Poppy spoke to their reflection in the window. ‘I can’t taste anything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I can’t taste a single thing! Everything is like cardboard in my mouth. It’s disgusting.’ Her tone was clipped.
‘It’s probably just temporary.’ Martin tried to placate her.
‘You think?’ She turned around. ‘Well, that’s good, Dr Mart, because with all the other shite I’ve got to deal with, not being able to eat anything would take the cake.’
‘If you want a door to punch, there’s one upstairs that already needs a bit of repairing.’ He tried out a smile.
‘Very funny,’ Poppy snapped. She flashed a look of anger at him and swept past and up to bed.
Martin closed his eyes and threw his head back.
By the end of the week Poppy and Martin had found a fragile peace. Poppy was plagued by a deep and constant fatigue. It was almost as if she had finally allowed herself to recognise how shattered she was, now that they had both acknowledged her illness. Whether psychological or not, it didn’t matter. Most days she woke with a bone-deep ache and the tiredness would wash over her and leave her dazed. Exhausted and in pain, she could not think beyond the everyday; to try and do so left her gasping for breath as a cold fear plucked at her skin. She had quit asking Martin if he was okay, sensing that it was driving him crazy.
Good days were rare, but today was one of them. She had already given the kitchen floor a good going-over and had changed the light bulb in the extractor fan. She switched off the iron and folded the last of Peg’s T-shirts into their pile. They now sat next to three similar piles that she would take upstairs and put away next time she went up. She was happy to be able to do chores. It felt normal and normal was good; in fact normal was bloody marvellous. She was determined not only to get as much done as possible, but also to make plans while she was able.
Martin swooped by with a dirty oblong thing that he had removed from the Golf’s engine.
‘What’s that?’ Poppy asked as he whisked it past her and into the kitchen.
‘Air filter, just giving it a bit of a clean. I was hoping you wouldn’t see, I know what you are like with mess and dust.’
Martin smiled at her as he knocked the filter over the sink with the heel of his hand and blew into its little crevices.
‘Actually, Mart, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She coughed.
‘Now?’ He looked from her to the filter in his hand.
‘Yes.’ Poppy sat down.
‘Oh God, what have I done? Is it too late to say it wasn’t me? Because it wasn’t. Or do you have evidence? Which, I might add, Peg is very good at fabricating.’ He sat in the chair opposite her.
‘No, nothing like that. Unless there is something you want to confess?’ She narrowed her eyes.
‘Ha! You’re not going to get to me that easily. I am blame-free, I think. What’s up, Poppy Day?’
‘This isn’t easy for me to say.’ She swallowed.
Martin knitted his grubby, oil-covered fingers and rested them on the table.
‘I think it might be an idea if we get some help, with the house.’ She paused, taking his silence as a cue to continue. ‘I’ve been given the names of charities and agencies that can come in and help with everything from childcare to taking me to appointments, anything really. I thought it might be a good idea?’
Martin scraped the chair across the floor. ‘When I want some bloody busybodies coming into my home and sticking their noses into my family’s life, I’ll tell you.’ With that, he grabbed the filter from the sideboard and slammed the front door on his way out.
‘Well…’ Poppy spoke to Toffee, who had poked his nose through the cage. ‘That went well.’
Martin found her lying on the bed an hour later. She was humming and reading an article on how to decorate your home for Easter. ‘Just getting ideas on how to “create the perfect environment for fun and frolics with your houseguests this Easter”!’ she read from the magazine.
He shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I guess I just don’t want to think we’re at that stage yet.’ He addressed the floor.
‘I know. But I think the more we can put in place, the easier it will be for the kids.’ She was blunt, without the time or the inclination to sugar-coat their situation.
Martin took the magazine from her hand and ran his eyes over the article. ‘I thought we usually just bunged the kids some chocolate for Easter and hoped for an extra hour in bed?’ He laughed.
‘We do, but if ever I get me that kidney-shaped pool and my ice-cube diamond, this will be how I celebrate Easter.’ She turned the page to show him the image of a kitchen decked out with lilac and lemon ribbons and chicks and bunnies aplenty.
‘Looks bloody horrible!’ He screwed his nose up.
