The world’s greatest mum!
As instructed, Martin finished work early and collected Jade and Peg from the school gates. The two little girls hopped into the back of his car.
‘How’s your dad, Jade? I’ve known him for a long time.’ The two men had gone through training together.
‘He’s okay, thanks.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘I can’t wait for my tea. I’m starving!’ Jade enunciated the last word and fired it in Peg’s direction like an arrow. Peg was strangely quiet.
‘Peg says she’s got a guinea pig that speaks!’ Jade piped up.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Martin replied, without any hesitation or trace of a smile. ‘He can’t say much, mainly “din-dins” and “goodbye”, but he doesn’t like talking to strangers, only Peg’s really good friends, so he might not say anything tonight.’
Jade stared at Martin, unable to think of a single response. Peg sucked in her cheeks and smiled into her lap.
Poppy opened the front door and greeted the two girls. ‘Hello, ladies! How was your day? Hope you are feeling hungry!’
Jade stood in the hallway. ‘I think our house is a bit bigger than yours,’ she said as she dropped her school bag and coat on the floor.
Poppy bit her lip.
Jade marched into the lounge and halted at the sight in front of her.
The table was set, but not in any way that Jade McKeever had ever seen a table set before. Pink fairy lights were strung across the ceiling and hung over the table. On top of a pristine white tablecloth were glass bowls full of sticky jelly sweets in every colour imaginable; separate bowls were crammed with chunks of chocolate, and plates of shiny cookies gleamed in the light. Tall glasses nearly overflowed with strawberry milkshakes, each with a natty red-and-white-striped straw protruding from the top. Dishes of ice cream dotted with sweets and latticed with loops of caramel sauce sat at regular intervals. There were vases crammed with candy canes and liquorice sticks, and a platter piled with strawberry laces that looked like spaghetti, garnished with lollipops that fanned out from the pile. Dainty iced fairy cakes had been arranged on a three-tiered cake tower and jugs of cola with floating ice sat in wait, complete with crazy neon straws through which to sip the usually forbidden drink. All these brightly coloured, sugar-laden goodies were eclipsed however by what occupied the middle of the table: the pièce de résistance was a very grand three-foot-high chocolate fountain. Peg was in awe of it. The girls stood and watched as the rippling waves of pale chocolate undulated over the side; their eyes darted to the fat marshmallows, enormous strawberries and apple slices that sat in dishes awaiting a good dunking.
‘Hope you’re hungry.’ Poppy, her tone nonchalant, pulled the chair from the table and gestured for Jade McKeever to take a seat. Jade, who was uncharacteristically silent, sat.
‘Oh, Peg,’ Poppy started, ‘I was chatting to Toffee earlier and he said the usual – “din-dins” et cetera – and then, you won’t believe what he said!’
Peg beamed at her mum. ‘What did he say, Mum?’
‘He said he’d got you tickets for a Princess Pamper day for your birthday, a bit of an early present! A special gift from him. It’ll be lovely, a total makeover – nails painted, hair curled, the full works.’ Poppy pulled the two shiny gold tickets from her back pocket and popped them on the table next to her little girl.
‘You can take a friend, how about Amelie Smith? She’s such a lovely girl.’ Poppy smiled, sweetly.
‘I’m her friend!’ Jade practically shouted.
Poppy bent low. ‘Well, that’s good to hear, Jade, because any friend of Peg’s is a friend of ours, welcome here anytime. And anyone that isn’t, isn’t!’ She jumped up and clapped. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. Peg, don’t forget to take your magic anti-fat tablet before you go to sleep, because you’re getting the same tea tomorrow night.’ Poppy wandered from the room, without so much as a backward glance.
After Jade McKeever was eventually dispatched home, Peg sat in the tub, surrounded by bubbles. Poppy knocked and entered and took up a seat on the loo, taking the opportunity to chat to her daughter.
‘How’s my girl doing?’
Peg looked into the foam. ‘I don’t think I will ever forget today, ever.’
