Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

  “Avocados?” Poppy suggested with amusement.

  “Yes, they’re the ones. Turns out Ocado is from some supermarket called Waitrose and there’s no Waitrose near Wells. Don’t see the need with Dai’s shop and Harry Tuffin up the road. But Lillian Thorn has to have her food delivered special like.”

  It appeared that Nain was approaching the end of her tirade and Poppy touched her gently on the arm.

  “It’s all right, Nain. It was a long time ago. I’ll survive bumping into Rosalyn Thorn.”

  “Rosalyn’s back in town?”

  It was her mother’s quiet and surprised voice. She stood in the kitchen, leaning over the soup pan, wooden spoon mid-stir.

  “Did you say Rosalyn’s back in town?”

  Poppy’s heart sank and she breathed in, dreading having to repeat the whole conversation.

  “Yes Mum. I bumped into Rosalyn this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it.”

  Not a flicker perturbed her mother’s features, not a crease of a frown. “Oh good,” she said. “Good. I like Rosalyn.” And she continued to stir the soup.

  Chapter 7.

  “That smells delicious.” Steam kissed Poppy’s face and aromatic tomato and basil vapours filled her nose as she leant over the pan.

  “Have a taste.” Her mother smiled and held up a spoonful.

  Poppy sipped the velvety soup and her mouth tingled as the saturated flavours trickled over her tongue. Its zest almost made her eyes water.

  “Gosh. How did you get that depth of flavour?”

  “I roasted the tomatoes this time. It has the same amount of Balsamic vinegar and herbs, but I think the roasting’s done the trick.”

  “I’d say. We’ll have that for the quick lunch menu on Tuesday and Derek can bake some of his fancy breads. We get a better crowd on market day.”

  Tuesday was their best day with stall holders grabbing a bite to eat and customers tempted inside. But even the market was struggling of late and Poppy couldn’t help notice that good days, for the market and café, were thin on the ground.

  Her mother must have read her thoughts. “Summer’s coming,” she said. “We’re over the worst. And we’ve got that advert in the County Times.”

  “Hmm,” was the best Poppy could muster.

  “They did publish it?”

  “Yes, they did this time, but…” Poppy picked up the local newspaper from the sideboard and opened it with a flourish. She pointed to their artfully executed advertisement for the café and shop, the shop’s carved sign reproduced over a steaming pot with a discount offer for afternoon tea. Poppy could only decipher the indistinct text because she’d written it herself

  Her mother frowned. “That’s smaller than I assumed.”

  “Yes. I thought we’d paid for a postcard-sized advert. You can’t see the wording this size. Sorry Mum.”

  “Oh don’t worry, sweetheart. An easy mistake to make.”

  “It’s a waste of money though and we can’t afford another.”

  The advert was entirely inconsequential next to the full-page dedicated to the hotel-restaurant two miles away owned by Alan Watkins. His former manor complex boasted fifty luxurious rooms and cuisine from a chef poached from a Michelin-starred London restaurant, the specific establishment remaining anonymous.

  “Well at least someone’s doing well,” Poppy sighed. It was better than no-one prospering, although Poppy was perplexed about the café and in fact the entire village’s lack of appeal to the outside world. Wells was heaven to her, and she and her mother tried to add a bit of extra spice to paradise with their food, but apparently to no avail.

  Her mother gave the soup a final taste, served it at the table with a board filled with chunks of fresh bread and the clan gathered with a keen scraping of chairs on the slate floor.

  Poppy’s dad rubbed his hands together. “This looks delicious, Em.”

  His wife smiled at him and stroked the back of his head, a slow appreciative motion that savoured the man and his compliment.

  “Your mam’s a fine cook,” Nain said. Her boobs rested on the table and her plate was already piled high with fluffy bread. She ladled a spoonful towards her mouth and slurped it inside. “Mmm. Da iawn.”

  Pip’s gratitude and enjoyment were silent, or at least wordless, as she dipped in chunks of bread and swung the soaked morsels into her mouth.

  Poppy felt a warmth inside that couldn’t be attributed solely to the soup. She watched her family eat: her mum serene, Nain eating with gusto, Pip satisfying her youthful appetite and her father admiring his wife with a look that spoke of deep affection. Dinner with her family could soothe even the worst of days.

