Will You Remember Me?

by Amanda Prowse

  The front door bell rang and Poppy opened the door to see Jo smiling on the doorstep and holding a large white box.

  ‘Hey, I knew you’d come! It’s lovely to see you.’ Poppy ushered her friend into the hallway. ‘I don’t half miss having my mate next door.’

  ‘I miss you too, and the kids. More than you know.’

  Poppy noted Jo’s weight loss, which suited her. She was still lacking her rosy glow, but all in good time. ‘Well, you’re here now.’

  ‘How you doing?’ Jo squinted to get a better look at her friend.

  ‘So-so.’ Poppy didn’t want to dwell on the subject. ‘The times I go to knock on your door! I forget you’ve gone. I don’t like it, Jo, not one bit.’

  ‘I know how you feel. It’s weird being here. I see the house is all locked up.’ Jo flicked her eyes to the wall next door. ‘Have you seen shit-face?’

  ‘Yep, briefly. I left him in no doubt about how I feel about the whole thing.’

  ‘Thanks, Poppy. You’re not going to believe this…’ Jo took a deep breath. ‘But I heard he’s having a baby with his new bit of stuff. No wonder he was in such a hurry to get me packed up and moved on.’

  ‘Oh, Jo!’ Poppy put her hand on her friend’s arm, knowing that this above all else would be the hardest thing to bear.

  ‘I know. I can’t get my head around it. I don’t want him any more, Poppy, not after the way he treated me. I figure I deserve better. But the idea of him having the baby I wanted so badly with someone else…’ Jo shook her head. ‘It’s killing me.’ Poppy watched as her friend’s face threatened to dissolve into tears. ‘But I’m not going to cry today, I do enough of that at home. Today I am going to be happy because I get to see my birthday girl. Is she not back yet?’

  ‘No, but she’s on her way now. Mart’s walking her home. Come through, you don’t need an invite!’ Poppy stood back.

  Jo grazed her mate’s cheek with a kiss. ‘Don’t go mad, but I made Peg a cake. Ta da!’ Jo put the box on the dining table and removed the lid, revealing a vast pink cake covered in tiny pink marshmallows and with three sparklers sticking from the top ready for lighting.

  ‘Oh my God, look at that! Did you really make it, Jo?’

  ‘Yep! It’s taken me all day, but I bloody love that Peg and I can’t wait to see her face!’ Jo smiled.

  ‘She is one lucky girl.’ Poppy admired the fondant creation, ignoring the grinding pain in her joints and the slight blurring that was obscuring her vision. ‘Thank you, Jo. It’s bloody amazing. Did you hear her this morning, out at the crack of a sparrow’s fart on that bloody scooter? She was making so much noise, I thought you might have got the echo over in Marlborough.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what woke me up!’ Jo laughed.

  The two women were still admiring Jo’s handiwork when they heard Peg clatter up the garden path and smack into the front door.

  ‘No brakes,’ Poppy explained.

  ‘God help you!’ Jo grinned.

  Poppy opened the door and smiled at Peg, who lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. ‘Come on, birthday girl, you’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘It’s Aunty Jo, isn’t it? I saw her car. Did she get me a present?’ Peg stood up and dusted down her knees.

  ‘Peg!’ Poppy remonstrated. She turned to Jo and grimaced.

  ‘I did better than a present, I made you this!’ Jo stood to one side with her arms outstretched and her palms turned upwards towards the cake.

  ‘I LOVE IT!’ Peg screamed and jumped headlong into the sofa, her squeals muffled by the sofa cushion.

  ‘I think she likes it,’ Poppy said.

  Max ran in on his sturdy legs. ‘Cake for Maxy!’

  Jo bent down and lifted him, smothering his rosy cheeks with kisses. ‘Hey, Maxy! You are getting so big! And doing good talking too, clever boy.’

  ‘Five… six… seven…’ Max added for good measure.

  ‘Still counting?’ Jo enquired.

  ‘Yep, anything and everything. He’s going to be a maths genius, this child,’ Martin said with pride.

  ‘Vorderman, eat your heart out.’ Jo laughed.

