Walking over to the table, Martin retrieved a large plastic digger truck, complete with JCB stickers and monster-sized wheels, which the little boy counted. ‘One… two… three… four!’ Max wriggled to the floor and tried to pull the vehicle from its cardboard backing. Martin dropped to his knees to help and before too long, Max was shuffling around the floor on his knees, pushing the truck with one hand and making an engine noise by blowing out through his lips. ‘Digger!’ he shouted sporadically, just in case anyone was in any doubt.
‘So what was the big drama? What did she need to buy?’ Poppy asked as she filled the kettle and flicked the switch.
Martin drew breath to answer, but before he could find the words, Peg was in front of them, standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Poppy gazed at her daughter, who had a plastic stethoscope around her neck, a little white bag with a red cross on it under her arm, a natty little white headscarf also with a red cross on it, and a blue-and-white-striped dress that was a couple of sizes too big for her.
‘I can look after you now, Mummy, and make your bug better. I’m a nurse.’
Poppy stared at her little girl, speechless, overcome with love for this child of hers, and with sadness, for all that she instinctively knew she would miss.
Twelve
Poppy went through the now familiar routine. Staring at the others in the outpatients unit, with their sunken eyes and unhealthy pallor, she wondered if she looked the same. The burble of the radio in the background soothed her; it was good to hear life going on as normal.
She called Martin when she was ready to go home. He drove up to the front door and jumped out, opening the passenger door.
‘I brought you a blanket.’ He stood holding their picnic rug in his hands.
‘Thanks, love.’ Poppy felt obliged to place it on her knees.
Martin drove slowly home as Max slept in his seat.
‘Does it hurt?’ He winced as he navigated the traffic lights and looked straight ahead.
‘No.’ She answered truthfully. ‘It’s weird, but not painful.’
Martin glanced to his left to check her expression. ‘I’m so glad. I’ve been worried sick.’
‘I don’t feel great though. I feel a bit fluey.’
‘It’s okay, we’ll have you home in no time and I can tuck you up on the sofa and drive you nuts by fussing over you.’
Poppy gave a small smile and closed her eyes, allowing herself to snooze, rocked to sleep by the rhythm of the car.
When she opened her eyes again, they were home. Martin had opened the passenger door and was attempting to lift her from the seat.
‘I can do it, love. I’m fine,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to lift me. Get Max first.’ Her whole body shook as if she had a chill.
Martin rushed Max inside and came back for his wife. Leaning on him, she walked slowly up the path and into their little home, which had the lamps glowing, the heating on and the cushions plumped. Poppy thought it was the nicest sight in the whole wide world. Max opened his eyes and beamed at his mum, happy that she was in front of him.
‘What kind of treatment makes you feel a shed-load worse than you did before you had it? What kind of medicine is that, for God’s sake?’ Poppy laid her head on Martin’s shoulder as he rubbed her back.
‘I don’t know, love, but we’ve got to trust those that tell us it’s for the best, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, we have.’ She reached out and squeezed his hand.
‘Do you think it’s working, Poppy? Do you think it’s… shrinking everything?’
She nodded. ‘I hope so.’
Martin went to collect Peg from school. Poppy took the opportunity and reached from under the blanket to pull the receiver into her hands. She closed her eyes, hesitating. She needed to talk to someone. She needed help and she needed someone to help Martin. There was only one person whose calmness and wisdom would bring her the comfort she needed. She punched in the digits and listened to the ringing tone.
‘Hello? Claudia? It’s me…’
After she put the phone down, Poppy trod the stairs and replayed Claudia’s words: ‘I want to come over to Larkhill right now, but I don’t want to interfere. I won’t rest until I’ve seen you, my precious girl.’ Poppy went into the bedroom, took the memory boxes from the bottom of her wardrobe and carried them slowly downstairs.