  Pip wiped her mouth on the back of her hand leaving an orange smear. “So….” She swallowed the remainder of a mouthful, “What was Rosalyn like at school?”

  “Pip!” “Bach!” “Sweetheart that’s not very thoughtful.”

  Poppy laughed. “Dear Pip. Most of the time I think of you as a little miracle that appeared in our lives, others you are the spawn of the devil.

  “You mean your average tweenager?” Her dad chuckled.

  “Spawn of the devil? Poppy bach, are you calling your father Satan?”

  “Sorry, Nain.” For a moment Poppy wondered if she’d offended Nain’s God-fearing sensibilities.

  “Well you’re right. He was a little devil. Worse than Pip I reckon. In fact,” Nain stabbed the air with her fork, “your taid, God rest his soul, was just as bad. Twinkle in his eye that one. And I can see the same devilish look in both Pip and your dad.”

  Iwan and Pip seemed pleased with the admission. Iwan put out his hand to shake Pip’s but whipped it away so she grasped thin air. Thumb to nose and wiggling his fingers, he stuck out his tongue in jest. Pip rolled her eyes.

  “In fact,” Nain continued. “I don’t think there’s a tiniest part of your brains not devoted to mischief.” Nain shook her head. “You’re the only one with a sensible thought, Poppy cariad. I don’t know where you came from.”

  They all stopped – spoons, puffs of bread, sucked fingers hanging midair. They all inched their heads round towards Poppy’s mother.

  Her spoon scraping the last of the soup was the only noise. She looked so content sipping the remnants of the hearty meal. The overwhelming silence must have made itself heard and she lifted her gaze, spoon poised and sweet face oblivious. “Mm?”

  “Dear Mum.” Poppy smiled.

  “Dear love,” Iwan said.

  Again, Poppy was filled with love and warmth for her family, and wished she could stretch her arms around the whole clan and draw them into a cuddle.

  “But that still doesn’t tell me about Rosalyn.”

  “Oh, Pip,” “Bach!”

  The last chunk of bread flew in Pip’s direction. It may even have originated from Nain.

  “Let it drop will you,” Iwan said.

  Pip beamed, delighted at the response.

  Poppy breathed in, trying to form some balanced view of Rosalyn to describe to Pip.

  “Trouble.” Nain stabbed the air with her knife. “I always said that girl was trouble.”

  “Oh come on, Mam,” Iwan said. “Rosalyn Thorn? With long perfect blonde hair and clothes that looked like they never saw a drop of mud. She even called me sir once when I fixed her bike. ‘Thank you, sir.’” He put on his version of an English upper-class accent, but it was still highly identifiable as originating from a Welshman.

  “No, no, no.” Nain shook her head. “I don’t mean the kind with a pin through her nose, purple-dyed hair and rides round on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike. Oh no. She was more subtle than that. She was a clever girl.”

  “What did she do?” Pip eyes were wide with curiosity.

  “Do you remember the Scout hut?” Nain asked. “Not you Pip bach, but you all remember? It was built the year after the Brownie and Guide hut and caused great excitement because it was a huge big thing. Not a glorified shed – proper construction, bricks and al
l. Well, Rosalyn was just ten years old, but she pipes up with ‘Why didn’t the girls get a decent hut? Why do the boys get so much money spent on them?’”

  “Didn’t the Scouts raise the money themselves?” Iwan asked.

  “That’s what everyone else said,” Nain scoffed. “But young Rosalyn takes matters into her own hands, and one night soon after, the Brownie hut burns down. Funny that, don’t you think? Cigarette from some teenagers breaking in they reckoned. But, I’d bet good money it was Rosalyn.”

  “And they built a new hut?” Pip’s eyes grew wider still.

  “That’s right.” Nain nodded, full of knowing. “And of course, because Rosalyn had made such a fuss, everyone had to shell out for a great big thing like the Scouts’.”

  Poppy laughed. She remembered the grilling from Nain the day after. Where had Poppy been? Had she been with that Rosalyn? She’d sniffed Poppy’s clothes for tell-tale whiffs of smoke then, with suspicions still uppermost in her mind, sent her to bed to have a good think about it all.

