Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

  The look Rosalyn gave was ugly. Never had such a depth of ill feeling contorted her beautiful face.

  Poppy couldn’t speak. She hadn’t breath left in her body. The callousness of her dear friend was beyond excruciating and her insides twisted with grief.

  Minutes may have passed, Poppy couldn’t tell. At some point Rosalyn looked embarrassed by Poppy’s reaction and appearing sickened by her friend’s presence gathered her belongings.

  Rosalyn was about to leave when Poppy managed, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “No,” Rosalyn snapped, “but you didn’t do anything right either.”

  “I don’t understand. Why’s it gone wrong so suddenly?”

  “I grew up.” Rosalyn glanced up and down Poppy’s body which, although it had blossomed of late, still lacked the full maturity of Rosalyn’s. “God knows when you will.”

  And she walked out.

  Chapter 11.

  The memory was as painful as ever, its potency perhaps greater so close to the Hall.

  Her face set in stone, Lillian Thorn swept to the passenger side of the black Jaguar parked in the turning circle. A moment later, out strode Rosalyn, her hauteur as frosty as her mother’s. Poppy stood unnoticed, the women oblivious to her presence and pain, and the car pulled away down the avenue.

  What had she been thinking? It had been years since Poppy had felt the full force of that memory. Did she think she’d forget being discarded and the cruelty of the abandonment, let alone the year and a half of school that remained, every day a humiliating reminder of her rejection?

  It was Dai who saved her. He left his rugby friends and sat in the empty chair next to Poppy in history and geography. She was so grateful to him she could have cried. She wanted to express her gratitude in full but managed only “thanks” in a whisper. He nudged her gently in the arm. “Oh you know me. I wouldn’t miss the chance to sit by the prettiest girl in the room.” He’d said it in a soothing voice, a warm baritone already, and she willingly gave her friendship to him.

  A tear ran down Poppy’s cheek at the memory. She clenched her fists, this time in frustration and embarrassment.

  “Why did I come here?”

  She’d been seduced by the memories of her childhood and a kind word from the beautiful woman Rosalyn had become.

  “You fool.”

  But before she could turn her back on the Hall, a door slammed. She stared at the veranda, dreading the sight of Rosalyn’s return, or another family member. It remained empty, but a sound of someone thrashing through vegetation came from behind the house. Whoever it was had no intention of hiding their presence.

  Poppy stepped closer to the Hall. The rustling stopped, but she glimpsed a flash of white material in the garden behind the house. Through the beech hedgerow and a distance away, she could make out a man’s arm, bronzed with greying hair.

  She moved closer, straining to get a better view. Beyond the shrubbery and flower borders by the house were great lawns divided by gravel walks. In the centre a sizeable statue of Asclepius surveyed all, including a man slumped on the plinth below.

  His back was turned and his shoulders heaved with the simple effort of breathing. It was laboured and painful. Despite the man’s obvious discomfort, he picked up a walking stick and lurched away from the statue, his face now in view.

  “David Thorn?” Poppy whispered.

  Concern drove away her apprehension and she stood straight.

  Rosalyn’s father leaned to his right, depending on the stick for balance and support. His left arm hung limp and his leg idled behind. He stared, determined, at the railings that separated the manicured gardens from the estate farmland beyond, but Poppy feared he might fall before reaching their support.

  She ran, light and quick, around the hedgerow, dipping beneath the sweeping arms of the cedars.

  “Mr Thorn,” she called.

  Over the railings with a single bound, just like she had as a child, she sped across the grass to the ailing man.

  “Mr Thorn. Are you all right?”

  He was startled by her approach, at least, half his face appeared shocked. His left eye and cheek drooped and his lip hung flaccid, as if dragged down by a weight, revealing teeth and a string of drool. His right side was grotesquely taut in comparison, his alarmed features pulling counter to the numb half of his visage.

  “Oh god,” Poppy breathed.

