Poppy Day (21 page)

Poppy stood to walk out of the room.

Her nan’s voice halted her progress, ‘Poppy Day?’

‘Yes, Nan?’

‘Don’t waste a single second, my girl. I don’t want to see you here tomorrow. You go tomorrow; you go and get him back. I’ll be right here waiting and I’ll see you when you come home.’ She looked away from her then, fixated by the TV remote control; there had to be a cookery programme on somewhere.

Poppy leant her head on the frame and captured the image inside her head. She whispered across the air, the atmosphere now full of the canned laughter and recorded clapping from the crap on TV, ‘Thank you, I will, Nan. I will bring him home. I love you.’

O
NCE AGAIN
M
ARTIN
dreamt that he was woken by Poppy. He could tell it was Poppy by her touch and smell. Again she stroked the hair away from his forehead. Her voice was gentle, ‘Mart… Mart… It’s OK, baby, I’m here…’

This particular dream was the worst form of torture. He would have preferred a short physical shock than the dreadful slow realisation that her presence was a vision and he was still so very far away from her.

When Martin reluctantly opened his eyes, he spied a tiny white feather that had danced through a small gap and found a resting place on his arm. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, raising it to his lips, feeling the sweet tickle against his skin. To most, it would be seen as a little white feather that had drifted into the room, shaken from a far-off eiderdown or fallen from a scrawny chicken, but for Martin it was a gift from his Poppy, a signal of hope, a token of love. He held it tight and he kept it.

The day that started with such an offering continued to be a memorable one. Man U entered the room, beaming and clearly excited about something. He had an agitation that Martin
recognised
in someone who has a secret, usually either a practical joke or surprise present, but something so exciting that the information is literally waiting to burst out of them. Man U could hardly contain himself. After hopping from one foot to the other, he pulled his hand from behind his back to reveal two folded pieces of newspaper. He held them out to Martin. He had bought him a gift and was very pleased with himself.

‘What is it?’ Martin was curious, as eager as a child for the diversion.

‘Manchester United!’

Martin took the newspaper into his hands. It was one
complete
page and a cutting of about eight square inches. He hadn’t read or seen written English in what felt like a very long time. His eyes took a little while to focus on the black print that was slightly smudged in places. The whole time he studied it, Man U stood nodding and smiling, like an eager puppy wanting praise and recognition. Martin laughed loudly and put his hand on the man’s arm. There was never much physical contact; his captor could read a lot by the gesture. He was absolutely delighted.

Martin, in recent years, had tried to make up for his lack of academic achievement by reading. To say he was a big reader wouldn’t cut it; he was an avid, addicted reader, devouring books on any topic as though making up for lost time. He remembered what he read, which gave him an incredible vocabulary and a wide knowledge. He felt a certain embarrassment about learning that was typical of his peer group, reading secretly and never confessing to his mates that he deliberated over Le Carré as well as watching the football. Poppy would tease him, ‘No one cares that you are a book-obsessed nerd, Mart! The bigger boys aren’t going to pick on you now, you’re a grown-up and you can do what you like!’ He would usually throw whatever he was reading at her. To be able to study words, no matter how random the reading material, was a wonderful gift.

The smaller piece was an advertisement, a complete advert taken from a paper. It was fascinating.
Dyson
it read across the top, Martin learnt it word for word:

It wasn’t that Martin was particularly interested in
housework
, but it was a link to another world, his world. In that place that was strange and unfamiliar, here was a little square of paper that enabled him to picture the carpet at home, their furniture and the two of them sitting on it. He could envisage his Poppy doing the housework and it gave him comfort.

It was a scrappy piece of paper that was so much greater than the sum of its parts. Martin figured that it had probably been touched by hands like his, belonging to someone who would live in a house, in England. Possibly someone like him, imagine! After days of having very little to do, other than reflect on his predicament, this gave him something to concentrate on; the idea for the product, how it might work. Martin spent hours trying to understand the technology.