  “What Nain isn’t telling you,” Poppy said, “is that Rosalyn asked ‘who donated money to the Scout hut’ and ‘why hadn’t they been so generous with the Brownies’. It turned out the Council had made the largest donation. That caused a few red faces. Two of the councillors had voted for their sons’ recreation but not their daughters’ and their wives were very unhappy. So the council was more generous the second time.”

  “Well done, Rosalyn.” Pip punched the air.

  “Dew dew.” Nain shook her head.

  “But she was right, wasn’t she?” Pip said. “It wasn’t fair.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But she wasn’t right either.” Nain was appalled. “See, to my mind, arson is not the right way to get justice.”

  Iwan nodded earnestly. “Listen to your nain, young Pip. Don’t you go arson around.”

  Pip took a moment for the pun to sink in, then giggled with a sly look to her father.

  Before Nain could erupt Poppy stepped in. “Don’t let Nain give you the wrong impression. Rosalyn was kind too.”

  “Yeah?”

  Poppy nodded. “You know how I sleep?” Since she could recall, Poppy had hugged a pillow to her face as she dozed. It was the most comforting feeling, last thing at night, to slide her hand between the soft sheets. “Rosalyn used to write notes and slip them beneath my pillow.” Poppy smiled at her mother. “Mum used to let her in.”

  “What kind of thing?” Pip asked.

  “Usually comforting notes when I was worried about exams or someone had been horrid at school.” Poppy stared into the distance. “She stayed the night before exams because we calmed each other’s nerves, but she couldn’t before our GCSEs – her dad wanted her home. I thought I was going to have a heart attack the first night, I was so wound up. But she knew how I slept and left me a note: ‘I’m always here’. I held that note all night and slept like a baby.”

  Her heart twinged at the poignancy of the memory. What joy it had been, having a friend who understood and cared so completely, always there to support or defend her. Poppy had kept every note tucked away in an old cigar box.

  “I didn’t know you were good friends.” Pip’s forehead creased with confusion.

  “Your sister and Rosalyn were great friends,” Nain said. “Rosalyn was round here or at the shop more than the Hall. Used to stay the night and everything. Like a second home I reckon.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Pip, that’s enough,” It was the first time their mother had spoken. She didn’t raise her voice or issue Pip a stern look, simply rested her hand on Pip’s.

  “Well that’s the interesting bit.” Pip pouted.

  The explanation stuck in Poppy’s throat. She would have told her. She was honest with her younger sister, but she didn’t have the knowledge let alone the words.

  “I’m sorry, Pip. I…” She shook her head, bewilderment in her eyes.

  “Pip bach.” Nain tutted. “You don’t half put your sister through the wringer.”

  Emma attempted to distract Pip with another round of soup and the whole family scraped every drop from their bowls, Nain, Mum and Dad with detailed attention and Pip with distraction. But Poppy could tell her sister was bursting to ask more.

  Pip opened her mouth and Poppy braced herself. “At least we’re not hassling you about girlfriends.”

  Her father laughed so loudly that everyone flinched and he slapped his hands on his knees.

  Poppy’s state of affairs concerning the heart was a cause of mirth, anxiety or incredulity depending on the member of the family. She’d had an uncomplicated coming out while at a liberal university where she met her first girlfriend. Her mother and father had simply smiled when introduced to the lovely Rachel. Nain had prayed a bit harder for understanding, and although understanding never really transpired, her love for her granddaughter prevailed. The relationship didn’t last, it was the first after all, but Poppy had hoped perfect Sarah would – the love from London who she met in her final year.

  “We don’t make it easy for you, do we love?” her father said.

  “Why’s that?” Pip said.

  “He’s referring to Sarah,” Poppy replied. Although the same could have been said for her subsequent two girlfriends, both of whom hailed from the city.

  “Sarah arrived one night in a taxi,” Iwan said, “and went straight upstairs with Poppy without so much as a by your leave. She came downstairs next morning looking rather tousled.” Her father smiled and Poppy’s cheeks reddened, deeply. “She looks out of the window and says ‘Where are the houses? What’s happened to your neighbours?’” He chuckled. “Couldn’t understand people lived in the country and it wasn’t just for a nice holiday.”

