Poppy Kinsey was convinced there were three-legged tortoises and hibernating sloths that moved faster than her friend. Freya was walking even more slowly than usual – and that was saying something. One foot scuffed achingly in front of the other. It occurred to Poppy that plodding footsteps were more or less the soundtrack of their friendship.
One thing Freya did have over tortoises and sloths, though, was multi-tasking. Her left hand was hoisting a shopping bag as her right tapped out a one-thumbed text message at dizzying speed. That was something at which she was an expert. She’d taken opposable thumbs to a new level of evolution.
Freya’s boyfriend, Mark, turned and gave Poppy a knowing half-smile.
Yeah, I know, he didn’t say.
Freya muttered something to Mark that Poppy didn’t catch and then re-pocketed the phone. Her pace didn’t increase and Poppy had known her friend for long enough to suspect there was something going on.
‘This bag’s too heavy,’ Freya moaned, holding it a little higher and offering it to Mark.
‘I’m not an octopus,’ he replied. ‘I only have two hands – and they’re both carrying your shopping already. There are three pairs of shoes in these bags. Three! Who needs three new pairs of shoes?’
Freya rarely took no for an answer. She held the bag higher until Mark snatched it away. He lumbered the rest of her bags onto his opposite shoulder and started waddling like a tipsy emperor penguin.
Poppy trailed behind them along the pavement, feeling tiny beads of sweat beginning to pool on her forehead. It was the final day of July and the sun was sitting high among the vast expanse of blue sky. She swished her top, hoping the sweat wasn’t going to create a damp patch.
This was how they had spent so many days this summer: Mark and Freya side by side, Poppy following like a forlorn puppy. She was never quite sure if she minded. Most of the time she didn’t, but every now and then, even though she tried to bury it, she experienced a pang of jealousy that their trio was a two-plus-one.
She was the one.
It had been a dull hour on the bus, travelling the thirty miles from the centre of Bristol as it dropped its inhabitants off into the surrounding leafy towns and parishes. Mobile reception came and went and the crush of passengers had sent the temperature soaring. Poppy was relieved to be home in their village of Purley.
The three of them mooched away from the village centre, heading across the neatly trimmed green towards the medieval church. Flowers blossomed around the edges of the green and the smell of freshly cut grass clung to the air.
They crossed the cobbled bridge painfully slowly and then Freya stopped and nodded at the stone building that ran alongside the River Purley.
‘Didn’t you say you needed the loo, Mark?’
Mark stared at her for a second too long before his eyebrows shot up. ‘Right, yeah. Be right back.’
He dropped the shopping bags on the pavement and scuttled off towards the toilets.
Poppy watched him go, trying to figure out what she’d missed. Freya’s deathly slow march was bad enough, but even more frustrating was the fact that the entire journey back had been punctuated by silent conversations between the couple. They had spoken with widened eyes, raised eyebrows and gentle tilts of the head.
They were the strangest of couples. Mark was tall, athletic and lean with short dark hair and a natural ability for, well, everything. Freya, on the other hand, was shorter and wider, with big hips, a curvy backside and curvier chest that had appeared from nowhere three summers ago. Boys seemed to have a thing for curves at their age. Freya put it all down to her mother’s Jamaican heritage, which seemed more likely than it coming from her father. He’d disappeared back to whatever corner of London he’d come from when she was still a toddler.
Unlike Mark, Freya’s thing was definitely not academia – though what she lacked in ability, she tried to make up for with enthusiasm.
And volume. Her range consisted of loud and louder.
‘What’s going on with you two?’ Poppy asked.
Freya replied too quickly: ‘What? Nothing’s going on.’
‘You keep looking at each other… weirdly.’
‘No, we don’t.’ Freya flicked her hair backwards with both of her hands, not trying to hide the change of subject. ‘We should go shopping in Bristol more often.’
‘You say that every time your mum gives you money – then you spend it all in one go. Like today.’
Freya picked up one of the bags. ‘Yeah, but did you see my shoes? They’re so pretty, Pops. They should open a Primark here. Better than all these stupid cottages and grass.’
Poppy turned to look at the centre of the village. As well as the church and green, there was a war memorial on the other side of the road, plus a row of thatched-roofed cottages that had been there for hundreds of years.
It was like living in a postcard.
‘I’m not sure you’d get that past the council,’ Poppy said.
Freya pushed herself up onto the tips of her toes, bobbing up and down. She wasn’t one for standing still; she constantly fidgeted as if she had somewhere else to be. ‘Maybe I’ll stand for council,’ she said. ‘How old have you got to be? Eighteen? That’s only a year and a bit away – I’d be great. I’d get us a McDonald’s, a Primark, a Topshop, plus a Nando’s.’
‘You reckon people would vote for you?’
‘You’d vote for me – and Mark. That’s two. Mum too, I reckon.’
‘You’ll need more than three votes.’
Freya waved a finger in Poppy’s face. ‘You don’t reckon they’d vote for a black girl round here? You saying they’re racist?’