  Her heart lurched with sympathy for this handsome man, now stricken and altered, for Rosalyn and even for her mother. Here was the reason for their grim faces. This was why Rosalyn was back.

  Poppy reached out for his arm. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  For a moment, she thought he might retreat, but he struck out his left arm and hung clumsily over her shoulder.

  “Help me.” His words were slurred and indistinct, but the meaning was clear. He stabbed his walking sticking forward. “Get me out.”

  Poppy supported all the weight she could and they stumbled towards the gate.

  “Top,” he spat and he stared towards the brow of a hill.

  A dusty path wound between woodland on one side and tufted green pasture on the other. Poppy could have run to the top in a minute but the task seemed ambitious today.

  She must have hesitated because he looked at her, one eye pleading, the other despondent.

  “All right.” Poppy nodded. “We can try. Come on.” She grasped David’s arm around her shoulders and they moved forward up the path.

  Progress was painful and arduous, David’s energy sapped by the task of keeping upright. His balance was precarious and with every step his reliance on Poppy grew. His chest heaved and his breath rasped. His cheeks burned with the exertion and sweat beaded his brow and ran in rivulets down his neck.

  Their steps grew slower, the recovery between exertions longer, and Poppy could feel the determination drain from his body until he hung listless by her side.

  “Here, let’s rest,” she said.

  She guided him to the edge of the wood, onto a bank of soft grass and twisting roots. He slumped between two great sinews, gasping from the exertion. He closed his eyes and rested his hand on his chest and his body became slack on the bed of grass.

  Poppy knelt beside him and pressed her fingers to his arm. She tried not to appear alarmed and looked to the distance over the commanding view of the Hall and stables. Beyond was the green swathe of countryside towards her home and the river that meandered through a dark trail of foliage along the valley. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by the branches of mature beech trees, the leaves high above whispering in the breeze.

  David’s breathing became calm then silent, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm, then he blinked open his eyes and searched for Poppy.

  “I’m here,” she said, smiling down at him.

  He sat up and eyed the top of the hill. “We’re not…are we?” He gave in to the slur of his words.

  Poppy shook her head. “No, we’re not.”

  His breathing quickened into short, distressed pants. Anguish clenched at his throat and his gasping began to catch in sobs. His back strained and he clenched his fists. Anger rose trembling through his body and his face knotted in fury.

  “Fu…” he spat.

  But even the words resisted him.

  “Fu…” he said, more distraught.

  Poppy clenched her fists, willing him to succeed.

  “F...” He pounded the earth.

  Poppy squeezed his arm, lending him her own strength. He strained again, but nothing came out this time.

  His face twisted, despairing that he couldn’t even manage this release, and his resolve seemed to dwindle.

  “No,” Poppy said, “we can do this.”

  She leapt to her feet, determined frustration be vented. Poppy faced the Hall, breathed in deep, punched out her arms out and screamed “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” long and loud, so the whole valley could hear.

  She closed her eyes, giving her all to that momentou
s bellow of pent up vexation, yelling the note of dissent for as long as her breath would hold.

  When the last sound of the satisfying profanity left her mouth, she gasped for breath. The exertion left her light-headed and she smiled as she filled her lungs with fresh air. It was exhilarating expelling the dark feelings with a single powerful curse.

  David stared at her. It might have been the novelty of hearing such an extreme profanity leaving the obscenity-virgin lips of Poppy, or just its sheer volume, but either way, he looked awfully shocked.

  Then the live side of his face grinned. He reached out towards her and they hauled him to his feet. They held hands, breathed deep in synchrony then burst with a clear, perfectly enunciated, mighty blast of “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!”

  They both gasped for air, snatching at laughter in between breaths. David sank back into the hollow between the tree roots, a smile twinkling in his eyes. Poppy collapsed to her knees and beamed at him, her anxiety for him and her own feelings released at last.

  David’s eyes held Poppy’s while he regained his breath and his smile lingered long and happy. He rubbed his loose jowl and held his drooping lip, massaging the numb cheek with his fingers.