Poppy crouched down by the side of the bath and placed a blob of foam on her little girl’s nose. ‘You know, Peg, you are a fabulous girl and you will become a fabulous woman.’
‘A fabulous woman pilot,’ Peg corrected.
‘Yes, darling, a fabulous woman pilot. But the point is, Peg, if people don’t love you for you, then they don’t deserve to be loved at all. You don’t ever have to lie or be anything other than yourself, because you are fabulous, inside and out. Promise me you will remember that, always?’
Peg nodded. ‘Okay. I love you, Mum. And thank you for the Princess Pamper tickets. I’m so excited!’
Poppy stood and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Well, don’t thank me, thank Toffee!’
‘Mum, is it true, are we getting that for tea tomorrow night as well?’
Poppy leant on the door frame. ‘No, Peg, we most certainly are not.’ She winked at the chocolate-smeared face of her little girl.
Fourteen
Poppy walked along the corridor and was surprised to find Mr Ramasingh sitting at his desk; there would be no waiting for him today. Martin had decided to stay in the car with Max, who was grizzling on the back seat. He’d woken in a bad mood and nothing was making him feel better. She suspected he was simply feeding off the edgy, nervous vibes that she was emitting. She was disappointed not to have Martin by her side: it would have been a chance to involve him in the process and to make her feel less secretive about the whole thing. But she was also relieved, especially after he had taken several corners at speed, beeped his horn at a couple of innocent cyclists and shouted at least one expletive at someone who he deemed was inappropriately parked. She didn’t trust his firecracker nature when he was this wound up and that did little to help her nerves. And Max’s constant crying had done little to help his mood.
‘Come in, come in!’ Mr Ramasingh gestured and stood, shutting the door firmly behind her. ‘How are you feeling today?’
Poppy noticed that he avoided eye contact with her as he took up his seat and punched the keys on his keyboard.
She sat opposite his desk and placed her bag on the floor. ‘Same, really. I keep getting a sharp pain, a painful pain, if that makes sense.’ She squirmed at her lack of eloquence. ‘Not all the time, but when I get it, it knocks the shit out of me.’ There, that was what she had wanted to say.
Mr Ramasingh sighed and nodded. He opened the large brown cardboard folder and extracted two X-rays, laying them alongside a sheet of what looked like graph paper.
When he spoke, his words were slow and considered. He now gave her his full attention. ‘The aim of your treatment was always to try and control your symptoms, help you feel better.’
Poppy nodded. She got it: no cure. Not yet.
‘We have been monitoring your cancer via the scans and X-rays that you have had.’
Poppy watched as he took a deep breath. She glanced at the empty chair next to her, convinced her nan was close by.
Mr Ramasingh continued. ‘It has been nearly four months since your diagnosis and you have coped very well, but I’m afraid to say that your treatment has had little to no impact on your disease.’
‘No impact?’ She thought of the days spent feeling horrible, only made bearable because she believed it was helping.
‘None. And that can happen, sometimes. The cancer puts up its defences and we simply can’t break them down.’ Mr Ramasingh knitted his fingers to make a wall.
Poppy thought about this. ‘So what do we do now? More chemo? Stronger drugs? I don’t mind if it makes me feel worse, as long as it does its job.’ How would it be to feel lousy all the time, she wondered. Those days of diarrhoea and sickness had felt never-ending.
&nbs
p; ‘No, Poppy.’ The doctor removed his glasses and stared at the woman sitting across from him – the mother, the wife. He paused. ‘We are not going to give you any more treatment.’
Poppy looked at the photograph on his desk. ‘Why not?’ She wanted it spelling out.
‘Because there is very little point, and in my opinion, it will only make you feel very sick, but without the benefit of aiding your recovery.’
‘So that’s it?’ She stared at the man who was severing her lifelines one by one. His words echoed inside her head. She thought of Peg at school and Max and Martin sitting in the car, waiting for her. She looked up at Mr Ramasingh, who was still talking.
‘We will of course continue with your pain management and carry on helping to control your symptoms, but we will stop all intervention therapies.’