As if the advert wasn’t amazing enough, the other page was completely bloody brilliant! It wasn’t news of the campaign or information about the world in general, it was much, much better than that. It was a TV listing page, a whole page of telly programmes. It detailed shows from a weekday. The top of the page had been ripped off, so it was impossible to know what the day or date was, but it didn’t matter. Martin could tell that it was a weekday by the lack of ‘big Saturday night’ programme or film.

He went through each programme, reading the content
synopsis
. He then lay back and imagined the particular show, picturing it and joining it together with episodes that he had seen or could remember. He got so good at this; it was just like watching the telly inside his head. There was an episode of
Only Fools and Horses
billed as ‘Yuppy Love’. It was the one where Del Boy and Trigger end up in a wine bar with a bunch of yuppies; when Del falls through the bar. Martin considered it the best bit of television in the whole world. He and all his mates loved it. Martin lay on the mattress, hearing the words, picturing Del Boy with his elbow out, drink in hand and bang! Whenever he watched the clip, it made no difference that he knew what was going to happen, and when he waited for it, it was still hilarious as Del Boy fell from view, smack on to the floor. Martin laughed until he cried. It was brilliant.

Every programme on that sheet got the same treatment, even the kids’ shows, most of which he’d never heard of. Martin had never considered himself to have a good imagination, but this disproved the belief. He took bits of information and turned them into shows inside his head. It was magnificent.

Physically, Martin was in bad shape. The severe beating he had received upon capture had left him sore, bruised and aching. Having existed for a few days with his hands above his head, his shoulders had been left with an acute pain that peaked every time he moved. One of his fingers had been broken and started to heal without any attention. It throbbed when left alone, but if snagged against the mattress or his clothing, sent a searing pain shooting up his wrist. It was a constant reminder of what he had been through, made him think how lucky he was to have survived. It made him think of Aaron.

His face had suffered after its incarceration in the filthy sack. His eyes continued to ooze, clotting his eyelashes upon waking and impairing his vision; it was as if he viewed the world through gauze. His teeth felt loose in their gums, he would regularly spit large globules of blood, flecked with gum and fragments of tooth.

When he had been taken he had been very fit and muscly, which helped. His deterioration would have taken a worse toll on someone less able. He would run his hand over his torso, feeling his battered ribs, fondling the scabs of coagulated blood with his fingertips; nature’s salve for the man-made digs and scratches.

He was given a meal once a day; the guards would eat when he ate and what he ate. He wasn’t deprived of food; the meagre rations were not confined to him. It was always rice with some vegetables and sometimes a splash of yoghurt. Once or twice there was meat, small pieces of chicken and another brown meat, possibly lamb. Martin definitely wasn’t getting enough protein, none of them were. The guards looked thin, like they too needed iron and more calories. Martin felt that he was morphing into them, especially with his two-week beard growth. He was as unkempt and battered as an old mule, and he smelt about the same.

He also had a terrible upset stomach. It was the worst thing imaginable, with only a dirty bucket to use for the loo and no water for hand washing, but he knew the importance of eating, to keep his strength up and to survive. He quickly got used to the food. He was so hungry, he didn’t think too much about what he was getting, happy to be getting something. The guards shared a large plate at mealtimes, eating with their fingers. Martin was served in a separate smaller bowl; they didn’t want him to contaminate their food.

He lay on the bed and considered how he had deteriorated in such a short space of time; remembering the soldier that arrived in Afghanistan, full of energy, with a longing to get the job done and get back to his wife. Returning to Poppy had remained his primary focus.

He tried to calculate how much closer he would be to getting home had he not been captured. He could only guess, but he reckoned it would be approximately ninety shaves…

P
OPPY DIDN’T PREPARE
. She wasn’t thinking straight, functioning on auto pilot, without packing or saying goodbye, she left. Anyone watching her lock the front door, with the familiar double push to check it was secure, or encountering her in the lift would think that she was off to the shops, or to visit her nan. There were no outward clues, nothing that would indicate what she was planning.

