What Have I Done

Notes for your book club


Kathryn only kills Mark after many years of abuse. Why did she keep it secret for so long? Do you think that is a “normal” thing to do?

Why does Kathryn immediately confess to Mark’s murder? Is this a believable thing to do?

If Kathryn had reported Mark to the police, would he have been sent to prison? Do you think Kathryn should have been sentenced to jail? Is her crime worse than Mark’s?

Kathryn’s story is often told in flashbacks. Why did the author choose to start with Mark’s death? How might you feel about Kathryn Brooker if you had never met Kate Gavier?

When we first meet Kathryn, she loves books and reading. When Mark destroys her secret library, she is devastated. Why does she value books so much? Do you think she feels the same way about books after he dies?

After her husband’s death, Kathryn Brooker changes her name. How do you think of her before and after she changes her name, as Kathryn, or as Kate, and what do you call her now? Would changing your name change who you are? Why does she do it?

What do you think makes Kathryn reach out to Janeece in particular?

If killing Mark was the “right” thing to do, why are Kathryn’s children so angry with her? If she had known how they would react, do you think she would still have killed him?

What Have I Done? tackles some very harrowing issues. There are moments when Kathryn feels life is not worth living. By the end of the book, do you feel hope for the characters?

Why has the author chosen to tell a story about such a painful subject? Do you think the topics are appropriate for a novel? If so, why?





Acknowledgements



I would like to thank the incredible team at Head of Zeus whose passion for the written word means that they take a good story and make it great, especially Laura who is not afraid to suggest the bold changes that make all the difference.

My lovely Caroline Michel and the team at PFD whose support and encouragement was just what a wobbly newbie needed.

My lovely boys Josh and Ben who have taken being abandoned in their stride and have pizza delivery on speed dial for those evenings when mum has her head in a lap top.

Thank you to all those women who have shared their stories with me, women from all walks of life who dread the sound of a key in the door. You are not alone.

Finally to my Simeon who is the polar opposite of Mark Brooker, he has my heart in his hands and handles it with great care, I am blessed.





Clover’s Child — Preview



Read on for the first chapter of



Forbidden love in 1960s London has heart-wrenching consequences. The next powerful page-turner in Amanda Prowse’s No Greater Love sequence.





1



It was cold, the pavement was covered with a sugar-like dusting of frost and the January wind that blew off the water felt like it could cut your cheeks. A large ship painted gun-metal grey was moored against the jetty and its unwieldy hawser stirred and scraped against the wall as the Lightermen’s barge made the water swell. The clouds were dark and threatened to burst at any moment. Dot Simpson and Barbara Harrison perched on the flat-topped bollards that stood in rows along the brow of the dock, just as they did in all weathers, in all seasons. When they were little, they had invented elaborate games using the bollards as everything from safe posts during battle to chairs at imaginary tea parties. Now in their late teens, they were more likely to be found sitting there with their faces covered in baby oil, holding up tin-foil reflectors to catch the sun’s rays. Tonight, however, they pulled their cardigan sleeves down over their hands and with shoulders hunched forward shouted to each other as their voices navigated the wind.

‘I’m bloody freezing!’

‘Me too! Dot, look – my fag’s stuck to my lip!’ Barb opened her mouth wide, to show her mate that her roll-up was indeed hanging free of assistance from her gob. They laughed loudly. This wasn’t unusual, they laughed at most things, sometimes because they were funny, but mainly because the two of them were young and free and life was pretty good.

A sailor waved from the deck and the girls waved back before collapsing in giggles. He looked foreign in his dark woolly cap and double-buttoned pea jacket. He ran up the deck towards them and as nimbly as his heavy boots would allow, clambered up the metal ladder and onto the wharf.

‘Shit! He’s coming over!’

Barb yanked her fag from her lip and threw it into the wind, where it was carried along a few feet before getting lodged in Dot’s hair.

‘Jesus! What you trying to do, set me barnet on fire?’

As Dot beat her head with her palms to extinguish any potential flames, her friend sat doubled over on her bollard stool and laughed until she cried. By the time sailor boy reached them, they were slightly more composed. Close up, neither of them fancied him, which was a bitter disappointment to all.

‘Hallo!’ His voice had the low staccato tones of the Baltics.

Barb waved at him.

‘I am new here for some days and would like very much to take you ladies for drink.’

‘We don’t drink.’ Barb looked away from him, tried to sound dismissive.

‘What are your names?’

‘I’m Connie Francis and this is Grace Kelly.’ Dot fixed him with a stare.

‘It’s nice to see you Connie and Grace, I am Rudolf Nureyev.’ Three could play at that game. ‘Maybe I take you not for drink, maybe I take you for movies?’

The girls stood and linked arms. Dot cleared her throat. ‘That’s very kind, Mr Nickabollockoff, but we’ve got to get home for our tea!’

The two girls ran past him along the dock, laughing and howling, shouting ‘GracebloodyKelly?’ at each other as they trotted along, homeward bound.


Half an hour later, the Simpsons’ front door bell buzzed. Its grating drone was pitiful, like a bee in its dying throes. ‘Coming!’ shouted Dot, sing-song fashion, casting the word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note that the bell needed fixing. She would ask her Dad to have a look at it.

Dot licked the stray blobs of sweet strawberry jam from the pads of her thumbs, smiled and looped her toffee-coloured hair behind her ears. It was probably Barb. Either she’d decided to come round to the Simpson household for her tea after all, or she’d locked herself out of her own house. She felt a swell of happiness.

The front door bell droned again.

‘All right! All right!’ Dot tossed the checked tea towel onto the work surface and walked past her dad, who was engrossed in his newspaper as usual. She stepped into the hallway, with its narrow strip of patterned carpet, and walked past the glass-fronted unit in which her mum displayed her entire collection of china Whimsies. Looking through the etched glass panels in the door, opaque through design and a lack of regular dusting, she saw her mum staring back at her through the glass in a peering salute. Spying Dot, her mum tapped impatiently at the space on her wrist where a watch would live.

