A Christmas Wish Read online

  ‘Be a good girl for Aunty Jo.’ Poppy wasn’t sure her daughter was listening, so she turned her attention to her friend. ‘Max is soundo and probably won’t stir. If he does, his sippy cup is in the fridge and just cuddle him back off.’

  ‘I think I can manage that.’ Jo spoke over her shoulder as Peg placed her splayed fingers on one of Poppy’s cushions and shook her little bottle.

  ‘And I shall be back later to tell you exactly what your new teacher had to say, Peg Alessandra. So you might want to hide the big stick.’

  Peg again spoke in the direction of her mum’s voice without turning her head. ‘Jade McKeever said Mrs Newman is a meanie poo-poo breath and I think she is too.’

  ‘Peg!’ Poppy shook her head as she buttoned up her warm green coat and tied her stripey scarf into a knot at her neck. With her feet snug inside her wellies, she set out into the cold December night.

  She cautiously trod the path between the identical houses – army quarters, built in the 1970s, that she and the other service wives on the patch tried to personalise with fancy lamps, oversized Ikea pictures and wacky welcome mats. Nonetheless, in the half light of a winter’s evening, they all looked the same.

  The snow was at that horrible stage when it turns from crisp white powder to a thin orange-coloured sludge that clings to your feet and sprays up the back of your legs. Higher up on the slope of the fields though there remained a healthy smattering that almost sparkled in the moonlight. The night was still, the moon large and the air had the faintest aroma of wood smoke from real fires and damp earth. It was a smell unique to the countryside, so very different to East London, where she had grown up. The atmosphere here was untainted by the waft of fried food pumping from extractor fans along the high street, or the pungent, lingering scent of cigarette smoke and diesel, or the stink from the grime that smeared the buildings and sat in darkened heaps against the kerb.

  Poppy gathered her coat at her neck and set off with a determined stride down the lane, her breath blowing smoke out into the night sky. They lived in the middle of Wiltshire and it was breathtakingly beautiful. As soon as she left the cul-de-sac she was surrounded by open fields with low barbed-wire fences, dense hedging and fat sheep. On a clear day, from the brow of the hill, she could see Stonehenge, a fact that thrilled and fascinated her. Each season she watched as the landscape was transformed from waving fans of yellow oilseed rape to rich brown furrows to the white snows of winter. It was a world away from the concrete block of flats in Walthamstow in which she had lived as a child, the place her nan Dot had entered as a bride in 1962 and had left six decades later when dementia and old age were victorious. When Martin had finished the basic training for his new trade, they had packed up their little family and moved from Bordon to Colchester then Hounslow before finding themselves in Larkhill, another world.

  Poppy walked to the end of the road and turned left opposite the parade of shops that catered mainly for squaddies and their families. There was the obligatory newsagent’s and a convenience store at which you could buy several varieties of lager and crisps but couldn’t for love or money find a vegetable that hadn’t taken on the characteristics of a gourd. There was a post office where loved ones queued with shoe boxes and padded envelopes whose contents weren’t necessarily very original but were at least under two kilograms in weight and so would be delivered free to the BFPO address at which their other halves temporarily resided. An army surplus store provided bits of kit that made life easier for those who worked in trying conditions. And there was a chippy and two other takeaways.

  The Turkish kebab shop owners had made a lovely effort for Christmas: in their window were two large blinking neon signs that said, ‘Happy Chri tma !’ Both ‘s’s had long since given up the ghost. They had also hung blue lights that looked like icicles dangling from the peeling fascia. Whenever Peg and Max walked past they would hover on the pavement outside, squealing with excitement at what this meagre display represented, shouting, ‘Happy Chritma! Happy Chritma!’ over and over.

  Poppy wondered what they would make of the ornate Christmas windows of Oxford Street if this was enough to send them into raptures. She remembered as a child going up West and pressing her nose against the windows, drawn by the sparkle, lights and scenes from a fairy wonderland. She used to wonder what kind of child got to go in stores like that. Selfridges held particular fascination; it was the store in which her nan had worked as a young girl. Poppy used to try and imagine a youthful, laughing Dot walking through its revolving doors with the shiny brass push plates. It was sometimes hard to picture her nan in that way, when she considered the woman she became, trapped in a confusing world of memory loss, anxiety and fear, watching any old rubbish on television and wearing easy-fit elastic-waisted trousers.

