Will You Remember Me? (34 page)

Poppy gazed at her little girl, caught somewhere in that twilight time between the innocence of early childhood and the savvy pre-teens. She knew that this conversation would stay with her daughter and that every detail would be captured for perfect recall.

She looked out of the window. The sky was dark with the threat of rain, which seemed horribly appropriate. The tinny radio was tuned to Radio 2 with the volume so low that only the bassier notes of Coldplay were audible; one of their neighbours was revving his car engine impatiently.
Life goes on…

Peg flicked the fork and a baked bean landed on the tabletop.

Poppy knew this was the right time.

‘Cancer is a funny old thing, Peg. Some people have a little bit of cancer and they can get fixed and other people have a lot of it and they can’t be.’

Peg gripped her cutlery and stared at her mum. Her chest moved rapidly, in time with her breathing. ‘Which is your sort?’

Poppy opened her mouth to speak and realised she was crying. Uninvited, the tears seeped from her. Peg started too. Two large tears rolled down her cheeks, followed by a whole lot more, which she made no attempt to remove.

‘I have the worst kind, darling. I have a lot of it.’

Peg knew what this meant. She remained sitting at the table with her cutlery resting in her palms and her feet in their white socks no longer kicking against the chair.

‘I would never ever choose to leave you, Peg. Never. But I have no choice.’ Poppy fought to regain her composure and, strangely, felt a wave of calm wash over her. The prospect of no more pain, needles, drugs, hospital appointments, scans, therapies or nights spent under the harsh strip-lighting of a magnolia-painted ward suddenly seemed very appealing.

She watched the swell of panic rise in Peg’s chest, watched as her little girl drew her next breath sharply, unsure of what to do or say. Peg slowly laid her knife and fork on the table and climbed down from her chair. She sat on the floor next to the sofa where her mother lay and placed her head on Poppy’s lap, ready to feel the sweep of her palm against her hair.

‘I know, Mummy.’ Peg inhaled her mother’s scent and closed her eyes.

Claudia helped Martin unload the shopping from the car and then prepared a plate of bubbling cheese on toast to be eaten by the four Crickets in front of the TV, all snuggled on the sofa under one large duvet. Poppy nibbled at hers, doing her best to emulate someone who was enjoying their grub. She knew it made everyone feel happier to see her eat.

‘Look at you, you look like little chicks in a nest.’ Claudia smiled at Poppy and Martin, who each had a child on their lap and a plate of food in their right hand.

‘Cheep cheep!’ Peg called through her mouthful of toast.

‘Cheep cheep!’ Max copied his big sister.

Poppy and Martin laughed.

‘And, my little chicks, if you have everything you need, I am going to love you and leave you.’

‘What? No!’ Poppy didn’t want Claudia to go.

‘No panic, only for two days. I need to go to Clanfield and gather my post, check my plants and all that terribly urgent stuff. Plus I should get out of your hair, leave you in your little nest.’

‘You’re not in our hair. We love you, Granny Claudia.’ Peg spoke for them all.

‘Just a couple of days, I promise. And I love you all too, very much.’ Claudia inhaled deeply, to quash the rise of emotion in her throat. ‘Martin, you have my number. If you need me any sooner, shout!’

Claudia blew kisses and hopped into her Mini.

The next day, Martin was busy in the kitchen. He gripped the hot roasting tin with the floral oven glove and rattled the potatoes around in it, then lifted the tin up to his face. ‘Mmmnn, if I do say so myself, I make the best roast spuds known to mankind! A pinch of rosemary, a dash of rock salt and these puppies will be good to go.’

Poppy leant on the countertop and sipped at her herbal tea.

‘Jamie Oliver can only dream of making roast lamb as tender as mine and no way could he match my award-winning spuds.’ Martin smiled.

Poppy let her eyes wander over their entire stock of pots and pans, dishes, sieves, spoons and jugs, which were strewn, in various states of disarray, across the work surface. The peelings of carrots and the tops and tails of sugar-snap peas were in a pile on the sink drainer, and the butter, cooking oil and at least half a dozen different jars of herbs were all lid-less and lined up on the window sill.

