Poppy Day (9 page)

His breath came in large bursts, dry sobs of relief as he blinked without hindrance or the musty smell that had been his companion. He was inhaling air that was thick with a
particularly
male aroma, a combination of sweat, piquant breath and musk. It was the stale atmosphere of a fetid room, but
compared
to having to draw each breath through the filthy sack cloth, it was wonderful. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to seeing without their filter, they darted everywhere, trying to establish the environment.

The room was approximately a fifteen foot square. The walls were whitewashed with the lower half painted an orangey-brown. They were pitted, damaged. Chunks of plaster had fallen away beneath the unmistakable peppering of bullet holes. On the far wall, someone had scrawled some Arabic text in a sloping hand.

Martin would over time study the loops and lines, trying to decipher the dots and dashes of the ornate script. He would, however, end his days without ever interpreting the ancient phrase or appreciating the irony of, ‘The secret of happiness is freedom. The secret of freedom is courage.’

A trailing loop of electrical flex hung ominously from the ceiling, a reminder of the electricity that had been promised by benevolent benefactors, but never materialised. A small, high window had been shuttered with the remnants of an old wooden crate. The cheap slats were nailed randomly across its frame, in the same haphazard way that a cartoon character might bar a door in haste, only to turn around and find their nemesis already in the room. Martin studied the square
eighteen
-inch opening. Could he fit through? How would he reach it and remove the wood? What was on the other side?

Apart from the bed, the only other furniture were two plastic chairs, the kind you find stacked in DIY hypermarkets at the start of barbecue season. They were positioned either side of the door frame, both empty, their occupants standing in front of Martin. When his eyes stopped running, he was able to study the two men. Their identical garb meant they looked similar at first, but were in fact quite different. ‘Thank you.’ It was the first time he had spoken without an obstruction in quite a few hours; his voice sounded strange to his ears.

His relief was instantly replaced by fearful questions. Why had they taken the sacking off? What came next? Were they going to hurt him? What should he do? Say? Did Poppy know he was missing?

His face was raw, eyes watering. The guards and their captive studied each other with equal interest. The men had beards and wore traditional Afghan hats. One was significantly older, toothless, and looked as if life had got the better of him on more than one occasion. Scars and ingrained dirt indicated an existence with little comfort. The other was better groomed with brushed hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He gave Martin some water and treated his charge with indifference, both aspects for which Martin was extremely grateful.

He removed the ties from Martin’s wrists. After the initial agony of the blood rushing back down to his limbs from their vertical position, it was wonderful to be able to run his hands through his hair, to scratch his face and rub his eyes. His hands were numb bundles of flesh on the end of clumsy arms.

Martin shifted his weight until he was in a sitting position, propped against the wall. He pulled at the material of his combat trousers, unsticking it from his skin. He was a mess. Instinct told him not to make a request, but simply to be
thankful
for the small freedom that he had been given.

The guards ignored him, retaking their places either side of the door, continuing their conversation in the guttural Arabic that excluded him.

Martin closed his eyes, relishing the change of position. He had never believed that he would find himself in this
predicament
; aware that it was one of Poppy’s biggest fears, he used to laugh at her as the odds were so much against it. He’d spent a large part of his leave over the last year trying to convince her that the chances of him being taken were practically
non-existent
. He had to concede that maybe it was him and not her that had been naive.

His life in the military was very different from what he thought he was signing up for. Until the night before he joined up he had never thought about the army, army life or what being a soldier might mean. He had never met anyone that had been in the army, apart from the old men that had done their bit and, quite frankly, he found their recollections a bit boring.

There was only one reason that he even considered joining up; he thought it was a way that he could do better for him and Poppy. He hated the flat they lived in, the noise from the traffic, the graffiti and the junkies in the corridors. He disliked the fact that her job was in the precinct, a stinky lift ride away from home, where she stood for eight hours a day washing and placing rollers in old ladies’ hair.

Martin worried that the life that she had, the life that he had given her, might not be enough, that maybe he wouldn’t be enough. She was worth so much more than standing in a grotty salon every day, working for a daft tart, and he wanted to give her more.

He had seen adverts on the telly and in the papers, might even have read some literature, but if you asked him why he
actually
joined up, his first answer would be that he didn’t know. The truth was, he did know, but avoided thinking about the reasons why.

When he first left school Martin took a job in his local garage. He had visions of becoming a mechanic and in more fanciful moments could picture himself running the place. His was not a conscious career plan, but rather a path that offered the least resistance, an opportunity that had presented itself when
alternatives
were sparse. He eventually realised after a couple of years of making the tea, running back and forth to the bookies for the owner, answering the telephone and sweeping up the crap at the end of the day that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Martin worked hard, really hard, in the way that a shire horse does, blinkered and no matter what the conditions, ploughing on. He did it willingly, because he thought it was his future, and he honestly thought that he would be rewarded.

The boss kept telling him ‘in about six months’ time your training will start’; like an idiot, he believed him. He wanted to believe him, he needed to believe him. One winter morning, something happened to change all that.

The owner’s son, aged sixteen, started work at the garage. On the lad’s first day, he was given his very own overalls and a set of tools in a blue, metal carry box. It was a box that Martin coveted, with little compartments and a mini padlock. He was also given a peg on which to hang his clothes and coat. Not like Martin’s peg on the back of the door in the office, but a peg in the garage with all the mechanics’ and body shop repairers’ pegs.

Martin watched the gang pat him on the back at the end of his first day. He saw the lad admire the telltale ring of black grease under his fingernails. Martin looked at his own soft, clean hands that had filed invoices and answered the phone all day and he knew. He knew what he had been trying to deny for the last two years; he was never going to get that pat on the back, his training was never going to start and he was never going to get a peg in the garage. He felt sick and more than a little bit stupid.