She placed the boxes on the table and lifted the lids. Into Max’s she put a photograph of him at two weeks old, asleep on his beanbag. On the back she wrote:
One of your favourite places to nap! Mind you, Maxy, you can nap anywhere! X
Alongside it she added a small white button with a duck on it. Poppy had sewn it onto a two-inch square of white hankie, on which she had written, in her tiny, neat script:
A button from the little cardigan you were wearing when we brought you home from the hospital. You were tiny and gorgeous! I was so proud of my brand-new little boy that I thought I might burst. Xx
Into Peg’s box she put an acorn along with a note that read:
You found this acorn when we were walking up by Woodhenge. You were so excited, do you remember? Convinced you might have an oak tree growing in your bedroom if you watered it enough! No oak tree, Peg, but still a lovely thing. xx
Poppy recalled the acorn lying in the palm of her little girl’s hand, and the way she had run ahead, eager to get home and find an empty yoghurt pot in which to plant it. ‘Come on, Mummy!’ she had called out over her shoulder. There was no time to waste.
Next to go in the boxes were the little plastic identification bracelets that had been put round their wrists and ankles as soon as they were born, each with the date and their name, ‘Baby Cricket’. Holding them between her thumb and forefinger made her smile. She closed her eyes and remembered the first time she had fed each of them, watching as their rosebud mouths sought her and gorged until milk trickled down over their rounded, sleepy cheeks.
The bell rang. Poppy opened the front door and Jo rushed in. ‘God, Poppy, I’m having a right panic. I move out in ten days and I feel sick if I think about it.’
‘You’ll be fine, mate,’ Poppy said. Jo had found a little cottage in Marlborough to rent. ‘It’s not that far. We’ll still see you all the time.’
‘I guess. It just feels like the end of an era.’ Jo tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sob as her tears welled. ‘I still can’t believe it. All those bloody nights spent sitting in, waiting for a call or cleaning the house even though he wasn’t coming home, trying to keep my mind off the loneliness. I loved him, Poppy, I really did. But I don’t know that he ever loved me, not really.’
‘I’m sure he did, Jo.’ Poppy had decided to give Danny the benefit of the doubt. ‘And I know this is an awful time for you, but it will pass, mate, everything does.’
Jo sniffed and wiped her eyes as she walked over to the table. ‘What you doing with these?’ She stared at the boxes.
Poppy sat down and pulled a chair out for her friend and neighbour. ‘I’m making memory boxes for the kids.’
‘What are they?’
‘Just boxes that I put little things in to remind them of me when they are older. Photos, notes, that sort of thing.’
‘Ah, that’s lovely.’ Jo paused. ‘Won’t you just be able to show them that stuff yourself?’
Poppy looked at her dear friend and swallowed. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got cancer, mate. Inoperable bloody cancer.’ And just like that, she had said it out loud, and surprisingly it was easier than she’d thought.
Jo stared at her friend in silence, allowing the words to filter through to a place of understanding. Then she placed her head in her hands and sobbed, loudly.
That evening, Poppy sat in front of the laptop and drew her cardigan around herself, practising what she needed to say. It felt so much easier in her head and the idea of saying the words out loud to Simon and Kate was daunting to say the least. But Martin was reading Peg a story and this was a good opportunity.
Kate answered the call. Her sunny face appeared on the screen. ‘Hello, Poppy! I was only telling someone today in Super J, our local supermarket, about my niece Poppy. It feels really nice knowing there are more members of our family out there, and you’re the only niece I have. My sister has a boy, Luke, but you are my only niece – how great is that? The more the merrier, I say. Safety in numbers and all that. All okay? Have you had a chance to think about your visit? We can’t talk about much else, we’re very excited.’
Poppy smiled. ‘Us too and we would really love to come and see you, Kate—’
Kate interrupted, giving a little clap of her hands and bouncing in her chair. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ll get Simon to email you dates and details and we can make a plan. My friend Natasha is coming over with her bloke, some American musician she’s picked up, can’t wait for that! But other than her week, we are completely free.’
‘The thing is, Kate…’ Poppy exhaled.
‘Yes, lovey?’
‘I’m not very well.’
‘Oh, you poor thing, sorry to hear that. Well, look, don’t let me keep you, we can chat anytime. But please have a good nap, drink plenty of fluids and see how you feel. Do you think you’ve picked up a little bug?’