‘I bet Jamie doesn’t make this much mess.’ She sighed.

‘Ah, I bet he does. The difference is, Jamie probably has a team to clear it up for him.’

‘Well, sadly, Mart, love, you haven’t.’ Poppy pulled her cardigan around her shoulders, trying to fend off the constant chill that hovered within her. She rubbed at her shoulder, hating the sharp bite of bone against her palm.

They could hear Peg’s shouts and whoops of joy as she played with Max outside.

‘Listen to those two.’ She flicked her head in the direction of the garden.

Martin forked a crispy golden morsel of potato from the bottom of the pan and held it up to her face. ‘Sure you can’t be tempted? These little bits are what I call the chef’s perks.’

‘I’ll try and eat a bit later, promise.’

Martin returned the roasting tin to the oven and started to move the pots and pans closer to the sink: stage one of the great clear-up. He looked out of the window to see Peg holding Max by the hands and swinging him in a wide circle. Max was flying out horizontally as Peg spun round, going faster and faster.

‘Jesus, if she let’s go of him, he’ll go flying!’ Martin tapped on the window. Peg didn’t hear him. ‘I mean it, Poppy, she’s spinning him round really fast! She’ll either fall and hurt them both or his bloody arms’ll come out of their sockets!’

Martin tried to quell the edge of panic in his voice. He knocked harder this time and called out, ‘Peg! Peg!’, but to no avail. Peg was lost in the game of making her brother squeal ever more loudly. Opening the window, Martin shouted, angry now. ‘Put him down right now! Before you hurt him!’

Peg, either oblivious to or ignoring the urgency in her dad’s tone, shouted back, ‘He’s okay!’

Martin slammed the window shut and looked at his wife. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

Poppy put her hand on his arm and pulled him close. ‘Do you remember all those times when you’d be watching Spurs on
Match of the Day
and I’d say, “Come to bed, turn that bloody telly off,” and you’d say, “Five more minutes,” without even looking up.’

Martin laughed. ‘Yes.’

Poppy kissed his neck. ‘And what did I use to do? I’d go upstairs and put on my special silky nightie and a spray of perfume. I’d slink back into the lounge and say, are you
sure
you don’t want to come to bed, Mart? And you’d be up them stairs quicker than you could say “Where’s the remote?”’

‘God, Poppy, we’ve had some lovely nights, eh?’ He squeezed her tight and kissed her scalp.

‘We have. And the point is, you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.’ Poppy opened the window and watched the giggling duo, who were now on their fourth set of spins. She shouted, ‘Anyone want to make popcorn?’

‘Me, me!’ Peg yelled, and put Max down on the ground.

Poppy watched as her little boy, rather dazed from his gyrations, wobbled like a drunk and ran straight into the trampoline.

Martin braced his arms on the sink and stood for a moment staring at the garden. ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage on my own.’ His voice was hoarse.

‘You will, love. You will.’

Poppy turned as Peg burst through the door and into the kitchen, screeching, ‘Popcorn! Popcorn!’ She danced around the kitchen, flapping her arms like a chicken, poking her head in and out from her neck and repeating her chant of ‘Popcorn!’ with a decidedly West Country accent.

‘She’s flippin’ bonkers.’ Poppy laughed. ‘Must take after my nan.’

Martin’s lunch was as wonderful as he said it would be, even if it tasted like cardboard to Poppy, and jovial family banter flew across the table. Afterwards, Martin returned to the kitchen to try and clear away the chaos while Poppy dozed on the sofa.

Nurse Peg was on hand as ever to tend to the patient. It had become her favourite pastime: squirting water from an old bottle of washing-up liquid on to Poppy’s arm, mopping it with a tissue that quickly got soggy and then wrapping the affected area in a bandage. Poppy would then lie back on the sofa while Peg placed the stethoscope on her chest, although if her heart was where Peg thought it was, Poppy was in even more trouble than she thought.

