Poppy Shakespeare (21 page)

34. How Poppy asked me to help her out and I done it 'cause I was her friend

We was stood in the toilets next to the sinks. Poppy kept splashing her face with cold water, checking the mirror, then splashing
again. When she'd finished, she rubbed it dry with a blue paper towel. 'I look like shit,' she said. 'I called in at Leech's
this morning,' she said. 'I need you to help me, N.' Then she told me what Mr Leech told her, how they'd changed the legislation.
'All fucking night I've been trawling the Net. Three loans, I've got, five new credit cards and practically nothing left in
the flat that isn't for sale on eBay. And now he tells me, N,
now
he tells me, he can't represent me anyway 'cause they've changed the legislation.'

'Keep it down can'tcha!' shouted Fran. I give her fuck off. 'How d'you mean?' I said.

So Poppy explained me what he'd said, something 'bout mental-health lawyers being swamped with all of these sniffs started
trying to pay and was stopping the dribblers getting the help, didn't make much sense to be honest. 'So now I've got to be
registered mentally ill to see a mental-health lawyer,' she said. 'And I can't be registered mentally ill unless I'm receiving
MAD money.'

'Can't you try a different lawyer?' I said. I didn't really get it to tell you the truth. I didn't see why sniffs should see
dribblers' lawyers neither.

'But that's just it,' she said. 'I can't! I must have tried every lawyer in London; they all say exactly the same."You need
a mental-health specialist. We don't deal with mental-health issues here." "But that's what I'm saying to you!" I go. "I'm
not mentally ill. That's what I'm saying!""I'm sorry," they go, "I'm afraid we can't help." And then they hang up, mostly,'
she said.

Fran turned her radio on up to blasting

'Or else they
are
mental-health specialists, in which case they say they can't help me either.'

"Cause you's not on The Register?' I said.

'Exactly,' said Poppy.

'Makes sense,' I said. 'I'm not being funny but you know what I'm saying. If they just let
anyone
in,' I said. 'They got to make sure you's a genuine case.'

'But I'm not,' said Poppy. 'That's the point!'

'So that's the problem then, innit!' I said.

'N,' she said. 'Listen. Will you help me apply for MAD money?'

That Saturday half-eleven exactly, I left my flat for Poppy's. She'd wrote me the address down on the back of a Benson's foil
wrapper and I walked along with it clutched in my hand like a little gold ticket, case anyone stopped me, asked where I thought
I was going:

'It's in the A-Z,' she'd said so I lifted one down the newsagent's. It was so fucking old the cover gone yellow and the corners
bent back like a Jack Russell's ears, but that's Borderline Road for you; shite.

I seen Tina, come out the Turkish shop, with her coat belted in so tight at the waist it was like there weren't nothing inside.
And I shouted to her, 'Hi, Tina! Alright?' and she looked so panicked it was like she didn't know me, just bolted out into
the road - without looking - then I seen her over by Planet Kebab, running along with her arms by her sides and her bag in
her hand, to make like she was walking.

By the time I reached Sniff Street, it was almost quarter to twelve. Poppy never give me a time, just said to come for dinner.
And I'd made myself wait in till half-eleven 'cause I didn't want to be early, but now I got worried I'd end up being late
and the dinner be sat on the table going cold, roast chicken, roast taters and peas, I reckoned, and gravy in a jug. Cafe
Diana done dinner from eleven; by half-twelve they was out of meat and you'd got to make do a chicken kiev, with a cold yorkshire
pud and a dollop of apple sauce.

I started to run, just like jog on and off, but the forms in my backpack crashed up and down, smashing into my back with every
step, and by the time I reached Argos I had to stop, take off my pack and perch on the bench in the bus-stop for a breather.
There's like four sniffs already sat on the bench and four hundred more stood waiting. If the sniffs on the bench just shoved
up a bit, there's room for at least four more on the end, do you know what I'm saying, easy. And this one woman right, with
her fifteen bags, she's practically laying flat along it. 'Oi!' I gone. 'Shift up a bit!' and she give a great huff, started
moving her bags, like I've asked for the world, do you know what I'm saying. I'm telling you: Astrid's sniff sister.