That night, he walked home slowly and quietly with the taste of bitterness filling his mouth; it ran down his throat, seeping into his veins. He was crying on the inside, angry and let down, his dad’s words filled his head: ‘useless little poof’. This was the second reason. He joined up, to show his dad, his nasty crappy dad, that he was something, that he was capable of being someone. There was a third reason, he wanted to show his Poppy that he could be a better man, a man that could provide the house in the country that she wanted, a man that could earn enough for them to start their family.

He walked down the High Street, not noticing much, his shoulders hunched over, his mouth turned downward at the corners. The recruiting office stood out. Martin must have walked past it a thousand times without really noticing it, but tonight the whole building seemed to pulse, lit up against the gloom. In the middle of the rain-soaked street, the grey concrete and litter, the sign called to him.
Be the Best
it said, and it was as if it had been written just for Martin, that was exactly what he wanted; to be the best that he could be.

He pushed his nose against the window, captivated by
pictures
of people in exotic, sunny places and a list,
Learn one of these trades
. His eyes drank the words written in alphabetical order; everything from Chef to Mechanic and hundreds of roles in between. Martin couldn’t believe it! It was the answer to his prayers.

He ran home, literally, ran all the way, full of energy and anticipation. He burst into the flat. Poppy was standing in the kitchen with her back to her husband. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with pointy tendrils that had worked their way loose hanging down against her pale skin. He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around. He looked into her eyes that were so clear he could see his image perfectly reflected in them.

Martin felt like he could explode with all the possibilities. ‘I love you, Poppy. Things are going to start getting a whole lot better for us!’ He kissed her on the lips.

‘Well I am glad to hear that, Mart. Now, wash your hands because your tea’s ready.’ She continued to retrieve cutlery from the murky depths of the sink, wiping it with the tea towel. Poppy was calm and unflustered, despite her husband’s
uncharacteristic
display of enthusiasm for their future. It was how she worked, remaining cool until the detail unfolded and she would then decide whether to get excited or not. Poppy had learnt that if you contained your enthusiasm until you were absolutely sure that there was something to be excited about, it avoided a lot of unnecessary disappointment. Martin bumped her out of the way with his hip and washed his hands, pushing the soap under his clean fingernails, no longer irritated by their softness and cleanliness. Instead, he was happy because he had a plan and a future. Tomorrow he would take the first steps to sorting it all out.

Martin leapt out of bed, jumping up as soon as the alarm went off. The day started without the usual groaning or wishing for an extra ten minutes’ grace. He’d slept lightly in
anticipation
of the beeping of his clock, eager for the day to begin. He felt as if he was on the verge of something amazing, the start of all good things for him, for them.

He decided against phoning the garage to say he wasn’t going in. He had never been unreliable, but wanted to show them that he couldn’t be pushed around. It was a meagre protest, pathetic really, but it was important to make a stand, no matter how small.

Martin left the house in his suit, feeling ten feet tall,
swaggering
down the High Street, smiling at anyone that caught his eye. He felt powerful, fantastic, like one of the cocky blokes down the pub who stand at the bar and never get out of the way, who know everyone and always have enough cash. He felt like them, like he knew all the answers.

The recruiting office, now open, was again lit up, a beacon. He walked through the door with confidence, thinking about all the men that had ever joined up; he was about to become part of something unique and important.

Two men in uniform sat behind two desks. Martin walked to the one on the right. What would have happened if he had chosen the one on the left? A different regiment? A different posting? Where would he be at that point? Playing five-a-side within the compound walls? Quite possibly, but contemplating what-ifs didn’t help anyone.

It was as though the recruiting sergeant had been expecting him. Three newly sharpened pencils sat to the right of his hand on top of a pristine white pad.

He smiled at Martin, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk. ‘Please take a seat.’ Before asking his name or why he was there, he was treating Martin with respect and he liked it. He liked it a lot.

‘I’m Sergeant Keith Edwards, of the Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment or the PWRR for short. Can I take your name?’

‘I am Martin Cricket.’ He waited for the usual smirk, raised eyebrow or full-blown laugh, but there was none, as though being called ‘Cricket’ was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to mock. This was a serious business. The sergeant’s lack of response gave Martin the confidence to stay put, no one was laughing, his plan was right on track.

‘What can I do for you today, Mr Cricket?’

What could he do for him? Martin wanted to leap across the table, hug him and shout, ‘Take me away from this shit life! Make me into something better! Make me into “The Best!” Give me a life that Poppy and I can be proud of! Give me a peg in the garage, let me get grease under my fingernails, let me train to be a mechanic, let me prove that I am not a useless little poof!’

Thankfully for them both, he did neither of these things. Instead, linking his hands together at the knuckles, he laid his fingers across the back of the opposite hand and placed them in his lap. Primarily this was to stop them shaking, but it was also an unconscious act, giving the whole exchange gravitas.

Before Martin had time to hesitate, contemplate or run, he looked Sergeant Keith Edwards squarely in the eye. ‘I am
thinking
of becoming a soldier.’ His voice sounded more confident than he felt.

The sergeant didn’t laugh, but nodded his head slowly as though he had been given the correct answer, the answer he was expecting. He had encountered thousands of blokes that were desperate and didn’t know where to go or what path they should be treading. Blokes that wanted something more than the hand life had dealt them, blokes that only saw the value of education once the school gates had been locked behind them forever. That was exactly what he was looking for, a bloke just like Martin who wanted the opportunity to start over, who wanted to be given a chance. The process was relatively quick and administrative, like renewing your passport or registering a death.