  Poppy lit the sparklers and Peg stared at the flickering rainbows that shot from the top of her cake. It was hypnotic.

  ‘Don’t forget to make a wish, Peg!’ Martin encouraged.

  Peg closed her eyes and her lips moved silently up and down, mouthing her wish. As the sparklers died and sat forlornly in their sugary pink base, she sighed. ‘I did a wish for you, Mum, so that you could stop being sick in the night.’

  Poppy caught Martin’s eye, both of them unaware that their daughter had been privy to her trips to the bathroom in the dead of night. ‘Thank you, lovey.’ She was genuinely touched.

  ‘And the reason I could wish for you was because the other thing I would have wished for has already come true.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that, love?’ Poppy asked as the cake was cut and heaped into bowls.

  ‘You are not going to believe it, Mummy, but Mrs Newman made me register monitor! When she made the announcement, I listened like I do every morning and I always look down so she can’t see how sad I am when I am not picked. But today she said it! She said, “And the register monitor is… Peg Cricket!” She even got my name right. And I know you are not supposed to, Mum, but I couldn’t help it: I ran up to her desk and I put my arms around her neck and I gave her the biggest cuddle you can imagine. I squeezed her so tightly that her glasses popped off. I told her it was the third best day of my life, after getting Toffee and Daddy coming home for Christmas.’

  ‘What did she say when you said that?’ Poppy was curious.

  ‘She said, “Hard work and persistence pays off.”’ Peg beamed, still unable to believe her luck.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ Martin winked at his wife as they tucked into birthday cake.

  Poppy forked a spoonful to her mouth but declined to eat it at the last minute. She couldn’t muster the enthusiasm for something that looked so exquisite but turned to sawdust the moment it touched her tongue. She placed the tiniest morsel in her mouth and swallowed the crumbs that stuck to the dry husk of her throat. ‘Mmmm… this is lovely.’

  Seventeen

  Two days later and the excitement surrounding Peg’s birthday had dwindled. Poppy’s mood was not quite so jovial as she drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, waiting impatiently for Mr Ramasingh. Martin had insisted on accompanying her to the clinic and despite her protestations, she knew she needed him to lean on, in every sense, although his presence made her even more nervous. The room was a tad chillier than usual, making the white walls and grey blinds seem even more austere. She decided this was probably a good thing; she couldn’t picture what kind of art or knick-knack would be appropriate for the conversations that flowed across his tidy desk.

  ‘Ah, good morning, good morning, Poppy. and nice to meet you at last, Martin.’ Mr Ramasingh shook hands with Martin and took up his position. ‘You look tired,’ he noted as he tapped into his keyboard.

  Poppy liked the way he avoided small talk. There was no verbal meandering: he was straight to the point and she knew where she stood. ‘I am. I’m not sleeping too well and I keep being sick. And I’ve had terrible diarrhoea, but that seems to have calmed down a bit, thank God.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘You need to take your anti-sickness medication, and do you remember what I told you about sleep? You are not to worry about the clock on the wall, you have to listen to the clock in here.’ He placed his hand over his heart, or at least where his heart might be. Peg, who maintained that people’s hearts were always exactly in the centre of their chests, would have said about six inches too far to the left. ‘You need to listen to what your body needs and if it needs sleep, sleep! Nothing else matters as much as getting through the day and having the best rest you can get.’

  Poppy nodded. It was easy for him to say, with his beautiful wife at home to pick up the toys and cook the supper while he was here trying to fix people.
Who did he think was at home with her, performing wifely duties? Martin was brilliant, doing all he could, but it wasn’t easy juggling his job and caring for her and the kids.

  It was as if he read her mind. ‘We can get you some help, you know, if you need it.’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘No. No, we’re fine, thanks.’ The last thing she wanted was another row with Martin over busybodies poking their noses into their business. Martin squeezed her hand.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something, Mr Ramasingh.’ She sat forward in the chair.

  ‘Fire away.’ He stopped tapping and placed his clasped hands on the blotter in front of him.

  ‘Am I allowed to go on holiday, abroad? My uncle lives in the Caribbean, St Lucia, and wants us to go over.’ She bit her lip, desperately wanting him to say it was okay.