Dot eased open the front door and her mum bustled in from the pavement, filling the narrow hallway with her presence. She used the toe of her right shoe against the heel of her left to ease her foot out of its pump and then reversed the process before stamping her cold feet on the floor and wiggling her stockinged toes. She dumped her shopping bag by the door and shook her arms loose from her mac, making her ample chest jiggle under her chin, then whipped her chiffon scarf from around her neck and rubbed her hands together.

‘Blimey, Dot, take your time why don’t you. I forgot me key and it’s bloody freezing. I’ve only got a little while to get changed and get back to work!’

‘I was just making some toast, do you want some?’

‘No, love, I’ve been surrounded by grub all day, I couldn’t face anything. Eat quickly, mind. Don’t forget you’re coming in with me tonight.’

Dot groaned as she sloped off towards the kitchen. ‘Do I have to?’

‘I’m not even going to answer that. Do me a favour, Dot, stick the kettle on!’ This was code for make me a cup of tea.

Joan watched her daughter tease her roots with her index finger and thumb pinched together. ‘You’ll never get a brush through that!’

Dot chose to ignore her mum; she wasn’t particularly bothered if she never brushed her hair again as long as it was bouffant enough at the back. She yanked the lid from the large, dented, flat-bottomed aluminium kettle, filled it with water and plonked it on top of the gas cooker. As she waited for the whistle, she walked through to the adjoining back room, her hand now pressed flat against her forehead and her arm sticking out at a right angle. ‘Mum, do I really have to come to work with you tonight?’

Joan sank down into the chair across from her husband’s and delved into her make-up bag. She juggled the magnifying mirror in her left palm and her mascara in her right. She spat onto the cracked cake of black until some of it stuck to the clogged bristles of the brush and proceeded to comb it onto her lashes. She spoke with her lips tucked in, trying to keep her eyes still.

‘Yes, you do have to come with me! It’s not as though I ask much of you, Dot, and not as if anything you might have planned in your hectic schedule can’t wait an hour or two!’

‘But, God, it’s Friday night!’

‘I’m sure the Lord above knows what night it is and using his name in vain won’t help you, Friday night or not! Now go and wash your face and make that tea.’

Dot trudged through the back room to the kitchen sink.

Her dad looked up from the Standard. ‘Why’s she got her hand stuck to her bonce?’

‘She’s trying to make her fringe flat.’ Joan spat again onto her little brush.

Reg shrugged and shook his head with incomprehension. ‘You’ve only been in five minutes and now you’re back off to work. What time’ll you finish?’

‘I don’t know, Reg. When it’s done. I’ve worked bloody hard on this buffet; I hope it all goes all right. Dot better not do anything stupid.’

‘Why d’you need her anyway?’

She sighed heavily. ‘Oh, don’t you start. I’ve told you, it’s a big do for some new family moving into the Merchant’s House, military or something, I don’t bleeding know! I just know it’s overtime and they are paying good wages for someone to waitress, and that someone may as well be Dot! Any more questions?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

Joan lifted the brush and started to apply the dark goo to her lower lashes.

‘What’s for tea?’

‘What’s that if it’s not another question, Reg?’

‘Are you asking me a question now?’ He smirked.

Joan picked up a multi-coloured crocheted cushion and lobbed it at his newspaper. He ducked and the cushion thumped against the radio speaker.

‘Blimey, girl, steady! You just hit Cliff Michelmore in the cakehole!’

‘I’m sure he’s had worse.’ She giggled.

They both laughed as a slow waltz drifted into the room. Reg threw down his paper, struggled to his feet and pinged his braces over his vest, which always made his wife laugh. He hummed along as loudly as he could. ‘Come on, Joan, reckon we’ve got five whole minutes before her fringe is flat and she’s made your tea. Let’s have a dance.’

He pulled his wife by the arms, she slipped from the green vinyl seat of her chair and he spun her around the back room, trying not to trip on the rug that sat on the tiled floor. Gathering her into a close waltz, he whispered into her hair, which was stiff with lacquer. ‘I’ve just been reading about that Lady Chatterley book trial,’ he said. ‘It’s bloody filth that they are trying to pedal, disguised as literature. It’s disgusting. I’ve been following the case quite closely…’ He pulled her into him and they swayed around the room in an intimate clinch. She felt the scratch of his stubble against her cheek. His breath came in wheezy bursts, partly from lust and part due to his exertion. ‘And I reckon we should definitely get a copy!’

‘Oh, behave!’ Joan pushed him away, glancing at the cuckoo clock on the wall. ‘Gawd, look at the time. Dot!’ she yelled in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Forget the tea. Come on, we’ve got to leave right now or we’ll miss the bus!’

Dot came in, leading her little sister by the arm, who sported a large orange stain on her white frock. ‘She’s had an unfortunate incident with a Jubbly. Over to you, Dad!’

‘Oh for Gawd’s sake, Diane – you’re supposed to drink it, not bloody wear it! What are you, a baby? Do we need to put your drinks in a bot bot?’

Dee grinned. ‘No! I’m five, I not a baby!’

Reg looked at his wife and eldest daughter as they buttoned up their macs and tied their scarves. ‘Is that it then? Are you two off gallivanting and leaving me to it?’

‘Looks like it.’ His wife smiled as she pecked him on the cheek.

‘But this is women’s work! And you never did tell me what was for tea.’

‘That, my darling, is cos I don’t know what will be left over tonight. Might be salad, might be steak! Who knows?’

‘Yeah!’ Dot added, for no reason other than to join in the fun.

‘And you can keep your oar out of it. And by the way, Dot, your fringe n’arf looking curly!’

Dot’s parting shot was to poke her tongue out at her dad.

‘If the wind changes you’ll be stuck like that!’ He laughed.

‘Oh, well, that explains it, is that what happened to you then?’ She managed to have the last word, this time.

The kitten heels of mother and daughter clicked their way along the Limehouse pavement.

‘You working tonight, Joan?’

