Will You Remember Me?

by Amanda Prowse

  Martin sniffed up his tears and wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. He exhaled, trying to calm himself down.

  ‘This is where you proposed to me.’ Poppy kissed his ear.

  Martin nodded and sniffed again. ‘I didn’t plan it, not really. I just saw you fall off the swing…’

  Poppy remembered the moment. She had been sitting on the swings as he leant on the post, drawing on a fag. She had swung higher and higher, kicking her legs back and forth.

  She hadn’t realised that after a tumble onto the floor, he would ask her marry him and her life would be changed forever. She would no longer be ‘Poppy who lived in the flats,’ ‘Poppy with the fleas and no home clothes’ or ‘Poppy with the bonkers Nan.’ She would be elevated to the rank of wife. And this was something her mum had never been able to achieve and her Nan had done reluctantly. The placing of a thin gold band on the third finger of her left hand had given her a security that she could only have imagined.

  Martin Cricket had cupped her face in his hands and spoken in a voice so low, she had to concentrate to hear. ‘I want you to marry me and I want us to live together until we get old and die.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe someone wanted to marry me!’ Poppy brought them into the now. ‘And I’m still chuffed that you picked me, Mart. Even now, I look down at my little gold wedding ring and I get this warm feeling in my stomach because you picked me.’

  ‘I said I wanted to look after you always.’ Martin sniffed.

  ‘And you have.’

  ‘Until now.’ He swiped at his runny nose with his fingers.

  Poppy’s voice was calm, her tone measured. ‘This is bigger than both of us, Mart. There’s nothing you or I can do.’

  She felt his shoulders ease against her chest. It’s not your fault. They sat quietly in the middle of their playground, listening to the dog barks, door slams and engine revs all around them. The April air had lost the sharp bite of winter and whilst not warm, there was something in the breeze that hinted at the summer to come.

  Martin nuzzled deeper against her, placing his ear flat on her chest. ‘I can hear your heart beating.’

  Poppy leant her chin on the top of his head. ‘I sometimes wish I could stop it beating, Mart.’

  He pulled away, trying to seek out her features in the dim half-light. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. I’d like to stop it and start it again in a few years, when the kids are older.’ She tapped the space where his head had rested moments earlier. ‘I know that this heart only has a certain number of beats left in it and that means every single one is like taking a step away from you.’

  Martin sat up straight and took her hands into his own. She thought he looked young, like the Martin of her youth, when they were kids and this had been child’s play.

  ‘I love you, Poppy Day, I really love you.’

  ‘And I you.’

  The two sat entwined, listening to the sounds of their childhood echo all around them, both wishing there was a way to prevent the separation they knew was inevitable. With their heads close together and their hearts beating in unison, there they remained until the chill from the damp spongy floor beneath them crept into their bones and night threw its canopy over the remaining light.

  Sixteen

  Poppy was roused from her sleep with a jolt as the front door banged open. It was one of the many things she missed, now that Claudia had returned home: someone to ‘ssshh.…’ at visitors, ensuring her rest was undisturbed.

  ‘Only us!’ Martin swooped down over the sofa and planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead.

  Poppy sat up slowly, ignoring the grinding pain in her spine, her dry mouth and the grittiness behind her eyelids that irritated with every blink.

  ‘Have you had a good day, Peg?’ She craned her neck to get the best view of her little girl.

  Peg scowled in her direction. ‘Not really. I didn’t get register monitor again. Pawel Cyrekicz got it and he doesn’t even know what register monitor is. It’s not fair!’ Peg thumped up the stairs to find solace in her bedroom.

  ‘Oh, don’t stomp off, Peg. It’s your birthday tomorrow, you’ve got a lot to look forward to!’

  ‘I don’t care about my stupid birthday! I don’t care about anything!’ came the angry reply.

  Poppy slowly swung her legs off the sofa. ‘Mart, can you do me a favour, love?’

  ‘Course.’ He paused from unpacking the shopping and poked his head through the kitchen door.

