Poppy Day (4 page)

Poppy shook her head, no on both counts. She remained at a right angle, trying to free strands of hair that were glued to her face with vomit. There was only one person she wanted and he was missing, probably dead, in some dusty landscape on the other side of the world. ‘I don’t even know what he is doing out there. It’s so far away.’ She addressed the black and white
chequered
lino. The sergeant ran her a glass of cold water and steered her back to the safety of the sofa.

Major Anthony Helm sat awkwardly, rearranging his hands again and again until they were comfortable. He looked like an unwanted guest that knew as much.

‘So, what happens now?’ Poppy prompted.

‘We’ll assign you an information point of contact that will be in regular touch, keeping you up to date with any
developments
, no matter how small.’

‘Can it be Sergeant Gisby?’ she interrupted him; once again throwing his rehearsed rhetoric into touch.

‘Well, I don’t see why not.’

Sergeant Gisby looked at her. He had one of those bushy moustaches that looked like it must be irritating. She decided that the letters ‘R’ and ‘W’ were the most likely to tickle.

‘Please call me Rob. I’d be happy to keep you informed with any news.’

Poppy counted two tickles.

‘Mrs Cricket, we are here to help you in any way that we can. I only wish that our meeting was under different circumstances.’

She smiled at his comment and thought that if circumstances were different, they would not be meeting in a million years. Their worlds would not have overlapped were it not for this bloody awful situation, and if he had known anything about her he wouldn’t be calling her Mrs Cricket. ‘Thank you. Please call me Poppy. Mrs Cricket always makes me think of Martin’s mother and she’s a right old cow.’

He nodded, not sure how to respond. Logistics and support were discussed before the military men left quietly and quickly.

Rob Gisby drove as the major sat in quiet contemplation on the back seat. Rob figured he was feeling as sad for Poppy’s situation as he was. Anthony was preoccupied with Poppy; her lack of ambition and seeming acceptance of her humble
circumstances
were beyond his comprehension. He wondered if her acceptance was down to low intellect. Thank God he wasn’t similarly afflicted or he might still be living under his mam’s roof. The thought made him shudder. He ran his fingers over the shiny buttons of his tunic, tangible proof that he was an officer, a fact that still delighted and amazed him. Anthony carried with him a furtive air as if at any moment he might get found out. ‘Fortitude Fortunately Forgives’; he mentally
practised
the sounds that helped eradicate the Geordie accent, banishing it to another time, a different person.

Anthony Helm was wrong. Poppy’s expectations
were
small, her horizon within reach and her world navigable by foot; a mere eight hundred metres from her front door in any
direction
. But she was clever. Not Mensa, PhD, rocket science genius, but more able than most and smart enough to know what made people tick.

Poppy left school when she was sixteen as realisation dawned that staying on to get qualifications was pointless for someone like her. The standard question was, ‘If she’s so clever, how come she didn’t go to university and gather an armful of degrees to see her on her merry way?’ There was a single response she gave to the teachers, heads of year and careers advisers that she sat in front of on more than one occasion, ‘There’s absolutely no point!’

They sighed on cue, tapped the rubber-stoppered ends of pencils on their clipboards and looked at her with vexed
expressions
, imploring her to recognise that they knew better, if not best. She stood her ground because actually they did not know what was best for Poppy Day. She did.

Poppy’s role in life was to make sure that no one fell out of the net that kept her strange little family snug and safe.

This, she could never have made the academic hierarchy understand. The simple fact that had she gone off to university, there wouldn’t have been anyone to collect Dorothea’s many and varied prescriptions. No one to make sure she took the daily drugs that stopped her wandering off down the High Street with her knickers on her head. No one to keep the fridge stocked with food and pay the bills. On and on the list went. The demands and responsibilities were endless; Poppy was needed at home several times a day.

Of course the standard argument was ‘If she went off and got qualified, think medicine or the law, she could then secure a wonderful future for herself and her family.’ This was
probably
true, but still failed to answer Poppy’s question of who was going to wash her nan’s soiled bed linen, sober her mum up enough to collect her benefit and lock the door every night while she was off securing their future? Poppy was smart enough to know that this was her life and there was naff all she could do about it.

Her sunny disposition meant she wasn’t bitter. She did
sometimes
think about a life with a different kind of luck. A life that had seen her born into a circumstance that allowed her the freedom to study and become whatever she wanted! This was not bitterness; try to find one person on the planet who doesn’t also ponder some aspect of their life, a different choice, a
different
person, a different career that might have kept their husband safe from harm…

Poppy pulled her knees up under her chin and sat back on the sofa, feeling surprisingly numb. She had expected hysteria or at the very least anger. What she couldn’t have predicted was the anaesthesia that now gripped her. She rubbed the back of her wedding ring with the thumb of the same hand and found herself repeating his name, ‘Mart… Mart…’ She tried to invoke his image with the self-soothing mantra. The room was once again silent, as if the soldiers had never been there.