  ‘Well, if you feel up to it, yes. You would have to take some precautions – make sure you have enough medication with you, and you’ll need good health insurance, which can be ridiculously pricey. And you must take care of those bones of yours. Don’t forget, they are weakened, Poppy, and you don’t want to go breaking anything abroad. But all that said, if you feel you want to and are able to, then why not!’

  She beamed. ‘Why not!’

  ‘And you are going too, Martin?’

  ‘Yes. It will be good to get away. A new environment, a bit of sunshine…’

  ‘It will be good.’ The doctor nodded his agreement. ‘It’s easy to forget, when all the focus is on your wife, just what you are going through. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but we can put you in touch with a team of specialists who will do anything from helping with form filling to just giving you an ear to talk to.’

  Martin nodded. ‘It is tough,’ he almost whispered.

  It was Poppy’s turn to squeeze his hand.

  Mr Ramasingh coughed. ‘I remember when my wife died, it happened so suddenly that it was like having the rug pulled out from underneath me. I actually envied people like you, who had some time to plan, put things right, be together.’

  Poppy reached for the photograph that sat on the doctor’s desk. How she had envied this beautiful, beautiful woman. ‘This wife here? She’s dead?’ Tears began spilling from her eyes.

  ‘Yes. Six years ago. A brain aneurism. It was very sudden.’ Poppy heard the catch in his voice.

  She slumped back in the chair and placed her hand on her chest. Her sobs came loudly and with such force, she had to fight for each breath. ‘Does everyone have to fucking die?’

  Mr Ramasingh couldn’t help the spurt of laughter that left his mouth. He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes as he shook his head. Martin too saw the funny side and let his shoulders shake, while simultaneously trying to comfort his wife. Eventually, Poppy’s lips twitched as well.

  ‘Oh, Poppy, that has made me laugh! And in answer to your question, yes! Yes they do, each and every one of us!’

  They drove home almost in silence. Martin didn’t comment on Poppy’s swollen, red eyes and face streaked with tears, but instead stole furtive glances at her as he took left-hand corners. He parked in front of the house and ratcheted the handbrake, but neither of them made any attempt to move. Their breathing slowed and the windows fogged, creating a bubble around the two of them. Both stared ahead, in silence. It felt cosy and peaceful. When Martin did eventually speak, his voice was husky, as if he’d just woken from a long sleep.

  ‘Do you ever want to ask him how long you’ve got, Poppy?’ His question came out of the blue. It was somehow easier to discuss these things in the car, leaving their home free of some of the echoes.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I think it’s best I don’t know.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, wondering if having a timescale would make it easier or harder.

  Poppy nodded. ‘I think if I knew, then I might just give up.’

  ‘Don’t ever say that!’ he shouted. ‘You must never give up. This is all about getting as much time as possible for the kids, for me. You owe us that.’

  ‘I owe you that? What’s that supposed to mean? Are you blaming me for this, Mart? You think I would choose this?’ She punched her chest.

  He pinched his nose and rested his elbows on the steering wheel. ‘No. No, I know you would never choose this and I’m sorry. I just hate the way Mr Whatshisname is so positive, so smiley and matter-of-fact. I know I should be more like that, but, truth is, I feel like I’m drowning and it’s exhausting.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ She unclipped her seatbelt and walked slowly up the path. Her sympathy was a little thin on the ground today.

  Jo had made a huge chocolate cake, covered in thick frosting, much of which was around Max’s face.

  ‘Cake!’ Max announced as they walked into the hallway.

  ‘I can see that!’ Poppy bent down and picked up her boy, which was becoming increasingly hard for her to do. She carried him to the sofa and flopped down with him on her lap.

  ‘What have you been up to, Maxy? Have you been a good boy for Aunty Jo?’

  Max nodded. ‘Toffee did a poo-poo.’

  Poppy laughed at her son’s rare sentence. ‘Do you know what, Max? I think you know exactly what is going on and you just choose to stay out of it, in your own little world. And honestly, mate, I can’t blame you. Not one bit. Sometimes I wish I could hide from the real world too.’

  Maxy held up his favourite little digger for his mum to kiss, which she duly did.