Poppy smiled at Kate’s lovely mothering nature. She envied Dominic and Lydia and could only imagine how idyllic their lives must have been, growing up with a mum like that.
Telling Kate was even harder than she’d feared and the first thing Poppy did when she shut down Skype was seek refuge in the obituary pages.
Joy Roberts, 68, stepped off this mortal coil with dignity. Joy spent her last days at Hawthorne House, surrounded by her friends. Widow of Jack, mother to the late Julian Roberts. Joy was an educator, a Justice of the Peace and a lifelong member of the WRVS. You helped so many, Joy, and you will be sadly missed by all.
Martin came down the stairs, treading carefully in his socks to avoid the creaky spots. This meant that both kids were asleep.
‘Both nodded off?’ Poppy asked from the sofa with her legs tucked up underneath her.
‘Yes. Peg before we even got to the end of the chapter – not like her. She usually stays awake in case I miss a bit of the story out or, God forbid, misread a sentence.’
‘You’ve got to be up early to catch her out.’
‘Don’t I know it. Our little pilot.’ Martin stood in front of his wife. ‘Did we hear you talking to Kate?’
‘Yes. I told her.’
‘That can’t have been easy, love. What did she say?’
‘Oh, just what you’d expect. She was shocked and sorry, but not too gushy. I really like her.’
‘That’s good, and you still think we should go? Think you’ll be up to it?’
‘Yes I do. I want to go, Mart.’ She looked up at her husband, her gaze determined.
‘Then let’s make it happen.’ He sounded equally committed. ‘What you got there?’ Martin reached under the cushion and pulled out the folded newspaper.
‘Poppy! Not the bloody obituaries again!’
She sighed and patted the space next to her on the sofa. ‘I’m interested in them.’
‘What’s interesting about people you never knew?’ He shook his head as he sat down next to her and she unfurled her feet, placing them on his warm lap.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘In a weird way it gives me comfort. I like to read how loved these people were. Their lives weren’t wasted, were they, if they were loved?’
Martin cupped her foot in his palm and rubbed the skin back and forth, watching it rise in a wrinkle against his thumb. He didn’t mention her fat veins that sat like bloated sausages under her skin, standing proud of her ankle and instep. ‘I guess not.’
‘And also…’ She swallowed. ‘If I am reading about people that have died, it means I am still here, while they are not. I’m beating them. Aren’t I?’
‘Yes, my love, you are.’ Martin stared at her foot, still unable to have that conversation. ‘I guess I don’t want you reading them because I’m worried it’ll make you sad.’ He spoke the truth, staring at her feet, incapable of meeting her gaze. His voice was gruff, his eyes reddened, tired.
‘Christ, Mart, I’m so full of sadness right now, reading the obituaries in comparison is bloody light relief!’
‘I’m sorry you’re full of sadness. I wish I knew how to make it better. It’s hard for me too, but you being unhappy is the last thing I want.’
Poppy pulled her feet from his grasp and sat back on the chair. ‘Hard for you too? You haven’t got a clue! And it’s nothing to do with what you do or don’t want!’ She had raised her voice. ‘There are lots of things I don’t want,’ she snapped.
‘I know that. I’m doing my best.’
‘Well maybe your best just isn’t good enough!’ Poppy’s frustration flared. ‘I hate the fact that I’m stuck here and I can’t do anything properly and the house is turning into a pigsty!’ Poppy flung her arm in an arc to indicate the lounge that, to the untrained eye, bar a couple of toys scattered on the floor, looked immaculate. ‘I hate the fact that my every waking moment is taken up with feeling this shit and I hate that you get to stay with them and watch them grow and I don’t!’
Martin was shaking. ‘I hate it too! I fucking hate it! I hate the obituaries and I hate the fact that you have had to tell Peg and Claudia and Jo and Kate and God knows who else. And I hate the fact that you are leaving me. And I hate the fact that you excluded me. Christ alive, we’ve been through everything together and you didn’t say a bloody word until you had to. It was dishonest and I hate that!’ He sank down on the floor and tried to control his shaking frame.