  ‘Can you drop me off in the village? I need to do something.’ She stood and swayed, trying to find her balance.

  ‘Sure. Are you okay? Can I go for you, save all that running around?’ He came closer and noted the steely look of determination that burned on her face. He wiped his hands on the tea towel and went off to fetch the car keys.

  Minutes later, Martin pulled the Golf into the staff car park at Peg’s school and unclipped his seatbelt.

  Poppy gazed up at the hawthorn tree. Heavy clusters of rose-like pink and white blossom covered every branch. The gentle breeze shook the more delicate petals. She watched as they fluttered down onto the windscreen like confetti. ‘Beautiful!’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ Martin stared at her craning forward to look at the beautiful display. ‘Come on, I’ll come with you. You don’t look too clever.’ He reached for the door handle.

  Poppy placed her hand on his thigh. ‘Actually, love, I’d rather go in on my own, if you don’t mind?’

  Martin saw how she tugged impatiently at the seatbelt, noted the two bright spots of colour in her otherwise pale complexion. He knew she was fired up, agitated. ‘No, not at all. I’ll be right here, you just shout if you need me.’

  She reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘I know that. Shan’t be a mo.’

  Buttoning up her coat, she breathed in the warm, fresh air. It felt good to be outside. She walked slowly towards the front door of the school, conscious that she was a little unsteady on her feet. She had been sitting or lying down for much of the last few days, so any movement required concentration. Inside, she crept along the corridor and paused to lean against the wall, taking in the fabulous murals painted by the kids, enjoying the people with disproportionate-sized heads and bodies and green and purple hair. She laughed at the photos of sports day, scouring every one until she spotted a picture of Peg, gurning as she completed the sack race, coming a very respectable seventh out of nine. There were little rows of bright green cress in old butter tubs and soft-cheese cartons that someone had placed on the window sills. It felt like a happy place.

  Poppy thought back to the last time she had set foot inside the classroom, on parents’ evening in the run-up to Christmas, before this whole horrible nightmare had begun. She had disliked Mrs Newman on sight: her pinched face, thin lips and sarcastic tone. The woman’s words were there for perfect recall: ‘It has been a most challenging term. Peg asks a lot of questions.’ She’d given a brief, false smile. ‘It really isn’t a good thing.’

  Poppy took a deep breath, then knocked and entered. Mrs Newman was sitting behind her desk, her mouth poised ready to say, ‘Come in!’ Utterly pointless now. Poppy watched as she grabbed the large bar of Galaxy and shoved it into the open top drawer, flustered.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Cricket.’ She furtively passed her tongue over her gums, gluey with milk chocolate.

  Poppy nodded. At least she’d remembered her name this time.

  ‘What can I do for you? I was just finishing up.’

  ‘I’m sorry to come in without an appointment, but I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. Let me get you a seat.’ Mrs Newman flushed and Poppy noted the panicky haste with which she dragged over a chair. She must look pretty bad: the woman was probably worried that she might keel over there and then.

  ‘How are you?’ Her tone was clipped and in her eyes there was something that looked horribly like pity.

  ‘I’m great, thanks.’ Her lie was swift, if a little unconvincing. �
�I wanted to have a word with you about Peg.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mrs Newman nodded.

  ‘The thing is, Mrs Newman, she doesn’t seem very… happy.’ Poppy’s voice was tight, her hands balled to stop them shaking. She found it harder than she had imagined, controlling her anger and expressing herself to the teacher.

  ‘Well, we have had words on more than one occasion.’ The woman smirked.

  ‘But that’s just it, Mrs Newman. I don’t want you having words. I want you to encourage and support her.’

  Mrs Newman ran her finger and thumb over her lips and pushed her chair from the desk. Rising, she placed her glasses on the tip of her nose and flicked through a pile of exercise books on a shelf at the back of the room. Selecting one, she marched back to the desk and opened it at a particular page, cracking the spine to ensure the book remained flat.

  ‘There are some things, Mrs Cricket, that require words. This was one such thing.’