Their neighbour, Mrs Harrison, leant heavily against her open front door. She took a deep drag on her John Player Special, the smoke from which swirled upwards, further discolouring the yellow fringe that she kept permanently wrapped in two plastic curlers, imprisoned behind a blue hair net. Mrs Harrison ran the grandly named ‘Ropemakers Fields Guest House’, which for a couple of quid a night provided a bedroom full of clashing florals and mismatched furniture and use of a Goblin Teasmade for weary dock workers who were far from home. Her tall, thin, stooped frame was clad, as usual, in a flowery wrap-around pinny. Her mouth curved into its familiar downward slant and her eyes roamed over Joan and Dot with the usual look of sour disappointment. Dot used to wonder what it would be like if Mrs Harrison ever received some good news – which hadn’t happened in all the years she had known her. Would she whoop, shout and yell? She thought not. Dot peeked through the door to the grotty boarding house; it always looked dark and gave off the faintest odour of boiled cabbage. Their neighbour stood with one arm across her flat chest and the other lifting her fag to her thin lips.

‘Yes, Mrs Harrison, unfortunately. No rest for the wicked!’ Joan hurried past, not wanting to engage any further than she had to.

‘That’s what they say,’ Mrs Harrison replied.

Dot found Mrs Harrison’s company boring and depressing, but she was her best mate’s aunty, so she had to be careful.

‘You seeing our Barb later, Dot? I’ve got her mum’s Avon catalogue here that wants collecting. I’m running low on me night cream.’

Her skin was pitted, furrowed and a little grimy. Dot thought, uncharitably, that it would take more than a jar of night cream to fix it. ‘I might be, I’ll tell her when I see her.’

‘Thanks, love.’ A smile threatened to crease her face but was gone before it was fully formed. Audrey Harrison did not have much to smile about. Her life had been a series of disappointments, starting with the feckless, unfaithful husband that had gone and got himself killed in the war. Although, strangely, once he was dead, his fecklessness and infidelity seemed to have been quite forgotten. As Dot’s nan once pointed out, they never seem to bury any crap or useless husbands, only the ‘loving and devoted’ ones, if the gravestones in the churchyard were anything to go by.

‘She’s such a nosey old cow,’ Joan whispered. The two women laughed as they quickened their pace towards Narrow Street. Just in time to see their bus pulling up to the kerb. Dot screamed and ran ahead, waving her arms and running as fast as she was able in her silly heels on the icy pavement. The conductor waved back and waited until mother and daughter, their faces flushed, had plonked themselves down on the narrow seat that ran along the side of the bottom deck. They laughed as their breath blew clouds into the number 278 that would take them up the road.


Joan Simpson licked her fingers, then wiped them down the front of her starched white pinny, leaving a long smear of mayonnaise across her front. Her mouth mumbled with the inaudible calculations that ensured her pastry always puffed to perfection and her aspic chilled to a fine wobble.

‘Tenminutesmoreshoulddoit, thenicanplateitup, getitallout…’

She blew her blunt fringe upwards and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her eyes darted between her daughter, who was standing in front of her, fiddling with the collar of her white blouse and pulling and twisting at her black pinafore, and the plate of devilled eggs that she now arranged with deft fingers on the counter top.

‘Right, love, listen. The main buffet is all laid out on the trestle in the corner; everyone will help themselves a bit later on. Serviettes, plates and whatnot are already on the table. Just keep an eye out, make sure that no platters run empty, we can refill them in here. Look for anyone that’s missing a serviette or cutlery, that kind of thing. You know what’s what; it’s not as if you haven’t done it before. These are just bits to pass around until they eat proper, so let’s get them out there and served or they’ll be on the turn and I haven’t been slaving away all day in this bloody kitchen so that you can ruin my food!’

‘I hate doing this, Mum!’

‘Really? You haven’t mentioned it.’

‘It’s just so embarrassing. They’re always old-timers who smell like lavender and tell me how lucky I am to be a teenager now and not twenty years ago. I know I’m lucky, I don’t need reminding by some stinky pensioner every five minutes.’

‘Dot, please, just shut up and take the bloody food in!’

‘I am! It’s just so unfair and anyway, in three years I’ll be twenty-one and then I’ll be free to do what I bloody want.’

Joan dipped into the metal tray under the counter top and lifted a large serving spoon in her direction. ‘Oi! Less of the “bloody”, missus. Until you are actually twenty-one, you are not too old for a ladling!’

‘A ladling? You just made that up! And you say “bloody” all the time!’ Dot concentrated on her outstretched arm, grappling with the wide silver platter that threatened to slide off the folded white linen cloth on which it sat.

‘Yes I do, because I can, and when you’re as old as me you can swear as much as you like. In the meantime, get that food out!’

Dot drew a deep breath and faced the double swing door that would reveal her in all her shame to the awaiting guests. ‘I’m never going to be old,’ she offered over her shoulder.

‘You’re right, Dot. If you carry on defying me and those canapés spoil, you won’t make twenty-one – I’ll bloody kill ya!’

Mother and daughter laughed until they snorted. Dot shook her head to compose herself. It was bad enough having to go out looking like a prize plum, trussed up like a Christmas pudding, without snorting her way through the crowd as well.

‘What are you waiting for now?’

‘I’m just composing meself!’

‘Composing yourself? Christ alive, Dot! Just get that food out now!’

‘All right, all right – I’m going.’

‘And come straight back for the vol-au-vents!’ Joan bellowed at her daughter’s disappearing back.

Dot pushed against the plushly padded velour door with its brass studs, which reminded her of a sideways sofa. She strained to hear the music that was coming from the grand piano in the corner; the sultry tones of Etta James drifted from the gramophone and the musician played along with the record. She glimpsed the bowed head of the black pianist, who with eyes closed and neck bowed was tickling the ivories.


