Will You Remember Me?

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Oh, right. Do you mind if I have a look?’

  The smiley doctor sat forward as Poppy undid the buttons and shrugged her left arm from her top. She placed her hand behind her back, exposing as much of the area as possible.

  ‘I’m just going to have a little prod, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ Poppy smiled, embarrassed.

  Dr Jessop rubbed her palms together before laying her hand on the lump and pushing at it with her index finger. Poppy watched as her smile slipped a little.

  ‘And you noticed it when?’ The doctor’s fingers pushed, patted and pushed again, then felt the skin around it.

  ‘Couple of days ago, when I was in the shower. I mean, it’s weird, really, I shower every night and yet I’ve never felt it before.’

  ‘Is it causing you any pain, weeping at all?’

  Poppy shook her head. No and no. ‘It’s a little tender around it, but that’s probably where I’ve been having a prod.’ She gave a small laugh as she borrowed the doctor’s phrase.

  ‘I don’t like the look of it,’ the doctor stated, quite matter-of-factly, ‘but nothing to worry about, not at this stage. Let’s get it looked at by an expert and we can go from there. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds fine.’ Poppy had so many questions, but they all felt a little premature, embarrassing. Suppose it turned out to be nothing? She would wait.

  The GP tapped at her keyboard. ‘I’m referring you to the breast cancer clinic, just to be on the safe side. The process is all quite joined up, so I’ll be kept in the loop and they can see you in…’ She ran her finger across the screen and clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Ten days. Shall I book that for you?’

  Poppy nodded. Breast cancer clinic… Holy shit. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The words ‘breast cancer clinic’ had tripped off the doctor’s tongue, but even hearing them spoken out loud filled Poppy with a cold dread. She decided to keep it to herself. No point causing a fuss, not with Martin only just home and going back to work with his unit and Peg starting a new term. She’d tell Martin when it was all over.

  ‘Mum!’ Peg shouted the second Poppy placed her key in the door. ‘Come and see what Toffee can do!’ She grabbed her mum’s hand and ran with her to the corner of the dining area, where Toffee’s monstrous cage, the guinea pig equivalent of Center Parcs, had pride of place.

  ‘Kneel down here.’ Peg pointed to the floor next to where she crouched. Poppy did as she was told and knelt in front of the cage. She watched as Peg held a sliver of carrot through the bars. ‘Right, Toffee, come on, remember what I taught you, say “din-dins”!’

  Poppy collapsed on the floor in a heap, rendered helpless with laughter. She clutched at her sides and laughed until her tears pooled.

  ‘It’s not funny, Mummy! I’ve been teaching him since I got in from school!’

  ‘You’ve been teaching him to speak?’ she managed through her giggles.

  ‘Yes! And he can say “din-dins” and “goodbye”.’ Peg folded her arms across her chest, infuriated by her mum’s response.

  Martin came in from the garden. ‘What’s so funny, girls?’

  ‘Mummy’s being a bit mean to me.’ Peg pouted.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, I can’t help it.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Peg has spent the time allocated for her homework teaching Toffee to speak and apparently he can now say “din-dins” and “goodbye”.’

  Martin sniggered and leant on the table. ‘Well, that is wonderful. I’ve always wondered how I can make my million! We have a talking guinea pig, whoohoo!’ He clapped his hands. ‘I’m phoning the BBC right now.’

  ‘I hate you both.’ Peg jumped up and flounced from the room, then vaulted up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

  Poppy trod the stairs and knocked as she entered Peg’s bedroom. Her little girl was curled on top of the duvet, facing the wall. Poppy sat on the edge of the mattress and stroked Peg’s back.

  ‘I’m sorry I laughed. I think it’s wonderful that you have the patience to teach Toffee to talk.’

  Peg rolled over. ‘I was really good all day today, Mum, but I still wasn’t picked to be register monitor.’

  ‘Oh well, that doesn’t matter, love.’

  Peg’s bottom lip trembled. ‘It matters to me.’

  ‘Come here.’ Poppy gathered up her daughter and hugged her into her chest. She winced as Peg’s small hand came within inches of the lump that sat like a secret between them.

  ‘It’ll all be okay, Peg. Going back to school, new term, Daddy coming home, all of that stuff can make you feel a bit out of sorts, but it will all be okay. Everything will settle down, you’ll see.’

