Will You Remember Me? (3 page)

‘And I’m going to try and be register monitor next term. I’m going to be really good, Mum, and not talk too much when Mrs Newman is talking, and use my ruler for drawing lines and not hitting people, and this time next year I might be on the
X Factor
!’

‘Why, is Mrs Newman on the panel?’ Poppy mumbled as she spat her toothpaste foam into the sink.

‘No!’ Peg tutted. ‘But Jade McKeever and me are doing a dance routine and we’ve learnt a song and we’re going to audition.’

‘But you’ll only be nine!’

Peg rolled her eyes. ‘We are going to lie on our application form.’

‘Ah, of course, they won’t be expecting that!’ Poppy tapped the side of her nose. ‘Well, good luck with your bid for stardom, Peg. What song are you going to sing?’

‘It’s Miley Cyrus, but I haven’t learnt the words yet. Jade’s going to teach them to me.’ Peg coughed and placed her hands on her hips, as if just by knowing the name of an artiste she was elevated to that auspicious rank of teenager.

Poppy sprayed her perfume onto her neck and wrists. Peg breathed in deeply. ‘I love your perfume, Mum. You smell all chocolatey.’

‘Chocolatey? Oh good.’ Poppy laughed.

Martin did a double-take as Peg trotted down the stairs with his wife’s silky nightie pulled on over her hoodie and Poppy following in her comfy tartan PJs and bed socks.

‘What the…?’ he began.

‘Peg came to chat to me while I was getting ready and she found my nightie.’ Poppy gave a wide, false grin.

‘Mum only wears this when it gets hot,’ Peg stated matter-of-factly as she sat at the table and poked a large chip into her mouth.

‘Err, last time I checked, we used cutlery at the table, love.’ Martin tried to look stern.

‘Oh, Dad, you are so funny!’ Peg chuckled as she picked up a chicken nugget with her fingers and dunked it into the little puddle of ketchup on the side of the plate.

‘I believe we are trampolining after tea?’ Poppy quizzed.

‘Well, it is New Year’s Eve and we are getting a new pet.’ He winked.

‘Mart, she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.’

‘Can you get me a drink please, Mummy?’ Peg mumbled between mouthfuls.

Poppy jumped up.

‘Oh, hello, kettle!’ Martin called after her.

Poppy ran the tap and smiled. This was a good feeling: back to normal, family life, everyone where they should be, snug and safe under their little roof in Larkhill.

She opened the fridge and saw a bottle of champagne and two glasses cooling on the top shelf – perfect.

With the tea things washed and put away and the kids in their padded snowsuits, the four laughed and squealed as they made their way out to the little square back garden. Martin was the first to climb onto the trampoline; he was in his jeans, sweatshirt and socks, and his wellington boots were placed neatly side by side on the ground. Poppy handed him Max, who was wrapped to resemble a little Michelin man; he giggled, finding the whole exercise hilarious. Peg made her own way up and stood resplendent in her snowsuit with a neon-green tutu skirt over the top and her face almost entirely covered by her hood and scarf. Poppy clambered aboard in her pyjamas, dressing gown and thick socks, with a fleecy top zipped up under her chin and her striped bobble-hat securely over her ears.

Martin held Max as they all stood in a wobbly circle and held hands.

‘Okay, Cricket family.’ Martin spoke in a whisper as his breath blew smoke into the chilly December air. ‘How many bounces? I vote four.’ He smiled at his wife.

‘Four?’ Peg screamed. ‘No way! Ten! And Maxy wants ten, I can tell.’

Max clapped and shouted ‘Duck!’, his word of the moment.

‘Okay.’ Martin looked at each member of his family. ‘So that’s a four from me, a ten from Peg and a duck from Maxy. Mummy, you have the deciding vote.’

Poppy gasped and placed her hand on her chest. ‘Oh, gosh, that’s a huge responsibility. Well, let’s have a think…’

‘Ten, ten, ten!’ Peg chanted, causing waves as she jiggled that threatened to topple them all.

‘I vote… ten!’ Poppy shouted.

Peg screamed and commenced her bouncing, which caught Poppy off guard and sent her sprawling; she squealed as Martin lay down next to her, holding Max’s mitten-covered hands while he bounced in the small space not filled by his parents. Peg finished her bounces and jumped on top of her mum, landing with a thump. Max copied his sister and pretty soon all four were in a heap on the trampoline, laughing, fighting for breath and staring at the clear winter sky.