  Poppy remembered it well of course. Sarah had taken one look through the window, seen nothing but sheep, and declared this no way and nowhere to live and whisked her belongings back to the city.

  “After a while, I think you gave up on them London types and went for local lasses,” Iwan said.

  “Oh I remember Sherri,” Pip chirped, an exuberant expression on her face.

  “She was a few bob short of a pound,” Nain muttered.

  “Complete nutter,” Iwan said. “Fancied herself as a bit of an artist. Do you remember her bringing those sculptures round love?”

  Poppy’s mother nodded.

  “Sweet little models of Scottie dogs and sheep,” Iwan continued. “Thought she could sell them in the shop, and they might have sold if she hadn’t made them out of tampons.”

  “I liked them.”

  “Thank you, Mum,” Poppy said. “Sherri was a very genuine and lovely person.”

  Although she had to admit they had a point. But Poppy, being generous Poppy, was willing to overlook Sherri’s peculiarity, including licking the dog’s face in an attempt to bond with all members of the family. Oh god.

  “Jacob,” she said alarmed.

  “Well exactly,” her father said. “Who’d want to lick that beast? Rolls around in shit all day.”

  “I know,” she said. “He’s covered in it now. I completely forgot.”

  Nain stood up with uncharacteristic speed. “Where’s the mongrel now?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Nain turned her piercing gaze to Pip. “I hope you shut the barn door properly this time young lady. He doesn’t bother with your rooms, but that beast runs in mine every chance he gets.”

  “I think so,” she said, but Pip’s eyebrows made a distraught triangle.

  Poppy and Pip burst outside. Nain’s pounding footsteps were close behind.

  “Oh god.” Pip’s voice drained of hope. The door of the adjoining converted barn was ajar, a suspicious smear across its timbers at large canine level.

  “Check your room,” Poppy said. “I’ll check mine. I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough if Jacob’s in Nain’s bedroom.

  Pip loped up the wooden stairs, two steps at a time, and turned right into the converted hay loft. Poppy
dashed after, preparing to dive left into the roof space above the house.

  “Jacooooooooooooob!” Nain’s cry was, in all likelihood, audible in Wells. And within this proximity it was enough to strain eardrums and congeal a guilty party’s insides.

  “Oh no.” Poppy looked back down the stairs. A terrified Pip peeped around the doorway.

  “Don’t make me go down,” Pip whispered. “I’m too young to be made into cawl.”

  Poppy grinned, her terror ebbing at the sight of Pip’s hysteria. “I think Nain thinks you’re too scrawny to be made into broth.”

  “Seriously Poppy, I can’t face Nain when she’s got the furies.”

  Nain in a temper was indeed a phenomenon, ferocious enough to reduce grown men to quivering leaves and induce tremors in her granddaughters.

  Poppy gathered herself. “It’s ok, Pip,” she soothed. “It was my fault too. I completely forgot about that dog.”

  Pip nodded but it was more like a nervous twitch. “That’s right. You go tell her. I’ve got homework. She’d want me to do that,” and her head disappeared into her bedroom and the door clicked to.

  Even as a grown woman, Poppy’s insides turned over at the prospect of facing Nain.

  “Here goes,” she said and began her reluctant way back down the stairs.

  Poppy pushed open the oak door to Nain’s bedroom. It was a colourful sight that met her eyes.

  Her grandmother’s complexion could have been described as puce, perhaps verging on deep red wine. As for the previously crisp white bed sheets, with a thread count only affordable as a special gift, they were definitely khaki. Jacob had left a remarkable imprint of himself, as if he’d rolled over from side to side, together with smudges that could only have been made by a dog exiting at speed.

  “Was he in here then?” Poppy said, the attempted innocence of her question sounding shrill.

  “Where is that child?” Nain growled.

  “Stop. It was my fault.” Poppy held out her hands in an attempt to keep Nain in the room rather than launching into an elephantine charge up the stairs. “I should have taken him to the river as soon as I saw him.”