Is that what it would be like now for Martin? As if he had never been there at all? The flat was now quiet and empty, without the telly on for background noise and without the two men that had filled the small space only a few minutes before. It had been four years since the space had been home to a family; a rather unconventional one, but a family nonetheless. Death and desertion had seen the group eroded, leading up to that moment, when it was just Poppy, alone.

Her mum, Cheryl, had never been cruel, intentionally neglectful or deliberately spiteful. Similarly, she had never been affectionate or proud of her little girl. Never glad to see her or interested to know about her day. Never shared an event with her, told her a secret or cleared her clothes from the end of the sofa so that her child could sit down. Never brushed her daughter’s hair if it was ratty or trimmed her nails so she wouldn’t have to bite them. Whether Poppy was fed or not, whether she was in bed asleep or sitting alongside her mother on the settee at eleven o’clock on a school night with no clean uniform, none of these were important to Cheryl, so they had to be important to Poppy.

Wally, her grandad, was a professional snoozer. His dozing form fascinated Poppy; she wondered what the point of Wally was. He slept all night in his bed and all day in his chair. His skinny frame permanently concertinaed into a snoring ‘z’ shape, a human onomatopoeia. His slumber took precedence over all other household activity; he sat like a queen bee whose activity and lifestyle is supported by all those around her. Wally held court over his kingdom of Somnolence. In this dreary realm, many restrictions were put in place to curb the behaviour of a growing, inquisitive girl: ‘Keep the noise down, Poppy Day, your grandad is sleeping’; or ‘Turn your music off, Poppy Day, your grandad is sleeping’; or ‘Stop hitting the floor with that bloody yo-yo, your grandad is…’

‘Yeah, yeah I know… he’s sleeping!’

Wally’s death was a strange non-event in Poppy’s life; the most memorable consequence being that there was now an empty chair with an indent of his dead arse in it. She felt no sadness at his passing; figuring that Wally must be delighted to be permanently turning up his toes in readiness for the ultimate snooze…

The main difference for Poppy was that now when her mum or nan wanted her to be quiet they said, ‘Turn that bloody racket off, Poppy Day,’ or ‘Keep quiet, Poppy Day!’ In her head she heard, ‘… your grandad is sleeping’ and had to fight the urge to shout out really loudly, ‘Yes! I know he is sleeping, but my yo-yo banging sure as hell isn’t going to wake him up now!’

Poppy’s nan, Dorothea, had always been slightly nuts. She watched the tumble dryer instead of the telly, and made jelly with peas in it instead of fruit because it looked nicer; as opposed to now when she was completely crazy, proper
full-blown
bonkers.

Poppy lived with her mum and Nan in the flat until her mum went off to the Canaries with her latest beau. There was no discussion concerning the new domestic arrangements, largely because Cheryl made the decision, packed her bags and was Heathrow-bound within a twenty-four-hour period. It was assumed by all that Poppy would continue in her unofficial role as Dorothea’s nursemaid, jailor and confidante. If anything, her life was easier without her mum’s drunken presence and the procession of wastrels that followed in her unsteady wake.

Dorothea and Poppy plodded along amicably until the old lady’s mental health deteriorated and her behaviour became increasingly odd. Poppy came home one lunchtime to find her sitting on the loo, wearing nearly all of her clothing including coats, hats, scarves and gloves, clutching a rolling pin as a weapon.

‘The bloke in the flat upstairs has been crawling through a hole in the ceiling and trying to turn our water off, the bastard!’

Poppy tried to hide her disbelief. ‘Who, Nan, Mr Bennett? The eighty-four-year-old with the double hip replacement and the Zimmer frame?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Let me get this straight. He’s been crawling through a hole in the ceiling and scurrying around the flat while we sleep, trying to turn our water off?’ she needed clarification.

‘Yes, Poppy Day, did you not hear me the first time, girl?’

‘I heard you, Nan, and I understood, but what I don’t get is why are you sat in the loo wearing all your clothes?’

Dorothea looked at Poppy, shaking her head slightly as if it was her granddaughter without full understanding. She bent forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m guarding the stopcock.’ She winked at Poppy, who smiled in response.

