Will You Remember Me? (23 page)

‘All okay with you, Mum?’ Poppy was stalling.

‘Not bad, love. And you?’

This was her chance. She sighed. ‘Not great, actually, Mum. I just wanted you to know that I’ve been diagnosed with cancer.’ She could think of no other way to phrase it.

‘Oh shit, Poppy. You all right?’ Her mum drew on her ciggie.

No! I’m not all right. I’ve just told you I’ve got fucking cancer!
‘Yes, I’m okay, just wanted you to know…’ Even now, at the age of thirty-two, Poppy could not be honest with her mum. Whether it was to spare her the emotional turmoil or simply because she couldn’t bear to hear her sympathy and regret expressed too late, she wasn’t sure.

‘Are you having treatment?’ Cheryl asked, her voice wobbling. Was she crying?

‘Yes, all that, Mum. I’m fine, as I said. I just wanted to let you know.’

‘Where is it?’ she asked.

‘My breast, kind of…’ She hated discussing the specifics, it made her picture it and she tried to avoid that.

‘Shit. There’s loads they can do now, Pop. It’s not uncommon, is it?’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘Have you lost your hair?’ Poppy smiled at her mum’s biggest concern, something that now seemed so incidental in the scheme of things.

‘No. A few clumps, but that’s it.’ Poppy closed her eyes.

‘Oh well, that’s a blessing.’

‘I guess. I’ve been thinking a lot about things…’ Poppy swallowed and closed her eyes. ‘And I wanted to ask you something.’

‘What?’ Cheryl sounded a little impatient.

‘I… I wanted to ask you who my dad was.’ Poppy gripped the phone with both hands, trying to stop them from shaking.

‘Jesus, Poppy, not that again!’

Poppy felt her cheeks flush, awkward and embarrassed as ever at the topic. ‘It’s important to me.’ Her voice was quiet.

‘Well, it shouldn’t be! You are a grown woman, you’ve got Mart and your own kids now and to be honest, I’m not even sure myself. I was young, free and single; things happened.’

Poppy cringed at her mother’s admission.

‘If you need me to come over, you just shout. I mean it.’ That was Cheryl’s way of ending this uncomfortable call.

Poppy twisted her mouth at her mum’s words. What had Claudia said? ‘I want to come over right now, but I don’t want to interfere.’ And not long after, she had appeared. That was the difference.

‘I will. I’ll speak to you soon, Mum.’

‘Look after yourself. I love you, Poppy Day.’ This was a rare admission of how she felt. Cheryl ended the call.

Poppy leant on the cupboard door and looked at the worktops, which were sticky with food, and the dirty upturned cups in the sink. She held the phone in her hand and imagined what her nan’s reaction would have been, had she just received the news. She heard her voice loud and clear. ‘You are a tough cookie, Poppy Day; you was brought up that way. Stay strong for them kids and remember, life goes on.’

Poppy felt warmth spread through her body as though she was being hugged from the inside out. It felt lovely. ‘I miss you, Nan. I miss you so much.’

And just like that, Poppy was crying, as she always did. So much regret, so much anger and those three little words from her mum served as both a balm and a dagger. She suspected they always would.

‘I love you too, Mum,’ she whispered into the air.

Later, Martin drove them to Amesbury; a big Tesco shop was needed. As was often the case, he bumped into a couple of his colleagues in the car park. Even on Saturday, a precious day off, it seemed they needed to talk about work. Poppy gave them a little wave and left them to it.

She walked slowly ahead, pushing the trolley up and down the aisles, using it as much for support as anything else as she looked for food for the week. It was as if she was on autopilot, automatically reaching for the same brands and same products week in and week out. Her menus didn’t vary and neither did the kids’ snacks, which she tried to keep as healthy as possible. Sometimes she struggled to think of something different to serve them. They seemed to be on an alternating rota of chilli, roast chicken, egg and chips and spaghetti bolognese, with fajitas as a Saturday night treat. At least her recipes were simple; she was confident that Martin could reproduce them, so if nothing else, the kids’ meals would remain consistent.

Poppy kept her eye open for anything they might need for St Lucia and was on the lookout for a couple of large jars of pickles and relishes for the buffet. They had decided to get all the sandwiches, quiches and sausage rolls made by the caterers that ran the hall, but it worked out cheaper for them to provide all the extra bits, nibbles and so on. Poppy collected three large jars of pickled onions that were on special offer and placed them in the trolley next to the after-sun lotion.

