  ‘His dad went back into prison, didn’t he?’ said Will thoughtfully.

  ‘You mean, we could catch him when he visits his dad?’ Poppy could see that might work. ‘On Saturdays. That’s when his family go.’ On the other hand, the thought of going anywhere near Her Majesty’s Prison Grisewood Slops again made her uneasy.

  Jude asked, ‘How is Big Frank?’

  Poppy frowned. The last thing she wanted was to explain that he’d stopped being Big Frank and had become a prisoner who looked after boring animals, taught very stupid men and sang, but didn’t want anything to do with his wife or daughter.

  Luckily, they arrived at the school gates.

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Poppy, and neither Jude nor Will said another word.

  It was a couple of weeks before they could all get together on a Saturday to visit Grisewood Slops. At the sight of the prison, Poppy began to shake. It made her realise just how much she’d hated going to visit her dad. He might be doing her a favour by not allowing visits to HMP Castlerock.

  ‘I’ll stay this side of the road,’ she said. It was drizzling and they all had their hoods up.

  ‘Do you remember when the white van with your dad inside nearly ran us over?’ asked Jude.

  ‘The sweat box,’ said Poppy. But she didn’t want to remember.

  ‘And I was still in hospital,’ added Will, ‘waiting for your dad to arrive.’

  ‘Drop it, can’t you,’ said Poppy.

  At last the visitors began to pour out of the prison gates, putting coats on and umbrellas up. They wore the look of relief that Poppy recognised from her own visits. Rain, hail or storm – anything was better than being locked up behind high walls.

  ‘There he is!’ shouted Will, who’d already crossed the road. Poppy and Jude followed quickly.

  Angel saw them at the last moment. He was carrying Gabriel.

  ‘Hey,’ said Angel.

  ‘Bye!’ shouted Gabriel, bending his chubby fingers.

  ‘He can talk!’ exclaimed Poppy.

  ‘Bye. Bye. Bye.’ shouted Gabriel proudly. Hi,’ said Angel’s mum. ‘Your dad OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Poppy. ‘Guess what? He’s singing.’

  Angel looked impressed. ‘Hey, that’s great, man.’

  ‘How are you?’ asked Jude, who was always direct when she wanted to know something. ‘We heard—’

  ‘Ssshh,’ said Will.

  Angel shifted from foot to foot, then frowned. Gabriel, who had stopped saying ‘Bye,’ frowned too. Poppy thought how alike they looked.

  ‘Catch up with you outside school, shall I? Your school. I’ve left it.’

  And they had to be content with that because he hurried off after his mum and Seraphina.

  It was another week before Angel appeared again. Poppy spotted him lurking in a side road near the school. Jude and Will came out of the gate and followed her.

  ‘So, hey.’ Angel had a bicycle with him, not flashy and rather battered.

  ‘Will saw you being arrested,’ said Jude immediately.

  Angel shrugged. ‘Oh, that. I was nicked, wasn’t I.’ He looked over his shoulder as if keeping a lookout for something.

  ‘We’re not going to stand on the street, are we?’ Poppy felt embarrassed to be seen talking to him. ‘It’s cold,’ she added hastily.

  ‘We can’t go to my house,’ said Jude. ‘My mum’s there.’

  ‘My mum’s home too,’ said Will awkwardly.

  Poppy thought, neither of them want Angel in their house. He’s too street for them.

  ‘You can come to me,’ she said. ‘My mum will be back later. She won’t mind.’ In fact, her mum probably would mind, but she’d just have to accept Angel. He was a friend.

  They walked in a group. Will and Jude told their mums they were going to Poppy’s, and didn’t tell them Irena was out – and certainly didn’t tell them Angel was coming along.

  It was odd sitting round the kitchen table, the four of them, like a meeting. Poppy got them juice and the remainder of the biscuits they’d brought back from Poland.

  Jude and Will pronounced them delicious, but Angel looked at them with horror.

  ‘Not my sort of thing,’ he muttered. ‘No offence.’ None taken.’ Poppy gave him a digestive instead. She thought she was doing well as a hostess.

  ‘So, you got nicked?’ said Jude, who’d been waiting for this moment.

  ‘What’s this? An interrogation? Had enough of that with the feds – police to you.’ Angel pushed his chair back as if he might leave.

  ‘Shut up, Jude,’ said Will. He turned to Angel. ‘We’re your friends, aren’t we?’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Angel seemed unconvinced.

  ‘I did see you with the police – feds. I expect they picked on you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Angel but Poppy suspected there was a lot of ‘No’ or ‘Not really’ in his reply.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Will.

&
nbsp; ‘Yeah. Well, they picked on me because I’d nicked a couple of CDs from that stall in Portobello. Everyone does it. They’re nicked in the first place. Like a chain of ownership. Recycling by another name, isn’t it. Back of the lorry, the Bello and yours truly.’

  There was a pause. Angel ate his biscuit with a self-righteous expression on his face.

  ‘But the police grabbed you anyway,’ said Poppy tentatively.

  ‘It’s their job, isn’t it. Stupid stallholder called the

  ‘station, didn’t he, and there was two feds coming right up the road.’ He took another biscuit from the packet. ‘It hasn’t worked out so bad. They’ve sent me to this special school in the Bush. One-to-one teaching a lot of the time. First time anyone’s cared. You should hear me read.’

  Poppy, Jude and Will tried not to look at each other. They’d all been able to read for years and they were younger than Angel.

  ‘I’m writing, too,’ added Angel. ‘Hey, did you ever finish that rat story? Seraphina still asks for it. ‘’Rat! Rat! Want Rat!”’

  This was a relief. Now they could tell him about the publication and their visit to Ivy Underhill arranged for a fortnight’s time. Poppy had found a copy of the story and read it aloud – and this was how Irena found them when she returned.

  They all stood up guiltily – had they really finished all the biscuits – both sorts? Irena stared in surprise. She turned to Poppy.

  ‘I thought you were going to Jude’s?’

  ‘I was.’ Poppy faced her mum determinedly. ‘Then we bumped into Angel, so we came here.’ She paused. ‘You remember Angel? My friend from the prison.’

  Irena frowned, then seemed to make up her mind. She even managed a smile. ‘Hi, Angel. Family OK?’

  ‘Not so bad.’

  Irena turned to the stove and said in a slightly unnatural voice, ‘Now, how about some good Polish soup?’

  But everyone had to go, mumbling about homework and mums. At the door, Angel was pulling out his bike from the corridor, when he turned to Poppy. ‘Know your dad’s singing and all that, but if you need any help, whatever, you know, my dad’s got connections right through the estate.’