Poppy opened her mouth to answer and then realised Freya had cracked into a grin. ‘Tell you what,’ Poppy said, ‘if you stand for council, I’ll vote for you.’
‘You saying I won’t?’
Poppy linked her arm through Freya’s. ‘I know you won’t. By the time we’re eighteen, we’ll be off at uni and this place will be a long way away.’
Freya didn’t reply because she had her phone out of her pocket again and was checking the screen. She tapped something and then put it away. Considering the only two people with whom Freya hung around were already with her, Poppy had no idea what she was up to.
And then, all of a sudden, she knew.
It seemed so blindingly obvious that she couldn’t believe she’d missed it. Freya usually wanted to go shopping when she got her monthly allowance – but always on the same day. Month after month, the three of them ended up in the city on a Saturday. This time, for some reason, Freya had told Poppy they had to go on Sunday instead. They’d got up early to catch the bus because the shops weren’t open as long on Sundays. Given that Freya could barely haul herself into school by nine in the morning, it was more than strange for her to have suggested this.
‘You all right?’ Freya asked.
Poppy blinked back onto the bridge, realising Freya was talking to her. ‘Um…’
‘You spaced out for a minute.’
Poppy’s throat was dry as she tried to swallow, wanting to convince herself that she’d got it wrong. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘So what d’you reckon?’ Freya added, and Poppy realised she’d missed part of a conversation.
‘You’re right,’ she said, figuring it was as good a reply as any.
‘Damn right I am. We’re both sixteen – it’s just cos she’s so old. We had a right row about it last night. I was like, “Why can’t Mark stay over? It’s not like we have to worry about our GCSEs now.” Then my mum was like, “I’m not having that going on under my roof.” I was like, “Maybe I’ll get a roof of my own.” Then she was like, “You do that.” The cow. She’s just jealous.’
Before Poppy could reply, Mark emerged from the toilets, wiping his hands on his shorts. He picked up the shopping bags with a smile and nod for Freya, and they continued along the dusty paths that led away from the centre of the village.
Purley Hill steepled over them: a long, straight road arching up and away from the village. Trees lined both sides, dousing all below in a cooling shadow that took the edge off the balminess of the day. Poppy, Freya and Mark passed into the shade and then turned to take the path that hugged the edge of the river.
They were heading towards Poppy’s house but Freya was moving at an even more leisurely pace than before. She was scuffing her feet, swinging her free arm, complaining to anyone who’d listen – which was nobody – that her legs were sore from the shopping trip. If she moved any more slowly, she’d be going backwards.
What should have been a five-minute walk took almost fifteen. Eventually, they emerged from an alley onto the road where Poppy lived. There was a line of houses set back from the road, each with small gardens at the front and huge ones at the back.
The trio was just about to cross the road when Freya stepped away from Mark and dropped her handbag. It thumped onto the ground, the top flying open as the contents of the Boots make-up counter spilled onto the tarmac. Freya gasped, ‘Oops,’ then dropped to her knees and started to repack everything. She tugged on Mark’s trousers, asking him to help, but Poppy stood where she was, staring towards her house. The road was usually clear except for a handful of cars, but there was now a row of a dozen or so vehicles.
‘You should have told me,’ she whispered.
‘Huh?’
Poppy looked down at Freya, who was trying to act as if everything was fine. Her sideways glance towards Mark gave her up once and for all.
Without waiting for them, Poppy dashed across the road. Mark called after her, but Poppy bounded along the pavement, then the driveway, up to her front door. In a flash, the key was in her hand and she stumbled into the gloom.
The hallway was the darkest part of the house and would be shrouded in permanent dusk if they didn’t leave the living room door open. It was always open, allowing daylight to eat into the murk.
The door was closed.
Poppy thought about turning and heading back to the centre of Purley. She had lived in the village her entire life. As much as she couldn’t wait to get away, it was her playground. She knew the lanes, trails and cut-throughs; the hidey-holes to shelter from the rain; the secluded fields to bathe in the sun. If she ran now, she could find a spot where nobody would bother her. It would be better than walking into what was on the other side of the door.
How could they? Freya, Mark, her father – they knew what today was.
Poppy turned and took a step back towards the front door – but Mark was suddenly there, sweating and out of breath as he dropped Freya’s shopping bags on the doorstep.
‘What’s wrong?’ he panted.
Poppy didn’t think he’d done it on purpose, but he had blocked her in her own hallway. The bright sunlight dazzled behind him, silhouetting his slender figure in the doorframe.
Freya’s shape appeared over Mark’s shoulder as she hunched over, hands on knees. ‘Girl! You can really run.’
Poppy had nowhere to go. She found herself sucked into the darkness of the hall, drifting to the far end, knowing what was going to happen. She pulled down the cool metal handle and pushed, took one step forward and then—
‘SURPRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISE!’
Poppy blinked.
