Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

  “That’s bloody freezing,” Dai shouted. In retribution, he grabbed a larger flat rock and plunged it into the pool. The veil of water drenched Poppy from dark ringlets to white toes. She spat out an earthy, watery mouthful and wiped her eyes. This time, she would defy her nain and swear. She breathed in ready to vent without restraint, but a furtive movement on the bank caught her eye.

  A boy from their year, the rotund Alan Watkins, was moving with uncharacteristic speed. He waddled down the bank to her clothes, his tongue sticking out from between his teeth, and leered at her.

  “Hey,” Poppy spluttered. “What are you doing?”

  Alan sneered as he gathered every single item of clothing and her bag. The boy, a barrel on wobbling legs with perpendicular feet, scrabbled up the bank like a penguin. Poppy’s belongings were smeared in soil as he stumbled.

  He turned, red-faced and out of breath. “I’ll dump these over the bridge if you don’t give me something.”

  “What do you mean? I haven’t got anything.” Poppy felt cold and exposed.

  “How about a kiss behind the bushes?”

  The two girls on the bank tittered. Poppy felt sick and her skin shivered both with cold and revulsion. “Give me back my clothes, Alan.”

  “Snog first,” he jeered.

  “Oi, Watkins,” Dai shouted. “You’re taking it too far. That’s not funny.”

  Alan ignored him. “Come on. Kiss and you get the bag. Tongues and you get your clothes.”

  Poppy clutched her arms around her chest, her skin shivering into a thousand goose bumps.

  “Give them back, Watkins,” Dai shouted and he waded towards the bank.

  “Piss off, Dai,” Alan said with bravado, but he was skittish and his feet shuffled on the path.

  “Give them back, or you’re going over that bridge.” And no-one doubted that Dai would manage it.

  Alan looked panicked from Poppy to Dai, the latter at the water’s edge and ready to leap up the bank.

  “You won’t get your clothes Poppy if that numbskull comes near me.” But one more glance and he jumped and squealed. His large legs pounded up the path. Dai slipped on the bank in his bare wet feet, and Alan with a head start was already disappearing beyond the edge of the village, Poppy’s clothes bundled beneath his arm.

  “I’ll catch him, Poppy, don’t you worry.” And Dai disappeared too.

  Poppy sat on a boulder hugging her knees to her chest. She could hear the two girls on the riverbank twittering behind their hands and boys paddling in the river gave her awkward glances.

  The church bell tolled for five o’clock and children began to disperse home for tea. Poppy stared at the glistening river to avoid catching anyone’s eye and prepared herself for a humiliating and uncomfortable walk home.

  “I found your clothes, Poppy.”

  “Rosie?” Poppy squinted into the sun. Rosie’s silhouette was surrounded by a halo of golden evening sunshine. She appeared six feet tall at that moment.

  “Oh thank you.” Poppy shivered, more from the encounter with Alan Watkins than any chill. She grasped her clothes and wriggled inside them. “Did Dai get them?”

  “No, I didn’t see him. I…” she grinned at Poppy, “found them.”

  Poppy shook her shoulders still uncomfortable from being exposed. “I want to go home. Will you come with me?”

  “Of course.” Rosie smiled as if Poppy needn’t have asked and extended a hand to pull her up the bank.

  Rosie held Poppy’s hand the whole way, swinging their arms and humming The Love Cats. It was the height of summer and the hedgerows towered with new growth. Dense hogweed leaned from the verges into a tunnel of white blooms and it was impossible to see beyond the next bend or to the river and fields.

  But Poppy could have sworn she saw a bottom. It was a white, podgy bare bottom. It flashed in the corner of her vision and wobbled into the hogweed. Did she imagine it – shimmering buttocks hastening through the long grass and down the riverbank?

  “Did you see…?”

  Rosie turned. “Hmm?”

  “I thought I saw…” The wall of vegetation closed again, swallowing the bare bum without a trace. “Never mind.”

  Rosie resumed her tune and encouraged Poppy along with a gentle tug. But every now and again Poppy checked behind. Just as they curved around the next meander of the river, she was rewarded with the image of Alan Watkins’ stricken face. It, and bare shoulders, appeared from between the stalks of hogweed. It was a face that was not so much repentant, more terrified.