  Poppy carried on along the path, enjoying the sound of the patches of remaining snow crunching underfoot and seeking out the areas that were less well trod. She passed the Packhorse pub and made her way round the corner into the low-rise building whose bright lights and propped-open door seemed to beckon her inside.

  The little school catered for the children of service families and the farming community as well as for the kids of a few city slickers whose country piles boasted indoor pools, games rooms and annexes above the garage. As she hovered in the corridor, Poppy felt her anxiety levels rising. ‘Get a grip, girl. It’s only a bloody meeting, you’ve been through worse!’ It was her nan’s voice. She nodded.

  Rows of pegs were positioned on the wall a couple of feet from the floor, each marked by a personalised sticker. She ran her fingers over Peg’s space, imagining her daughter placing her coat and bag there every day. She smiled at the large yellow combine harvester that sat above her name; Peg had rejected princess crowns and sparkly rings, mermaids and puppies in favour of this hunk of farm machinery. She liked the way Peg looked at the world – differently.

  Poppy peered through the little glass window in the classroom door and saw Freddie’s parents sitting on the teeny chairs in front of Mrs Newman. All three were laughing loudly. She couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but they were all clearly delighted. Well done, Freddie! Poppy knew for a fact that Freddie’s dad had an indoor pool and an annex, because he had told her so the first and only time they had met. She watched now as he kept adjusting his long legs in their pinstriped trousers, pinching the crease above the knee as he shifted his position. Freddie’s mum flicked at her platinum-blonde layers, adjusting them on the shoulders of her navy blazer. In Poppy’s professional opinion, the woman would be better off going a couple of shades darker and opting for a softer fringe. She hadn’t worked as a hairdresser since she’d had Peg, but old habits died hard.

  She sank down onto the equally teeny chair outside the door. It wasn’t the first time she’d been made to sit outside the classroom while all the fun was had on the other side of the wall. She remembered clearly when she was six and the whole class had been told to bring in empty, rinsed squash bottles and yoghurt pots to make puppets for the end of term concert. Little slips of paper with this instruction had been slid between the pages of their reading books a month in advance and reminders were issued weekly.

  The problem was, there were no empty squash bottles or yoghurt pots in Poppy’s home. There was hardly ever even a cooked meal; the best she could hope for was toast and she didn’t have the courage or foresight to mention this to anyone. Her reading book remained closed because when Poppy got home from school, no note would be read by her doting parents and stuck on the fridge as a reminder. Her mum didn’t tuck her in at night or snuggle her up on the sofa for reading time, eager for her child to increase her vocabulary, encouraging her to jump to Biff, Chip and Kipper’s next adventure. No, Poppy’s prime concern would be trying to get her uniform a little bit clean for the next day. This she tackled by dabbing at any obvious marks with a dot of Fairy Liquid on a piece of wet loo roll, which, far from being effective, would simply disintegrate into little rolled worms that left a greyi
sh smudge in their wake. She spent the hours between arriving home and going to bed making sure her nan had taken her tablets and her mum didn’t fall asleep sloshed and with a fag on. Her head was way too full to think about end of term puppet shows.

  The art and craft teacher, Mrs Greenwood, who came in one afternoon a week, had not given her a chance to explain. And even if she had, Poppy would have chosen silence rather than reveal the state of affairs at home in front of her classmates.

  ‘Where are your empty bottles and pots, Poppy?’ Mrs Greenwood had boomed as Poppy’s classmates upturned their carrier bags and emptied their plastic booty onto the desks.

  She stole a glance at Martin, who looked on sympathetically, before shrugging her shoulders and staring at the scuffed tips of her shoes, inside which her toes were bunched and hurting.

  ‘I see. That’s your response, is it? This is very disappointing. You have had weeks to prepare and this really isn’t good enough! Outside, now!’ She pointed towards the door. Poppy remembered the gold cross that dangled below her wrist from her gold bracelet. It twisted in the light and made her think of Jesus.

