Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

“What was lovely about that, Poppy?”

  “You were cheerful, friendly; you even took an interest. How can you dismiss people here when you engage with Mrs Morgan like that?”

  “Poppy, that was the most asinine exchange I’ve endured, well, since I left here.”

  Poppy threw her hands in the air. “Unbelievable!” And to Poppy’s ever increasing vexation this only made Rosalyn grin.

  They reached the bridge and a rather timid Pip. Her eyes flicked nervously between Poppy and Rosalyn. “I’m going to school now. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, Pip,” Poppy snapped. “That is all right. Sorry, let me give you a kiss.” She leaned over and gave her sister three kisses punctuated with: “Because I love you, and adore you, and wouldn’t want to be without you. Now go to school, you’ll be late.” And a repentant Pip waved goodbye and left.

  Poppy watched her sister bound over the bridge then set her face forward and tried to speak with as much equanimity as possible.

  “I have to go to work. Thank you for your company.”

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Rosalyn gave her what seemed a first genuine smile, and gestured for them to continue walking. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were a failure. Far from it. Your generous spirit always made you superior to my mind. And I didn’t mean to belittle your friends or the locals, but they aren’t the most broad-minded or riveting people in the world. I’m just glad you haven’t become a Wells clone.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Come on, Poppy.” Rosalyn tutted. “You know exactly what I mean. At least you used to. Chapel on Sunday, playing rugby, a trip to Shrewsbury viewed as exotic as a holiday to Istanbul. For Christ’s sake, getting drunk at the pub is considered the pinnacle of culture here. So I’m glad you weren’t subsumed as another Wells wife – ‘Mrs Dai Edwards’.”

  They had reached the café and Poppy had reached the end of a very long patient tether. She knew Rosalyn had a difficult time settling in Wells, the rich girl in the distant Hall, but her arrogance must have festered all these years and Poppy was fuming.

  “You don’t give people nearly enough credit,” Poppy said, her hands knuckled into her hips. “Just because they don’t live in a cosmopolitan city or have high-flying careers, doesn’t mean they’re not worthy of respect. Everyone has a skill. Everyone has something that makes them special.

  “Did you know Mrs Morgan raises thousands of pounds for a respite centre for the disabled? It helped fund her nephew’s stays but she continued after he passed away, because it’s something she excels at and it’s appreciated by very desperate families. Dai, would you know, isn’t just the local shopkeeper. He sings in the Welsh Male Voice Choir and has toured America and the Ukraine. Geraint, funny little Geraint who you’ve probably not even noticed, was a history scholar until he retired to care for his mother. And Derek only attended, what you’d consider, a lowly tech college, but I challenge you to find a better croissant baker this side of Paris. He is remarkable. So they’re not all the same. And as for being Mrs Dai Edwards, if Dai had ever asked me to marry him, I would have been the most flattered woman in the world.”

  Poppy put her nose in the air for good measure, but thinking it through added, “I would have been a rather surprised woman, given a few issues, but yes, extremely flattered.”

  So there.

  She regarded Rosalyn, half proud and half fearful of the response to her diatribe.

  Rosalyn’s face was downcast, her features obscured. But she seemed to be studying Poppy, tight bodice to plunging neck line, jutting jaw to stern visage. And when she reached Poppy’s eyes, Rosalyn beamed.

  “It’s been good to see you, Poppy,” and her smile broke into a broad grin. “Really wonderful to see you. I’d love to come to your café, but I’m not dressed for town. Please forgive me. I’ll have to come another time.”

  What? Seriously? That was it?

  Poppy’s jaw dropped. “You’re going? You’re just…going?”

  “I should. So, until next time.” Rosalyn’s eyes sparkled as she turned and she sauntered back towards the bridge with a confident sway of the hips.

  Poppy’s mouth dropped in wordless objection. She couldn’t walk away. Not after that.

  “Oh!” Poppy spat. “You are the most infuriating… And not dressed for town. Who does she think she is?”

  Then Poppy was flummoxed by Rosalyn’s most magnificent feature yet. Her shorts, which had been marginal at the front, left nothing to the imagination at the rear. That was the most curvaceous and delicious bum Poppy had ever seen. It was the kind of bottom that could make a woman purr and run with abandon to pounce on that soft derriere.