  Jo came through from the kitchen with mugs of tea and two large slabs of chocolate cake. Poppy groaned inwardly.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Jo asked eagerly as she forked the sponge into her mouth and washed it down with a gulp of strong coffee.

  ‘Okay. Not much to say really. Nothing new. Thanks for looking after Maxy at the last minute, mate. Mart could only finish a bit early to come and collect me, which is fair enough. And thank you for our lovely cake too – you’ve been busy!’

  ‘We had great fun. He is such a fabulous kid, Poppy. He just smiles and chatters – he’s so happy. We let Toffee run around on the rug and he did a poo and Max thought it was the most hilarious thing.’ Jo smiled.

  ‘You will stay in their lives, won’t you, Jo? Look after them, be there if they need someone to talk to? They’ve got Mart and Claudia, of course, but someone my age will be good for them.’

  Jo was choked with emotion. ‘I will love them for you, Poppy, always, and I’m honoured that you’d ask me.’

  As she prepared for bed later that evening, Poppy stood and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She looked sick. For the first time she realised it must now be obvious to anyone who glanced at her through a window or met her in the street. She had started to notice how people looked the other way or crossed over to avoid her and that made her feel like one of the afflicted. Her chest was concave; her skin, which had taken on a greyish hue, was taut, stretched over her skeleton without the layer of fat that had given her her shape. She hated the way her body looked. She smiled at the irony of it: she had disliked the curve of her hip and the slight bulge of fat on her stomach her whole life and yet now she would happily swap her skinny form for her old self. Her teeth looked large in her mouth. Black circles sat beneath her eyes and her hair was lank, thin.

  She swallowed the handful of drugs that had become her habit and cleaned her teeth. Spitting into the sink, she recoiled at the globs of blood spattered around the plughole. She ran the tap and swilled the water with her hand; out of sight, out of mind.

  Reaching down, she plucked the box of tampons from the shelf behind the loo and shoved them in the pedal bin, trying not to think of all they represented: making babies, having babies, the cycle that meant life. ‘I won’t be needing those again.’ She smiled, kidding herself that she had found the one advantage to being sick, refusing to allow the painful truth to permeate, that her body was failing, shutting down.

  Eighteen

  ‘I am so excited!’ Peg jumped up and down on the sofa in her new frock.
The floaty skirt billowed around her as she bounced and the sequined bodice caught the light and shimmered, making her look like a human glitter ball.

  ‘Peg, take it off! You’ve got three weeks to go and you’ll have it ruined if you put it on every single day until then. People will think you are turning up in an old rag.’ Poppy sighed.

  ‘But I LOVE it so much!’ Peg jumped higher and higher, fluffing the skirt with her hands.

  ‘I know, love. But we need it to stay white for as long as possible. You don’t want to get it dirty, do you?’

  Peg shrugged her shoulders, not fussed really whether it got dirty, so long as she could wear it.

  Martin laughed from over the top of the paper, delighted that the fifty quid price tag he had ummed, ahhed and sweated over had turned out to be worth every penny. To see Peg that happy was something he would pay any price for. The party had turned out to be a wonderful idea, for which he took full credit. The buzz of the planning was giving them all a lift. Even Poppy, though she looked frail and a little green around the gills, had got some of her vitality back.

  ‘She’s all right in it, Poppy,’ he commented.

  ‘Oh, is that right? Well that’s good then, Peg, you can just ignore me and do what your dad says.’

  Martin tutted in response. He was in no mood for another bickering session.

  Poppy picked up her phone as it buzzed on the counter top. ‘Ooh, I’ve got a text message from my mum!’ Martin watched as her face lit up; she reminded him of Peg. The moment the message was opened, the light disappeared from her eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ said Poppy, ‘she says she can’t make it, but hopes we have a “GR8” time.’

  ‘Hey, that’s Cheryl, queen of text speak. She always was a teenager at heart.’ Martin tried to lighten her obvious disappointment.

  ‘Urgh.’ Poppy shuddered, thinking of her own teenage years and her mum coming home in the early hours smelling of booze and sex.

  ‘Have you spoken to her, Poppy?’