I taken a look in my A-Z. There was
five
Rowan Walks in the list at the back but none of them weren't my one. Course I didn't know that till I'd looked them all up,
which every time I turned a page - ain't my fault I got elbows, is it!- Astrid starts huffing and giving me daggers, and even
the sniff on my other side, this black sniff with a kid on her lap and a fold-up pushchair and half of Kwik Save in carrier
bags hanging off of it, she shifts her arse three foot down the bench, do you know what I'm saying, like pardon me for breathing.

So then I looked up Borderline Road, and I found that alright with Sniff Street running into it. But what they'd done was they'd
cut it off. You know Borderline Road gone round in a circle, like a moat all around the Darkwoods? Well they didn't show
none of that at all; all they shown was the bottom bit just under the top of the page. There was a little blue box, said 77
and triangle, meant to go to page 77. But when you gone to page 77, there was Borderline Road at the bottom, like just the
very top of the circle before it got cut off. And the box said go to page 48, and page 48 was where you just come from but
the Darkwoods weren't there neither. And it was like they'd missed a whole page out, the page where the Darkwoods ought to
of been and Rowan Walk and the Abaddon, but none of it weren't there.

Maps ain't much use anyway; unless you know the scale, which I never. I mean if Sniff Street's maybe six inches long from
Borderline Junction down, that could be a fifteen minute walk and it could be the other side of the world. I mean, literally;
I seen fucking Australia closer than that in the atlas at school, which like how you supposed to know?

I lit up a fag, 'Do you mind?' says Astrid. 'No,' I said.

And I would of stayed just to piss her off, except I was worried about the time, so I made sure I give her a faceful as I
left.

You didn't even need a map anyway, it was all like Poppy had said, right down to the three Rumanians stood on the corner selling
fags, the school, the newsagent's opposite, and after that you gone left. They was smart houses, none of that council shit,
some of them only got one bell, and the cars was like new with parking badges and baby seats inside. This woman was unloading
Tesco's bags out the boot of one of the cars and this little kid like helping her. 'Keep it upright, Sam!' she gone. 'Keep
it upright; that's Charlie's cake.' And I'm waiting for him to fall flat on his face but he never, just vanished inside.

'Who is it?' come Poppy's voice.

'N,' I said, and I give two Vs to this old bloke sat in the home opposite, been staring at me for the full five minutes it
taken Poppy to answer the door; he give me a finger back.

'N?' she goes. 'Oh. OK! Come up.' Then the door gone buzz. 'Just push,' she said. So I pushed. 'Third floor,' she said.

There was a pile of post on the floor by the door and a bike and a baby's pushchair. It was dark, just light enough to see
on account of this glass above the front door, and it smelt of damp; not at all like what I'd expected. The stairs seemed
to go on for fucking ever. By the time I got to the third-floor landing, my legs felt like lumps of the dead meat they give
you Sundays down Sunshine House; blue-grey it was and stunk so bad stray dogs used to come in and try and roll on the table.

Poppy was stood in the open doorway, grey jogging bums, bare midriff, painted toenails. 'N!' she said. 'Are you alright?'
I got the feeling I'd fucked up somewhere along.

'I come as quick as I could,' I said. 'Ain't next door, do you know what I'm saying. And this backpack weighs a fucking tonne!'

Poppy frowned.

'Here. Lift it!' I said.

She taken it from me. 'Christ!' she said.

'And
I run all the way from the Darkwoods.

'Sweating like a pig,' I said. I could feel my sweatshirt clung to my back.

'N,' she said. 'Sorry, but . . .'

'What?' I said. And that was when I twigged.

'You forgotten, innit!'

'No,' she said.

'MAD money forms! You forgot all about it! You asked me to come round and fill them in.'

'I hadn't forgotten,' said Poppy. 'It's just . . .'

'So you going to invite me in?' I said. 'Or d'you want me to do them out here on the landing?'

'Sorry,' said Poppy. She smiled. 'Come in.'

'Can't believe you forgot!' I said, stepping past her into the hall. 'You'll be making tables next,' I said. 'You and Dawn.
How many she done you?'

'I've lost count,' said Poppy. 'Seven, I think. Saffra! I thought you were staying in bed.'

I looked round behind me where Poppy was talking.

This little kid stood in the door of a room staring back at me.

'Hello,' she said.

'Alright?' I said. Not rude or nothing but I ain't really into kids.