They both sat for a minute or two in silence, letting their anger dissipate and their words settle like a fine dust around them.
Poppy eventually rose from the sofa and knelt down beside him on the cool, laminate floor. Martin reached out and pulled her into his chest, cradling her against him. He closed his eyes. He made a silent pledge to try and look at things from her perspective, no matter how hard. They sat in silence for a while longer until the storm had passed.
Poppy pulled herself free from his grasp. ‘We need to cope with this, Mart. We have to, for our sake and for Peg and Maxy’s sake. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know.’
She turned to face him. ‘What’s the first thing you remember, Mart?’
He sighed and thought about it. ‘Dunno really. I remember being in primary school and we were allowed to wear home clothes, but you came in that day in your uniform. I now know it was probably cos you never had anything else to wear and you got a lot of stick for it. I remember that day quite clearly. I wanted to go and punch that silly cow who used to pick on you – Jackie—’
‘Sinclair. Jackie Sinclair.’
Poppy would never forget her name or her angry, accusing tone as she fired barbed comments and spit-laden insults in her direction. ‘Why are you wearing your uniform today, Poppy? Is it because all your clothes have got fleas like you?’ Jackie’s cronies had giggled in the background, fascinated by the vicious taunts and relieved that they weren’t in the firing line. Jackie was as usual, buoyed up by their support. ‘Did you hear me, Fleabag? Why are you wearing your scuzzy uniform? Didn’t you know it was home clothes day? Don’t you have any home clothes?’ Poppy remembered the questions coming at her like bullets in quick succession. The onslaught far too fast to think of a good retort other than the truth. No, she didn’t have any home clothes that would pass muster. She had felt like she was outside of her body, watching herself blinking rapidly with her arms folded across her chest as though this might deflect some of the attack. It didn’t. Jackie’s words cut through her defences and embedded themselves in her memory where they were permanently lodged, even now, over twenty-five years later.
‘Yeah, that was it – Jackie Sinclair.’ Martin nodded. ‘God, you’ve got a good memory. And I remember our school trip to the zoo.’ He smiled.
‘
Same.’ Poppy nodded, shaking her head to rid herself of the memory of her crappy packed lunch that defined her crappy life. ‘The point is, Mart, you don’t remember being two, do you?’
‘Two? No, course I don’t!’ He shrugged.
‘And neither do I.’
Martin’s face dropped as he realised where this was heading.
Poppy was silent, picturing her little boy’s chubby fists clutching a digger or a dinosaur; her little counting boy, her two-year-old. ‘Max won’t remember me, will he?’ She searched his face for the honest answer.
‘Course he will!’ he backtracked.
‘No, no he won’t. You just said.’ She shook her head. ‘Not properly.’
‘He will, Poppy. It will be different for him. I’ll keep you in his head and show him pictures and tell him stories. Blimey, you don’t think Peg’ll shut up about you for a minute, do you? We will keep you with him, always.’ Martin swallowed.
‘He will read about me, read things like this.’ She pointed at the obituary page. ‘And our story, he’ll only need to click a few pages on the internet and our story is there, for always. Do you remember all the fuss way back then? Arriving back on home soil and seeing those banners – “Well Done, Poppy Day” and “Welcome Home, Martin!” Imagine that? All for me, for us.’
‘And all them articles calling you a hero!’ Martin beamed.
‘It all seemed so unreal! Like it was nothing to do with me. And a bit embarrassing, really. A hero? Nah. Just doing what was necessary to get my man back. It feels like a long time ago.’
‘Not to me, Poppy. Sometimes it feels like yesterday. I don’t ever stop thanking my lucky stars for what you did for me.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘And that’ll be wonderful for Maxy and Peg to read about. They will know how amazing their mum was, not only because of what I’ll tell them, but from what others will tell them too.’
Poppy nodded and slumped back against his chest. It would have to be enough; it wasn’t as if she had any choice in the matter. She watched Martin cough and breathe deeply, realising that since this whole horrible thing had begun he still hadn’t cried.
Will You Remember Me? Page 11