  “Stroke,” he said, and raised his hand in dismissal.

  “I guessed,” Poppy replied. “I’m sorry.”

  David shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  “How long ago?” Poppy asked concerned.

  “Few weeks.” He looked more serious. “Was lucky. At work. They caught it fast.”

  “Good.” She guessed he may recover better because of it. “Have you been home long?”

  He shook his head. “A week. First time alone. Had to get out.”

  Poppy nodded in sympathy, but smiled, wondering how this accomplished surgeon took to being a patient. Not well she imagined. The confinement and helplessness must be unbearable for a man used to dictating people’s care. She felt profoundly sorry for this handsome man, of whom she’d always been fond, now driven to surreptitious escape and small rebellion.

  “Lillian,” he muttered. “Fuss. Fuss. Fuss.”

  “She’ll be worried.” Poppy imagined what it must be like to see your loved one on the precipice, having to watch them crawl back in agony from the edge. “I don’t even want to think about how scared she is.”

  He grunted but a veil of humility tempered his irritation. “Rosalyn too,” he said at last. “Rosalyn’s back.”

  Poppy managed to smile without her antagonism and hurt towards Rosalyn stealing any of her tenderness. “I know,” she said. “I saw her in town yesterday, but didn’t realise why she was back. I’m glad she’s come home for you.”

  He frowned and looked intently at Poppy, as if he wanted to say more but was unable.

  Poppy entwined her fingers in his. “We should head home. Are they due back soon?”

  “Rosalyn.” David nodded.

  “Let’s get back. If they find you’ve been out alone they’ll be relentless in their ministrations.”

  He tutted and clambered to his feet.

  They returned more easily. Poppy wrapped her arm around his and they ambled down the hill taking in the view and enjoying the warm breeze through the woods.

  “I’m sorry if I intruded on your privacy,” Poppy said.

  “No. Glad of the company. Thank you,” he said and he squeezed her arm.

  “But will you tell Lillian if you have an urge to climb hills again? Please?”

  “Fuss,” he said, and shook his head.

  “What about Rosalyn? I’m sure she’d accompany you. Would it be less fraught?”

  He frowned and again looked pregnant with thought but was unable to communicate his concerns.

  They strolled through the bright gardens, the borders blazing in the sunshine. He was tiring badly as they crossed the lawn and his shoulders were slumped by the time they made the back door.

  “Shall I help you inside?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll make it.”

  Poppy squeezed his hand, determined to trust his judgment and hide her anxiety. She opened the double doors and held one ajar while he heaved inside. She watched him shuffle into the corridor that ran into the depths of the Hall and her heart ached to see him alone in the darkness.

  As a last thought she called out “Would you like to try again?” He turned around. “After the weekend? I’m at work until then, but I have Mondays off.”

  His face was exhausted but the corner of his mouth twitched and his eye twinkled in a mix of gratitude and sadness.

  “So I’ll come again?” She grinned.

  “Please. Same time. I’m alone then.”

  “All right, but,” she attempted a stern voice and manner, “wait on this bench by the door for me, ok? I’m not encouraging you to wander off by yourself.”

  A smile lingered at the corner of his mouth and he gave a single nod.

  Poppy turned with a wave and skipped away, uplifted to be the source of his hope and elated at helping a person who’d been kind in her youth.

  She hardly noticed the walk home and hit the main road before her surroundings registered.

  She turned back for another look at her childhood playground, but heard a car. The black Jaguar was coming down the road. It slowed as it approached, the main driveway of the Hall another hundred metres around the corner.

  Rosalyn was at the wheel, her face as stern as when she’d left the Hall and when she saw Poppy her face seemed to set harder still. She looked as if she may ignore Poppy until she made a curt wave then drove past not thinking it worthwhile to stop.

  Poppy chilled inside. The wave had been a gesture of dismissal more in common with her former froideur than the warmth of the previous morning.