‘Don’t ever think of trading soldiering for interior design – you haven’t got a clue.’ She swatted him with her magazine.
‘Someone seems to have got a bit of their mojo back. Nice to see some of your old spark, Mrs Bossy Boots.’ He jumped onto the mattress and grabbed her around the waist.
‘Maybe I have.’ Poppy smiled. It had been a while since either of them had shown the slightest interest in each other physically, other than in a caring capacity. To have even the smallest flicker of sexual desire felt wonderfully life-affirming.
‘Ooh, lucky me!’ Martin nuzzled his wife’s neck.
As he did so, she was hit by a wave of nausea. ‘Oh God, Mart, sorry, stop, stop!’ Poppy pushed him away and sat upright against the headboard.
‘What’s the matter? Oh God, did I hurt you?’
‘No, I just feel really sick. I’m sorry.’ She took deep breaths and clutched at her stomach.
He nodded. Not as sorry as him.
The two sat, feeling an awkwardness that was strange to them after so many years married.
Eventually Poppy found her voice. ‘Claudia arrives tomorrow. I was wondering if you fancy taking me on a little trip, a day out. I’ve already asked her and she’s happy to sit with the kids.’
Martin nodded. ‘Sure. Where are we going?’
‘Ah, that’s the surprise.’ She did her best to smile, hiding the discomfort that racked every inch of her.
Fifteen
Claudia pulled her pashmina around her shoulders as she stood on the doorstep to see them off. She had arrived, bringing with her an air of serenity and organisation, and the whole family had heaved a huge sigh of relief. Everything was okay, Granny Claudia was on hand.
She kissed Poppy and patted her hair. ‘You have beautiful hair, Poppy. It was the first thing I thought when I met you.’
‘It’s getting a bit thin and is very patchy at the back.’ Poppy ran her fingers though the reddy-brown layers, letting her fingers graze the skin of her head in places.
‘No matter, it’s still beautiful. Right, off you go. Hope you both have a great day and don’t worry about rushing back. We are going to have a ball; it will be bliss, just me and the children. I’ve written them a new bedtime story and we are going to make sweets this afternoon. I used to make them with Miles and he loved it – peppermint creams, coconut ice and chocolate truffles. We shall stuff them until we feel thoroughly sick!’
‘Oh, goodness, that sounds like fun. Think we might stay here instead!’ Poppy smiled.
‘Take care of him, Poppy.’ Claudia nodded at Martin, who was putting a blanket in the front seat. Poppy kissed Claudia on the cheek and climbed into the car.
Martin indicated and pulled the Golf into the Packway. Poppy stared at the parade of shops that catered mainly for squaddies and their families. It was busy as usual. Girls wearing skinny jeans and chunky fur-lined boots, with their hair scraped up into topknots, were leaning on pushchairs and catching up. Poppy, envying them their smiles and easy banter, wondered what occupied their minds. It felt like a long, long time ago that she had been able to natter freely without thoughts of her dis
ease invading her every waking moment. There was, as always, a dog tied up outside the newsagent’s, waiting patiently and enjoying the attention of everyone that nipped in or out.
A queue snaked its way through the door of the post office. Service wives, girlfriends, husbands and partners waited patiently with boxes and padded envelopes, the contents of which became harder to keep original. But no matter how random, the offerings would still be treasured: the currency of love, flying between the patch at Larkhill and any number of BFPO addresses.
Poppy instinctively turned to the back seat to check on the kids, but of course it was empty.
‘Well this is nice, eh? No kids. We could even put the radio on and listen to a grown-up programme and not that bloody Junior Pop Party CD. Just think, Mart, a car journey with no Justin Bieber or One Direction!’
Martin laughed. ‘I won’t miss them – Justin and Harry, that is.’
But Poppy knew that he didn’t mean it. She knew that, like her, he was thinking of all the car journeys he’d taken as a kid in his mum and dad’s old banger, a Carpenters tape on a loop in the background. No debate, no discussion, just sitting in the back quietly, trying not to gag on their fag smoke. So different to how Peg usually jumped in the car, happy and confident and demanding her parents be her own personal DJs. God knows what she’d be like at sixteen. Poppy felt a lump rise in her throat and coughed to swallow it.
