Free A Christmas Wish by Amanda Prowse Page B

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 herpractised 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜May we come in?’ he spoke as he entered the hallway, turning the question into a statement.
    â€˜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 flowerarrangement 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!
    â€˜Are you alone, Mrs Cricket?’
    â€˜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