Her nan quickly went from being slightly unsettled to quite frightened; at this point, Poppy found it hard to cope. As her nan’s primary carer, it was tough. If Poppy was on top of things, she would find her nan’s little adventures or wanderings funny; but when tired, finding Dorothea at three in the morning sitting in the kitchen, with a full packet of flour, a jar of coffee and three pints of milk tipped into a slippery heap on the floor as she ‘made the Christmas cake’ was very wearing. Especially when it was June, far too early to be thinking about bloody Christmas.

Poppy could have managed her nan’s decline were it just about her own ability to cope, but it wasn’t, it was about what was best for Dorothea as well. She needed to be somewhere that she could be watched and supported twenty-four hours a day.

Poppy came home from work one wintery evening to find her sitting in the dark crying and bewildered. She had no way of knowing if Dorothea had been in this state of distress for ten hours or ten minutes; it was a moment of realisation. Not that it made what came next any easier; it was the toughest decision of Poppy’s life, at that point.

She and Martin found the home after weeks of trawling through brochures and trudging the streets. Some were rejected on price, others on location and one before the front door had even been opened, after hearing expletives bellowed from within.

Poppy considered the major’s words and thought that she should cry. She tried pushing some tears out, but none came. For some reason this made her giggle; she pictured someone watching her and saying, ‘What
are
you doing, Poppy? Why are you sat there with your eyes screwed shut, digging your nails into your palms?’

‘I’m trying to push some tears out. I thought it might make me feel better because I feel a little bit guilty that I haven’t cried yet, despite those two soldiers watching and expecting me to whilst secretly hoping that I wouldn’t, especially Major Tony Thingy. It’s as if I have read about this story in the paper or seen it on the news. It feels like someone else’s life, not mine, not real. Where are those darn tears when you need ’em?’

She was sure that whoever she delivered this monologue to would probably shake their head in a kind of ‘she has finally lost the plot, just like her grandma’ way.

I
T
WAS A
big day for Martin Cricket. He had been chosen as part of a select task force supporting the Americans on an
all-day
sortie. It was not without a certain amount of trepidation that he acknowledged the order. Apart from being on patrol, the plan was a bit sketchy. He had no option other than to trust in the powers that be. Martin was used to this, the abdication of choice, a life of submission and capitulation; it was the nature of his work as a soldier.

Despite his level of fitness, his joints groaned in
remonstration
. The two stone of body armour and equipment that he donned each and every morning didn’t get any lighter as the tour wore on. It was early in the day, yet the heat was intense and not the pleasurable warmth of a sun-soaked holiday; more akin to being foil wrapped and placed on the top shelf of an oven. He and his colleague, Aaron, prepared to climb up into the second Jackal; a high-mobility, cross-country vehicle, not exactly comfortable, but no one minded so much about comfort as long as they were safe.

Aaron stood aside. ‘After you, short arse.’ He waited for his friend to scramble aboard. At five foot seven, Martin was at least six inches shorter than his mate; a constant source of amusement to both them and their unit.

‘Mate, a short arse I might be, but it’s not my head that’ll be stuck above the parapet like a sitting duck when we get out there.’

Martin indicated towards the open-backed truck and the desert with his thumb. Twelve soldiers were to travel in three vehicles. Any more than four in each car would make
movement
en route difficult, as the bulk of their kit took up the space of two men. Any fewer than four and a feeling of vulnerability would kick in, which was never good.

The Jackal drove for two hours from the base. The lead vehicle, at least a hundred metres in front, kicked up a trail of dust as it ventured into the sandy abyss. Gone was the easy banter of the first half an hour. Once the camp was out of sight their mood became sombre. The ribbing died down and the inane chatter was replaced by silence. The men were
contemplative
, each concentrating on his defined role; an arc to watch, gun ready, senses alert. Martin jerked in the direction of every flash of light or quick movement. They were exposed, each trying not to think of the probability. ‘Improvised explosive device’ and ‘sniper fire’ were words that tripped off the tongue with alarming ease, only out here they were not mere phrases, they were possibilities.

At that time in the Afghan conflict, over the course of a
six-month
tour, the numbers of dead and injured were higher than anyone could have anticipated. The deaths of soldiers were so frequent that the public were suffering from compassion fatigue, unable to mourn yet another name on an ever-growing list. The odds for all deployed military personnel were terrible; more than odds, they were faces etched in their minds, names engraved in stone and the flag-draped coffins paraded through a silent Wiltshire town.

