‘God, are you okay?’ Martin rushed forward.
Poppy shook her head.
‘It’s okay, love, up you go.’ He picked up Max and stepped away from the bottom of the stairs. Poppy did her best to make it to the bathroom, moving as fast as her aching bones would allow.
She shoved open the bathroom door with her elbow as she pulled her coat up and tore at the buttons on her jeans. ‘Christ, no!’ She nearly made it.
Martin ventured upstairs ten minutes later, to find his wife sitting on the bathroom floor, her back against the radiator. She was naked and wrapped in a large towel, and she was crying. She had used the showerhead to hose herself down in the bath and her clothes were in a heap in the corner.
‘Can you throw them away please, Mart?’ She prodded the pile with her foot.
‘Throw them away? Can’t I just wash them for you? I don’t mind.’
‘I mind. Please throw them away.’
‘Okay, love, will do.’ Martin bent down and retrieved the sodden pile. He fought his gag reflex. ‘I’ll be back in a sec to get you into bed. What on earth do you think it is? Should I call the doctor?’
‘No!’ She was adamant, shaking her head through her tears. ‘It’s just that horrible bug still. I don’t want to give it to the kids.’ She retched once more as though she was going to be sick, but nothing came.
True to his word, Martin came straight back to the bathroom. ‘Come on, let’s get you into bed and get you toasty.’ He hooked his arms around her back and lifted her until she could lean on him.
‘Mart?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Poppy took a step outside of the bathroom and then turned, aghast. ‘Oh God, no. Mart, I need to go back on the loo, now, right now!’
‘Okay, okay!’ He tried to calm her panic while guiding her onto the loo and for the second time in the short while she had been home, she nearly made it.
Spent, Poppy lay under the duvet shivering and wondering how she was ever going to find the strength to tell him. There was the quake of fear in her stomach. She didn’t feel like a person in a million, didn’t feel like she was winning. If anything, she felt the exact opposite.
Ten
The bell rang at a little before one. Peg ran at the front door, skidding along the hall floor in her socks and smacking into it. She slid onto the ground then jumped up and opened the door to a man standing with black boxes of equipment around his feet and what looked like folded-up umbrellas under his arm.
‘Are you okay?’ He looked concerned, having heard the bump from the other side of the door.
‘Yep, I always do it, I’m not very good at stopping.’ Peg studied the man in his boots, jeans, white T-shirt and sunglasses. ‘You’ve got a lot of perfume on,’ she commented.
‘It’s aftershave.’ He smiled at her.
She wrinkled her nose. Same difference.
Poppy came down the stairs and stared at the man on the doorstep. Jo was right: drop-dead gorgeous.
‘Poppy?’ He removed his glasses and stepped forward.
‘No, I mean yes… Come in, or get your things… whatever…’ She was surprisingly flustered.
Paul strode into the hall and grasped Poppy’s hand in a firm handshake; she tried not to stare at his tanned, muscled arms. She felt a little weak and wasn’t sure she could blame that entirely on the bastard pedalos.
‘Knock knock!’ Jo shouted through the open door. ‘Thought I’d come and help, or watch, or whatever…’ Jo too went a little gaga.
‘I’ll just grab my stuff.’ Paul smiled and motioned to his car, which was parked with the tailgate lifted.
The moment he left the house, the two women collapsed on each other in a fit of giggles.
‘Blimey, Poppy, who cares what the photos are like. This will be the best afternoon we’ve had in a long time!’
Martin came down the stairs carrying Max. The two were in their best clothes, Martin wearing a suit with a stiff white shirt underneath. Max’s hair had been brushed into a side parting; he had proper shoes on, and the collar of his shirt, which was just like his dad’s, was poking over the top of his navy jersey.
Peg had spent the best part of the morning painting her nails for the occasion, a concession by Poppy in exchange for Peg agreeing to wear her navy and white dotty dress that was saved for best. Her hair hung in a glorious red-brown curtain, with her newly trimmed fringe looking just right.
