Poppy knew she was referring to her and Martin. ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Everything is okay.’
‘That’s a good thing, Poppy. And how is Peg the pilot?’
‘Good! Mad as ever. We’ve had some very honest chats and she seems fine…’ Poppy let the implications of this linger.
‘Matilda is desperate to talk to her, we must arrange a time for them to chat.’
‘Definitely.’ Poppy nodded. ‘I still can’t believe we were ever there, Kate. It was a whole other world.’
‘Oh, we loved it. In fact Uncle Katniss has just arrived and he’ll get mad if I hog you. I’ll put him on and talk to you soon. Lots of love!’ Kate waved her goodbye. She appeared to shuffle to one side and Simon took up the chair at the desk in the study. It was lovely for Poppy to be able to picture where they were in the house, and their surroundings.
‘Hey, how are you, Poppy?’ Simon too looked concerned.
‘As I said to Kate, not great.’
Simon paused and sat forward in the chair. ‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘I don’t think there’s much anyone can do.’ She tilted her head to the side.
‘Are you feeling peaceful or frightened? How are your thoughts?’ Simon was the only one who spoke to her in this way.
Poppy considered this. ‘A bit of both, depending on the time of day or night.’
‘I bet.’
‘When I first got diagnosed, I thought that I’d fight, fight till the end. But quite recently I’ve realised it’s not a battle, not at all, because that would mean that if I was properly armed and had tactics, strength and sufficient will, I might win. But I can’t win, no one ever does. This isn’t a battle, it’s annihilation – the destruction of me.’
‘Only the body of you, not you or your legacy.’
‘Thank you, Simon. You are always so wise. I’ve finally come to understand that there is no immortality. The only variable is timing.’
‘That’s a good way to put it.’ Simon smiled.
She smirked, rueful. ‘I’ve read enough obituaries in my time, and it’s finally sunk in.’ She paused. ‘So, in terms of my battle, I feel like I’ve lost. To fight on now seems a bit pointless, stupid. There are better ways to use up my small pockets of energy and time, both of which are now the most precious thing. Maybe they always were and I just didn’t realise it. But watching Peg and Max, just watching them and enjoying them, it’s everything.’
‘You are right, it is everything.’
‘My thoughts are quite ordered and even though I have moments of absolute despair, I’m actually okay. I see panic in the eyes of Mart and Claudia each time they poke their head around the door and peer into my face. But, strangely, I don’t share their alarm. Without sounding too weird, it’s as if I’m beyond the body that holds these thoughts.’
‘That is truth, Poppy, right there.’ Simon beamed.
‘So I am going to try and enjoy my stripped-back state. I’ve no chores, no timescale and in one way it’s quite lovely. I’m noticing my every breath, enjoying every single second of life until I draw my last.’ She raised her eyebrows in contemplation. ‘It’s funny that, isn’t it? That breath becomes everything. One more breath… That’s all I can hope for, all I need. One more and then one more and then…’ She shuffled to change her position on the sofa. ‘Sorry, Simon, I’m waffling here.’
‘It is far from waffle. You sound enlightened.’
Poppy laughed. ‘Oh blimey, that’ll be a first.’
‘Can I ask you something, Poppy?’
‘Of course, anything.’
‘Can I pray with you?’ Simon said, a note of cautious hesitation in his voice.
Poppy considered this and her reply was swift. ‘I’d like that, Simon. I’d like that very much.’
Simon bowed his head and moved closer to the little nub of microphone. He paused and then began.
‘Father, we ask you to take care of Poppy and let her find the peace that she deserves. Help her to understand that even though the sun will no more be her light by day, nor will the brightness of the moon shine on her, you will provide her with everlasting light, and God will be her glory. Amen.’
‘Everlasting light,’ Poppy repeated, and smiled.
Twenty-Eight
Poppy woke at five in the morning, with a searing pain that shot right though her. A pain so intense that it stopped the breath in her throat and made her whole body curl. She gripped the edge of the duvet and hoped that the fetal position might ease her discomfort. It didn’t.
‘Mart?’ she managed.
He sat up quickly, alerted like a night guard caught napping on the job.