  Poppy took the offered book into her hands and read the heading: My News. She scanned her daughter’s handwriting, neat and uniform. One sentence jumped out at her from all the others: My mum herd me cryin and made me laugh a lot when she said Mrs Newman was a misrabel cow and I laughed because Mrs Newman is a misrabel cow even though I mustn’t say it again…

  Poppy looked up. Mrs Newman’s chest heaved and her eyes shone with triumph. Poppy closed the book and placed it on the desk. Her words, when they came, were slow and considered.

  ‘Here’s the thing, Mrs Newman. I do think you are a miserable cow. I think you are petty and mean and God only knows why you are in charge of a class of kids who you clearly have no affection for. Being a teacher is a privilege and not one you have earned.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The teacher’s chin dipped to her chest, emphasising her large jowls.

  ‘I think you heard me perfectly and I don’t really want to repeat it.’ Poppy felt surprisingly calm.

  ‘I would like you to leave, Mrs Cricket!’ Mrs Newman’s voice shook.

  ‘I bet you would. Well, there are lots of things I’d like too. Like not to be so bloody sick that I can hardly find the energy to stay awake. Not to have to think about the fact that when I’m gone, people like you will still get to see my little girl every day, even though you really don’t deserve to. But mostly, Mrs Newman, I would like Peg to be register monitor. Because, despite the fact that her mum has cancer and her home life has turned to rat shit, this is the one shining beacon of hope that keeps her smiling – the possibility that one day you might bestow upon her the favour of carrying the shitty register to the school office!’

  ‘I…’ Mrs Newman failed to find a response.

  Poppy stood and walked to the door. With her fingers on the handle, she turned back to the red-faced teacher, who sat aghast. ‘You can go back to your chocolate now.’

  She strode down the corridor feeling a burst of energy. Stopping at the collage of sports day pictures, Poppy kissed her two fingers and pressed them onto the picture of Peg.

  Martin watched her come out of the building. He leant across and opened the door. ‘All okay?’

  ‘Yes! All bloody marvellous. Now drive me home!’ Poppy pointed in the direction of the road, laughing.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He laughed too. It was good to see the sparkle in her eye, and whatever had occurred inside had certainly fuelled her energy levels.

  Poppy was always conscious of disturbing Martin in the night, what with her frequent trips to the loo, the need for painkillers and the continual desire for less or more heat. That night, she lay on her side, keeping as still as she could, trying to cry silently into her pillow. It was no use. Martin, in tune with her every movement and monitoring each intake of breath, twist of the duvet and sip of water in the dark, noticed the tiny judder of her shoulder. It was as if he was guarding her. She clenched her jaw at the sound of the springs creaking under his shifting weight; she hadn’t wanted to wake him. She heard him move the water glass across the bedside table so he could see the clock, then scratch his beard. He rolled over and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘What can I do?’ he whispered, his voice pained. ‘Can I get you some painkillers, love?

  Poppy shook her head, wiping her tears on the pale cover that she knew would be peppered with mascara residue and need another wash. Not that it really mattered, not in the scheme of things.

  Martin moved his hand to her waist and scooted over to where she lay, placing his legs inside the hollow of hers, mirroring her position and nuzzling her neck with his chin. Poppy felt a surge of love for him and remembered the first time they had slept together – teenagers who’d stolen a secret hour behind doors that didn’t lock. What had he said? ‘We fit together, don’t we?’

  ‘What’s the matter, baby?’

  Poppy sniffed and swallowed. ‘Peg… Peg’s birthday.’

  ‘Yes, and she’ll have a brilliant day. Everything’s wrapped and she’ll love her balloons. You’ve worked hard, Pop, don’t worry about it now.’

  Martin glanced at the alarm clock. It was only 4.30 a.m., far too early to be worrying about Peg’s present opening.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Poppy whispered.

  Martin closed his eyes against her back. He knew what was coming next but hoped she wouldn’t voice what they were both thinking. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want it confirmed. He felt too tired to cope with the fall-out.

  ‘I won’t be here for her next birthday, or the one after that, or any of them. This is the last. Her ninth, that’s all I got.’