‘Oh God!’ a woman gasped.

Poppy looked up to see one of the mums from Maxy’s parent and toddler group coming in the opposite direction. She wished she could remember her name… Finn’s mum, that was as close as she could get.

Finn’s mum stopped and parked her trolley alongside Poppy’s. She put her hand on Poppy’s arm. It’s… well… I don’t know what to say! It is lovely to see you, really lovely!’ She looked a little tearful and swished her long blonde hair over her shoulder to get a better view.

‘Oh!’ Poppy was taken aback by the intensity of the woman’s greeting. She had sat opposite her once or twice while shaking a tambourine and singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’, but they were hardly good buddies. ‘Thank you. It’s lovely to see you too!’

The woman stared at Poppy, taking in her face and letting her eyes rove over her body. It made Poppy feel awkward. Her face flushed.

‘How’s Finn?’

‘Oh, Finn? Yes, yes, he’s fine. And… yours?’ The woman clearly couldn’t remember Max’s name.

‘Max? He’s fine too, lovely, actually. He’s big into numbers, counting everything and anything. He’s not too fussed about words, but my philosophy is that they’ll all have caught up by the time they’re eighteen. No one walks around a nightclub boasting about when they took their first step or said “ta”, do they! And hopefully by then they’ll all be dry at night!’

‘Yes, quite.’

The woman continued to stare and Poppy wondered if something had happened to her face. Was she bleeding? Marked? She checked her nose and wiped at her mouth.

‘Forgive me…’ Finn’s mum shook her head as if waking from her stupor. ‘I shouldn’t be staring. It’s just that it’s rather a shock to see you.’

Poppy took a deep breath. ‘Oh, yes, I know. I look a bit rubbish. I’ve lost a lot of weight and my tablets make me look a bit crap.’

‘No, no, it’s not that. Oh God, no. It’s just that we were told at parent and toddler group that you had died!’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Ginny Wilson, Ross’s mum, was told by Alice Morgan, the one with the campervan and daughter who’s a coeliac, who I think heard it from Abby, that you had died of cancer, quite suddenly. We were all devastated, of course – are devastated… were… Gosh. How awkward, but marvellous, of course!’

Poppy stared at the woman, open-mouthed, but couldn’t find the words. She glanced up the aisle and saw Martin walking towards her. Their eyes locked and he sped up. ‘You okay, love?’ His eyes darted briefly to the woman on his right.

‘I want to go home.’ Her voice was very quiet.

‘Can you walk to the car?’ He placed his arm across her back, worried by her expression.

Poppy nodded. Abandoning the trolley without a second thought, she wanted to get as far away from Finn’s mum as possible. They made it to the car before Poppy started crying. Huge sobs racked her body and her face twisted with uncontrolled distress.

‘What’s up, love? What on earth happened?’ He leant over and wiped her tears from her face.

‘That woman… she thought… she thought I was dead. The whole of Maxy’s toddler group thinks I’m dead!’

‘What a silly cow. I’m not having anyone upset you – shall I go and have a word with her?’ Martin ground his teeth together.

Poppy shook her head. ‘No, please, just stay here with me.’

‘I won’t go mad, I promise. I just want to set her straight on a few things. The stupid cow!’ He was angry.

Poppy looked up. ‘No, Mart, don’t. It’ll make me feel worse if you get mad at her. I can’t cope with that.’

‘Okay, okay. We’ll just sit here for a bit.’ He switched on the engine and put the heater on, trying to stop her shaking.

Poppy hid her face in her hands and cried. How could she explain to her husband that she wasn’t upset because of what the woman had said, but because one day it would be the truth; she would be dead. And after it had happened, Finn’s mum would carry on going to Tesco, and Mart would still chat to his mates in the car park, and Max would go to parent and toddler group, and life would carry on without her as if she had never been there. She would be just like all the other women that she could picture, whose names she could no longer recall – people who suddenly weren’t around any more because cancer had taken them away from their families. The thought of it made her feel so very empty and sad.

Martin smoothed her hair from her face. ‘Would you like to go for a little walk? Or we could go for a coffee somewhere?’