Poppy had thought long and hard about what to wear. She finally settled on her dusky blue cotton top, which had a layer of silk in a slightly darker shade over the top. It was floaty and flattering and she loved the colour. Two long strands of multi-coloured beads completed the look. She’d put her hair up, leaving tendrils hanging loose around her face. She wanted to appear sophisticated and older, so that when Peg and Max looked at these pictures in later years, there might be less of a sense of her having been marooned in time. Poppy swallowed the sob that threatened. Determined that today of all days she would remain cheerful.
Paul moved the coffee table from the middle of the room and arranged a series of vast umbrella-like shades and screens. He stood with his camera in one hand and light meter in the other, measuring and clicking at the blank wall.
‘My Aunty Jo said she thought you were really fit, do you think you’re as fit as my dad? He’s a soldier and he can run up and down the hill with his rucksack on his back and he can lift me over his head.’
Paul stopped clicking and stared at Peg. ‘Erm… I’m not sure. I think your dad is fitter than me and definitely a lot braver.’
Peg smiled, more than satisfied with his response. Jo, on the other hand, turned red and decided to nip back next door to cringe in private.
Poppy and Martin sat straight-backed on the sofa with Peg between them and Max on his dad’s lap. Paul began to click, and every time he did, the flash to the right of him fired.
‘I’m going to be a pilot!’ Peg yelled quite suddenly.
Paul stared at the little girl, not quite sure how to respond. He settled on ‘Cool.’ Keen to get back to snapping, he chatted to them all, trying to relax them and get the shot he wanted. ‘Max!’ he called. ‘What have I got?’ He held up one of Max’s diggers in his free hand.
‘Digger!’ Max shouted, and he clapped, beaming. Paul clicked. The whole family laughed, and he clicked again.
‘Relax a minute, folks.’ Paul studied the images stored in his camera.
Freed from their poses, Martin sat back on the sofa and Max climbed up his torso and patted his head like a drum. Poppy reached over and hugged Peg, who threw her arms around her mum’s neck.
Paul looked up and grinned. He snapped, and snapped again. And again.
The Crickets looked wide-eyed at the photographer, who had seemingly caught them unawares.
Paul rested on his haunches and spoke to Poppy and Martin. ‘Can you do me a favour?’
Poppy nodded and peeled Peg from her neck.
‘I want you to almost make as if I’m not here. I want you to relax and chat. Martin, are you comfortable in that suit?’
‘Nah, mate.’ Martin pulled at the sleeves and twisted his head, jutting his chin.
‘Then make yourself comfortable,’ Paul instructed.
Martin jumped up. He didn’t need telling twice. He took his jacket off, undid his top button and rolled up his sleeves. They slumped back down on the sofa and Paul carried on snapping.
‘Glad I bothered ironing that shirt!’ Poppy joked. Martin bent forward and kissed her nose. Click.
‘Yuk!’ Peg shouted and covered her eyes, as was her habit whenever they kissed. Click.
‘Yuk!’ Max echoed as he pulled off his jersey and put it on his head, then threw it on the floor. His hair was mussed and stood up at right angles, as if he had just woken up. Click.
Without warning, Peg leapt from the sofa and ran upstairs, appearing moments later with her neon-green tutu over her frock and her googly-eyed deely boppers on her head. ‘
Now I’m comfy!’ she said.
‘Give me strength!’ Poppy laughed as she pulled the band from her own hair, letting it fall in loose waves over her shoulders. They were only vaguely aware of the camera working in the background.
‘Ooooh! We forgot Toffee, he’s a part of our family!’ Peg jumped up again.
Poppy and Martin roared with laughter. Peg dashed to the palatial cage in the corner, plucked Toffee from his sawdust and fussed over him on the floor. After a moment or two, she sat down between her parents, beaming.
‘My Barbie accessories!’ she announced. She held Toffee in the air to reveal her pet dressed in a mini tiara, with a pink plastic handbag held against his paw and four blue plastic stilettos perched on his little claws.
And it was in that second – as Poppy and Martin saw the guinea pig outfit for the first time and looked at each other and laughed, as Max reached up to pet Toffee, as Peg tipped her head back on the verge of giggles, and as Toffee stared straight into the lens with an expression that said ‘Help!’ – that Paul Smith, photographer to the stars, got the shot he wanted.