  No. Poppy snapped her gaze around. No. No. No. That was not happening.

  She was not having a crush on Rosalyn Thorn. No matter how alluring that cleavage, or how appealingly that bottom swayed so that Poppy wanted to growl like a tiger and wrestle her to the ground and lick her…

  She blushed and tempered her thoughts. She was not going to fall for Ms Thorn’s charms. Thank god she was running late and everyone had started work or school. That last confrontation would have precipitated unbearable speculation.

  Poppy breathed in, pushed out her chest and lifted her head up high ready to enter the shop. It was only then she noticed the faces of her mother, Derek and Geraint, their noses pushed up against the shop window.

  Chapter 14.

  When Poppy came through the doorway, Derek’s feet clattered up the stairs, Emma shuffled leaflets on the counter and Geraint took an unnatural interest in a jar of vegan Bovril substitute.

  Poppy tried to appear unruffled by smoothing down her dress. “Good morning,” she said, her voice still brusque.

  Fortunately no-one was pressed into reply because the doorbell tinkled and the shop filled with the rotund bulk of Alan Watkins. He flicked a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his flat cap and smeared sweat around his bald patch before sliding back the cap over a ring of wet hair.

  “Good morning,” he said. His flabby lips jostled beads of perspiration under his nose and a fat tongue protruded to slurp the trickling sweat. “Looks like another hot one.”

  Out of reflex, Poppy took a step back. “Good morning, Alan.”

  She retreated in fear of being drenched by perspiration more than any ancient animosity from his childhood raid on her clothes.

  Alan clasped his hands behind his back and thrust his groin forward, a smug grin on his face. “Was that Rosalyn Thorn I saw leaving?”

  “Yes it was,” Poppy snapped.

  “Oh dear. Are we not friends then?”

  Poppy had to, if not bite her tongue, at least grind her teeth. “I haven’t spoken to her in several years.”

  “Not since school I bet.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Seemed like you were having a good chat. Any idea what brings her back to this neck of the woods?”

  There was a glee in Alan Watkins’ eyes. He seemed to be enjoying Poppy’s discomfort and perhaps already knew the reason for Rosalyn’s return.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Poppy said, not willing to fuel his curiosity. “Is there something I can help you with, Alan?”

  “Well as a matter of fact there is.” He thrust forward a fan of leaflets pinched between a short thumb and podgy fingers. “Come to top up your supply.”

  He threw the glossy brochures for hotel Bryn Mawr onto the counter and Poppy’s mother was forced to sweep them into order.

  “Things going well?” Poppy enquired, much more out of courtesy than interest.

  “They’re booming. Simply booming. The restaurant in Welshpool especially. It’s a lot easier with a proper market to attract regular customers you see. Not like here. Not much reason for people to stop in Wells is there.”

  Actually, Poppy thought there were very good reasons for a sojourn in Wells but said, “Glad to hear you’re thriving.”

  “Do you need any of our leaflets, Alan?” her mother’s quiet voice offe
red.

  Alan screwed up his toadstool of a nose. “’Fraid not. There’s not been much interest at all. I leave them out on the reception table with all the local bumf but,” he shrugged, “I’d save your money. Don’t order any more for a while.”

  Emma took it graciously but Poppy’s heart heaved. “And the paintings? Any sales?”

  “Your mam’s paintings? No. Gorgeous pictures and I must admit people do look at them. Many admirers, but no buyers. I’d leave them on the hotel wall mind. Someone might think them good enough to buy one day.”

  Poppy’s heart turned over again and she wished she hadn’t enquired.

  “That’s very kind of you, Alan,” Emma’s genial voice came.

  “Yes, very kind.” But Poppy couldn’t manage her mother’s congeniality.

  “Right you are,” Alan said, and he graced them with another damp mop of his head before opening the door.

  “Oh, you’re not going to Cerys’ meeting this evening are you?” he said as an afterthought.