  ‘Promise?’ Peg sniffed and wiped her nose on her mum’s shirt.

  ‘I promise.’ Poppy closed her eyes and hoped that she wasn’t lying.

  * * *

  Ten days later, Peg was still exhausted from being back at school, bodily shocked at having to get up early every morning and concentrate for six or so hours a day. She and Max were already tucked up in bed, leaving Martin to eat his supper in peace and Poppy to get on with the washing-up, her arms immersed up to her elbows in the suds.

  Martin tucked into his shepherd’s pie with relish. ‘This is lovely, Pop. I really missed your cooking while I was away.’

  ‘Blimey, the food must have been bad!’ She laughed.

  ‘Don’t put yourself down, you’re a smashing cook. Even if your repertoire is a bit limited, what you do, you do really well.’ He beamed at her as he filled his mouth with mashed potato.

  ‘Thank you – I think.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I can’t work out if you are being nice or having a dig.’

  ‘What have you done today?’ he asked, casually, as he always did, only half listening to her response.

  She answered in the same manner. ‘Oh, you know, took Peg to school, dropped Maxy with Jo, went to that dentist appointment I told you about…’ She turned away from him: easier to lie without looking him in the face.

  ‘All okay?’ he enquired as he reached for the bottle of ketchup that he would quite happily slather over any and every dish of cooked food.

  She nodded. Yes, all okay. They took a biopsy and it hurt and I had a scan and gave some blood. They’ll call me in three to ten days and give me the results. Even being in the building made me feel really, really scared. I’m really scared, Mart.

  ‘Do you want some pud?’ she asked, brightly. ‘I’ve got some ice cream, I could open a tin of peaches to go with it?’

  ‘See! And there’s you saying you aren’t all cordon bleu! Peaches and ice cream would be lovely.’

  Poppy reached for the sauce bottle. ‘I assume you don’t want this on your ice cream?’

  ‘No, of course not. I don’t need to disguise the taste of that.’

  ‘You cheeky sod!’ She swiped at the back of his head with her cupped palm.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t we Skype Simon after tea? Shall I look and see what the time is in St Lucia?’ Martin was animated.

  ‘’Fyalike.’ Poppy felt nervous. She watched as, between mouthfuls, Martin opened his laptop on the table. Almost immediately the Google result showed that it was half three in the afternoon.

  ‘Come on, Pop, that’s a good time, let’s do it!’

  ‘I don’t know…’ She squirmed, biting her bottom lip.

  ‘I’m right by your side. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, then we can cut the connection, make out it was a technical problem. And if you don’t like him or he’s a weirdo, we need never contact him again!’ Martin placed the last of his supper in his mouth and pushed the meat and mash-smeared plate away from him.

  Poppy knew he wasn’t going to give up. ‘Okay, then.’ She combed her fingers through her hair and pulled her T-shirt sleeves down, then ran her tongue over her teeth.

  Martin opened the Skype site and tapped in the details Simon had sent, asking to be accepted as a contact. Simon was obviously prepared, keen and on
line; it came back with an almost immediate yes.

  ‘Oh God! Supposing he’s a right religious nutter or something?’ She pulled a face at Martin.

  ‘Then it’s Plan A, remember? We end the call and say it was a technical fault. This’ll be easy. You ready?’

  Poppy shook her head, but Martin clicked on the contact anyway and before she had a chance to panic, the call was being answered.

  And just like that, there he was. Her uncle. Smiling at her from St Lucia. Poppy felt an inexplicable wave of sadness that she was unprepared for: what wouldn’t Dorothea have given to be connected to her son via a couple of clicks, just once in all those years.

  He looked like a big man, with a wide smile showing perfect teeth, and hair that sat in braids that reached his shoulders. He was wearing a white T-shirt that showed off his muscled neck and chest. Despite being a couple of years older than Cheryl, he looked a lot younger.

  Simon shook his head and when he spoke, he too sounded quite choked with emotion. He beamed at her from the screen. ‘Well, well, well. I must admit, Poppy, I am feeling quite nervous!’ His voice was slow and deep.