  It had almost been a relief to go outside and stand with her back against the painted wall. Far easier than watching her classmates use generous dollops from the glue pot to add little felt jackets, heart and star stickers, googly eyes and hair made from wool onto their puppets, which were finished off with large sticks shoved up their jacksies.

  It was these memories, sharp and bitter, there for perfect recall, which made Poppy feel waves of anger towards her mother. The thought of Peg or Max experiencing even a second of unease or discomfort made her heart constrict. She wanted to bubble-wrap them from the world for as long as possible, keeping them safe and happy inside her little nest and this instinct made it even harder to understand her mum’s total lack of interest.

  Poppy stood and perused the school noticeboard opposite the classroom, where idling parents could read about what was going on in the school community. She leant towards it, studying the posters and flyers that detailed fundraising events, dates for the pre-school Nativity, slimming clubs with vacancies and mother and baby yoga classes. She squinted at the telephone numbers of enterprising mums who flogged candles and aloe vera products at awkward parties where you felt obliged to buy something after knocking back a glass of cheap plonk and a slack handful of salted peanuts.

  The classroom door opened suddenly and Freddie’s parents spewed forth like a laughing, chattering wave breaking in the hallway.

  ‘Oh yes, let’s do that! Call you soon!’

  ‘Bye! Have a lovely break, Janine!’

  ‘You too. Bye bye!’

  Poppy swallowed the swell of sickness that washed over her as nerves threatened. Janine, so that was what the ‘J’ stood for. As a child she had always found it impossible to imagine her teachers having a first name; she just couldn’t picture them being referred to as anything other than Miss or Mr. The other thing she just couldn’t picture was what they looked like in their pyjamas.

  ‘Ah, yes, Mrs…?’

  Poppy had met Mrs Newman on a couple of occasions and yet didn’t seem to have gelled in the woman’s mind.

  ‘Day, Poppy Day.’

  ‘Of course, come in, Mrs Day.’

  Poppy stuttered. ‘Oh… sorry, actually it’s Mrs Cricket. I’m Peg’s mum. Poppy Day is my not married name.’ She blushed. Not married name?

  ‘I see. Please sit.’ Mrs Newman stretched out her palm towards the chairs and gave the ‘t’ such a hard sound, Poppy felt like a dog. ‘No Mr Cricket?’ Mrs Newman looked at the little chair next to her.

  Poppy bit her lip, fighting the temptation to say, ‘Yes, he is sitting right next to me; he is just very, very small!’

  ‘No, he’s in Sy—’ She stopped herself. What had he said? ‘No specifics, just say “away”.’ She gave a small cough. ‘He’s away.’

  Poppy watched Mrs Newman inhale deeply as if preparing for battle.

  ‘I see.’ She shuffled the sheets of paper in front of her. ‘Peg has been in my class for one term now…’ She paused and looked up. ‘May I ask, is Peg an abbreviation?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, yes, it is, but not for Margaret or anything, which I get asked a lot. Her name is Peggy, but she’s always been Peg.’

  Poppy noticed the flicker of irritation around the woman’s eyes. She continued as if Poppy hadn’t spoken.

  ‘If I am being honest, it has been a most challenging term.’

  Poppy wondered if it would be okay to have the dishonest version, thinking it might be slightly easier to hear. ‘In what way?’

  Mrs Newman pushed her glasses up her nose, back to the point from which they had slid. ‘Peg asks a lot of questions.’ She smiled briefly.

  ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Shows she’s interested.’

  Mrs Newman gave a small laugh. ‘Well, I can see how one might assume that. But let me assure you, it really isn’t a good thing. Peg feels the need to question everything and I mean everything.’ She proceeded to check the notes in front of her. ‘This week’s examples include, why are children seated alphabetically and not allowed to sit with their friends? Why are some of her classmates given two goes at being register monitor, when others are still waiting for a first go? And why are Shahul and Hamjid allowed to miss assembly when others who aren’t sure that they even believe in God have to attend?’ She placed the paper face down and once again looked at Poppy. ‘The list is long, Mrs Cricket, and ever increasing.’ She put her hands on the table in front of her.