Their breathing slowed and the noise hushed. Martin slid his palm across the thick woven base and gripped his wife’s hand.

‘There is nowhere on earth that I would rather be than right here, right now.’

Poppy raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers. ‘Me too.’

‘It’s going to be the best year, Poppy. I just know it.’

She smiled into the darkness. ‘Yes it is, my love. The best.’

Martin turned his attention from the pan on the stove to his wife. ‘Well here she is, my beautiful hot bird.’

Poppy held the folded newspaper up to her face.

Joan May Williams, aged 84. Wife, mother, grandma and great-grandma. Died peacefully after a brief illness. Donations to any Alzheimer’s charity in lieu of flowers.

She looked up from the paper and over her shoulder at her husband, who was wearing her ‘I kiss better than I cook’ apron as he flipped fried eggs that popped and sizzled in the pan. She pointed at her chest. ‘Do you mean me? Or have Tesco delivered one of them rotisserie chickens you like?’

‘Yes, I mean you.’ Martin held the spatula up and grabbed her around the waist with his free hand, pulling her towards him. After any time away, he was drawn even more strongly to his wife’s pale skin, with its smattering of freckles across her nose, and to her clear green eyes and shiny, shoulder-length hair, now layered and hanging in reddy-brown loops around her face.

‘You make me sound like some leggy model. I think we might need to get your goggles upgraded.’

‘I don’t need no leggy model, I just want you.’

‘Well that’s lucky, cos that’s what you’ve got, mate, and you are well and truly stuck with me.’

‘What’s that you’re reading?’ Martin watched as she turned her attention back to the newspaper, studying it intently, devouring the contents.

‘Nothing.’ Poppy haphazardly collapsed the paper into an awkward parcel and shoved it next to the bread bin.

‘Are you looking at the obituaries again?’ He waited for her reply, wanted to see if a lie would pass her lips.

She nodded, trying not to laugh.

‘I hate you reading them,’ he whispered.

‘But I’ve always read them.’

‘I know and it creeps me out!’ He shivered.

‘Why? I think it’s lovely to see what people have said about their loved ones.’

‘I tell you what it is, it’s an excuse for people to wallow in their sadness and for the newspaper to make a few quid! What’s the point? Grief should be a private thing. The person they’re writing about is brown bread, it’s bloody pointless.’

‘It’s not pointless, Mart. At least I don’t think it is. It’s like wishing them a fond farewell.’

‘A fond farewell? I just don’t think it’s very jolly.’

Poppy threw her head back and laughed loudly. ‘Not very jolly? Have you been mixing with them officers again, Mart? Jolly?’ she taunted. ‘Not very jolly?’

He kicked his leg out, trying to catch her with his foot as she wriggled out of reach.

They both smiled as Poppy stood behind him at the stove and ran her fingers over the tan line at his neck. She felt the slight bulge of flesh against the pad of her finger. Martin had always been solid, stocky, and she could now see the extra pounds that would pad him into his middle age.

‘I love having you home.’ She kissed his neck.

‘Well that’s lucky too, cos I’m not going anywhere either.’

‘Although I must admit, I find it easier to keep my kitchen clean and tidy when you aren’t here.’ Poppy picked up the empty egg carton and flung it in the recycling bag she kept by the back door, then reached for her cloth and sprayed it with Cif.

‘
Your
kitchen? Blimey, there are women burning bras all over the world so the kitchen won’t be considered “theirs”.’ Martin laughed.

‘Not me.’ Poppy smiled as she swiped at the sink drainer. ‘I like looking after my house. Plus I’ve only got a couple of bras; I’d be in all sorts of unsupported trouble if I started burning them.’

‘I sometimes think you’d rather we didn’t eat and then you could keep
your
kitchen immaculate at all times.’

Poppy carried on cleaning, not willing to confess that sometimes that was exactly what she thought. ‘Well, if you don’t like it, you can always move into the shed in the back garden, where the dirt and mess might be more to your liking!’

‘I’m only teasing you, babe. I love being in our shiny house. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Not yet.’ Poppy crinkled her nose, hardly able to think that this happiness might be subject to a countdown. The supposed two-year gap between deployments seemed to be commonly ignored these days, as numbers dwindled and campaigns continued. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he came home looking sullen, eye twitching and muscles tense as he delivered the phrase she always dreaded: ‘I’ve been posted…’

‘Maybe not ever,’ he quipped.