  ‘Oh God, me too.’ Poppy swallowed and regretted using the word God – was it okay when talking to vicars? She didn’t really know. ‘You sound a bit American.’

  ‘Ah, Canadian actually. That was where I grew up and went to school.’

  ‘Was it cold there?’ Poppy felt the spread of a blush. Was it cold? She didn’t know why she’d said that! She wiped her hands on her arms to remove the cool layer of sweat from her palms and gulped to moisten her dry mouth. Her nervousness was palpable.

  ‘Yes, sometimes very. Bit different to here.’ Simon leant back and moved to the right and Poppy could see the lush green of spiky plants and palm trees against a bright, blue sky. He was sitting on a veranda of sorts.

  ‘Oh wow! That looks beautiful!’

  ‘It is.’ Simon came back into focus. ‘And you guys are in Wiltshire?’

  ‘Yes, it’s cold and dark right now, night time. Do you know Wiltshire?’ Again she shook her head, feeling as if she kept saying the wrong thing.

  ‘I went to Bath and then Stonehenge once and you are near there, right?’

  Poppy nodded. He had been that close to her home… ‘Yes, very near.’

  Simon laughed. ‘Ah, I knew it wouldn’t be long before Little Miss Nosey appeared.’ He beckoned with his hand and up on the screen popped a little girl with cornrow braids, large, clear eyes and a smile that split her face in two. ‘This is Matilda,’ he announced.

  Matilda pushed her face close to the camera so she filled the screen, which made Poppy and Martin laugh. ‘Hi, Matilda, how old are you?’

  ‘Nearly ten,’ she whispered.

  ‘Hey! We have a little girl, Peg, she’s not far off your age.’ Poppy felt herself relax for the first time: talking to a little girl was something she was well practised at.

  ‘Can I see her now?’ Matilda peered into their room.

  ‘She’s tucked up in bed. It’s quite late here and she’s got school tomorrow.’ Poppy smiled.

  ‘Me too.’ Matilda beamed before running out of view, her curiosity satisfied.

  ‘Isn’t this something, Poppy? Technology, eh?’

  Poppy nodded. No need for Plan A; talking to Simon was easy, he was far from a weirdo and she was fascinated. ‘I’m so glad you got in contact with us, Simon. It’s lovely.’

  It was his turn to nod. ‘Yes, it is lovely. Unexpected and wonderful!’ He clapped his hands together and they all laughed.

  ‘This is Martin. My husband.’ Poppy stretched out her palm towards Martin.

  Martin came into view and waved. It was his turn to feel a little awkward.

  ‘Hey, Martin, how you doing?’

  ‘Doing great – apart from the Spurs at the weekend, not the best result.’

  ‘Well I’m an Arsenal fan, so you won’t hear any complaints from me!’

  ‘You are? What a shame, I was just beginning to like you.’ They both chuckled. ‘How come you support Arsenal?’

  Simon considered this. ‘I think my mum and dad, despite having whisked me off to Canada, wanted me to retain some of my Britishness. I’m a Londoner after all, thanks to Dorothea.’

  ‘It feels really weird hearing you talk about my nan.’

  Simon sighed. ‘It is weird. Strange for me that you knew my birth mother. I have so many questions, I have to stop myself from bombarding you with them.’

  ‘You can ask me anything!’ Poppy meant it.

  Simon hesitated. ‘Do I look anything like her?’ His voice was quieter.

  Poppy stared at him. ‘You look familiar and so I suppose yes, a bit.’

  Simon exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Ain’t that something? I wish my wife were here. She’s the one that got the ball rolling, made the first enquiries. She’s just nipped out, she’ll be mad to have missed this momentous occasion.’

  ‘There’ll be others,’ Poppy confirmed. ‘Why don’t you call later in the week, when she’s with you and we can have a proper catch-up.’

  ‘I’d like that very much. God bless, Poppy. Bye, Martin, and thanks both, it means the world to me that you got in touch.’

  Poppy waved goodbye to her uncle and just like that, he was gone.

  They sat back in the dining chairs. ‘That was bloody surreal.’ Martin spoke for them both. ‘He seems like a really nice bloke, apart from being a Gooner.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’ Poppy agreed. ‘I can’t believe we’re related, but it’s true what I said, he does seem familiar, and there’s something about the way he looks.’