‘And that, Cricket family, is a rap,’ he said, winking at Poppy.
Having recovered from the hilarity of their photo shoot and all in agreement that it was one of the best days they had ever had, ever!, Martin and the kids, with tummies full of crispy bacon sandwiches, rested in front of the television. Poppy nipped upstairs for her shower. She stripped off, still laughing as she flicked the tap on the shower. She removed her make-up in the mirror, watching as the mascara and lipstick slid from her face and onto the tissue paper which she then dropped down the loo. She felt tired. Bracing her arms against the sink, she sighed and hopped into the shower. She reached for her vanilla-scented gel, squeezed a blob into her palms and inhaled the glorious perfume as she worked up some lather against her skin. ‘That bloody guinea pig!’ She chuckled to herself as she pictured again the little blue stilettos.
Taking her shampoo bottle, Poppy covered her palms and began to massage the suds onto her scalp.
The two things happened simultaneously.
As Martin came into the bathroom to grab his pyjamas from the hook on the back of the door, Poppy lowered her hands and stared at the clumps of hair that sat like wet, tawny animals in her palms. She felt her knees go weak as she gazed at them. The shock rendered her speechless as she slumped forward.
‘What, Poppy? What’s the matter?’ Martin pulled open the shower door and stared at his wife’s face, contorted with tears.
Poppy sank down to the shower floor, raised her knees and rested her head on them. Her hands she kept clenched tightly shut. Martin crouched down and placed his hand on her back. She jumped as if she’d been cut.
‘It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here.’
‘I can’t do this, Mart,’ she whispered.
‘Can’t do what? What’s going on? Are you hurt? Is it your back again? Talk to me, Poppy.’ He sounded angry, panicked.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so… sorry! I thought if I kept busy, I could stop it, but I don’t think I can and I’m really scared,’ she stuttered.
‘What are you sorry for? What’s going on?’ He reached into the cubicle and peeled her hands from her sides. ‘What the fuck?’ He stared at the wet clumps of hair that she dropped into the tray by her feet.
Martin’s breath came heavily. ‘What have you done? Are you shaving your head? For God’s sake, tell me, Poppy. You’re scaring me now.’
‘I’ve got cancer.’ She stared at the floor; the water ran in steady streams from her chin and elbows. Her voice was level.
‘What?’ He must have misheard.
‘That’s what’s wrong with me.’ She lifted her face and looked at her husband. ‘I’ve got cancer.’
‘When? How? I don’t…’ Martin swayed as the strength left his core and his bowels went into spasm. He sank down at the edge of the shower tray floor. The water soaked his head and shirt. He tried to catch his breath. It was some seconds before he reached up and flicked the shower tap to the ‘off’ position.
The sounds of Poppy’s crying and his breathing seemed extraordinarily loud. She wished he’d turn the water back on again.
‘I don’t understand.’ He shook his head and wiped the water from his face with the back of his hand.
‘When I went to the doctor’s before—’ she started.
‘Before when? You went where?’
‘Before, a few weeks ago. I told you I went to the GP’s. It was because I’d found a lump.’ She looked at the floor.
‘You what?’ he snapped as his chest heaved with all that it was trying to contain.
‘I found a lump, Mart.’
He stared at her. His head twitched as if it had been struck, his mouth hung open. ‘You found a…?’ He needed it repeating. Though he’d heard her with perfect clarity, he still hoped he had got it wrong.
‘A lump. Just here.’ Poppy’s hand flew to the space between her breast and armpit, a small area that was now as familiar to her as her face.
‘And you didn’t tell me?’ He placed his hand across his mouth as his eyes widened.
She shook her head and closed her eyes. ‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have come with you, sorted it out.’
‘That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to get in a state and start worrying until I knew we had something to worry about.’
Martin ran his tongue over his lips. His voice was quiet, his speech slow. ‘And do we, Poppy? Do we have something to worry about?’ He looked like a child, pleading as he edged closer to her.
She nodded and leant forward, resting her face on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him. ‘Yes, Mart. Yes we do.’