Martin’s SA80 rifle felt hot and heavy, slipping against his sweaty palm. Nervous energy was palpable, partly because they were with the Americans whose approach and methods were so different to the British. Martin was able to witness what an abundance of resource and equipment meant in terms of strategy. Their allies could do what they considered most effective in theatre, untethered by the constraints laid down by parsimonious politicians. It gave them confidence that some might have seen as cockiness, complacency almost, but was in fact the right level of conviction and tenacity to get the job done.

The collective jitters were justified; the convoy was headed into dangerous territory, bandit country. Previous contact and activity meant Martin could feel the imaginary, yet intense, gaze of a thousand pairs of hidden eyes; each belonging to the
nameless
owner of a ready weapon, a Kalashnikov with its muzzle trained on him. Bravado was easy within the compound walls, but out there in the mountains it was different. He wanted the operation to be over as soon as possible, back for tea and a shower. Some of the lads had been talking about organising a game of five-a-side. Martin tried to think of that more than anything, wondering if he’d get lumbered in goal again.

The landscape was barren, remote villages surrounded by mountains and a smattering of scrubby shrubs. These
settlements
to the untrained eye were desolate and abandoned. Martin studied the ramshackle buildings, each with a
shimmering
heat halo. He was intrigued by the flutter of coloured silk beyond the dun-coloured bricks, the floating wicker baskets that rested on heads and the furry legs of dogs that disappeared around corners. He mulled private thoughts. For him to be comfortable at home meant the TV, clothes, central heating, a decent fry-up, the pub and a day trip to Southend. These
villagers
existed with a single cooking pot, one outfit that hung by threads and a roof of some description for shelter. There was no sanitation, no electricity and no comfort. It was a harsh
environment
and one that Martin, covering the desert in his bouncing armoured cage, could not imagine living in.

It would be difficult to piece together exactly what happened in the next hour and in what order. Every man present would give you a different perspective of events.

The leading American vehicle slammed its brakes on, coming abruptly to a halt; the brake discs squeaked against the pads in rebellion. Martin was instantly aware of shouting, more
specifically
, shouts in English and Arabic of some sort, possibly Pashto. The stop was unscheduled and unplanned, which meant either some minor interaction with the locals or big trouble. His pulse quickened and his heart beat loudly in his ears just the same. The shouting was getting boisterous. Martin and Aaron looked at each other and without saying a word they unbuckled their seat belts and jumped out of the Jackal.

At least fifteen men surrounded the lead vehicle. The same number again rushed forward, swarming around Martin and the others. He didn’t see where they came from. His eyes darted from man to man, trying to assess the situation, hostile or neutral? Friend or foe? His training told him that he had a few seconds to decide whether it was a handshake or bullet that awaited him. The group wore clothes spattered with mud and food; gaping sleeves had been worn shiny through age and lack of detergent. They were dressed the same, with identical
straggly
beards that hung beneath tightly wrapped shemaghs. They were a variety of ages and statures, but all bore the same
desperate
, bloodshot eyes. It was impossible to ascertain their motive. Martin saw at least one child among the group, boy or girl he couldn’t tell, but enough of a distraction to cause his trigger finger to recoil in hesitation. Sweat trickled into his eyes; he didn’t have a free hand to remove the irritation.

The Afghanis kept their faces covered, surging forward; some with outstretched hands, others with fists clenched. Coiled around what? Grenade or gift? Martin tried to read the intention as the crowd breached the gap between them. A
statuesque
American, with chiselled jaw, flat-topped, cropped hair and visibly chewing gum, pulled a pistol from the holster strapped to his thigh and raised it above his head. Martin waited to hear the warning shot. Instead, the American brought his arm swiftly down and smashed it across the nose of a man standing within striking range. ‘Back off! Back off now!’ he barked his instruction to the throng.

Martin watched the man stagger backwards into the arms of his countrymen. Blood snaked towards his mouth from a nose that was smashed, flattened. Martin, as ever, had one eye on the underdog. Here it was the unarmed, but not so long ago it was a little girl in the playground called Poppy Day, who wanted to disappear into her shoes.

‘Hey, pal! Go easy!’

The American’s colleague flashed Martin a look that told him to keep his mouth shut, this was not his patrol and he was a guest.

He sidled closer to Martin, whispering through a mouth twisted sideways, his eyes on the crowd, ‘Listen up, rookie, when you’ve seen what he’s seen and done what he’s done then you have a right to comment, until then zip it!’

The crowd held their rigid stance, staring wide-eyed with adrenalin pumping, rocking on heels, arms stiff, jaws locked, ready to go. It was the same posture witnessed in the wee small hours on any Saturday night, at any taxi rank, in any British city. There was a moment of stillness before the outbreak of pandemonium. Guns appeared from beneath garments,
transforming
the crowd of locals into soldiers with a desire to fight that shone from unflinching eyes. Martin smelt the sharp tang of sweat emanating from the group. They were unpredictable and close.