Mr Ramasingh reached into his drawer and produced a glossy pamphlet. ‘I have some information here—’
Poppy shook her head as she picked up her bag and stood up. ‘Please, not another sodding leaflet.’
A few minutes later, she climbed into their Golf, taking Martin by surprise.
‘What did he say?’ Martin stared at her.
‘Erm… it was… Can we talk about it when we get home?’ She flicked her eyes towards Max on the back seat, who was thankfully calmer now and holding a book upside down. Her voice was quiet.
‘Well, just give me a clue!’ Martin raised his voice.
Max kicked the back seat and let out a garbled noise. Poppy looked at her son and then her husband.
‘For God’s sake, Poppy.’ His patience was at its limit.
Max let out a deafening wail.
‘Just take me home!’ Poppy banged on her thighs with her flattened palms. ‘Stop going on and on!’
They drove home, the silence only broken by Poppy’s whimpers and Max’s cries. She couldn’t hold back the fat tears that clogged her nose and throat. Martin drove with one hand gripping the top of the steering wheel with such force that his knuckles were white, the other hand like a claw on top of the gear stick as he rammed the gearbox through its paces on the bends. Max cried and Poppy didn’t blame him. She reached behind her seat and stroked his leg.
Back at home, Martin put Max in the care of his big sister and gave them a bag of crisps each for good measure. Then he followed his wife up the stairs.
Poppy sat on the bed and Martin stood in front of her. He was like a coiled spring. Her hands fidgeted in her lap as the words floated around inside her head, trying to lodge somewhere before finding their way out of her mouth. She felt flat, deflated, and exhausted at the prospect of what lay ahead.
‘Right, no more messing around. What did he say?’ His voice was stern.
‘He… he stopped my treatment.’
‘What? Why?’
Poppy looked up at her husband. ‘He said there was no point. It wasn’t working.’
‘Can he do that?’ Martin looked angry, flexing his fingers and rocking on his heels.
‘Yes, and he’s right, really. It wasn’t making any difference and so there’s no point.’ Her eyes flickered from her husband to her lap.
‘And you are just going to accept that, are you? Give up?’ he snarled.
Poppy pulled her head back on her shoulders. ‘I’ve been waging a war on this bloody disease and I thought I could win, but I can’t, Mart. I can’t.’ As she spoke the words, she felt her resolve slip, her muscles loosen and her spirit flag. I’m sorry…
‘We should see about going private, can’t we pay for the treatment? Go abroad. I’ll find the money somehow, whatever it costs. We should do that. I’ll ask Claudia, I don’t care.’
‘Mart—’
‘No, I mean it, let’s do it. You need to go abroad and get the treatment somewhere else. What about America, don’t people go there for everything? I’ve read about it before, and what about that kid we had that fundraising supper for at the mess? D’you remember? It was so he could go to America and have treatment. That’s what we should do.’ His words came in a flurry.
‘Mart, please—’
‘No, fuck it, Poppy! You may just be rolling over, but I will not let you leave me. I won’t.’
Poppy stood and faced him. ‘Look at me! Look at me!’
Martin stared into her face. His breath came in short bursts, as though he were running out of air. Slowly, he ran his fingers over her pale complexion, pausing at the dark, black circles that sat beneath her eyes.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispered.
Poppy laid her cheek against his palm and closed her eyes. ‘If I could have anything and everything was possible, then I’d get rid of this bloody disease. But I can’t and I don’t think I’ve got much fight left in me, Mart. I’m getting tired.’
Balling his fingers into a fist, Martin spun round and punched the bedroom door, pushing his fist through the first layer of white-painted laminate and the first couple of sheets of plyboard. He pulled back the moment he punched and stared at the gaping hole and the splintered wood around it.
He fell to the floor and sat in a crumpled heap. Poppy dropped down to crouch by his side and placed her arms around him.
Peg appeared, wide-eyed, and poked her head into the room.
‘What was that bang?’
‘Daddy did some karate on the door.’ Poppy smiled.
Peg tutted and raised her eyebrows before going back to her telly and crisps.
The two sat on the floor in silence until their heart rates had slowed and they had stopped shaking.
