Chapter 18
Charlie was as good as his word and the next morning he was already sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal when Poppy came in from feeding Chester. She gave him the beeswax polish, a duster and a set of instructions.
“The first job is to tidy up. The old newspapers can go in the recycling bin and put any grubby clothes you find in the washing basket. I’ll put a wash on later.” Poppy eyed a dirty sock, lolling like a diseased rodent under the sofa. “Bring the dirty mugs, glasses and plates into the kitchen and plump up the cushions on the sofa and chairs. Then you can dust. Once you’ve done that I’ll bring you the vacuum cleaner. By the time you’ve finished the place should look like new. Got all that?”
“Yes,” said Charlie, counting the jobs off on his fingers. “I’m to put the grubby clothes in the recycling, polish the glasses and plump up the newspapers. Only joking,” he added hastily, seeing the exasperated expression on his sister’s face.
It took almost an hour for Poppy to load the dishwasher, wipe down the surfaces, clean the sink, empty the bin and sweep and clean the kitchen floor. She was pleasantly surprised when she went into the lounge to inspect Charlie’s handiwork. The wooden floor gleamed and the rug in front of the fire was no longer covered with crumbs. Cushions had been plumped and the mess tidied away. Charlie was beaming with pride.
“Well done, little bro. Caroline will be pleased.”
“I certainly am.” Caroline’s voice made Poppy jump. She was standing at the doorway, with a smile on her face that for once reached her eyes. “The kitchen and lounge look amazing. Aren’t you two good to me. Come here, let me give you both a hug.”
Charlie ran straight into her arms. Poppy hesitated. Being the outsider was her default setting, the part she had chosen to play. But Caroline beckoned her close and she found herself walking slowly over, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
“Thank-you, darling, I expect it was all your doing. What a lovely surprise,” she murmured into Poppy’s hair as she held the two children close.
“It was Poppy’s idea. I just did what I was told, as usual,” admitted Charlie with a grin. “I did a good job though, didn’t I? Did you see how shiny the floor is now?”
For once Poppy allowed herself to relax into her stepmother’s embrace. The three of them clung together until Charlie started fidgeting and wriggled out of their arms. Caroline took Poppy’s face in her hands and tilted it up to hers. “You don’t know how much that means to me. Thank-you, sweetheart,” she said softly, and kissed her forehead before letting her go. Poppy wasn’t sure if Caroline was referring to the clean-up operation or the hug, but realised that for once it didn’t actually matter.
A rap at the door sent Charlie into orbit. “They’re here! They’re here! Quick, where’s the photo?” he shouted, and they swung into action, Caroline going to answer the door, Poppy grabbing the laptop from the dining room and Charlie bouncing off the walls in excitement.
The reporter and photographer from the Tavistock Herald were waiting on the doorstep with polite smiles on their faces.
“Mrs McKeever?” inquired the shorter of the two. He glanced down at his notebook. “And you must be Charlie and Poppy. I’m Stanley Smith, though people call me Sniffer. And this is our photographer Henry Blossom, though people call him Henry.” No-one smiled at the joke.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the photographer, who was a tall, thin man with a camera slung around his neck, a camera bag on his shoulder and a long-suffering expression on his face. Caroline shook their hands and they followed her into the lounge, Charlie and Poppy in their wake.
“So, we’ll have a chat and then go out onto the moor to see where you said you saw this ‘ere puma, shall we?” said Sniffer, winking at Charlie.
“I didn’t say I saw the cat, I actually saw it. And I don’t think it was a puma, I think it was a jaguar,” answered Charlie with spirit, and Poppy saw shades of their dad in her brother. Charlie may have only been six, but he wasn’t about to be patronised by a middle-aged hack from a local paper, not when his dad was a famous war correspondent for the BBC. Sniffer didn’t endear himself to either of the children when he shoved a sleeping Magpie off the comfiest of the armchairs so he could sit down. The cat shot him a look of pure disdain and stalked off to the corner of the room, where he proceeded to wash himself, stopping every now and then to look daggers at the reporter.
“Tell me what happened on Thursday then, Charlie,” Sniffer said, thumbing through his notebook until he reached a blank page.
Charlie recounted how they’d decided to have a picnic on their tor. “Usually there are sheep everywhere but on Thursday there weren’t any. I thought that was a bit strange.”
Poppy couldn’t remember Charlie saying as much at the time, but she kept the thought to herself. She didn’t want to rain on his parade.