  “Rosie wait.” She tugged Rosalyn back, but by the time she’d caught her attention, the face had disappeared. “Oh. I swear it was Alan Watkins. Naked. In those bushes.”

  Rosie stopped and scanned their surroundings. When she turned to Poppy a satisfied smile lit her face. “Really?” She peered into Poppy’s eyes. “How odd.” Then Rosalyn set forth again with a sway and swagger.

  Poppy laughed out loud at the recollection of Rosalyn saving her clothes and dignity. She walked home along the same path she’d ambled that day and a thousand times after, hand in hand with Rosalyn Thorn. She could feel her fingers around her own, always longer, always stronger. She missed her friend. How she missed her. That pit in Poppy’s stomach gaped wide.

  She’d kept Rosalyn out for so long that now the memories came flooding in. Everywhere had a vestige of their childhood friendship. A vivid experience was evoked by every smell, a memory by every place. The café, the school, her house, the Hall further up the valley, they all conjured Rosalyn’s presence.

  Every bank along the river held a treasure: the time they hid from Nain when they’d burnt her tea cloths on the stove; skinny dipping in the summer at nine years old and watching the minnows nibble their toes; huddling in the dark beside a few burning twigs, the warmth of Rosalyn next to her more comfort than the flames.

  Poppy clasped her hands over her eyes. “Why did she have to come back?” She screwed up her eyes, willing the memories to stop and the turmoil to subside. “Why?” she breathed.

  Her question was met with a gasp, quickly followed by another, in fact by a pant. Poppy slipped her hands from her face to see a quizzical Border Collie staring at her. He tilted his head with a goofy expression on his face.

  “Jacob. What have you been doing?”

  Their three-legged dog, with an unfortunate penchant for car mudflaps, was covered from head to tail in green sludge with the odd pellet of poo dangling from his coat.

  “Oh no,” Poppy grumbled. Cleaning a shitty dog was not what Poppy had in mind for the evening. Then she laughed and shook her head. “I suppose life must be very simple when rolling around in sheep droppings is the highlight of your day.” And she genuinely felt some envy.

  Jacob responded with an enthusiastic bark.

  “Come on boy. We’d better go and face Nain. Because I bet she can smell you from here.” Poppy sighed, “And, as sure as it will rain on the day of the show, Nain will have heard that Rosalyn’s back in town.”

  Chapter 6.

  There it was. Ty Bach. Home.

  The small-holding by the river comprised a timber-framed cottage overlooking a large lawn and flower garden. Around its perimeter was a stone wall and beyond that a creeping patch of gorse and brambles, sparkling with yellow in spring and fruitful in autumn, so dense that passers-by on the river path rarely noticed the presence of the cottage.

  The name had been chosen by Poppy’s mother. Emma Jenkins had found the old farm cottage and hayloft with attached outbuildings when Poppy was five years old. It had been abandoned for years and needed gutting. Poppy’s dad had renovated it, one room at a time, and they slowly expanded to inhabit the whole building. When Taid passed away, the adjoining barn was converted with its own front door for Nain. The barn also housed a staircase to a much-wished for attic bedroom for Poppy above the original cottage. And when all that was done, her mother wanted a new name for the rejuvenated home. Poppy could remember her researching the Welsh word
s for “small house” and being pleased when she found “Ty Bach” – a sweet sounding name for a cosy little cottage.

  The suggestion met with chuckles from her father and Nain. Poppy and her mother took it as warm approval for Emma’s attempt to master Welsh.

  Nain suggested making a sign. She pointed to a silver birch felled by the wind the previous winter, and Poppy’s father cut a thick slanting oval. He passed the wooden slice with glee to Poppy’s mum.

  “Shall we smooth it and cut away the bark?” her mother asked.

  “I like the bark,” Poppy replied and it was left in its natural state.

  Iwan had carved the name, and although woodwork was his daily grind, he finished the job with as much care as Poppy had witnessed. If anything, her father seemed more cheered by the activity than usual.

  Poppy’s mother painted the grooved letters in black and the house name, made by the joint effort of the entire family, was ready.