The Wiltshire countryside gave way to motorways and pretty soon they hit the North Circular, then Wembley, Brent Cross and finally the Crooked Billet roundabout, meaning they were nearly home. Home. Not home any more, but with all their childhood memories wrapped up in concrete and sitting in one postcode, London E17 would always be a place they held in great affection.
Poppy let her gaze wander over the smoke-stained chimneys, the blackened paintwork, graffiti-covered walls and diesel-splashed roads. She noticed the pockets of black dust that sat against the kerbs and lodged against the railings. And despite the unfavourable comparison with the green open spaces among which she now lived and the fresh, clean air that filled her lungs with every breath, her stomach flipped with excitement. It was lovely to be here, where her nan would forever reside and where she and Martin had met.
‘Dirty, isn’t it?’ It was as if Martin had read her thoughts.
She nodded. ‘But still lovely.’
He nodded in her direction. ‘Oh yes, still lovely, girl.’
Martin parked in the road outside the house and walked round the car to open the door for Poppy.
‘Thanks, love. We’ll just stay for a bit, have a cuppa and then make tracks, okay?’
‘Fine.’ He tried his best to make his smile genuine.
Poppy tried not to notice the stained sofa that sat minus its cushions on the patch of overgrown grass inside the fence; tried to ignore the piles of dog poo that had been deposited uniformly along the path. She looked up at one of the upstairs windows, which had been boarded over with a piece of plywood, crudely tacked and barely hiding the enormous crack in the pane beneath it.
A green recycling box was a third full of rainwater and overflowed with cigarette butts, empty cans of Carling and several bottles of WKD whose lurid-coloured contents had long been drained. Bugs feasted on licks of sticky sauce smudged over the sides of empty foil containers.
There being no bell, Poppy rapped on the door with her knuckles.
‘She’s ’ere!’ came the loud shout from inside.
‘Waaaaaaagh!’ Jenna screamed as she crushed Poppy against her ample chest. ‘Ooh my God! I’ve really missed you.’ She kissed her friend all over her face. ‘Come in, come in! Kids, make some space.’
Poppy looked down at the three toddlers, a girl and two little boys, who she hadn’t seen before. They peered up at her with chocolate-smeared faces and grubby sweatshirts.
‘Who are these little didders?’ Poppy asked.
‘Ryan’s kids by his two exes. He has them every other weekend. Or should I say, we have them every other weekend.’ Jenna twisted her mouth and curled her top lip as she crossed her eyes and poked out her tongue, telling Poppy all she needed to know about the situation.
Then Jenna narrowed her eyes, studying her friend properly for the first time. ‘Blimey, you all right, Poppy? You look like shite!’
Poppy cringed. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Boys, come and say hello to Aunty Poppy,’ Jenna barked into the sitting room.
Her two sons, Malik and Adil, who were only a year or two younger than Peg, sloped into the hallway. They had identical haircuts with intricate patterns shaved into the sides of their heads. Their large eyes shone and they smiled, showing off their dimples and beautiful mouths.
‘Hello, gorgeous boys!’ Poppy hugged them before handing them a stiff cardboard bag each. ‘I got you some S.W.E.E.T.I.E.S – didn’t realise the little ones were going to be here!’ She spelt out the word so as not to alert Ryan’s babies. The two boys looked at her and then each other, a little nonplussed.
‘Come in, come in. Kettle’s on.’ Jenna squeezed Martin and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Hello, mate. Boys, take the little ones upstairs and they can watch telly in your room while we chat.’
The boys, good as gold, did as they were told, shepherding the smaller ones up the stairs with kind words and hands on their little backs lest they should topple backwards. It made Poppy’s heart lurch.
‘They’re so lovely, Jenna.’ Poppy felt a swell of affection for the boys she had known since birth.
Jenna smiled. ‘They are angels. Their dad has them two nights a week and he’s strict on manners. They’re both smart as well, doing great at school.’
‘Must take after their mum then,’ Poppy quipped.