‘At last

My love has come along

My lonely days are over

And life is like a song’


She loved the song and she hummed it inside her head as she wandered among the thirty or so guests. This room had always fascinated her: the polished dark-wood floor and the light from the huge chandelier meant everything sparkled. Vast oil paintings hung on the walls, each one of a military man either on horseback or with his weapon of choice held aloft. It intrigued her how such a large group of people could be gathered in one room and yet the loudest sound was the chink of glass against glass, with only the faintest hum of background chatter and the odd tinkle of delicate laughter. In the Victorian terrace where she lived with her mum, dad and little sister it was never quiet. If not loud music from the radio and the bashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, then the whistling of the kettle and the shouts of questions and instructions up and down the stairs:

‘CUP OF TEA?’

‘ONLY IF YOU’RE MAKING!’

‘WHERE ARE MY CLEAN SHIRTS?’

‘IN THE AIRING CUPBOARD!’

The fact that someone might be a whole floor away from you was no reason to exclude them from the conversation.

‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ Dot lowered her natural volume and used her posh voice, just as she had been taught.

A bushy-moustached man in naval uniform with flash gold epaulettes practically dived onto the tray. She watched him scoop a handful of delicate white ovals from the platter and cram them into his gob. At least she could tell her mum that someone appreciated her cooking.

‘Not for me, dear.’ His wife raised her white-gloved hand. A pity; the poor woman looked like she would benefit from the odd devilled egg. She was stick thin and her paisley-print, bat-wing frock hung off her tiny frame. She had drawn her eyebrows way too high on her forehead; like a dolly peg, Dot thought.

Next she infiltrated a group of elderly men and women who collectively smelled of dust and fish paste. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ She proffered the tray in the direction of one old bloke.

‘Would I what?’ he yelled at her.

Dot bit the inside of her cheeks, praying she wouldn’t get the giggles and immensely glad that Barb wasn’t around; if she had caught her friend’s eye, she would have been in hysterics. She gave a small cough and tried again in her low, posher-than-usual voice. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’

‘Is it something about my leg?’ he yelled again.

‘Your leg? NO, NO. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DEVILLED EGG?’ This time she over-enunciated every word. It took a monumental effort to stop her from laughing out loud.

‘I’m afraid I don’t care for much, lost my brother in the war y’see.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but can I tempt you?’ This time she lifted the tray until it was practically under his schnoz.

‘What is that?’ he asked, prodding at the softened offering.

‘They are canapés, sir.’

‘Cans of what?’

Dot felt her shoulders begin to shake. A ripple of laughter was working its way up her throat and down her nose; she felt fit to explode.

‘Excuse me a mo, I’ll be right back.’ She thought it best to make a hasty retreat to the kitchen and compose herself. Turning quickly, she failed to see that another devilled-egg seeker in military uniform was standing not a foot behind her. It was a collision of comical proportions.

The tray of canapés flipped from her arm and stuck to the front of his tunic. Squashed eggs and mayonnaise sat like a cloying, liquid blanket on his jacket. One hollowed-out egg was actually lodged on a brass button. Almost immediately the silver platter hit the floor with an almighty crash. Both parties bent to retrieve the tray and, with perfect timing, bashed their heads together, sending her flying along the newly polished wooden floor and leaving him clutching his forehead with mayonnaise-smeared palms.

Momentarily dazed, Dot was aware of several shouts of ‘Oh no!’ and the collective gasps of thirty of London’s finest watching as she went sprawling. She lay back and looked up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time that it was painted with the most beautiful mural. Fat-bottomed cherubs played harps and lutes in each corner and there was a gold table stacked high with bowls of fruit and flagons of wine. Clouds parted to reveal a heavily bearded God with his arms spread wide and beams of sunlight shining through the gaps. She was captivated. Lowering her eyes from the ceiling, she saw a circle of faces above her. Dolly-peg lady, greedy bastard and the dust-and-fish-paste gang were among them. Someone reached into the circle and held onto both her hands, then she felt herself being pulled swiftly upwards.

Finally upright, her attention was drawn to her right and the smeared khaki and tarnished brass of a uniform that had met with an unfortunate accident involving a platter of eggs. Dot bit her bottom lip. What had she done? Joan would go mad.

She looked up at her rescuer. Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled slightly as she swayed. She was staring into the face of a black man and he was holding her hands. She was caught somewhere between fascination and fear; she’d never seen a black person up this close before, let alone held hands with one. But what surprised her more than anything was that it was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. He was the piano player.

‘Are you all right?’ His voice was like liquid chocolate, deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn’t place, like American, but different. His big eyes, framed with thick curly lashes were so dark, she couldn’t see where the pupil stopped and the iris started.

‘I’m fine. You all right?’ she countered, looking at him through lowered lashes and wishing she had put more lipstick on.

‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you, but I’m not the one that’s been wrestling on the floor with men old enough to know better!’

‘D’you think anyone noticed?’ She smiled

The pianist cast his eye over the mess and the bemused onlookers. ‘No, I don’t think anyone noticed a thing.’

He hesitated. ‘I don’t know your name?’

‘Dot.’

‘Dot? As in dash, dash, dash, dot, dot—’

‘Yep, as in Dot.’ She smiled.

‘Is it short for anything?’

‘Ah, well, there’s a tale. Apparently me dad was one over the eight when he went to register my birth in Canning Town. Mum was still lying in and when they asked him my name, he couldn’t remember that it was supposed to be Dorothy – after Dorothy Squires, no less! – and so he said “Dorothea”, but I’ve only ever been known as Dot. That’s me, I’m just a Dot!’

He studied her face, her wide smile, the peachy skin with the smattering of freckles across her straight nose. Her eyes were wide and sparkling – whether from her bump on the head or something else entirely he couldn’t be sure.

‘But I think you are more than just a Dot. If you hadn’t been there to provide the evening’s entertainment, I’d still be stuck in there trying not to look bored. You have been the highlight of my evening so far – although the night is young.’

‘Ha! Let me tell you, I’ve met the whole gang up there and I am definitely the highlight of your evening.’

‘I think you might be right.’ He gave an almost imperceptible wink.

‘And when you are calling me Dot, what should I call you?’