‘Yes, love? It’s okay. I’m right here.’ He clicked on the lamp and in its light she saw how his chest heaved. ‘What can I get you? Painkillers? Water?’
‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled.
Martin rolled her over and looked into her face. ‘Oh God, Poppy, you don’t look at all well.’
‘I’m a bit scared,’ she whispered.
‘Hey, don’t be scared. You’ve got me, right by your side, for always. Don’t be scared, my love.’
He held her tight and they waited to see who would say it first, both knowing that once this journey was embarked upon, there would be no stopping the inevitable.
‘Shall I… shall I contact Dr Jessop, get her to call the hospice?’ He tried to keep his voice level.
Poppy pulled back until she could see his face. Her vision slightly fuzzy, she held his gaze and nodded.
Propped on the sofa and wrapped in a duvet, Poppy waited for the ambulance, thankful that her pain had subsided, but equally fearful of when it might return.
‘So will you come home tonight, Mum?’ Peg asked as she sprayed the table from her mouthful of Rice Krispies.
‘No, not tonight.’ Poppy’s words were delivered slowly.
‘Daddy will take you in to visit Mummy once she gets settled,’ Claudia said.
Max climbed up the sofa and sat next to his mum. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and kicked his leg against hers. It felt wonderful.
‘You be a good boy for Granny Claudia and I’ll see you soon, Maxymoo.’
Max pulled out his thumb. ‘Three, four, five, six, Thomas Tank Engine!’
Poppy smiled at her clever counting boy. The small bag she had packed was by the front door and she was set. There was no need to go room to room, it was all there for perfect recall inside her head. Simon had been right: it was the truth. She was already beyond the broken body that she had become.
After breakfast, Claudia and Max walked Peg to school, full of plans to kick up the fallen leaves as they went to look for a couple of pretty ones to press. Poppy was relieved that the kids didn’t have to watch her being loaded into the ambulance; it would only have unsettled them. But the ambulance crew were great – two smiling, positive and professional women – which gave her confidence that she was in the very best hands. Martin sat by her side as she lay strapped onto a trolley in the back of the vehicle. She let her half-closed eyes wander over the array of cubbyholes on the roof and sides, wondering what they did with all that medical booty, all those plastic packets, pouches and tubes.
The ambulance drove up the sweeping driveway to Hawthorne House. As Poppy was wheeled into the hospice, she was glad to see it wasn’t very hospital-like; more like a hotel. The walls were painted in a soft yellow tone and the pictures were bold and bright. The entrance was spacious and full of light, with a wide glass canopy shielding the doors from whatever the weather might be doing. Two huge vases crammed with fresh flowers sat on round tables. She had thought the atmosphere might be a bit depressing, but it was anything but. Gentle music was piped into the communal areas and there were comfy sofas and coffee tables with magazines and coffee machines within reach. It was rather lovely. The staff were smiley and welcoming. She felt better about the kids visiting her there; it wouldn’t be scary at all.
Her room wasn’t huge, but spacious enough t
o accommodate a large bed with all the medical paraphernalia at its head. A trolley table sat over her bed and there was a small wardrobe. The one big window looked out onto the garden and a gentle breeze made the pale blue curtains flutter into the room.
‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ Martin tried to sound upbeat.
‘Nice.’ She nodded her agreement as she smoothed the top sheet of the bed into which she’d already been settled.
Neither wanted to think about the wider implications of where they were or what that meant; it was too painful. Instead they took each minute as it came, silently holding hands and smiling as their world spiralled down into the dark pit that had been waiting for them ever since Poppy had taken that shower, almost ten months earlier.
Poppy’s phone buzzed in her hand; it was a text from Cheryl. She slowly pressed the little button and read her mum’s words. As ever, there was little preamble, no explanation, no apology. She digested the three words and her heart lurched as her tears fell.
Martin leant forward. ‘What is it, darling? What can I do?’
Poppy held the phone out to the man who had loved and cared for her since the day they had met.
‘“Your dad’s Sonny. X”,’ Martin read.
Poppy cried harder at hearing the words spoken aloud.
He shook his head. ‘Sonny? I can’t believe it. Do you think he knew? God, Poppy, I can see us sitting there in his café, chatting to him over our Coke.’ He shook his head again. It was unbelievable to him. His jaw tensed as he thought of Cheryl and why she might have considered this good news to break at this time.