'Are you N?' she said.

'I s'pose,' I said.

'Either you are or you aren't,' she said.

I shrugged. 'Whatever.'

'You're early,' she said.

'Saffra,' said Poppy, 'just go back to bed. I tell you what, if you go back to bed, N will bring you a mug of hot lemon.'

'Will you?' said Saffra.

'Now,' Poppy said, and she gone.

The kitchen was just like Saffra everywhere. There was pictures she'd painted all over the walls and her trainers lain all
over the floor and her little puffa jacket on the back of a chair and her backpack spilling all over the table, do you know
what I'm saying, it weren't hard to see who was boss.

'She was s'posed to be going to Dud's this weekend,' said Poppy, 'but she's got a sore throat. . .' She was squeezing a lemon
into a mug, a mug with a snake on in the shape of an 'S', or I might of made that up. 'She's a bit upset at the moment,' she
said. 'All this business with me; kids pick things up.' She spooned some honey into the mug and stood stirring in the hot
water. 'The other night she woke up,' she said, 'came into my room and I was crying.

'I hate her to see me upset,' she said. She give me the mug. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Would you mind?'

As I carried it down to Saffra's room, I taken a sip; it was warm and sweet. When I looked up, Saffra was watching me from
the doorway.

Me and Poppy sat at the kitchen table. 'Jesus!' she said. 'All that!' she said.

'That's just part one,' I said.

'So how many parts
are
there?' she said.

'Seven,' I said and one by one I loaded them on to the table.

' "MAD Money Application Part One: Information about yourself". That's just your name and your details and stuff. "Part Two:
Information about your illness". That's where you fill in what you got, like all your diagnoses and stuff and what medication
you's taking."Part Three: Why you reckon you's been hard done by . . .", "Part Four. . . . any worse than anyone else", "Part
Five: Why that means you deserve taxpayers' money","Part Six: What that implies about you", "Part Seven: Any further information,
specifically why it is you can't just pull yourself together".

'That's the lot,' I said. 'One to seven.'

'Jesus!' said Poppy. She stared at the pile. The table groaned like a weightlifter, its legs bulged outwards under the strain.

'It repeats itself a bit,' I said.

'Jesus!' said Poppy.

'Here,' I said. 'You can use my lucky biro.'

'Thanks,' said Poppy.

'I done all my forms with this,' I said. 'Should of run out years ago. There ain't even no ink left. Look!

'Look!' I said, unscrewing the end to show her the empty tube inside. Poppy looked. 'No ink!' I said. 'Been like that for
ages,' I said. I give it a kiss and handed it over. 'Middle High Middle,' I said. 'Every time.'

'I'd be happy with anything,' said Poppy.

'Shoot for the sky,' I said.

I ain't saying nothing but without me helping, Poppy hadn't got a
clue.
'Hang about!' I said. 'What you doing?'

'I'm just filling in my name,' she said.

'Not like that,' I said. 'You're not!'

'Eh?' she said.

'You got to scrawl it.'

'It says BLOCK CAPITALS,' she said.

'Fuck what it says,' I said. 'Just scrawl it. You's s'posed to be mentally ill,' I said.

'Alright,' said Poppy and she done it small.

'Try with your other hand,' I said.

'They need to be able to read it,' she said.

'Trust me, Poppy,' I said. 'I know what I'm doing.'

By the time we reached the end of Part One, she was starting to get the feel of it. I ain't saying she was dribbling exactly
but she weren't doing a bad impression. Some of her lines gone up in the air, crossing over the line above and wandering out
of the box and into the margin. Others sunk down, like all shrunk and depressed and shrivelled away to nothing. When she wrote
the address of the Dorothy Fish, like the
full
address, do you know what I'm saying: The Dorothy Fish Psychiatric Day Hospital, The Abaddon Unit, Abaddon Hill . . . it started
off climbing out of the box, then suddenly seemed to lose its nerve, around the middle of 'psychiatric', and swung down sharp,
down the side of the box, bending back on itself just before the bottom, so the first 'Abaddon' was wrote upside down, before
climbing back upwards, up 'Abaddon Hill', to curl back inside the first line. 'London' was so small you couldn't hardly read
it, and the postcode just looked like a smudge in the middle of the box.