‘Blimey, Poppy, I don’t think I did a full day from the age of twelve!’ Jenna laughed as she and Poppy remembered the lengths Jenna would go to in order to miss school.
‘I remember coming in from school and you’d been hiding in my bedroom all afternoon. Don’t think even my nan knew you were there!’ Poppy laughed.
‘I was naughty, not like you, Mrs Girly Swot.’
‘Hardly.’ Poppy looked at the floor, not wanting to admit to having been keen at school. Even at thirty-two, she was still too embarrassed to share her love of learning.
Jenna walked ahead, giving Poppy a chance to study her. She had gained weight: her black leggings stretched over her thighs and were almost translucent where they touched her dimpled skin. Her heels were cracked and had a purplish tinge as they slipped and slapped in her flip-flops. Her hair, once pristine, her pride and joy, was now scooped up and held fast with a wide clip. Her roots were dark and greasy, while the bleached-blonde ends hung limp and straw-like. Her skin was pale and peppered with spots; she looked to Poppy like she needed a big bowl of veg and a brisk walk in the sunshine.
‘Ryan, Ryan!’ Jenna yelled at her partner. He lay slumped in the armchair in front of a vast TV with his long legs outstretched and a roll-up smouldering between his fingers. The look he flashed the duo who had interrupted his morning viewing said it all. He rose slowly and placed his cigarette in the ashtray beside him, freeing his hands to grasp Poppy by the shoulders and plant a kiss on her face.
‘All right, Poppy.’
‘Yes, good thanks, Ryan,’ she lied. Her nose wrinkled at the sour tang of cigarette smoke, body odour and food that hung in the air. It was the smell of her childhood home.
Martin held out his right hand and gave the man a firm handshake. ‘Nice to see you, Ryan.’
‘Yeah, you too, mate. Just catching up on the darts.’ Ryan’s delivery was fast, as though he was impatient to get the visit over.
Martin nodded. The feeling was entirely mutual. ‘Nice one.’ He sat on the sofa and the two men stared at the screen. Far better than having to find a mutual topic of conversation.
Martin stole glances at the man who now lived with Poppy’s childhood mate. He had a large earring that was a wide hoop inserted into his left earlobe. Martin could
see clean through it to the tattoo of a star on his neck; he wondered what the point of it was.
‘Can we go and get a DVD?’ Malik appeared in front of the screen and addressed his mum’s boyfriend.
‘Get out of the way – we’re watching this!’ Ryan swept his arm left to right as though he had Jedi powers that could make the boy move. It worked. Malik ran from the room.
Martin tensed and felt his bowels spasm. He remembered the way his dad would dismiss him from the room, reminding Martin that this was his house and they lived under his rules. Watching as Malik ran from the room, he saw his eight-year-old self and recalled the sinking feeling in his stomach that accompanied the idea that he had no refuge, nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, like an interloper under his parents’ roof.
He hoped the day would come sooner rather than later when one of them, Ryan or Malik, packed their bags for good and went off to find a different life. Martin had only met the boys’ dad once, but he had seemed like a good sort. He pictured him on all fours, crawling around the room with his sons, who were much younger then, riding on his back.
Poppy was horrified at the conditions in which Jenna prepared the tea. Every inch of the work surface was covered in something and the clutter made the large room feel claustrophobic. There was an array of cereal boxes, the kind Peg would whine for but wouldn’t get, whose contents were spilled in small piles where they were placed. Empty cans of baked beans, ravioli and soup stood there with their jagged edges and dribbles of sauce running down the sides. The aluminium draining board was dull and covered in tea- and coffee-coloured sploshes. In the sink itself sat a mountain of cold, flabby oven chips and pieces of fried egg, as though someone had forgotten to switch on the non-existent waste disposal. A tortoiseshell cat with black points to his ears and three dark socks trod nimbly between the dirty plates and detritus, pausing occasionally to look up at Poppy, his expression haughty, as if to say, ‘Look how I have to live…’
A clothes horse in the corner next to the radiator was draped with tracksuit bottoms and several pairs of boxer shorts. Two enormous Alsatians lay top to toe on an old duvet under the window; their hair formed a gritty mat under Poppy’s feet.
Will You Remember Me? Page 14