  He stroked the line from hip to thigh, still enjoying the feel of the curve after all these years. ‘Hey, don’t talk like that,’ he said, soothingly. ‘You never know, we might just be lying here this time next year having this same conversation. You don’t know.’

  ‘But that’s just it. I do know and it’s breaking my heart.’ Poppy turned and twisted her body into his arms. Martin held her tight. Her tears were rare.

  ‘It’s so hard, Mart, trying to keep everything great for the kids because I think it might be the last thing they remember.’ This admission made her tears fall even faster. ‘And trying not to fall apart or go nuts, because that’s what I feel like doing sometimes. I feel so bloody awful a lot of the time that I just want to curl up and hide under the duvet and not see or speak to anyone, but I don’t have that luxury. I have to keep going and I have to try and keep things normal. Sometimes it feels like all my energy is being taken up just coping with this bloody illness and I have absolutely nothing left.’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘You are doing a great job. You are making it the best for them that it possibly can be and most people wouldn’t have the strength to do what you are doing. I’m so proud of you.’

  Poppy placed her cheek against his skin and cried hot tears from swollen eyes that left her face and hair wet. Angry thoughts clouded her mind as she gave in to a rare bout of self-pity. ‘I don’t want to be doing a great job! It’s so bloody unfair – why me? Why after everything we have been through is it me that has to go through this? I wish it was someone else. Someone mean or someone evil and I know that’s a horrible thing to say, but I don’t care. It’s not fair, why did it pick me? I just wanted to have a normal little life and watch my kids grow up. That’s all I ever wanted – it’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  Martin stroked her shoulder and let her rage exhaust itself. Eventually Poppy wriggled even closer against her husband and closed her eyes. She wanted to block out such thoughts, she wanted sleep. Inhaling the scent of him, she wished absurdly that she could crawl into him and never resurface. Soon, despite the threat of fractured nightmares, her breath fell into a rhythm and sleep arrived.

  ‘I GOT A SCOOTER!’ Peg screamed loud enough to wake the whole of Wiltshire.

  Poppy rolled over and looked at her husband, then buried her head in his T-shirt. ‘Something tells me she might have found her presents.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’ He kissed her sca
lp. ‘Are you feeling a bit better?’

  ‘Yes, much,’ Poppy lied, doing what she did best, trying to keep everyone happy.

  ‘IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!’ Peg hollered.

  They both laughed as they rose slowly and reluctantly from the warmth of their bed, thrust arms into dressing gowns and rubbed sleep from their eyes.

  Poppy palmed small circles on her lower back, which for some reason was particularly painful. She went into the bathroom and swallowed her morning dose of drugs. ‘Try harder, little soldiers. You’ve got to kick the shit out of those pedalos. Do your very best.’

  ‘All okay in there?’ Martin called from the bed.

  ‘Yep, just talking to myself.’

  They descended the stairs to find Peg tearing at the ribbons on the handlebars of her scooter. Poppy bent down slowly to retrieve the length of shiny pink satin, which would go into her memory box later, with the date and a message:

  This was wrapped around the handlebars of your new scooter, Peg, the greatest form of transport you have owned to date! May all your birthdays bring you joy and happiness, and know that on the day you were born I loved you with my whole heart and I always will. x

  ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ Poppy smiled from the kitchen door as Peg ran her hands over the thing of beauty that she had coveted for a while.

  ‘Thank you, Mum and Dad. I love it! I really love it! Can I go out on it now? Please?’ She was practically jumping up and down.

  Martin opened the front door. ‘Be my guest.’

  They sat on the sofa with their first cup of tea of the day, listening as Peg tore up and down the pavement in her pyjamas and slippers.

  ‘The neighbours are going to hate us,’ Poppy said as she sat back and closed her eyes.

  Peg had insisted on scooting to school and Martin had been coerced into walking alongside her with Max in the pushchair. At the end of the school day he set off early, deciding to walk the long way round and leave Poppy on the sofa. A few minutes of shut-eye would do her no harm at all.