He pulled away from her, his face inches from hers. ‘Are they sure it’s cancer?’ He was struggling.
Poppy nodded.
‘And the thing is, Mart…’ She swallowed. ‘They don’t think I’m going to get better.’
‘I feel sick,’ he murmured as he fought to stop the rise of bile in his throat. ‘I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I don’t believe it.’
Martin stood slowly and left the bathroom.
Poppy scrambled from the shower and wrapped her head in a white towel and her body in another. She opened their bedroom door. Martin was standing stock still, facing the window. He had his back to her and he didn’t turn round. She pictured the hair that had come away from her scalp, weightless, like nothing, as it slipped through her fingers free of its anchors.
Poppy crept from the room. She jostled Peg up the stairs and kissed Max as she got her sleepy boy into his pyjamas and laid him in his bed. ‘Night night, sleep tight, my darlings.’ She blew kisses from the landing and walked back into their bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Martin was where she had left him, staring out into the dead of night. Poppy sat on the bed, pulled back the duvet next to her and patted the space by her side. ‘Come here, Mart.’
He turned and looked at her, staring as if seeing her for the first time.
‘Come on, come and lie down,’ she coaxed.
Martin reluctantly lowered himself down next to her on the bed, his actions stiff and unnatural, and she drew the duvet over his shivering form. She sat sideways and crossed her legs, resting her hands on her knees. As she stroked his chest beneath the covers, it reminded her of when they’d first got together. The simple joy of sharing a bed with someone she loved had been overwhelming. Poppy would wake in the dark and watch him sleeping, careful not to disturb his slumber. She would watch his mouth twitch and his eyelids flicker, until eventually, when daylight penetrated their room, he would open his eyes and reach for her and hold her tight, keeping her safe from all that lay beyond the bedroom door.
She laid her head on his hip. ‘The consultant I’ve been seeing, Mr Ramasingh, is the best, apparently. If anyone can help me, he can. He came up with a treatment plan for me and he’s monitoring how it’s going. You can come wit
h me if you want.’
‘It will all be okay, won’t it, Poppy?’
Poppy closed her eyes and considered her words with care. ‘Whatever happens, it will all be okay. We will get through it.’
‘I don’t know what to say to you. I’m trying to take it all in, but I can’t. It’s like I’m having a dream, a really bad dream.’ He spoke to the wall, facing away from her.
‘Just hold me then.’ Poppy eased back the duvet and lowered herself into the warm space, wriggling down the bed and pulling at his shoulder until he twisted and she was in his arms. She felt her muscles relax against the solidity of his body. There they lay until morning, pressed together, matching each other breath for breath.
Eleven
‘Here’s Mummy,’ Martin said as Poppy came down the stairs in her pyjamas the next morning. She had combed her hair back over the bald patches and tied it up in a scrunchie. He was looking at her in a way that she had never seen before, with a combination of fear and disbelief, as if he were committing her every move to memory, petrified that she might disappear in a puff of smoke. She could only smile and nod in his direction, reassuring him with her gaze. It’s okay, darling. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet… He looked ahead of her footfall, wanting to remove objects and clear her path, as though she were made of glass. Poppy realised it was this sort of treatment she had been hoping to avoid, knowing in that instant she had made the leap from wife to patient.
They had agreed to talk to Peg that morning, before Poppy went into hospital for more therapy. It would give them the whole weekend to answer any questions and calm her before school on Monday. Poppy dug deep to find a smile and tried to make it as sincere as she could. They had decided to give her a watered-down version of the truth, a baseline onto which they could add details as time and circumstances required.
Peg sat on the sofa with her bare feet resting on her dad’s leg. They were watching the Cartoon Network. Scooby-Doo was in a hurry. Peg chuckled as Scooby stood flailing his arms and legs, which were a blur. He stopped, gulped and looked straight at them as he realised that despite his efforts he wasn’t going anywhere at all – that darn tin of spilt grease! Martin reached for the remote control and the screen gave a tiny flash before disappearing into a black dot in the middle of the TV.
Will You Remember Me? Page 9