Poppy took a deep breath. ‘No thanks. I don’t want to do anything and I don’t want to see anyone. Can we just go home?’ She smiled as she blotted at her tears.

Poppy spent the afternoon lying on the bed. She opened the laptop and grinned at the subject-line in her inbox,
your chosen photo’s, edited as promised
… Poppy called for Martin and the kids, who ran up the stairs. Martin sat next to her and Peg and Max crowded in behind.

‘Oh my word!’ Poppy opened the slideshow and watched, as the bright, clear pictures from their photo shoot appeared one by one on the screen.

‘Maxy!’ Max leant forward and touched his little finger to the screen.

‘It is, it’s you!’ Poppy kissed him.

Poppy and Martin had selected their favourite snaps a while ago and now, as they studied them, every image drew gasps from Poppy and claps from Peg, each one better than the last. Poppy gazed at the faces of her family, laughing, smiling and chatting. Captured perfectly, for always.

‘I never realised we were so good-looking!’ Martin quipped. ‘Are you pleased with them?’

Poppy could only smile and nod, her throat clogged with emotion. These were the pictures that her grandchildren would be shown; this was how she would be immortalised. Peg would tell her children the story of Toffee and his starring role. Her grandchildren would shake their fringes from their foreheads and wrinkle their noses as they touched her face and asked ‘Who’s that?’

They were better than she could have dreamt. She felt happy that, for years to come, these would be the images by which people would remember her.

Thank you, Paul Smith.

The last photograph came onto the screen and the whole family shouted their laughter. It was a close-up of Toffee in all his finery. The Crickets pointed and roared with laughter until their tears came.

‘That one is going up on the wall!’ Martin announced.

It gave Poppy an idea. Martin, as requested, deposited their old photograph albums on the bed. Poppy smiled as she leafed through them at her leisure. They seemed to have been keen, years ago, to catalogue their every event, snapping at will. But the novelty had obviously worn off, as there were a disproportionate number of photographs of them with the kids when they were babies, but few as they grew. And poor old Maxy had half the number of entries that Peg had when she was little. Poppy selected one or two precious pictures, removing them from the sticky film that trapped them. The newborn Peg asleep on her mum’s chest; Max at nine months, nudey-dudey in the paddling pool, held by his dad under the arms as he kicked up splashes of water, spraying himself and anyone and anything in close proximity. He grinned gummily at the camera. She carefully turned over the photographs and wrote on the back of each one – the date, the subject and how much she loved them, then and now – before placing them inside the kids’ memory boxes.

Turning the pages, Poppy came across some shots of her nan. One showed Dorothea on her wedding day, standing in a white satin wedding dress in her mum and dad’s back garden in Limehouse. Poppy had never known her great-grandparents, Joan and Reg, but she knew for a fact this was their garden. Dot had told her often enough. The young Wally had his arm around her waist and she was laughing at something in the distance. She looked beautiful. Poppy plucked it from the album and decided to give it to Simon. There was another shot of an older Dorothea in their little kitchen in Walthamstow, taken in the late seventies; she was holding a cup of tea and smiling into the camera. The table was set and she was sitting next to a little plate piled high with fondant fancies – must have been a celebration of some sort. It was before dementia had claimed her and her expression was reminiscent of the girl in the wedding photo. Poppy decided to take him this one too.

Poppy thought how strange it would be for Simon to see pictures of the woman who had given birth to him and whom he had never known. The breath stopped in her throat when she pictured Max being in the exact same position in years to come. Poppy plucked a photo of her son and sank back on the pillows, holding it against her cheek.

It was a glorious summer afternoon. Poppy sat in a chair in the garden and let the sun warm her skin; she rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt and lifted the hem of her jeans to expose her shins, wiggling her bare toes against the grass. Closing her eyes, she listened to the bird song. It was a moment of calm before the madness of the weekend took hold. She flipped open the laptop and read the email from Simon and Kate. They had attached their tickets to travel, all confirmed for ten days’ time. She felt a rare bubble of excitement at the prospect of going away. It would be perfect: just the two of them, with time to talk and hold each other in the sunshine. Maybe they would sit on a beach and sip fresh pineapple juice under a tree – or maybe she had seen too many movies.

She must have dozed off in her chair because she woke with a start when the front door banged shut. She stretched, eased herself into an upright position and made her way into the sitting room.