  “Yes, I am,” Poppy replied. The sparrow-like woman of local knitting-circle renown, and skittish purchaser of Mum’s painting, was heading a meeting with the ambitious aim of expanding the local craft fair. Poppy thought it both an excellent idea and her duty to attend.

  “Waste of time if you ask me.” Alan waved his bloated fingers in the air. “Like I said, not much excuse for trade in Wells. Why stop here when you’ve got everything in Welshpool?”

  “Thank you, Alan,” Poppy said, and with unaccustomed severity she shut the door behind him.

  “Oh”, she growled and stamped her foot. “I’m not in the mood for people dismissing Wells this morning.”

  Her mother smiled, with a look of amusement that also spoke of unceasing fondness for Poppy. “She always knew how to get under your skin.”

  “Who?”

  “Rosalyn, sweetheart.” And her smile was warmer still. “No-one got to you like she did, in good ways and bad.”

  Poppy blushed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have been so abrupt with Alan. I was taking it out on him.”

  Her mother pursed her lips. “Perhaps.”

  “Oh, Mum,” Poppy sighed. “Why did she have to come back?”

  “She won’t be here long I’m sure. It sounds like David’s on the mend, from what you say, and I’m sure London will call her back soon.”

  “Hmm. Well, however long she’s staying I doubt I’ll see her again.”

  “Oh?” her mother looked at her with an amused lack of surprise.

  “We had a bit of an argument.”

  “About what?”

  “Her attitude.” Poppy frowned once more. “Dai always said she looked down on people in Wells, and now after a few years in London she’s appalling.”

  “I imagine it’s quite a change of scene for her,” Emma said sympathetically. “And it’s during a stressful time too.”

  Poppy glowered in a way more akin to Pip’s personality than her own. “I know. I do know. But she made it very difficult to be sympathetic this morning.”

  Her mother’s smile was mournful. “Only Rosalyn could do this to you.”

  “Maybe.” Well, definitely. Poppy’s mother wasn’t the kind who always insisted on being right, but as someone who thought carefully before speaking, it would be foolish not to give her words credence. Poppy breathed in and made a happy face for her mother.

  “Well, we won’t have to worry about it. She won’t show her face around here again.”

  But there she was, late in the afternoon. The shop was quiet with Emma gone to fetch Pip. The after-school rampage had departed in a cacophony of sugar-delirious children and Poppy was upstairs clearing tables when the bell on the door tinkled.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Poppy called.

  Poppy didn’t catch a reply but assumed she’d missed it over the racket of plates and cutlery. When she’d washed her hands and brushed down her apron, the place was still; not even the sound of impatient feet downstairs. The silence was punctuated by the drip of a tap, which plopped into a kitchen sink and echoed sweetly around the tiled walls.

  Poppy tip-toed to the head of the stairs and peered through the wooden railings.

  Rosalyn’s blonde hair flew with every turn. She wore an immaculate trench coat with the allure of a French heroine. Her crisp white shirt shaped her chest to perfection and tight black trousers merged seamless into boots that had a confident edge to their sex appeal.

  Rosalyn reached for the shelves of amber jars filled with exotic spices. She ran her elegant fingers around the curving bottles, her fingertips slow and sensuous around the smooth glass. She picked up a jar of cinnamon, popped the lid and dipped in her nose, like a child teasing herself with a forbidden sweet jar. A smoke of ground spice curled into the air and a dreamy expression lit her face.

  Without a sound, she returned the jar to the shelf and turned towards the counter. As she walked, she stroked her fingers along the oak shelves, clearly luxuriating in the sensation. But something must have caught her eye in the studio beyond and she leaned over the counter for a better view. Poppy was also afforded a better view as Rosalyn’s breasts heaved from her shirt in beautiful great mounds.

  Poppy cleared her throat, already feeling guilty about earlier that morning by the river and her furtive appreciation of Rosalyn’s assets.

  Rosalyn swung round and looked up at Poppy. Her bright smile, already luminous from her sensuous exploration of the shop, shone brighter when she gazed at Poppy.

  Poppy wasn’t ready for that smile. Not a hint of condescension, no artifice, no hint of ill will. Just pleasure. Pure delight.

