Poppy Day (7 page)

‘It’s probably money though, right? Or if he is a bargaining chip, as you say, then maybe they want to exchange him for some of their prisoners.’ Poppy was trying to think of all the possibilities, knowing that this would be where the answer lay; she was already thinking of a solution, there had to be
something
that could be done.

Rob smiled at her again and was glad that she was thinking along the right lines. ‘That’s probably about the sum of it, yes, Poppy.’

She felt exhausted, but needed to keep alert, needed to know more. ‘And do you know where they are holding him, Rob?’

He shook his head. ‘We don’t. It is very likely that he is still in the region where he was taken, as moving him around would be deemed too risky.’

‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Can’t we just send in those Special Forces blokes or Ross Kemp or whatever and get him back?’ Poppy’s fatigue allowed her to fuse the fiction with the reality. She regretted sounding naive, young.

‘It’s not that simple. The region where Martin was taken is mountainous and dangerous, even without the possible threat from ZMO supporters.’

‘I can’t believe people actually support them when they do such bloody horrible things.’

‘It’s hard for us to understand, but the people that live there are so poor, they have nothing. The ZMO looks after them in exchange for loyalty and help; it’s a system that works. Even if we could get close enough to take him, he might be moved or sold on quicker than we could get to him. It’s better that neither of those things happen.’

‘Better why?’

He didn’t answer.

Poppy accepted his silence, trusting him enough to assume if he thought it better that she didn’t know, then maybe it was. ‘I don’t know what I should be doing, Rob. It’s like I’m in a horrible dream and I wish I’d wake up.’

‘I know it’s easy to say, Poppy, but try not to worry.’

She smiled; yes, it was easy to say…

‘Poppy, I don’t think that you should be here alone. Is there someone that you can call? I’m happy to wait with you until they arrive.’ He was insistent.

It was her turn to shake her head. ‘There’s no one, but I am going to visit my nan now, so I won’t be alone.’

Rob visibly brightened. She didn’t spoil the illusion, but rather let him picture her sitting in front of her nan’s fire, being fed fruitcake from a doily-laden plate, while the two drank tea from dainty, floral china cups. The reality was Poppy changing her nan’s pants for the umpteenth time that day and helping to brush her dentures, while her nan rummaged in her knitting bag for stray mints and plucked at invisible lint on her cardigan.

The residential home for the elderly was called The Poplars, which Dorothea pronounced ‘The Populars’ and which quickly became known as ‘The Unpopulars’ as she hated it there, or so she said. Poppy’s not so sure. It was owned and run by Mr Veerswamy and his family, at least twenty members of which Poppy has met over the last few years. Mr Veerswamy called her nan ‘Dorothy’, which drove her crazy, no pun intended. In her current state it was curious, the stuff that bothered her, the moments of lucidity and the things that slipped from her
loosening
grasp on reality.

The old lady, in whatever state the day might find her, always, always knew Poppy; she knew that she loved this gift of a
granddaughter
and that her love was reciprocated. For this, Poppy was entirely grateful. Dorothea also had a strange, misguided belief. This was one of those bits of information that to anyone outside their immediate circle sounded bizarre, humorous even, but wasn’t at all strange to Poppy. This was either because she was used to it or she too was one currant short of a bun. Either way, Poppy’s nan, Dorothea Day, was utterly and totally
convinced
that her daughter was Joan Collins. Poppy didn’t know when this belief first manifested itself or where it came from. The fact was, she told anyone who would listen how tough it was bringing up a wilful character like her Joan. As far as Poppy could tell, the only connection between Joan Collins and her mother was that they had both played The Bitch.

Dorothea was also convinced that Mr Veerswamy and his entire retinue were trying to poison her. Despite this ingrained belief, she polished off the food they presented her with each mealtime, ending with ‘Ha! You didn’t get me this time!’ Often followed by, ‘Any more of that apple pie going spare?’

She was also in love. Nathan, the object of her affection, was the nineteen-year-old gay nursing assistant, who tended to her every need. She told him every day, several times a day, ‘… such a good boy, you need a nice girlfriend.’ To which he replied, several times a day, ‘I don’t need a girlfriend, Dorothea. I’ve got you.’ But she didn’t remember.