‘Oh shit.’

This was the last thing he would hear Aaron say.

The mob around both cars pitched forward, shouting louder, some screaming. It was impossible to figure out what was going on with so much noise and movement.

Suddenly, there were gunshots; both the rapid fire of the insurgents and the single aimed shots of allied guns. The
deafening
crack of gunfire filled the air. Martin couldn’t gauge which weapons the shots were coming from. It would be nice to say that every combatant knew what to do; comforting for the relatives of those affected to believe the level of training and battle competence meant the soldiers knew how to keep
themselves
safe when it mattered. It would be nice to say, but it wouldn’t be the truth. No amount of training or textbook theory could have prepared Martin for that single moment of madness. In the movies, individuals fall into place with planned perfection, but it wasn’t like that at all.

Whenever Martin felt frightened, he was sure that he shrunk to the size of his six-year-old self. This was one of those times; his helmet felt large, his chin strap loose and his jacket
voluminous
. The movement of so many feet and some vehicles caused clouds of dust to billow in every direction. The team lost its bearings. In the midst of the mêlée, they didn’t know which way was up. Martin didn’t have time to fire, he couldn’t think clearly. The faces of the insurgents were contorted with hatred, lips curled, teeth bared. He stared at the crowd, each one a stock representation of a baddie.

Martin looked to his right; less than thirty feet away, two of the bearded men held Aaron by his arms, which were bent up behind his back. One of his captors was tall; one short. Martin registered the parallel. Aaron was silent. Martin shouted at Jonesy, who was twenty feet to his left, ‘Over here!’ His voice quavered. He had been separated from the group; instinct told him that they were coming for him next. He felt his colon spasm and fought to control his bowels.

There was renewed shouting; this time with an identifiable tone of panic, both in English and Pashto. Individuals tried shouting louder than the next man, presumably firing off instructions to their own men. The words, however, were lost, swallowed up in the fray. There was yet more gunfire. An unseen fist punched Martin full in the stomach, winding him. He tried to draw breath, to speak; he wanted to tell the owner of the unseen fist that they had hurt him. Martin forgot he was in the guise of a soldier and believed that he’d been struck in error. Why would anyone want to cause
him
pain? What was any of this to do with him? In a more rational moment, he would have fully understood what his uniform represented.

He dropped to his knees, eyes watering. Terror and pain fought for space inside his head. His breath began to return in shallow pants. Foreign hands yanked roughly at his chin strap until his helmet crashed to the floor. Something was placed on the top of his head; at the same time his wrists were secured behind his back with a plastic cable tie. A second before they pulled the cover over his head and secured that too with a length of plastic, he looked up and could see Aaron; all else was blurred, but his friend was clear and sharp.

Martin tried to call to him, but no words came. Aaron too was on his knees; the short captor held him fast by the arms. Martin thought about Aaron’s son, Joel, and a picture that he had drawn his daddy, received in the post only hours earlier. As Martin considered the child, the other, taller one, who was holding Aaron’s hair, pulled out a knife and cut his throat…

Martin’s senses refused to acknowledge that he had just seen his friend murdered; killed without preamble or ceremony, without consideration.

Martin heard angry bursts of instruction issued in a foreign tongue. Hands gripped him under the arms as he was dragged ten feet across the floor. Still bound and hooded, he was thrown against the wheel of a car. He heard a spring groan as the tailgate opened. His breath became low, panicky gulps; he did not want to be put into the boot of a car. Would there be any oxygen? How could he possibly escape?

His carriage was an old saloon; he had noted as much before being hooded. His amateur-mechanic eyes had glimpsed the white paintwork, flecked with rust around the wheel arches and doors. At least two pairs of hands hauled him upwards, grappling with his ankles and shoulders. He bucked, trying to struggle free, but something heavy landed right in his balls,
possibly
the butt of a gun. He yelled; tried shouting to Jonesy again for help, his desperate sounds muted by the cloth covering over his head.

As a teenager he’d travel in his mate’s dad’s car of similar make and model. Three sports bags would fill the boot, the space that he now occupied. Despite his overwhelming fear, he felt indignant at having been bundled into the boot of a car. It was a strange combination of distress and anger. One second he felt like crying; the next he flailed his legs within the confined space, a physical manifestation of his fury. He understood that was the moment he stopped being a person to his captors. The boot isn’t for people; it’s for bringing the shopping home after a trip to the supermarket, rubbish going to the tip and bags of football kit when teenage boys are playing away.