Poppy could only give a small shrug. She thought about the thousands of times she had seen Sonny throughout her childhood. He’d been to school with her mum and he’d known Poppy her whole life. She smiled and remembered his voice, always pleased to see her: ‘’Ello, my gel…’ She closed her eyes and thought of the many nights she had spent with her toes tucked into the hem of her nightie, wondering who her dad might be. Was he a cowboy or a policeman? A prince or a film star? The countless hours she had spent scanning men on the Tube and in the shopping precinct, staring at faces that she thought might carry a hint of resemblance to her own. And all the time, Sonny, who made her bacon sandwiches and mixed her milkshakes, he was her dad. Her dad! She remembered walking to the pub just after they’d been married and Sonny driving past in his van and shouting out at them, ‘Oi oi! It’s Mr and Mrs!’ It was the first time they had heard it and they had exploded with giggles. Sonny…
With Poppy dozing and comfortable, Martin headed off to work for a few hours. Sunlight began to filter through Poppy’s window, casting a golden hue over the whole room. There was a large print on the wall opposite her bed: a chocolate-box version of a rather crude coastal scene mounted in a pale green frame. Sailors were unloading boxes of fish from a boat onto the quayside and women in long frocks and white pinnies stood talking with baskets on their arms. It was all very Catherine Cookson and certainly not what she wanted her last sight to be, when the time came. It reminded her of bed and breakfast accommodation, cheaply outfitted coffee shops and dentists’ waiting rooms, which often had pictures like this screwed to the walls. Poppy smiled; the chances of anyone wanting to nick something that crap were probably very slim. She decided to ask Martin to bring in one of Max’s masterpieces to place over it.
She pushed her head back into the pillow, closed her eyes and took deep breaths. She hurt. It was that familiar bone-deep ache that she could only describe as a migraine, but in her body, not her head. Mr Ramasingh had nodded and smiled at her description; he liked it very much.
Poppy opened her eyes and there, standing at the foot of the bed, was her nan, obscuring the garish print. She was smiling; she looked calm, happy and present, the nan of Poppy’s youth. It was lovely to see her eyes so clear and with full recognition of what was going on; the fog of dementia had disappeared, along with the stare that used to settle on the middle distance. Poppy stretched out her left hand, reaching towards her nan. Dorothea blew a kiss from her flattened palm and disappeared as quickly as she had arrived.
Poppy felt elated and alarmed in equal measure. ‘Have you come to get me?’ she asked, into the ether.
* * *
A week later, Poppy watched as the light grew stronger in her room. It must be morning. She found that day and night were often indistinguishable; whether the lighting inside was bright or subdued depended on the mood and preference of the care team and now that her sleep patterns were irregular it could fool her into thinking it was any time. Not that it mattered. There were no timetables to be kept, no deadlines to be met and no consequences for being late. If anything, time was an irritation to her as she lay, waiting, within the walls of Hawthorne House. It either passed too slowly, making each hazy day last twice as long as she would have liked, or else it went too fast, leaving her in blind panic that it was too soon, too soon. Give me one more day…
Peg burst into the room. ‘Morning, Mum!’ She leant over and planted a kiss on Poppy’s face. ‘I see you’ve still got your wee-wee bag.’ Peg pointed to the pouch on its little stand to the side of the bed, the tube of which curled under the sheets and into Poppy’s catheter.
‘I have, darling. Although, as we both know, everyone wees at least once somewhere they shouldn’t and no one minds a jot!’ Poppy nodded, her voice soft and slow.
Martin arrived next, his delay explained by the fact that Max was walking. ‘Here’s Mummy, Max! Are you going to give her a kiss?’
‘No I not!’ Max shook his head repeatedly. He didn’t like his mum being in this room or this bed.
‘It’s fine. Don’t make him.’ Poppy smiled reassuringly at her husband.
‘I think you need a bit of a position change,’ Peg announced. The novelty of being able to raise, lower and angle Poppy’s bed with the touch of a button had not worn off for her. She grabbed the remote control and poked her tongue out of the side of her mouth; this required concentration.