Her living room was filled with people: kids from school, neighbours, one or two of her dad’s friends, a few people from the village. They all smiled and cheered expectantly. Her dad was front and centre, beaming. The walls were decorated with rainbow streamers and banners. So much colour.
Freya elbowed her way around Poppy into the living room. ‘I think she guessed,’ she said, nudging Poppy’s father with her arm. ‘She’s a smart one, Mr K. It weren’t my fault – I didn’t say nothing.’
Poppy stared at them, gulping back the lump in her throat.
‘Happy birthday, Pops,’ her father said, making a move towards her.
Before he could reach her, Poppy turned, pushing past Mark and making a run for it. There was a babbling of voices behind her but she charged through the front door, spun at the end of the driveway and blazed past the row of cars, sprinting for the end of the road. She didn’t know where she was going, just that she couldn’t be in the house with all those people. She had been worried about sweating through her top, but she didn’t care any longer. Poppy ran and ran, moving so quickly that it felt like her legs were going faster than the rest of her body. She’d race off the edge of a cliff in cartoon style, hang in mid-air and then plummet.
She darted onto the track that skirted the house at the furthest end of the road, ducking under the clawing branches of an apple tree and feeling the welcome chill. Suddenly, she was trembling. She wrapped her arms around her sweat-stained top as she slowed to a walk. The gravel crunched underfoot and Poppy’s eyes spun with purple and green stars at the sudden change of light. She stumbled ahead to the crossroads, where the shingle trail intersected with a crumbling dirt lane.
Poppy stopped to catch her breath, only then realising there were tears dribbling down her cheeks. She breathed in deeply through her nose, trying to compose herself as she dried her eyes with the bottom of her T-shirt.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm.
She was on the lane that flanked the back gardens of her row of houses. She turned and started to walk towards the gate at the back of her house, still dabbing her eyes. The last few minutes had been a blur and she wasn’t entirely sure how it had all happened. In the moment she’d seen all those people in her house, she’d known she had to get away.
Why had her dad done it? It was her birthday – but so much more than that. Since the previous year, July the thirty-first was always going to have a second meaning.
Poppy felt silly. Embarrassed. Regardless of anything else, all those people had just seen her run out of the house like a silly child. These were people who’d known her all her life – and she’d humiliated herself in front of them all. In a village where everyone knew everyone else, that was some going. She’d have to stay in her room for the rest of the summer, if only to avoid their pity-filled stares.
It was all her dad’s fault.
Poppy stood on tiptoes to peer over the top of her back gate. From what she could see, there was nobody in the back garden and, although there were dark shapes silhouetted through the windows at the rear of the house, nobody appeared to be watching. Poppy stretched her arm through the gap between the gate and the post and reached for the latch. She’d first taught herself this trick when she was five or six.
Poppy felt like that little girl again now. She creaked the gate open and edged into the garden. She could have run and run; could have found herself a spot in the woods outside the village and hid. But as annoyed as she was with her father, she needed to be at home.
She skirted the line of the hedge until she reached the tree in the back corner of the garden. It had grown with her, from a sapling that had once matched her height, to the faithful shelter it now provided. When her dad was at work and there was no Freya or Mark to keep her company, Poppy would sometimes sit under that tree. If she was in the mood, she’d draw in her sketchbook; other times, she’d read or play with her phone.
After a final glance towards the house, Poppy wedged herself against the trunk, using it to shield her from anyone inside. The rough bark pressed into her back as she clasped her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, listening. More than anything, this was what she liked doing on this spot. She’d close her eyes and tune in to the sounds of the village. She could hear them now – friends, neighbours, everyone – whispering about her. Tittering to one another, asking if they’d heard about the crazy, silly girl who’d run out of her own birthday party.
‘Pops.’
Poppy opened her eyes to see her father standing in front of her. He had his hands in his pockets; the top few buttons of his polo shirt were undone. He was smiling kindly, dark eyes twinkling. Despite the anger Poppy wanted to feel towards him, the fury she wanted to throw at him, it wasn’t there.
‘Hi,’ she croaked.
‘You OK?’
Poppy nodded and her dad creaked his way down until he was sitting next to her, his back also pressed against the trunk. He grunted as a click echoed around the garden.
‘Knees aren’t what they were,’ he said.
Poppy closed her eyes again.
‘How’d you know I’d be here?’ Poppy asked.
‘I guessed.’
‘I’m that predictable, hey?’
She felt his hand on top of hers. It was warm but not from the heat of the day. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This was my idea – I should’ve known better. I know what today is, but I thought we should do something special for your sixteenth birthday.’
He paused and there was a wonderful moment of silence punctuated only by the chirping of a bird somewhere off in the distance. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. ‘It’s your day, too.’
Poppy squeezed her eyes closed so tightly that they hurt. It meant she couldn’t cry. ‘It’s Mum’s day,’ she managed.
Her father’s hand tightened on hers and Poppy let it. She could feel him looking at her but didn’t dare open her eyes.
‘I miss . . .
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