“Anyway, we were just about to go when something caught my eye. I saw the head of a big cat poking up from behind this huge boulder. I told Poppy to look and I got out my camera and took some photos. Then the cat jumped onto the boulder and we got a really good look at it. It was massive!” said Charlie.
“Unfortunately the camera battery ran out before the animal jumped onto the rock, but Charlie did manage to take a few pictures before it packed up,” said Caroline, swivelling the laptop so the two men could see the screen. They both leant forward, poring over the photos. Within seconds the scepticism vanished from Sniffer’s face.
“Interesting, very interesting,” he said, half to himself. He turned to Charlie. “You could have something here, young man. I have contacts on the nationals and they love a genuine big cat story. We might get some mileage from this.”
“Don’t forget where your loyalties lie, Stanley,” said Henry. “The Herald has the exclusive.”
Fortunately Caroline knew the ways of local journalists who liked to make a bit of extra cash selling stories to the national newspapers. “And you’ll not be forgetting that these are Charlie’s pictures, taken on Charlie’s camera and are therefore his copyright,” she said pleasantly.
A nasty expression flitted across Sniffer’s face, although Henry Blossom looked at her admiringly. “Too true, Mrs McKeever,” he said, in his gentle Devon burr. “I’ll make sure no-one takes advantage of him,” he added, eyeing his colleague pointedly. Caroline smiled her thanks and the five of them headed outside and up onto the tor, where Henry took pictures of Charlie and Poppy by the boulder where they’d seen the big cat.
“When will the story be in the paper?” demanded Charlie.
“I want to show the photos to the head cat keeper at the local zoo first to get his take on them. But the story should make the next edition,” replied Sniffer.
“Cool! Do you think I’ll end up on the telly like my dad?”
Sniffer stood stock still, his eyes fixed on Charlie. He reminded Poppy of a hound that had just picked up the scent of a fox. “Who’s your dad then, young man?” the reporter asked, thinking privately that this story was getting better and better.
“Mike McKeever. He’s a war correspondent for the BBC,” Charlie said proudly.
Sniffer took a pen from behind his ear and made a few more indecipherable squiggles in his notebook. “Good, good. Right then, Henry. We’d better be heading back.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea first?” asked Caroline.
“Aye, that would be champion, Mrs McKeever,” said Henry Blossom, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder and giving Caroline a wide smile. Poppy noticed that he had a lop-sided gait, the result of years spent hefting about bags laden with lenses.
Back at the house Caroline switched on the kettle and disappeared into the lounge to light the fire. Henry and Charlie joined Poppy in the kitchen. Sniffer stood outside the back door among a pile of abandoned wellies trying, without much success, to get a signal on his mobile phone. Poppy was setting out a row of mugs and dropping a teabag in each when she heard a cry and an almighty crash from the lo
unge. Her stomach flipped over. Henry and Charlie stopped talking and were rooted to the spot. Poppy dropped the teabags and rushed into the lounge. Caroline was lying on the wooden floor, clutching her left wrist. Her face was white. “I think I’ve broken my arm. It’s the floor – it’s so slippery,” she gasped.
Poppy took a look and flinched. Caroline’s hand was bent at an unnatural angle to her arm and her wrist was already starting to swell. She looked as if she was about to pass out. Suddenly the reassuring presence of Henry Blossom loomed behind them. “Oh dear. What have we here?” he said in his gentle voice.
Assessing the situation in a flash, he started giving instructions. “Right Poppy, where’s the phone? I think we’re probably going to need an ambulance. Charlie, you go and find a blanket for your mum. We don’t want her going into shock.”
He knelt down beside Caroline. “I think it’s safe to say you’ve broken your wrist. And a proper job you’ve made of it too, by the looks of things. We’re going to call an ambulance. You’re going to need to go to hospital. And the paramedics will be able to give you something for the pain.”
“What about the children?” whispered Caroline, as Henry took a patchwork blanket from Charlie’s hands and wrapped it gently around her shoulders.
“Don’t you worry. I’ll stay with them until we get something sorted. I’ll get Sniffer to ring the boss and let her know. She’ll understand. Is there anyone else who can look after them until you get back from hospital?”
“My husband’s in the Middle East. I could ask my sister but she has children of her own and lives in Bromley anyway. It would take her hours to get here.”
Poppy thought. “What about Tory? She’d come and look after us.”
“Tory Wickens? Do you have her number, Poppy? I’ll give her a ring once the ambulance is here and arrange for her to come over,” said Henry.
Satisfied with the arrangements Caroline slumped down against the sofa and they waited together in silence for the ambulance.