  ‘Why are they?’

  ‘Why are they what?’ Mrs Newman twitched her nose.

  ‘Why are some children given two goes at being register monitor when others are still waiting for a turn?’ Poppy understood her daughter’s need to try and fathom apparent injustice and this point seemed the most ludicrous of all.

  Mrs Newman removed her glasses and used one of the arms as an indicator, pointing in turn to herself, the wider classroom and Poppy, who found it incredibly irritating. She gave a snort before she spoke, as if surprised at this line of questioning from Peg’s mother. ‘I am not here to defend my teaching methods, Mrs Cricket, but as you ask, I use it as a means of reward. If a pupil is well behaved, attentive and courteous, I reward that behaviour with privileged duties and praise. It is a good lesson for life.’

  Poppy thought about her own class in school. Harriet, who already had a pretty cushy life, a nice house, an attentive mum, good teeth and a fabulous lunch box, was also given treats at school, to which she was slightly indifferent. What was the big deal in being given a fun-size Mars when she had a whole cupboard of sweets and goodies at home? Whereas to a child like Poppy or one of her mates it would have meant the world. This she knew because she had been given a fun-size Milky Way once by a neighbour and had got at least six bites out of it.

  She considered her response. ‘I just think that maybe if you let one of the less well-behaved, inattentive or discourteous kids be register monitor, it might encourage them to try harder. You might ignite that spark inside them to do better, if they can see they will be rewarded.’ Poppy felt awkward. Maybe she had overstepped the mark – what did she know, a hairdresser from Walthamstow.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Mrs Newman looked at the clock over Poppy’s head.

  She shook her head, positive that she hadn’t yet eaten up her allotted time. Under pressure, she was now unable to think of a single one of the pre-prepared questions she had conjured on the way over. She knew she would leave having learned nothing about how her little girl was faring academically.

  Mrs Newman stood, replaced her goggles and headed towards the door. There were no trills of laughter or suggestions that they get together soon. She reached for the handle and turned to Poppy.

  ‘I understand that having a husband in prison brings its own set of difficulties, but if I made allowances for every child with a difficulty, chaos would reign and that is something I simply can�
�t allow.’ Her smile was brief and insincere and at such close proximity Poppy could smell her breath, which was most unpleasant.

  Flabbergasted, she stepped from the room. Prison? Where on earth had she got that?

  Then her giggle caught in her throat. Mrs Newman had thought Poppy was going to say ‘inside’ when she’d checked herself earlier.

  Poppy fastened her coat and stepped out into the cold night air feeling deflated and frustrated in equal measure. She wanted Peg to question everything and knew how hard she worked. What did Mrs bloody Newman know? Questioning things and having courage had proved invaluable to Poppy in her life. Without that, she wouldn’t have escaped the deprivation into which she’d been born; she wouldn’t have known that she could.

  Jade’s mum and dad swung their car into the car park and jumped out, obviously running a little late.

  ‘Hi, Poppy! How are you? We are so late, he’s only just got in.’ Jade’s mum jerked her thumb at her husband, still in his uniform and rolling his eyes.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she lied, nodding, wishing that Mart had only just got in and had been by her side to face Mrs Newman.

  ‘We can have a proper catch-up tomorrow after the play?’

  ‘Yes, great.’ Poppy nodded again.

  ‘How did it go?’ Jade’s mum looked towards the school.

  Poppy sighed. ‘Not great. Mrs Newman is a meanie poo-poo breath.’

  Jade’s mum laughed loudly. ‘So I’ve heard!’

  Poppy loosened her scarf, shook the damp from her hair and strode up the path to her front door, stamping her boots to rid them of the residue of snow. As she put her key in the lock the telephone on the little table at the foot of the stairs rang. Jo answered it.

  ‘Oh! Hello, mate… No, it’s Jo next door. One sec, she’s just coming in, Mart! Quick, quick!’ She beckoned to Poppy with her brightly painted fingernails as she held the receiver out towards her friend, knowing that every second counted.

  Jo grabbed her cardigan and shut the front door on her way out. These calls were precious, and she wanted to give them privacy. She’d pop in tomorrow for a catch-up and a cup of coffee.