‘Sol, short for Solomon. My dad wasn’t one over the eight when I was registered.’

‘Well, lucky old you. And what does Solomon mean?’

‘It means “Peace”.’





Available 1st July 2013





Poppy Day — Preview



Read on for the first chapter of



How far would you go to bring home the one you love?

A gripping story of loss and courage from army wife Amanda Prowse.





1



The major yanked first at one cuff and then the other, ensuring three-eighths of an inch was visible beneath his tunic sleeves. With his thumb and forefinger he circled his lips, finishing with a small cough, designed to clear the throat. He nodded in the direction of the door, indicating to the accompanying sergeant that he could proceed. He was ready.

‘Coming!’ Poppy cast the sing-song word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note to fix the front door bell as the internal mechanism grated against the loose, metal cover. The intensely irritating sound had become part of the rhythm of the flat. She co-habited with an orchestra of architectural ailments, the stars of which were the creaking hinge of the bedroom door, the dripping bathroom tap and the whirring extractor fan that now extracted very little.

Poppy smiled and looped her hair behind her ears. It was probably Jenna, who would often nip over during her lunch break. Theirs was a comfortable camaraderie, arrived at after many years of friendship; no need to wash up cups, hide laundry or even get dressed, they interacted without inhibition or pretence. Poppy prepped the bread and counted the fish fingers under the grill, working out how to make two sandwiches instead of one, an easy calculation. She felt a swell of happiness.

The front door bell droned again, ‘All right! All right!’ Poppy licked stray blobs of tomato ketchup from the pads of her thumbs and laughed at the impatient digit that jabbed once more at the plastic circle on the outside wall.

Tossing the checked tea towel onto the work surface, she stepped into the hallway and looked through the safety glass at the top of the door, opaque through design and a lack of domesticity. Poppy slowed down until almost stationary, squinting at the scene in front of her, as though by altering her viewpoint, she could change the sight that greeted her. Her heart fluttered in an irregular beat. Placing a flattened palm against her breastbone, she tried to bring calm to her flustered pulse. The surge of happiness disappeared, forming a ball of ice that sank down into the base of her stomach, filling her bowels with a cold dread. Poppy wasn’t looking at the silhouette of her friend; not a ponytail in sight. Instead, there were two shapes, two men, two soldiers.

She couldn’t decide whether to turn and switch off the grill or continue to the front door and let them in. The indecision rendered her useless. She concentrated on staying present, feeling at any point she might succumb to the maelstrom within her mind. The whirling confusion threatened to make her faint. She shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. It worked.

She wondered how long they would be, how long it would all take. There were fish fingers to eat and she was due back at the salon in half an hour with a shampoo and set arriving in forty minutes. Poppy thought it strange how an ordinary day could be made so very extraordinary. She knew the small details of every action, usually forgotten after one sleep, would stay with her forever; each minute aspect indelibly etching itself on her memory. The way her toes flexed and stiffened inside her soft, red socks, the pop and sizzle of her lunch under the grill and the way the TV was suddenly far too loud.

She considered the hazy outlines of her as yet unseen visitors and her thoughts turned to the fact that her home wasn’t tidy. She wished she wasn’t cooking fish. It would only become curious in hindsight that she had been worried about minutiae when the reason for their visit was so much more important than a cooking aroma and a concern that some cushions might have been improperly plumped.

Columbo was on TV. She hadn’t been watching; it was instead a comforting background noise. She had done that a lot since Martin went away, switching on either the TV or radio as soon as she stepped through the door; anything other than endure the silence of a life lived alone. She hated that.

Poppy looked again to confirm that there were two of them; thus reinforcing what she thought she already knew. It is a well-known code; a letter for good news, telephone call for minor incident, a visit from one soldier for quite bad, two for the very worst.

She noted the shapes that stood the other side of her door. One was a regular soldier, identifiable by his hat; the other was a bloke of rank, an officer. She didn’t recognise either of their outlines, strangers. She knew what they were going to say before they spoke, before one single word had been uttered; their stance was awkward and unnatural.

Her mind flew to the cardboard box hidden under the bed. In it was underwear, lacy, tarty pieces that Martin had chosen. She would throw them away; there would be no need for them any more, no more anniversaries, birthdays or special Sunday mornings when the world was reduced to a square of mattress, a corner of duvet and the skin of the man she loved.

Poppy wasn’t sure how long she took to reach for the handle, but had the strangest feeling that with each step taken, the door moved slightly further away.

She slid the chain with a steady hand; it hadn’t been given a reason to shake, not yet. Opening the door wide, it banged against the inside wall. The tarnished handle found its regular groove in the plasterwork. Ordinarily, she would only have opened it a fraction, enough to peek out and see who was there, but this was no ordinary situation and with two soldiers on the doorstep, what harm could she come to? Poppy stared at them. They were pale, twitchy. She looked past them, over the concrete, third-floor walkway and up at the sky, knowing that these were the last few seconds that her life would be intact. She wanted to enjoy the feeling, confident that once they had spoken, everything would be broken. She gazed at the perfect blue, daubed with the merest wisp of cloud. It was beautiful, really beautiful.

The two men appraised her as she stared over their heads into the middle distance. It was the first few seconds in which they would form their opinion. One of them noted her wrinkled, freckled nose, her clear, open expression. The other considered the grey slabs amid which she stood and registered the fraying cuff of her long-sleeved T-shirt.

Their training told them to expect a number of varied responses; from fainting or rage to extreme distress, each had a prescribed treatment and procedure. This was their worst scenario, the disengaged, silent recipient with delayed reactions, much harder for them to predict.

Poppy thought about the night before her husband left for Afghanistan, wishing that she could go back to then and do it differently. She had watched his mechanical actions, saw him smooth the plastic-wrapped, mud-coloured, Boy Scout paraphernalia that was destined for its sandy desert home. A place she couldn’t picture, in a life that she was barred from. She didn’t notice how his fingertips lingered on the embroidered roses of their duvet cover, the last touch to a thing of feminine beauty that for him meant home, meant Poppy.