‘Did you hurt your hand?’ Poppy whispered.
‘Not as much as I hurt the door.’ He gave a small, awkward laugh.
‘Mart, I know that none of this is easy, but I want to talk to you about after I have gone.’
Martin stared at her, unsure of how to respond. He ran his tongue over his lips.
Poppy continued. ‘I want to talk about my funeral, Mart, if that’s okay.’
Martin sighed and rubbed at his nose, transferring a grey smudge of dirt from the fractured door onto his face. It reminded her of his early days working in the garage before he joined up, when he used to come home dusty, grimy and knackered. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Actually, it’s not okay. No.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Don’t be like what?’ he snapped.
‘Shutting me out and making it awkward. It needs to be discussed. It’s what I want.’
‘Is it? And don’t even start on me shutting you out.’ Martin sighed, still upset that she had kept her illness from him. ‘And here’s the thing, it’s not what I want, not even slightly.’
‘Oh God, what now? You can’t keep punching doors!’
‘Can’t I?’ he sneered.
She ran her hand across her brow. ‘Sometimes you can be a selfish bastard.’ She banged her thigh and instantly regretted swearing at him.
‘Is that right? Well, if it’s selfish to not want to think about the person I love the most in the world leaving me here alone with two kids to look after, then yes, I’m selfish. If it’s selfish not to want you involved in any way with what comes after so that I can only think of you as alive and here with me, then I probably am. When you…’ He paused. ‘When you are gone, I will face the things I have to, all of them, including your funeral, but until I absolutely have to, you are here and I will not let myself get dragged into that dark pit of shit that is waiting for me. That is how I see my life without you and I see it stretching on for ever.’
The two sat quietly for a minute or two until Martin placed his head in his hands. ‘Christ, what’s happening to us? I feel like we’re falling apart. I’m scared, Poppy.’
‘Me too.’ She kissed his chin. ‘But we need to stay strong, Mart. We need to keep it together because we don’t have that many doors.’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Now, what always makes the kids feel better when they’ve been a bit upset is a big mug of hot chocolate – how about we go down, sit with them babies and treat ourselves?’<
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Martin nodded. ‘Just give me a minute.’
Poppy kissed his forehead. ‘I’ll see you down there.’
She took extra care with their drinks, swirling them with cream and loading them up with marshmallows and chocolate sprinkles. They looked glorious. Poppy found a smile and carried them into the sitting room, trying to control the shake to her hands that sent a tremor through the metal tray and made the spoons jump. ‘Here we go!’ she announced as she set the tray on the sofa.
Peg and Max clapped her brilliance. Poppy handed everyone a mug and proposed a toast. ‘To us!’
‘To us!’ Martin and Peg echoed.
Max held up his cup and shouted ‘Three, four hot drinks!’ instead.
Peg smiled from beneath the cream moustache that sat on her top lip. Poppy brought the mug to her mouth and took a sip. She ran her tongue around her mouth and took another. Martin watched as she inhaled the scent of her drink and took another sip.
‘You all right, Pop?’ he asked.
‘I can’t… I can’t taste it.’ She looked up at him, perplexed.
Poppy lifted a chocolate sprinkle and placed it on her tongue, letting it melt before pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘I can’t taste anything.’
She stood up and wandered back into the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and scanned the shelves. Unwrapping a block of cheese, she cut a small corner and put it in her mouth, then shook her head. Next she plucked a fat strawberry, pulled the little green stalk off and bit into it.
Martin watched her from the doorway. ‘Are you okay?’ he whispered. She looked so preoccupied, he didn’t want to disturb her.
Poppy ignored him, opened the carton of orange juice and took a swig straight from the box. On any other day he would have mocked her hypocrisy, but not today. Next she gulped down some milk. Finally she tore at a piece of ham and laid it on her tongue before swiping it off with her fingers and flinging it in the bin.
She stood with her arms braced against the work surface, staring out at the garden. Martin came over and placed his hand on her shoulder.
‘Are you okay?’ he repeated.
Will You Remember Me? Page 13