Poppy visited her nan daily without fail. It was the highlight of the day for both of them. If Nathan was around, Dorothea would introduce them, ‘Nathan, this is my Poppy Day.’

Nathan would shake her hand and say, ‘I am pleased to meet you, Poppy Day’ even though it’s probably the millionth time that they had met.

She would then say, on cue, ‘Poppy Day, I want to leave Nathan something in my will. Can you sort it out for me?’

‘Certainly, Nan. What would you like to leave him?’

To which she would reply, ‘I think about a million pounds.’

‘Consider it done.’

Nathan would smile, thinking for one second about what he could do with that million pounds.

They both knew the reality. Her total wealth sat somewhere between four and sixty-eight pounds, depending on what she had in her purse, and the few sentimental possessions that were scattered around her room.

Rob left, telling Poppy that he would be in touch in the morning. She walked along the road to The Unpopulars, finding it difficult to think about the situation. Unable to picture Martin, where he was or what had happened to him. She thought about normal things, like whether her nan might need anything, wondering if the fridge needed defrosting, anything to fill her thoughts.

She rang the doorbell, to be greeted by Nathan.

‘Hello, gorgeous.’

‘Hello yourself. How’s Dorothea?’

‘Oh, Poppy Day, she has been a complete nightmare today! Threw her breakfast across the room first thing, by eleven a.m. we had a dirty protest and after lunch she tried to bite Mrs Hardwick on the arm.’ Poppy loved Nathan, the way that he made even the most awful day sound almost funny. Almost.

‘Is Mrs Hardwick all right?’ She was used to having to apologise or mop up for her nan, the Reggie Kray of the house.

‘Yes, she is fine. I gave her an extra custard cream with her cuppa tonight to soothe away any angst over the whole sordid incident.’

‘Thanks, Nath.’

‘You are welcome, Poppy Day.’ He had picked up Dorothea’s habit of calling her by both Christian and surname. ‘You look shattered, honey, tough day at the office?’

‘Mmmnn, something like that.’

Poppy made her way along the corridor to her nan’s room. She scanned the TV lounge, which was crowded as usual. Fourteen mismatched, high-backed chairs in various floral and vinyl finishes formed a U-shape around the perimeter; these seats the bequest of residents long dispatched. The pea-
soup-coloured
walls absorbed the fetid, foul breath of the decaying occupants. The linoleum floor caught drips from lax muscles, splashes of tea from shaky hands and tears shed at memories that refused to budge. The room and the people in it were fused into an amorphous mass of decrepitude. Even when empty, the ghosts and scents of the dead and not yet dead tangibly
lingered
. The residents of The Unpopulars had similar backgrounds; native East Enders that had witnessed the Blitz, all of whom had been around long enough to see their lives and landscapes transformed beyond recognition. They were
strangers
bound by common ancestry and the shared choice of their final postcode; the last place they would call home.

Poppy watched Nathan tuck a blanket around the legs of an ancient woman, whose tiny, birdlike frame he lifted with ease. The woman reached up with knobbly fingers and touched the keys that hung from his belt. ‘Keys,’ she offered.

‘Yes, my house and office keys, oh and a car key, bit of a jailer’s bunch!’ He tried to lighten the mood with a touch of joviality.

‘I don’t have keys any more.’ She looked at him through a long grey fringe, a curtain from behind which she could study the strange world and simultaneously hide. Nathan stared; he didn’t know what to say to make it better. She was right; of course, no keys meant no property, no vehicle, no belonging and no freedom. A bit like Mart.

Dorothea was, as usual, sitting in her little room, in front of the TV with the volume and heating both turned a little too high for comfort. She was obsessed with cookery programmes; any format, any recipe, at any time of the day or night. This, despite the fact that she had never made any effort in her own kitchen, other than the occasional roast dinner on a Sunday and the ready supply of bacon sandwiches that kept Wally the miserable sleeper from starvation. A chef with a booming voice was giving explicit instructions on how to stuff and roast a loin of lamb. Poppy bent low and kissed her forehead.

‘Ah, Poppy Day!’

‘Hello, Nan. How are you tonight?’

‘They are trying to poison me. I had shepherd’s pie tonight and it smelt very funny!’

‘Did you manage to eat it?’

‘Yes I did, in fact, I had two portions. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of watching me starve. I am not afraid of their poison!’ She turned her head to shout the last few words in the direction of the corridor.