Martin was packing his rucksack which was propped open on their bed when he started to whistle. Poppy didn’t recognise the tune. She stared at his smiling, whistling face as he folded his clothes and wash kit into the voluminous, khaki cavern. He paused to push his non-existent fringe out of his eyes. Like the man that’s lost a finger, but still rubs the gap to relieve the cold, so Martin raked hair that was now shorn.

Poppy couldn’t decipher his smile, but it was enough to release the torrent that had been gathering behind her tongue. Any casual observer might have surmised that he was going on holiday with the boys, not off to a war zone.

‘Are you happy, Mart? In fact, ignore me, that’s a silly question, of course you are because this is what you wanted isn’t it? Leaving me, your mates and everything else behind for half a year while you play with guns.’

Poppy didn’t know what she expected him to say, but she’d hoped he would say something. She wanted him to pull her close, tell her that this was the last thing he wanted to do and that he didn’t want to leave her, or at the very least that he wished he could take her with him. Something, anything that would make things feel better. Instead, he said nothing, did nothing.

‘Did you hear me, Mart? I was asking if you were finally happy now your plan is coming together, the big fantastic future that you’ve been dreaming of.’

‘Poppy please…’

‘Don’t you dare “Poppy please”, don’t ask me for anything or expect me to understand because I don’t! This is what you signed up for; this is what it means, Mart, you pissing off to some godforsaken bit of desert, leaving me stuck here. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you since you walked through the door in your bloody suit with your secret little mission complete!’

‘It won’t be forever.’ His voice was small; his eyes fixed on the floor.

Poppy noted his blank expression, as if it was the first time it had occurred to him that she might need him too. This only made her angrier because it might have only just occurred to him, but she had been thinking of nothing else.

‘I don’t care how long it’s for. Don’t you get it? Whether it’s for one night or one year, it’s too long. You are leaving me here with the junkies on the stairs and the boring bloody winter nights. All I’ve got to look forward to is sitting with my bonkers nan. So you go, Mart, and get this little adventure out of your system, prove whatever it is that you need to prove. Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself, but you know that, right?’

She didn’t want to argue, preferring instead to clamp her arms around his neck and hang on. She wanted to press her lips really hard onto his and kiss him, storing those kisses away for the times when she would miss him the most. Her ache had grown so physical that she shook; the tremors fed a growing anger.

In the aftermath of Martin’s departure, Poppy felt some small relief that he had gone. The dread of his imminent exodus disappeared, replaced with the reality of his absence which, initially, was somehow easier to bear. She replayed the words of their argument, considered their actions… She did that, knowing the only person that suffered because of her obsessional recalling of the details was her.

Martin called it sulking, but for her the silent musings were a way of trying to figure out what happened and why, looking for an answer or at least some kind of rational explanation. Sometimes of course there wasn’t one, a row just happens because of tiredness, an irritation or a million other inconsequential things.

Their fight couldn’t be attributed to anything so transparent. He hadn’t failed to hoover the carpet properly, left the loo seat up or not put the milk back in the fridge. It was much more than that. They were frightened, yet too scared to admit to that fear.

It would be difficult to put in order the many things that they were afraid of. Being parted for such a ridiculous length of time was right up there, the possible lack of communication and the loneliness; these were all contenders for the top spot. There was also the unspeakable fear that Martin might get hurt or killed. It was too awful a scenario to share or say out loud, but think about it they did, separately and secretly with faces averted on dented pillows.

Poppy had wanted to tell him that if he got injured, think loss of limb or blindness, that it wouldn’t make any difference to her. She knew that it would be tough, but she also knew that she would not have loved him any less, confident that they would find a way through it; that they could find a way through anything. At least that’s what she believed.

One of her many ‘if-only’ scenarios, saw her telling Martin over a glass of wine that he was the one thing that had made her life worth living for so many years. The only constant that she could rely on and she would never regret a single second. She wanted him to know that she would rather have had him for a shortened length of time, than fifty years of average. She hoped he knew that she would miss him every second of every day, that she would never let another man touch her. It was only him, always him, the very thought of anything else made her feel sick. She would be content to grow old alone with her memories; the biggest sadness, of course, would have been that she never got her baby.

After brooding unhindered for a few days, Poppy was then swamped with guilt. How dare she have fought with him, not given him physical comfort when he was now so far away, facing an enemy in a hostile environment, devoid of love, affection and human touch?

When these sharpened emotions blunted through the passing of time, she was left with the dull ache of loneliness. Half a year, one hundred and eighty days, it didn’t matter how many times she pictured an event six months previously and thought how quickly that time had passed; it still felt like an eternity, a sentence.

The officer coughed into his sideways bunched fist, drawing her into the now. She waited for him to speak, not wanting to prompt; there was no hurry. Similarly, she didn’t want to make it easy, hoping he might feel a little bit of the pain that she was starting to feel. Poppy stood rigid, imagining what came next. She heard his unspoken words in her head, wondering which phrase he had chosen, rehearsed. ‘Martin is dead’; ‘Martin was injured and now he is dead’; ‘something dreadful has happened, Poppy, Martin is dead’; ‘Mrs Cricket, we have some terrible news. Are you alone?’

She’d always imagined what this visit would be like. Try to find an army wife, husband, mother or father that hasn’t played out this scenario. You won’t be able to because this is how they live. Every time there is a lull in contact or a late night when a promise to call is broken, pulses quicken, car keys are mentally located. Muscles tense as if on starting blocks, in readiness to get to wherever they might be needed with the first waves of grief lapping at their heels. Each unexpected knock at the door, or post-nine p.m. telephone call, causes palms to break sweat until the moment passes and breath returns in a deep sigh. The various salesmen mistake the euphoria for buying signals and not simply the relief of those left behind to watch the clock and tick off the days. For the loved ones of these warriors, it is a sweet relief that it’s not their turn, not today.