Sliding down on the nicotine-scented, velour seat, Poppy watched the concrete of the capital give way to industrial estates. The rhythmic sway of the car encouraged her to doze; one minute grey factories and warehouses; and the next, houses, all squished together with identikit white, plastic conserva tories bolted on the back. Hundreds of families carrying out their lives, shopping, sleeping, eating and loving, cocooned within those red brick walls and draughty lean-tos. Postage-
stamp-sized
gardens were littered with trampolines, rusted swing sets, abandoned ride-on tractors and deflated paddling pools.
Food-encrusted
barbecues and grubby gazebos sat amongst miles of clean clothing that shifted gently in the breeze. It all belonged to people, people in families. Poppy considered their lives and thought about the worries that might occupy them. Had they enough milk? What time was the football on? Was it going to rain on the washing? She envied each and every one of them.

Finally, the backdrop was countryside and cows replaced people. She knew she must be getting close. Houses were followed by fields as the world sped by through the taxi window. Almost three hours after leaving E17, the boxy Nissan dropped her off at the entrance to the base. She handed over the contents of her savings jar and stood alone in front of the high-wire fence, feeling instantly self-
conscious
and slightly illegal.

RAF Brize Norton was like a large airport without any of the advertising hoardings, shopping malls, car parks or shuttle buses. The surrounding perimeter fence was ominously topped with barbed wire. It made Poppy think of prison and
concentration
camps.

There were military signs everywhere, telling Poppy that she was entering a Ministry of Defence Facility, where only authorised access was permitted, along with other deterrent messaging. She felt as if those signs were written especially for her, they might as well have said ‘PS: Go Home Poppy Day, Leave Right Now!’ But Poppy was determined; she had come this far and wasn’t about to give up, not yet.

She walked through the gates, past low-level huts with
corrugated
iron roofs, until she arrived at the security building. There was a queue of people. It reminded her of the snaking lines that you see in Argos, as though they had all taken little tickets and were waiting for their number to come up, ‘Number forty-three!’ But no one there was waiting to get their hands on irons, sandwich toasters or pieces of flimsy gym equipment that you might use for a month before shoving under the bed for a further six months and then disposing of.

Instead, they were clutching passports and pieces of paper saying goodness knows what. What did Poppy have in her bag? A change of pants; her striped notebook with matching pencil; a photo of her and Mart, opportunely snapped in a photo booth at King’s Cross before jumping on the tube; a pot of cherry lip balm; a packet of Polos; a bottle of perfume, Angel by Thierry Mugler, which she loved because it smelled like chocolate; a bunch of keys; her fake Gucci sunglasses and her iPod – sadly no passport.

Not that Poppy had expected to find a passport, she didn’t own one. They were for other people, people like Harriet and her family who jetted off to the South of France and sent
postcards
from towns just outside Cognac. The queue was moving quickly, Poppy didn’t have any time to think, which was
probably
a good thing.

The large gap in front of her meant it was her turn to approach the counter. Poppy stood in front of the burly female security guard, or RAF person, she couldn’t decide which. With the RAF wearing that particular grey/blue colour, they looked the same as the security guards that patrolled the floors at Bluewater, or the man in Poppy’s local precinct that chased all the fourteen-year-old shop lifters until he ran out of puff, which was usually just past WH Smiths. The woman wore her hair in a tightly scraped bun, her florid complexion devoid of make-up.

‘Yes?’ The woman waited, knowing what Poppy’s response should be, but sadly Poppy didn’t.

‘Hello.’ It bought her a couple of seconds.

The woman had the twitchy mouth of someone that was starting to lose patience. ‘HellowhatcanIdoforyou?’ She tried to make up the time that Poppy was losing by speaking extra quickly.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye to my husband, he is flying out today.’

The woman nodded, ‘Where to?’

‘Afghanistan.’

‘Passport please.’