‘Quite right too, Nan. Apart from your near death by
poisoning
experience, anything else happen today?’

‘Now you come to mention it, yes, I’ve had a terrible day. That Mrs Hardwick’s been causing trouble again.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Was it on the news?’

‘Yes it was; it was the headline:
That Mrs Hardwick causes trouble again
!’

‘Well I’m not surprised, she is a right cow. Ah, Poppy Day, there is someone that I would like you to meet!’

Nathan stepped into the room.

‘Nathan, this is Poppy Day, my granddaughter. Poppy Day, this is Nathan.’

Nathan shook her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Poppy Day.’

‘I want to leave Nathan something in my will. Can you sort it out for me?’

Poppy and Nathan recited their lines until Dorothea was content…

‘What did you do today, Poppy Day?’

‘I had some bad news actually, Nan.’

‘Oh no! It’s not Wally, is it?’ Dorothea’s breath came in short bursts as she clutched at the front of her cardigan, her anxiety evident.

Poppy placed her hand on her nan’s knee and thought of Wally, who had died well over a decade ago, and wondered what could have happened to him that would be so bad now? Maybe he had given a worm acute indigestion. ‘No, Nan, don’t worry, it’s OK, it’s not Wally.’

The old lady’s fingers unfurled. ‘Did I tell you about that Mrs Hardwick? She’s been causing trouble again.’

‘No, you didn’t mention it. Mrs Hardwick, you say?’

‘Yes, someone told me it was on the news!’

‘Did they? I think that was someone pulling your leg, Nan.’

‘No, it was definitely on the news.’

‘Who told you, Nan?’

‘Mrs Hardwick told me. She’d seen something about our Joan, she’s in trouble again.’

Poppy stroked the back of her nan’s hand. This was how her evening went, verbally going around in circles, trying to find the beginning and end of a moving piece of thread, without crying, screaming or both. No matter how frustrating, this was her lovely nan and, at that point, she was all the family Poppy had and she needed her.

The hour passed slowly for Poppy, tiredness crept into her joints and tugged at her eyelids. ‘Right then, Nan, I’m going to make tracks. Do you need anything before I go?’

‘Yes I do! I need you to go and have a word with that Mr What’shisname; he is trying to poison me! I fed some of my shepherd’s pie to the cat and it rolled over and died! That’s proof, Poppy Day!’

‘Nan, I will get right onto it, I promise. I love you.’

‘… and I love you. I just hope that I am still here in the morning and that they don’t poison me in the night!’

‘I think you’ll be OK, Nan, just don’t eat anything!’

Poppy walked home slowly. Despite her exhaustion and the lure of her bed, she didn’t want to arrive. She twisted the key in the lock and walked into the shadowy, hushed space.

Bedtime was now Poppy’s least favourite part of the day. Like most married couples, she and Martin had fallen into a steady night-time routine over the years, with well-established habits. Swapping trivia about their day as they took turns to clean teeth, passing in the narrow hallway with pyjamas slung over arms, fetching glasses of water that would remain untouched on bedside tables, only to be discarded in the morning. Poppy would then submerge herself under the duvet, curled into a ball, trying to muster warmth while she waited for her husband whose job it was to switch off the lights, lock the door and unplug the telly…

On one occasion Martin donned his wife’s pink nightdress and entered the bedroom performing an elaborate mock ballet move. Poppy watched her hairy man with his arms aloft and a dozing puppy on his chest. They had laughed like children…

Poppy now completed her night-time ritual in silence, without the easy chatter that the two exchanged. She’d lock the door early and recheck it at least twice. The bedroom was always tidy. She missed retrieving the nest of dirty linen that gathered on the floor seven days a week; the pants, jeans, T-shirt and socks; evidence of a life lived in harmony with hers.

In the half an hour or so before falling asleep, she wondered what her man was doing, where he was sleeping, what he was thinking. Holding his pillow against her chest, she imagined his protective arms around her. She would talk to him about her day, how she was feeling, ask about his. She would hear his response and it was as good as chatting. ‘Goodnight, baby, sweet dreams,’ as if he was dozing by her side. It gave her comfort. She could sometimes fool herself that he was there, keeping her safe. To wake in the night and reach for him, only to find him gone, meant a night of cold and lonely musings. It didn’t get any easier.