Poppy used to practise her reaction in her head. She pictured herself sinking to her knees with fingers shoved into her scalp, ‘Oh no, not Mart! Please tell me it’s not true!’ She thought her practised reaction was very convincing, having once performed it in front of the mirror in the salon. Some might question the need to rehearse, but Poppy worried that if and when it came to it, they might not know how devastated she was, figuring it was best to have this pre-prepared reaction in reserve. She didn’t need it.

In his early forties, the officer was the younger by a couple of years, but his position gave him confidence over and above his colleague’s experience. He removed his hat as he stepped forward.

‘Mrs Cricket?’ his tone was confident, without any hint of nerves. Poppy noted tiny beads of perspiration peppering his top lip; he might have mastered the neutral voice, but would have to work on that sweat thing if he was to be totally convincing.

She nodded.

‘May we come in?’ he spoke as he entered the hallway, turning the question into a statement.

‘I am Major Anthony Helm, this is Sergeant Gisby.’ He put his hand out in the direction of the soldier stood behind him. Poppy stepped forward and placed her limp fingers against his palm – she wasn’t used to this shaking hands lark. It made her feel awkward.

In a controlling role reversal, the officer filled her home with his presence, making Poppy feel confused and slightly angry. He guided her by the elbow. She didn’t like the stranger touching her. She felt queasy and embarrassed.

He led her into the lounge. The other man walked over to the TV and turned it off. Columbo had been in the middle of his big summing up speech, raincoat flapping, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

She sat on the edge of the sofa and cast a fleeting eye around the room, the walls needed more pictures and the dried flower arrangement held a latticework of cobwebs. A minute spider was suspended on invisible thread. A tiny abseiler, his destination the ring-stained wood of a pine shelf. She closed her eyes and wished she could go home, only therein laid her dilemma.

The officer perched on the chair opposite, his colleague stood rigidly by the door. In order to prevent her escape or to facilitate his, she wasn’t sure. Poppy could hear the blood pulsing in her ears with a drumlike beat. Her hands felt cold and clammy, they had finally found their tremor.

She exhaled loudly and deeply like an athlete preparing to perform, flexing her fingers and nodding, her gestures screamed, go on then, tell me now!

‘Are you alone, Mrs Cricket?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was a cracked whisper, strained, the voice she sometimes had when speaking for the first time after a deep sleep.

The major nodded. He was a plain, flat-faced man, made all the more unattractive by his confident stance. There was the hint of a north-east accent that he tried desperately hard to erase, concentrating on delivering neutral vowels and the right pitch. Anthony Helm was a good soldier, respected by those who served under him and relied upon by those he reported to. His reputation was for straight talking, a man that tenaciously did it by the book and did it well. Ironically, the traits that enabled him to climb the ranks with ease did not necessarily equip him for a carefree existence in the civilian world. The vagaries of modern life were hard for a practical man like Anthony Helm to negotiate; when the structure and rules of his regime were removed, he was somewhat adrift.

She smiled nervously at the sergeant and bit her tongue. Her smile was fixed and unnatural. She could feel an inane statement wanting to escape from her mouth, ‘Sergeant, is that better than private, but not as good as colonel? Mart has tried to teach me, but I can never remember the order…’ She didn’t know why she wanted to say this – to ease the tension, fill the silent void? Or was it simply manners, shouldn’t she be making conversation?

Poppy didn’t warm to the major. Her ability to read people told her that whilst he was doing his duty, he would rather have been anywhere else. Mr Gisby smiled back at her, as if reading her thoughts. He had sincere eyes that crumpled at the edges. She was glad that he was there.

Then Helm began, just as she had known he would, with the phrase she had dreaded every day and night since her beloved husband had stepped into that bloody recruiting office. The words that she had considered with trepidation from the first time he came home with his letter telling him to report to the training department at Bassingbourn and bizarrely a cheque, which Martin had been delighted with, but she had seen as a bribe, the modern day Queen’s Shilling. What was it he had said as he waved the piece of paper in front of her? ‘You knew what joining the army meant, Poppy! None of this is a surprise. I know I should have told you first about joining up, but when I did, you knew that this would be my job. And don’t tell me you won’t like it when we get the house with a garden and the extra pay, or the chance to live abroad. You won’t be moaning then, will you!’

Poppy couldn’t believe his words; she was stunned that he had fallen back on a shallow argument. He knew she couldn’t care less about houses and possessions. She wasn’t made that way. It made no sense to her; he was choosing to go away, to leave her alone for months, if not years, and had reached this decision without discussion or consultation. Martin had been a maximum of an hour away from her since she was a little girl and the idea of him being out of reach horrified her. The thought of him being in a different city was something she couldn’t comprehend, let alone a different country. Poppy never bought the supper without asking for his preference, yet he had done this thing alone, furtive, duplicitous. She felt excluded and betrayed.

‘Mrs Cricket?’ for the second time the officer used his tone to anchor her in the present.

Poppy nodded to show that he had succeeded, he had her full attention. Her teeth shook against her bottom lip; she bit down, trying to gain composure.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ He paused, pursing his lips, remembering his training, allowing the information to be received slowly in bite-sized chunks.

She wanted to say, ‘For God’s sake hurry up. We all know what comes next!’

Again, he coughed. ‘As you know, Martin is currently deployed in Afghanistan.’

Poppy tried to control her quivering legs and nodded to show understanding.

‘We are here because we have some news about your husband and it isn’t good news… I am very sorry to have to tell you that Martin is missing.’

It took a second for his words to reach her brain and a further second to digest the fact, two seconds longer than usual.

‘D’you mean dead?’ she prompted, loudly. Her wide eyes told him her abruptness was a symptom of shock. Her body wasn’t wasting precious reserves on pleasantries.

‘No, not dead. Not at this stage. He is missing.’

His response only served to confuse her more, not at this stage? So dead, but not confirmed? Dead, but not discovered? Dead, but not yet? All permutations had him very definitely dead. The rest was semantics.

‘But that means dead doesn’t it?’