  “It’s the same,” Rosalyn breathed out. “I thought you may have renovated the shop when you added the café, but…” She turned back to the studio, delectation dancing on her face. “It’s just like I remembered.”

  She pointed into the studio. “I was admiring a painting of your mother’s. The one with the crows bleeding black into the sky.”

  Poppy knew the one. It was the painting Cerys had eschewed and Emma had hung it on the wall for her own enjoyment.

  “It’s so forbiddingly beautiful,” Rosalyn said. “I always adored your mother’s darker work. I have vivid memories of her painting here. Her concentration was so intense I think she forgot that we were there. I’d never ask what she was painting, only watched as the scene unfolded. Do you remember?”

  Poppy did recall. She still found her mother’s careful work beguiling. She loved how the delicate sable brushes washed and blended a picture together. It was one of the most relaxing activities, watching someone consumed by such fine work.

  “We used to sit over there,” Rosalyn said. “On the other side of the table, doing our homework, but we were completely entranced by your mum. I don’t think we ever finished anything in the studio.” She looked up at Poppy. “Do you know if she has any for sale? I would love a piece.”

  Poppy was disarmed by the warmth and regard Rosalyn held for the shop, Emma and her time with them. Tenderness radiated from Rosalyn and Poppy hadn’t seen this delighted and delightful side of her for many years.

  “I’ll ask,” Poppy said. “I imagine she has something for sale.”

  “I would be very grateful.” Rosalyn beamed at Poppy, the joy of her reminiscence still enchanting in her eyes. It was so captivating that, but for the railings, Poppy might have drifted down the stairs.

  “I wonder…” Rosalyn was almost shy. “Would you mind very much if I came up? Would you show me your café?”

  Chapter 15.

  In Rosalyn’s presence, Poppy was conscious of the café’s ramshackle decor and eclectic mix of wooden furniture from old tea shops, church halls and houses. The 1950s cherry wood cake counter was Poppy’s pride and joy, which her father had salvaged from a demolished tea room.

  The tables were still covered with crumbs, juice from hysterical school children and puddles of spilt coffee from their beleaguered parents.

  “What a c
hange.” Rosalyn was already beside her. Her face was full of wonder as she took in the room. “I’d forgotten you had the extension back here.” She pointed towards the new kitchen above the studio, the front, street view saved for prime seating.

  “And you renovated the second floor?” She peered up the spiral stairs.

  “Yes. Dad replaced the boards.” Poppy smiled. Rosalyn had always hankered to play up there.

  “Can I see?” Rosalyn grinned, a child’s eager curiosity lighting her face.

  “Of course.”

  Poppy gestured towards the stairs and Rosalyn didn’t need any more encouragement. She ran up, her boots clanging on the wrought iron steps, Poppy following behind.

  The top room was the same ramshackle style – tables knocked together from old oak doors and benches discarded from churches. Emma’s paintings adorned the walls, their uniqueness another special facet to the space.

  “What a beautiful room.” Rosalyn beamed. “I don’t know what I imagined, but this is perfect. And what a sight.” She was more joyful still as she peered out of the window.

  The café commanded a view of the square below, its Georgian charm enough to invite comment. But the shards of the ruined castle on the hillside and the frothing rapids that tumbled under the bridge and beyond the church made the vista precious.

  “Was it always this beautiful?” Rosalyn’s eyebrows knitted together in a puzzled frown.

  “I think so. Didn’t you ever, just for a moment, appreciate that Wells was charming?”

  Rosalyn laughed and shook her head. “That would be too much to ask, Poppy Jenkins.” Her face fell slowly into seriousness. “But it seems I have missed it.”

  “Really?”

  “Some of it.”

  Poppy didn’t dare ask what and peered out of the window.

  “There’s Mrs Morgan Morgan.” Rosalyn pointed to the other side of the square. The elderly woman rolled along, her worn hips necessitating the undulating gait. “Have you ever seen her wear anything other than black?”

  Poppy shook her head. She’d got used to Mrs Morgan’s steadfast appearance – long black dress, woollen coat and tasselled shawl, always there, come rain or shine. “I don’t think I’ve seen her without the shawl either.”