  Poppy stared after the car.

  “What did I do to you? Why did I deserve that?”

  Chapter 12.

  Despite the encounter, Poppy woke refreshed the next morning after a long night’s sleep. She swung out her legs and sat taking in the sublime countryside view through the bedroom porthole. She stretched her arms up in the sunshine, dust sparkling in the air, and smiled feeling revived in her cherished home.

  She had spent far too long anguishing about Rosalyn Thorn and it was time for life to return to its comfortable normality. If there was one thing Poppy excelled at, it was not letting the buggers get her down.

  From her bedside table, she picked up the Celtic knot pedant that Rosalyn had given her all those years ago and hooked it around her neck in defiance. She threw on a cream dress she knew would turn heads with its flattering bodice and plunging neckline. She readied herself with cheer and went downstairs with a good word for all her family who were relieved to see Poppy resume life with her usual good grace.

  If only the rest of the world was smiling.

  “Are you all right, Pip?” Poppy asked as they wound their way along the river to school. Her sister didn’t have the habitual bounce in her stride and she lingered by Poppy’s side instead of testing the limits of her elder sister’s affability.

  Pip grunted in reply.

  Poppy knew she should be patient but felt too buoyant this morning for the restraint. “Did you finish your homework?”

  There was no response.

  “Is there something wrong at school?”

  “Nuh.”

  At least a vocal response was progress.

  “Is netball going well?”

  Not a flicker.

  “Is progress thwarted by Mrs Pryce insisting you play the game with jelly instead of a ball?”

  Confusion rippled across Pip’s forehead but she chose to ignore it and stomped on.

  “Does your best-friend Abigail harbour a desire to be an opera singer and insists on singing Madame Butterfly at every opportunity?”

  “Huh?” Pip screwed up her nose and stared at Poppy. “Nuh.”

  “Is it boy trouble, dear Pip? “

  Pip rolled her eyes.

  “Did Mr Ellis start
speaking in tongues in assembly and you were the only one to notice?”

  Amusement flickered at the side of Pip’s mouth. “Not this time.”

  Poppy laughed. At least she was getting through. “Were you abducted by aliens and your pocket money embezzled to fund an intergalactic bypass?”

  Pip stopped dead and turned to Poppy. She was about to reply when her gaze was pulled towards the river.

  “What? What is it?”

  Pip looked around Poppy on tip-toes. “There’s someone lying on the riverbank.”

  “Well good for them,” Poppy said. “It’s a lovely morning for it.”

  She followed Pip’s gaze and caught sight of a pair of naked legs on the other side of the river, luxuriating in a nest of spring grass. They were very shapely, very womanly legs. Poppy would have gone so far as to say beautiful legs.

  Smooth feet toyed with the water with obvious satisfaction. The pleasing lines of the legs curved up the river bank, one limb relaxed, the other bent at the knee, rocking so that the soft thighs kissed together. It would have been unnatural not to follow that enticing line, up to a pair of denim shorts so brief it was beyond doubt the woman took good and regular care of herself.

  Above the shorts was a tummy with faint creases, then leaves. Poppy audibly tutted at the branch that obscured her view. Pip had trotted ahead and, free to indulge in her spying, Poppy pulled the foliage back.

  A linen shirt was tied beneath breasts, the fabric holding their curves to perfection. Above was a cleavage made so alluring by ample bosoms it was the stuff of broken vows and vivid dreams. Beyond the slim chest rose an elegant curve of neck and refined line of jaw to the unparalleled, beautiful face of Rosalyn Thorn.

  “Oh no.”

  Rosalyn had never seemed more exquisite. Her cheeks were inclined to bathe in the sun’s rays, her eyelids shut and smoothly perfect. Her eyebrows were arched with gratification and her lips were parted and glowed in ecstasy. Watching her enjoying such pleasure in the sun was overwhelmingly pleasurable in itself.