‘No. Not dead, he is missing.’ He glanced at Sergeant Gisby, silently asking if he had any better suggestions on how to clarify the facts.

‘Isn’t that just because you haven’t found him or had it confirmed yet or something?’

Major Anthony Helm visibly coloured. She had accurately called the situation and similarly was asking him the question that he’d dreaded the most. Had Poppy looked closely, she would have seen the vaguest twitch to his right cheek; he wasn’t a man that knew how to respond to questions from a girl like her. Despite his years of service, these encounters would always be outside his comfort zone. It was alien to Anthony, sitting in a council flat in Walthamstow on a muggy Tuesday with fish fingers crisping under the grill, telling Poppy that Martin was possibly dead whilst being subjected to questions that he couldn’t answer. It was an element soldiers rarely considered when enlisting, the pastoral responsibilities, the pressing of the flesh, the human face of the MoD machine. It was a world away from kicking in doors and crawling through undergrowth with a gun in your hand.

Poppy felt his unease and might have felt sorry for him, were it not for the fact that she had decided to blame him. Well, she had to blame someone, didn’t she?

His tone was clipped, not through any lack of compassion, but because that was how he operated; whatever the task in hand he retained absolute control.

‘No, that is not the case at all. Martin at this stage is missing. We have no other useful facts, but we do believe in keeping you informed of every development as soon as we have it. At the moment, that is all the information we have.’

‘I appreciate that, Major…’ she hesitated as his surname slipped from her memory, ‘Major Thingy, but what exactly does it mean?’ Poppy hadn’t intended to be rude, but she did want to know what was going on.

Major Helm licked the sweat from his top lip, lizard-like in his dexterity. ‘It’s Anthony.’ His smile was fleeting. It had taken one slip-up of his name for him to reach a point of intolerance; he was not about to be known as ‘Major Thingy’ especially in front of the sergeant. It had been twenty-four years, eight tours and a clutch of service medals since he had answered to a name he disliked.

Sergeant Gisby stepped forward. He bent low in front of Poppy, addressing her while resting on his haunches, his fat thighs pressed against the double seam of his combat trousers. ‘What it means, Mrs Cricket…’

‘No one really calls me Mrs Cricket. I’m Poppy.’

‘What it means, Poppy, is that he was on patrol in Helmand province and he didn’t come back when he was expected to. He went out on patrol in a group of twelve and so far only ten have returned to base. That’s all we know at this point. We are trying to get information for you from those that did come back and as soon as we have more we’ll pass it straight on to you. What we do know, is that something went very wrong on that patrol. Martin and one other infantryman are missing.’

‘So he could be dead?’

Sergeant Gisby didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, giving Poppy the impression that he was on her side. ‘Yes, Poppy, that is a possibility.’

She nodded, grateful for his honesty. There was a minute of silence, each gathering thoughts. ‘When did it happen?’ Poppy addressed the sergeant. She wanted to try and picture what she was doing while her husband was getting into trouble, possibly even killed.

‘It was yesterday, yesterday afternoon.’

Yesterday afternoon, where had she been? In the supermarket, oblivious. Poppy had always thought that if anything happened to Martin she would know. Like the twins you read about in National Geographic, when one breaks a leg and the other feels the pain even though they are hundreds of miles apart. Poppy thought it might have been like that, but it hadn’t. She hadn’t felt a thing. Instead, she’d been perusing the three-for-two offers, trying to choose between pepperoni and Hawaiian, while her man was being killed, going missing.

‘What was he doing in that Helmans province, or whatever it’s called? I thought he wouldn’t be in any danger.’

The major piped up, ‘You should be very proud of him, Poppy. He had been selected to aide an American patrol as part of a special task force.’

She looked at him long and hard. Her thoughts went briefly to what her husband had put up with every day of his childhood, how he had joined up to give them a better life.

When they were little, Martin would knock for Poppy after school and the two would head to the Recreation Area, a rather grand term applied to the dilapidated swings in the central courtyard next to the car park. There, they invented games like collecting a stick off the floor while swinging, or daring each other to shout things out. It used to feel really brave when it was cold, dark and everyone else was inside safe and warm, having their tea. They would take it in turns to shout out ‘BUM!’ louder and louder until someone would hang over a balcony and tell them to ‘Shut it!’ That used to make them laugh even more. Poppy’s mum never came to check that she was OK, if she was warm enough, where she was or who she was with. Sometimes it got really late, but still she never appeared. Martin’s mum never came to find him either, she probably thought he was safer out on the streets, taking his chances with the paedophiles and pushers than he was in his own house.

Poppy and Martin thought about it sometimes and agreed that if they had a little girl, or a little boy for that matter, they wouldn’t let them wander about with no idea of where they were for hours on end. They would instead have them safe by their side or they’d be outside with them, teaching them the pick up the stick or the shout out ‘bum’ game.

‘Oh I am proud of him, very proud, but not because he was helping some Americans doing God knows what, God knows where. And what do you mean special task force? He only finished his training five minutes ago!’

Major Helm smiled, but kept his eyes downcast, making it hard for Poppy to read his expression. ‘They only select the best. He was a very good soldier, Poppy.’

‘Was? So you think he’s dead too?’

‘No… I… Is… He is a good soldier.’ He was scarlet.

Poppy didn’t wait for the major to start uttering further clichés. ‘I haven’t got any more questions right now.’ Her voice sounded sharper than intended, like she was conducting an interview and didn’t know how to wrap it up. It was her polite way of saying go. Please go now. She wanted to be by herself; well, she did and she didn’t.

The silent tableau was fractured as Poppy leapt from the sofa, alerted by the acrid scent of burning. ‘Oh shit!’ She ran into the kitchen. Pulling the grill pan from the cooker, she watched the tray and its blackened content clatter into the water-filled sink and then, almost instantly, was sick on the floor, retching until her gut was empty.

Sergeant Gisby’s voice came from the doorway, ‘Can I call anyone for you, Poppy? Is there someone that can come and sit with you?’

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.