Poppy felt the top half of her bed moving upwards.
‘Leave Mummy alone, Peg, you mustn’t joggle her about,’ Martin said, quite calmly.
‘She likes it, don’t you, Mum? I’ll get her up a bit, it will be much better.’ Peg peered at her, only inches from her face.
Poppy smiled and nodded.
‘Well, not too far then,’ Martin said. ‘That’ll do.’
Poppy was now sitting up. ‘You are right, Peg, this is much better.’
Martin pulled the wing-backed chair closer to the bed. ‘You should have seen her and Matilda today, playing some kind of clapping game over Skype. It was very funny.’
‘I watched them doing that in St Lucia. How are Simon and Kate?’
‘Sending you all of their love.’ Martin held her hand.
‘I’m much better at the clapping game now!’ Peg chirped. ‘And I’ve decided that Matilda is my number one best friend and then Toffee and then Jade McKeever. Matilda and I are going to be friends for ever and ever.’
Martin smiled at his wife, knowing she would be relieved to hear of the demise of Jade Bloody McKeever.
Max, who had been quiet up to this point, decided to climb onto the bed. He placed one leg on first and, clinging to the blankets, hauled himself up. Poppy reached down and pulled him up to sit in the crook of her arm. He showed her his new toy from Claudia.
‘Max’s dumper truck,’ he announced. ‘One… two… three… four…’ He counted each of the wheels.
Poppy sat back, loving the feel of his plump little body next to hers.
She must have fallen asleep and when she woke her family were gone. There was a note from Martin: Be back in a bit, sleepyhead. xx He had tucked it into the frame opposite her bed, which now had Max’s picture tacked over it. When she had asked Max what it was a picture of, he replied, ‘Digger!’ She stared at the mud-coloured streaks and blobs; maybe he was more of an abstract artist.
The door opened and in strode Barbara, one of the nurses. She was
a large woman, solidly built, whose forearms reminded Poppy of the hams that hung on hooks in the deli. Her brusque manner often came as a relief after the sweet, soothing tones of some of the others. It took away the emotion, made the place feel more like a hospital, and if it were a hospital, there was the chance that Poppy would be going home, no matter how slim.
Sofia Adams, 27, beloved only daughter of Jack and Angela. Taken by the angels. You were the light in our lives and will forever be the joy in our hearts. Instead of buying flowers, the family request that you consider carrying a donor card. May God keep you safe in his arms, Sofia.
‘What you reading there?’ Barbara nodded her head at the newspaper folded on Poppy’s lap.
Embarrassed, Poppy moved it to the table on wheels beside her. She swallowed. ‘The obituaries. I’ve always read them. My husband thinks it’s morbid, particularly given my current predicament, but I find it quite comforting. I think it’s nice to know that they weren’t just patients or statistics; they were people who were loved. I like to know that people go on, by being missed, after they have… you know…’
‘Died?’
‘Yes,’ Poppy whispered.
‘Do you find it hard to say?’ Barbara asked as she removed the cap from the thermometer and put it into Poppy’s ear, holding it with one hand. Both were so familiar with the routine inserting of needles, swabs, suppositories, cannulas and tubes into every available orifice that neither blinked.
‘Yes, I do,’ Poppy admitted. ‘Have you been with lots of people when they…?’
‘Died?’ Barbara prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, lots. I think it’s a privilege to be with someone in their last moments.’ Barbara removed the beeping thermometer, held it at arm’s length, narrowed her gaze to get a better view and reached for the clipboard at the end of Poppy’s bed. She drew a little X on the meandering chart, which looked like a profile of the Pyrenees.
‘What’s it like? What happens?’
Barbara stopped what she was doing and folded her arms. ‘Truthfully, it varies. Sometimes people have been given so many drugs and so much pain relief that they slip away without really being present; they just seem to pass from sleep to death. Some relatives like this, relieved that there isn’t a drama, but others feel a bit cheated, as though they didn’t get the last words they were hoping for or the chance for one final goodbye. Others, often those who’ve been in pain, seem to enter a space of peace and calm immediately before, and the look of relief that comes over them is quite beautiful.’
Will You Remember Me? Page 28