‘Ooh, now you’re talking.’ She kissed him again, then freed herself from his grip and plunged her hands deep into the sink, feeling for the cups and cutlery that lurked under the suds, wanting to get a head start on the washing-up.

‘Seriously, Poppy, I’ve been having a good old think. I reckon when this year is up, I should think about signing off. Then we can stay around here, the kids won’t have to be uprooted from school and I won’t have to go away again.’ He turned to look at his wife over his shoulder.

‘God, that sounds perfect. I’d love it. But it’s a lot to consider, love – we’d lose the house, obviously, and you’d need to find a job.’

Martin nodded; he had thought of that. ‘I’m sure I can get something, looking after a fleet in some company or a garage. I get casual offers from people that I meet all the time – apparently my military training and willingness to put up with the most shite conditions make me an attractive prospect!’

‘Who knew?’ Poppy mocked.

‘Not me.’ He grinned. ‘Or of course I could always set up my own business, open my own garage or whatever…’ He let the idea dangle and glanced at her, trying to gauge her reaction, before returning his stare to the pan.

Poppy abandoned the washing-up and turned to face him. ‘That’d be great, wouldn’t it? I could go back to hairdressing if need be, just while we get set up. Ooh, Mart! I’d love to see you with your own business. You could have “Cricket and Sons” over the door!’

‘Or “and Daughters”,’ he corrected.

‘Only if you’re planning on setting up a flight school for our little pilot. She’s quite determined.’

Martin laughed. ‘She’ll have to be. I think I’ll see what surprises this year has in store, but I might do the sums, see what it would take and how far we could get with my gratuity. It wouldn’t be huge, but if we were careful and had another income coming in, it might just be doable.’

‘Are we having another baby?’ Peg shouted as she pulled a chair from the table and sat with her legs tucked up underneath her. Neither parent had heard her approach in her green-and-blue striped socks.

‘Another baby?’ Poppy laughed.

‘Yes. I heard Dad say something about surprises this year and the last time you said you had a big surprise for me, we got Maxy! I don’t mind if we are, but I’d like a girl this time, called Katniss.’

‘No, darling, we’re not having a baby and I can almost guarantee that if we did have one, we wouldn’t be calling it Katnap or whatever.’

Peg rolled her eyes before burying her head in her colouring book, concentrating on keeping the pink pen within the lines.

Martin chuckled. ‘I’ve got one kid that wants a new baby,’ he whispered from the corner of his mouth, ‘and another doing his level best to make sure I can’t get within four feet of my wife!’

Poppy smiled and thought back to the previous night. Max had woken several times, only settling when ensconced in their bed. It was not quite the evening of passion they had planned.

‘Oh, I don’t know, you seemed to do okay in the Max-free interludes.’

‘That was just me getting started.’ Martin grinned at his wife.

‘Better get them tucked up early tonight then, Romeo.’ She flicked the water and suds from her fingers in his direction.

The door bell rang.

‘I’ll get it!’ Peg jumped off her chair and ran towards the front door, skidding in her socks until she banged right into it.

‘It’s Aunty Jo!’ Peg announced as their neighbour entered with two boxes wrapped in Christmas paper balanced in her arms.

‘Are they for Maxy and me?’ Peg pranced from foot to foot.

‘Peg, don’t be rude!’ Poppy yelled as she released herself from her husband’s grip. She smiled at her daughter, knowing how much fun it was to receive a gift when you thought there were no more in the offing.

Jo shook her head, sending her cascade of dark, glossy curls shivering down her back. She winked at Poppy. ‘Actually, no, Peg, these are for Mummy and Daddy.’

‘Oh.’ Peg kept her smile in place. ‘Can I open them for them?’

The two women laughed at the little girl who refused to let her excitement flag.

‘Course they’re for you, darlin’.’ Jo handed the box on top to Peg, who screeched up the stairs, ‘Max, wake up! We’ve got a present!’

Max immediately started to wail. Smoke rose from the eggs in the pan and Peg screamed in excitement as she peeled back the red-foil paper to reveal a pair of roller boots. The alarm began pipping its herald.

‘It’s a bloody madhouse!’ Martin yelled from the kitchen as he opened the window and Poppy began whizzing a tea towel in a helicopter motion below the smoke alarm.

Jo opened the front door and worked it back and forth to try and dilute the smoke. She laughed, happy to be a small part of this chaotic, noisy family.