Free Poppy Day by Amanda Prowse Page B

it or she too was one currant short of a bun. Either way, Poppy’s nan, Dorothea Day, was utterly and totally convinced that her daughter was Joan Collins. Poppy didn’t know when this belief first manifested itself or where it came from. The fact was, she told anyone who would listen how tough it was bringing up a wilful character like her Joan. As far as Poppy could tell, the only connection between Joan Collins and her mother was that they had both played The Bitch.
    Dorothea was also convinced that Mr Veerswamy and his entire retinue were trying to poison her. Despite this ingrained belief, she polished off the food they presented her with each mealtime, ending with ‘Ha! You didn’t get me this time!’ Often followed by, ‘Any more of that apple pie going spare?’
    She was also in love. Nathan, the object of her affection, was the nineteen-year-old gay nursing assistant, who tended to her every need. She told him every day, several times a day, ‘… such a good boy, you need a nice girlfriend.’ To which he replied, several times a day, ‘I don’t need a girlfriend, Dorothea. I’ve got you.’ But she didn’t remember.
    Poppy visited her nan daily without fail. It was the highlight of the day for both of them. If Nathan was around, Dorothea would introduce them, ‘Nathan, this is my Poppy Day.’
    Nathan would shake her hand and say, ‘I am pleased to meet you, Poppy Day’ even though it’s probably the millionth time that they had met.
    She would then say, on cue, ‘Poppy Day, I want to leave Nathan something in my will. Can you sort it out for me?’
    ‘Certainly, Nan. What would you like to leave him?’
    To which she would reply, ‘I think about a million pounds.’
    ‘Consider it done.’
    Nathan would smile, thinking for one second about what he could do with that million pounds.
    They both knew the reality. Her total wealth sat somewhere between four and sixty-eight pounds, depending on what she had in her purse, and the few sentimental possessions that were scattered around her room.
     
     
    Rob left, telling Poppy that he would be in touch in the morning. She walked along the road to The Unpopulars, finding it difficult to think about the situation. Unable to picture Martin, where he was or what had happened to him. She thought about normal things, like whether her nan might need anything, wondering if the fridge needed defrosting, anything to fill her thoughts.
    She rang the doorbell, to be greeted by Nathan.
    ‘Hello, gorgeous.’
    ‘Hello yourself. How’s Dorothea?’
    ‘Oh, Poppy Day, she has been a complete nightmare today! Threw her breakfast across the room first thing, by eleven a.m. we had a dirty protest and after lunch she tried to bite Mrs Hardwick on the arm.’ Poppy loved Nathan, the way that he made even the most awful day sound almost funny. Almost.
    ‘Is Mrs Hardwick all right?’ She was used to having to apologise or mop up for her nan, the Reggie Kray of the house.
    ‘Yes, she is fine. I gave her an extra custard cream with her cuppa tonight to soothe away any angst over the whole sordid incident.’
    ‘Thanks, Nath.’
    ‘You are welcome, Poppy Day.’ He had picked up Dorothea’s habit of calling her by both Christian and surname. ‘You look shattered, honey, tough day at the office?’
    ‘Mmmnn, something like that.’
    Poppy made her way along the corridor to her nan’s room. She scanned the TV lounge, which was crowded as usual. Fourteen mismatched, high-backed chairs in various floral and vinyl finishes formed a U-shape around the perimeter; these seats the bequest of residents long dispatched. The pea- soup-coloured walls absorbed the fetid, foul breath of the decaying occupants. The linoleum floor caught drips from lax muscles, splashes of tea from shaky hands and tears shed at memories that refused to budge. The room and the people in it were fused into an amorphous mass of decrepitude. Even when empty, the ghosts and scents of the dead and not yet