Poppy bit her bottom lip. ‘I haven’t got my passport.’ She could feel genuine tears gathering; not the fake
this-would
-be-a-good-time-to-cry variety, but genuine tears as she thought to herself, ‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Poppy? Why are you here? You’re a hairdresser from Walthamstow, what did you possibly think that you could achieve?’

‘I need to see your passport.’ The woman’s eyes darted above Poppy’s head as she assessed the numbers waiting, trying to emphasise the need for haste.

Poppy’s tears fell unchecked; she did nothing to stop them. ‘I didn’t know I would need my passport. I just wanted to
surprise
Martin.’ Poppy felt it was all right to say that because it wasn’t a lie. She was telling her the absolute truth; she wanted to surprise her husband…

The woman breathed out, speaking more slowly this time, ‘Do you have any other form of ID on you, your driving licence, anything with a photograph?’

Poppy fumbled in her bag, lip balm, notebook… despite having already memorised the contents, she carried on
searching
, hoping that miraculously some form of photographic ID might have appeared. She spied her purse – was there anything in there of use? Bank card, library card (no photo), eighteen pounds in cash and some coins. She shook her head.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t let you through without your passport or other photographic ID. I’m very sorry.’

Poppy looked her in the eye. Her mind raced with two main themes. Firstly, how was she going to get back to London from wherever the hell she was? Secondly, was this it? Was this as far as she was going to get in the great, ‘I’m off to rescue Martin plan’? She felt pathetic. Her voice sounded small and defeated even to her own ears: ‘I don’t have a passport. I’ve never had one because I have never been anywhere and I never will go anywhere. I’m not like bloody Harriet or one of those girls that nips off to Europe with her girlfriends on her gap year. I am going nowhere, not ever. I only came all this way in a stinking bloody taxi because I wanted to surprise my husband. I didn’t know about the passport thing.’

The woman sighed again, casting her eyes over Poppy, checking her out and making a judgement call. ‘Have you got anything else useful on you, anything at all?’

Poppy could see that she was giving her a chance, trying to help, wanting her to succeed. ‘I don’t have any proper ID, but I’ve got my library card and my bank card.’ Poppy held out the small plastic rectangles.

The woman hesitated before taking them. ‘Look at the camera please.’ Poppy looked up into the little white square and tried not to cry some more.

The woman disappeared for what felt like hours and returned with a two-page form. ‘Can you fill this out please?’

Poppy picked up the plastic Bic pen with the chewed end from the counter, and filled out her name, address, date of birth and, bizarrely, her national insurance number. Her hand was shaking; tears and a runny nose were smeared at regular
intervals
across her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Poppy handed over the form, not sure what was going to happen next, still expecting to be turned around and escorted from the base. The woman left the desk again and came back with a laminated blue square. Poppy’s picture was in the top left corner, her tearstained face looked back at her. The details she had given were captured behind the sheet of plastic, all accurate, right down to her national insurance number. It hadn’t occurred to her to lie.

‘Do you know where you are going?’

Poppy shook her head, still unsure if she was being told to leave or whether she was going to where the planes took off.

The woman gave Poppy a paper map and drew a cross on it with a red felt-tip pen. ‘You are here. When you get outside, turn left, then right and then straight on. You’ll eventually see the car park for the terminal.’

Was that it? Surely it couldn’t be that simple? Surely this woman was not going to let her go through? But she did.

Poppy allowed herself a small smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘Remember your photo ID next time, OK?’ She gave Poppy a small smile in return.

‘OK, thank you.’ Poppy knew that there would not be a next time. She didn’t know why the woman let her through. Maybe she, too, knew what it felt like not to be Harriet. Maybe she had hoped for more from life than scrutinising passports at the security desk. Whatever the reason, Poppy would always be grateful.