  ‘And not too vicary,’ Martin added.

  ‘No, not at all vicary, in fact quite normal really. It was lovely when he said “God bless”, wasn’t it? Special.’

  Poppy wondered if Matilda was his daughter or his granddaughter. She couldn’t get over how Simon looked so much younger than her mum; maybe that was what a life of Jesus instead of gin did for you. She laughed as she considered whether she should recommend it to Cheryl and imagined her mother’s two-word response.

  Six

  Dr Jessop called and left a rather chirpy message asking her to ‘nip in’. Poppy was delighted at the lack of urgency in her tone.

  She pushed Max through the light drizzle, which was melting the very last dregs of snow that lay in thin grey clusters on the verges and kerbs. She wandered up past the shops, waved at a mum from school who was out walking her dog and nodded at the man who owned the kebab shop as he unloaded cans of drink on cardboard pallets from the back of his van.

  Max laughed and counted out loud. ‘Two… three… four… six…’

  Poppy patted the plastic roof of his pushchair. ‘That’s close enough, Maxy.’

  In the warmth of the surgery waiting room, she watched Max fall asleep in his little anorak and blue wellies and rocked the handles to keep him dozing. Finally her name flashed up and she entered Room 4 with a sense of déjà vu. Dr Jessop wasn’t quite so smiley today and there was no hint of the jovial tone that had brightened her phone message. This did nothing to ease Poppy’s nerves. She watched the doctor’s eyes widen at the sight of her little boy. Yes, I’m a mum.

  Poppy took in the bland, box-like room. Its curtained-off area was so small that despite the attempt at privacy, its very proximity to the doctor and her desk made undressing a little uncomfortable. She scanned the poster on the wall, a sketch of the human body without skin. Its veins, organs and bones were exposed. She wondered if that was how medics viewed people – as nothing more than a collection of tubes, pouches, pumps and liquids. It probably made their jobs a little easier.

  There must have been some preamble or wider discussion, but Poppy wasn’t interested in that. Only one sentence stuck in her mind: ‘You have cancer.’

  Her thoughts flew to the hundreds of people she knew who had been given a similar diagnosis. ‘Poor old Mrs Collins, she’s got cancer.’ ‘Heard about Jake’s dad? H
e’s got the big C. It’s not looking good, poor thing.’ ‘We’re trying to raise money for Jane at work, she’s got cancer.’ The last three words whispered through pursed lips. ‘She just lost her mum… Cancer.’ ‘My nan died… Cancer.’ The list was endless. All those people for whom she had felt a flicker of sadness as she’d received the news – offered incidentally at the school gate, in the supermarket or over the phone – but without really caring. They had a disease that felt remote from her life. Only now it wasn’t, now it would be underlining her every thought and lurking in every corner.

  I have cancer. I have cancer. Cancer. That can’t be right, not cancer, not me! This is something that happens to other people, like car crashes or flooding. This can’t be happening to me. I don’t believe you. I don’t.

  It didn’t matter how many times she repeated it inside her head, it still felt unreal.

  Dr Jessop was informative, businesslike, and it helped. There was no room for emotion or panic: she made the whole thing sound almost commonplace.

  ‘They are going to perform some further tests and we will go from there and decide on what will be the best course of treatment for you. I’m referring you to an oncologist, who will be your primary care point, but I’m still here. The thing you need to remember, Poppy, and I say this to all my cancer patients, is that this is new to you and very shocking, but the team that will care for you do this day in and day out. You are in the very best hands.’

  Poppy nodded but took little comfort from her reassurances. She was stunned and quite unable to ask the hundred questions that battered her lips.

  ‘Here’s my number, call me any time and I will get back to you as soon as I can if I can’t take your call immediately.’

  Poppy took the little slip of paper with a telephone number scrawled on it and nodded again.

  ‘The breast cancer clinic will call when they have your other results. We are not quite in panic mode yet, you know that, don’t you?’

  And for the third time in as many minutes, Poppy could only nod.

  She walked home slowly. The man who owned the kebab shop was placing his ‘Open’ sign on the grass verge; he smiled and waved. Poppy stared at him, unable to reconcile the fact that in the half hour since she had last seen him, her world had changed; changed with the utterance of three words. You have cancer.