  It was only when Emma hung the sign by the front door that Poppy’s father and Nain let on. Nain clutched her hands to her belly, underneath great mounds of bosom. Iwan wheezed with laughter and wiped tears from his eyes.

  “What’s tickled you two?” Emma said, a perplexed smile on her face.

  “It means toilet, love,” he said.

  “What’s that darling?”

  “’Ty Bach’. It means loo.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The Welsh use it to refer to the crapper.” And Poppy’s father could speak no more as another paroxysm of laughter gripped him.

  Poppy’s mother had looked at the sign with a frown, but her expression soon turned to a warm smile, as it always did. She stroked the sign, running her fingers affectionately around the smooth bark. “Too late. It can only be Ty Bach to me.” She turned to them and said, “I wouldn’t change it even if it meant ‘house full of the biggest buggers ever to be born in Wales’”.

  Poppy giggled at the memory. They were a pair of meanies to Mum at times. She looked down at the dog. “Come on, Jacob,” and with a leap over a gate and a race through the field they were home.

  Poppy peered through the side window. She could hear chatter through the diamond lead frames and warped glass, which let in the wind and leaked out conversation. Her mother was in the kitchen stirring a pan. Two black cats with white socks slunk around her legs and padded over the slate floor. Bowls were ready and laid on the old farmhouse table and Poppy could smell the comforting aroma of Emma’s tomato and basil soup.

  The kitchen and tiny dining space were separated from the living room by the timber frame of an old wall, whose wattle and daub had long since rotted and been removed. She could see Nain and Pip on the sofa, nominally watching a programme on the telly. Nain’s mouth was moving at nineteen to the dozen and Pip appeared her usual self – happy with a disgruntled veneer.

  Poppy’s father sat in an ancient leather armchair opposite, broadsheet spread in front of him but matching Nain in conversation. She could hear their rat-a-tat-tat of heated Welsh discussion.

  Their rapidity of conversation was one of their few similarities. Poppy’s father was a slim, beautiful man, with fine features and deep amber eyes. Even the shadow of stubble, the faded trousers and the checked workman’s shirt that had seen better days couldn’t disguise the elegant man he was.

  Nain was a woman of stature and when thinking about her face it was difficult, even for the most generous like Poppy, for a cauliflower not to come to mind. Her nose was squat and great puffs of cheeks and jowls surrounded her other features, and although Poppy was indeed a generous person, she thanked her stars that her father’s looks had been passed on so faithfully.

  Nain’s chatter was unimpeded by the ferocious activity of knitting. Needles stabbed the air and blood-red wool flew. Her enormous breasts wobbled even though contained by one of Nain’s sturdy brassieres – impressive feats of engineering and the stuff of legend in the Jenkins house.

  The bra’s wiring had a tensile strength that could support a cow in calf and the cups were large enough to hold a small child. The latter was proved beyond apocryphal when Poppy found one moving across the lawn. The embroidered brassiere had fallen from the washing line and further investigation revealed nine-month-old Pip happily crawling beneath, enjoying the concealment and lacy sky above.

  Poppy smiled. Beneath Nain’s billowing dresses, gargantuan undergarments and breasts, lay the biggest heart – a family trait that had been passed down to son and granddaughter. Although fortunately they hadn’t acquired her temper.

  Poppy skirted around the small house to the front door, and there she smiled once more. She reached out and touched the house name, the white bark frayed at the edges. After the worst of days, this filled her with joy. It was good to be home.

  Poppy could still hear the rat-a-tat-tat Welsh from her father and Nain as she pushed open the door. It went back and forth like a professional tennis match, son and mother formidable and equal adversaries.

  Then it stopped. Nain’s needles froze mid-air. Iwan’s paper was rigid. Poppy looked to her mother in the kitchen, but she hadn’t noticed her arrival at all and continued stirring, oblivious.

  Pip kicked and bounced her legs on the edge of the sofa. “They were talking about Rosalyn.”

  Iwan dropped his paper, Nain threw her needles down and mother and son chorused together. “Oh Pip.” “Twp”. “Honestly, bach. Learn some tact.” “Why did you have to say that?”