She walked out into the blue day with its clear sky and clean air; it was crisp and pretty, typically English. Poppy looked out of the base to the fields and green spaces that surrounded it. She thought how lovely it must be to live in the countryside, to be able to breathe this air every day without the stench of drains, cars and people at every turn. She decided that when she had her baby, she would want to bring it up somewhere like this, in a house big enough for Dorothea as well. One big, happy, crazy family, living in the countryside; it would be like
The Darling
Buds of May
meets
EastEnders
. She was already worrying about Dorothea. It was hard to believe that it was only last night she had told her to go and get Martin. Poppy had
travelled
millions of miles in her mind since then.

‘Do you need the minibus?’

Poppy looked at the man as though she knew what he was talking about.

‘Are you press?’

Poppy nodded.

‘Right then, luggage in the back and hop in, we’ll be off in five. There are a couple of others to wait for.’

She didn’t trust herself to speak. She wandered towards the minibus parked at an angle a few feet away. There were already people sitting inside; three men, all in casual clothes, not uniform, not army, not RAF.

Poppy walked to the open door, ignoring the double doors at the back; she didn’t have any luggage to deposit there. She considered undoing her handbag and laying her single pair of pants in the back, but decided against it.

She trod the steps up into the vehicle. All eyes turned towards her, she received a ‘Hi’, ‘Hello’ and a nod. They were all very polite. Poppy was relieved not to hear the cry of outrage that she had half expected: ‘Who are you? Get off our very
important
bus for very important people, which you are not!’ There was, instead, silence as they surveyed her; not to critically
scrutinise
, but more as though they were appraising an equal, which she didn’t mind at all. The three men were in their thirties. All wore cargo pants, walking boots, fleeces and waterproof coats which meant they were either mountain climbers, outdoorsy types or tossers.

They looked harmless enough, well groomed, soft and
educated
; not the sort of people she usually mixed with. Poppy plugged her iPod into her ears, but didn’t turn it on, she wanted to listen. Everyone turned their heads towards the door as a man’s voice started singing loudly, ‘Whoa I’m goin’ to Barbados! Diddle iddle do do! Whoa! Palm tree, palm tree!’ The three started laughing. One of them looked at Poppy. ‘Guess who?’ She smiled a little, but tried not to join in, wanting to fade into the background. She didn’t want to guess who.

The voice that had been singing clambered onto the bus. He was black, in his late twenties with a camera around his neck. ‘Hey, lovely people! Here we all are aboard the love bus! Let the adventures begin!’ He was frightfully posh.

He made his way down the aisle, shaking hands with or hugging his colleagues. He looked quizzically at Poppy. She felt awkward, fearing that it was obvious to him that she shouldn’t have been there. He sat two seats behind her. He spoke to the blond man sitting opposite him. ‘Who’s Freckles?’ Poppy
concentrated
on looking out of the window, trying not to listen or give herself away. She could sense the blond guy shrugging, hear the crumpling of his acrylic jacket; he didn’t know, none of them did. The strange thing was that Poppy wasn’t sure that she knew – who had she become?

The black guy got out of his seat to stand in front of her. ‘Hello!’ He stuck out his hand. Poppy took it; he shook hers up and down vigorously with pantomime-like exaggeration for what felt like a bit too long. ‘I am Jason Mullen. How do you do? I’m
Sunday Times
and this is Max Holman, freelance,’ he pointed to one of the blokes, ‘Michael Newman,
Telegraph
, Jack Hail,
Sunday Times
.’

Poppy nodded nervously at each one. She couldn’t find her voice; couldn’t find any voice, what would come next? Were they going to throw her off the bus? Were they going to ask for her passport? Did they want proof that she was allowed to travel with them? No they didn’t, none of those things.

Jason carried on, obviously intrigued, ‘So, you are…?’

Poppy chewed her lip; she was thinking and didn’t answer instantly.

He filled the gap, ‘It’s customary in our country if someone gives you their name by way of introduction to return the same information; we call it getting acquainted, or saying hello!’

Poppy couldn’t decide if he was rude or impatient. She couldn’t think fast enough.

Jason spoke again, making his own suppositions, ‘Aaah, do you not speak English? Is that it? Français? Deutsch? Español?’