‘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