  Poppy laughed. “And how did they know Rosalyn was back?” She took friendly aim at Pip with a look.

  “Told them as soon as we got home. I told Mum on the way, but she was humming.”

  “Well thanks.” Poppy rolled her eyes.

  Her father screwed up his paper into a ball and threw it at Pip. “Dew dew, Pip. You’re going to have to learn to lie now you’re nearly a teenager.”

  Nain bustled up from the sofa in a movement swifter than anyone would anticipate given her bulk, and enveloped Poppy in a cwtch.

  “Welcome home, bach. We’ve been worried.”

  “I’m all right, Nain. What’s there to be worried about?”

  “Well this Rosalyn Thorn bombshell for a start.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  Nain held her at arm’s length and glared over her glasses. “Don’t talk rubbish. I can read you as easily as a book.”

  Poppy blushed like a child.

  “Oh bach. I’m not being funny. It’s a beautiful thing to wear your heart on your sleeve, especially when it’s usually such a happy one. And to get through life without having to resort to artifice, building defences and hiding your emotions is wonderful. So don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, Poppy Jenkins. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  Poppy sighed. “Yes, it was a shock this morning when I saw Rosalyn.”

  “There you go.”

  “But I’ve hardly thought of it since.”

  “Pah. Likely tale.”

  And Poppy blushed deeper. She targeted Pip with an accusatory look, but her sister was throwing newspaper balls at their father.

  Nain didn’t flinch from her study over her glasses. “And don’t go blaming Pip. To tell you the truth, I heard it from Dai.”

  Poppy threw up her hands. “Thanks, Dai.”

  “And right he was to tell me. Reckons she’s getting married he does.”

  “Dai’s making that up.”

  “Makes sense though, doesn’t it. Right kind of age. That Hall would make a lovely venue.”

  “I bet Dai said that too.”

  But Nain sped right on by. “Alan Watkins reckons she’s after a house in the area. Thinks she’s on the lookout for another bargain like the Hall. And you how much that upset people when they practically stole it.”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. She’d long forgiven Alan Watkins, her childhood tormentor from the river, but couldn’t agree with his conjecture. “This is about the last place Rosalyn would want to live.”

  “Is that what she’s been sa
ying?”

  “No. I don’t know. But she hated it here. She couldn’t wait to leave.”

  “And what does that tell you? Wanting to leave a place like Wells. What kind of person thinks that?”

  “She was unhappy. I don’t think it unreasonable—”

  Poppy shook her head. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed it, but she’d been put in the position of defending Rosalyn. Poppy had to take a mental step back to untangle herself from Nain-logic. “I’m just saying I doubt anyone really knows why she’s here.”

  “Well Mrs Morgan Morgan—”

  Oh god, even Mrs Morgan Morgan knew. Poppy massaged her temples while Nain listed every single resident of Wells who had a theory about why Rosalyn Thorn was home.

  At some point, Poppy realised Nain had stopped talking. She tentatively relaxed her fingers and peeped through the gaps. Nain stood, hands on hips with a satisfied look on her face.

  “I’ve said my piece. And you know me. I like to keep my nose out of other people’s business.

  Pip coughed, but before she could interject was pounded by another newspaper ball.

  “And I wasn’t going to say anything. But,” Nain shook her head. “Well I don’t have any time for Rosalyn Thorn, or any of those Thorns come to think of it. Stuck up they are.”

  Poppy began to smile. If anyone could be read like a book it was Nain. And often she didn’t need reading because she came in full audio version. Nain had been the same when Poppy was sixteen, with a barrage of reasons why Rosalyn Thorn wasn’t good enough to be Poppy’s friend.

  “Honestly, that David Thorn. Thinks he’s some top-notch surgeon, jetting here, there and everywhere. Thinks nothing of going as far as Birmingham. Someone said he went to France for a conference. And she,” Nain had crossed her arms under her great bosom, “the mother, well, she won’t shop with the likes of us. Dai says she hasn’t set foot in the village shop for years. Oh no. Gets her shopping delivered from Ocado.” She nodded with great knowing and leant towards Poppy. “Course, none of us knew what it was. We all thought she must have some craving for those funny pears. You know the ones? That aren’t even sweet?”