Peg thundered down the stairs and approached with her little medical bag under her arm. Her nurse’s headscarf had slipped down and threatened to cover her eyes. ‘Wake up, Mrs Cricket, it’s time for your next injection.’ Peg flipped open the lid on her square plastic case and pulled out a garish and blunt-looking plastic syringe. She twisted her mum’s arm and pushed the end against the white underside, where a purple vein meandered towards her hand.

‘Take your tablets!’ Peg boomed in a bossy voice, before removing several Cheerios from a little plastic container and shoving them onto her mum’s tongue. Poppy laughed in spite of the discomfort.

‘Do not move!’ Peg barked.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, Nurse Cricket, you are a little bit bossy and a little bit hurty.’

‘That’s because you are a very bad patient!’ This time Peg waved her finger in her mum’s direction.

Poppy laughed. ‘How am I a bad patient? I do everything you tell me.’ She pictured the countless Cheerios she’d been force-fed.

Peg slammed the lid shut and fumbled with the catch, trying to close it, but she couldn’t make it stick. All of a sudden, she picked it up and hurled it at the ground, spilling the plastic pill bottle, stethoscope and syringe onto the floor.

‘Peg!’ Poppy said. ‘What’s the matter? Come and sit with me.’ She patted the space on the sofa next to her. ‘What’s this all about?’

Peg’s scarf had finally slipped over her eyes and she tilted her head back slightly so she could peek at her mum from underneath it. Sometimes she found it easier to speak when she couldn’t see.

‘You are a bad patient because you are not getting better and I am a rubbish nurse.’

Poppy gathered her little girl in her arms. ‘Did you really think you could make me better, Peg?’

Peg considered this, then shook her head. Her response, when it came, was a whisper. ‘No. But I just like to pretend.’

Poppy smiled at her daughter. She knew all about pretending.

‘You are right, you know, I am a bad patient. I’m sorry I’m not going to get better. But I have to disagree – you are a brilliant nurse!’

‘Am I?’ Peg pushed the scarf back over her forehead.

‘Absolutely. You always make me feel better. As soon as I see you coming down the stairs in your little outfit, I smile!’

Peg smiled too. ‘Do you really think I’m a brilliant nurse?’

‘I do.’ Poppy kissed her cheek.

Peg placed her head close to her mum’s and whispered, ‘Can I give you a little operation?’

‘An operation?’ Poppy gasped. ‘No!’

‘Only a little one. I’d really like it, Mum. I could stitch it back up with cotton afterwards. I could just do one on your arm?’ Peg hovered, her expression hopeful.

‘Peg, I love you, but I’m not ever, ever going to let you operate on my arm.’

Peg slunk off the sofa. ‘It’s not fair! Jade McKeever’s mum lets her use tweezers to take her own splinters out! I’m not even allowed tweezers!’

Poppy watched as her daughter stomped up the stairs, then shouted after her, ‘I hope you are going to be a happier pilot than you are a nurse – you’re a bit sulky!’

Poppy smiled as Peg slammed her bedroom door.

Martin helped his wife up the stairs and switched on the shower while she sat on the bed. He bent down and removed her thick socks and helped her shed her pyjama bottoms and top. Weakened by her disease, Poppy found it hard to lift her arms, let alone soap herself, and Martin helped. He tried to make it fun, chatting and reminiscing as he let the lather build between his palms and then soaped his wife’s body. She could hardly bear to look down at her naked form, with her prominent ribs, jutting hips and concave stomach. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed ahead or closed and tried to enjoy the sensation of warm water on her skin and the delicious tingle that she got from being clean. She had given up on baths. Not only was getting in and out a chore, but sitting with her bony bottom against the hard base of the bath was quite painful.

‘You’re a great dad. Don’t ever, ever doubt that.’ Poppy spoke through the deluge.

Martin paused and looked at his wife. ‘Thank you. The thing is, love, I’m a good dad when I’m half of a couple, but doing it on my own scares me more than you can know.’

Poppy raised her face to the showerhead and let the water fall over her face; it was in that second that she had something of an epiphany.

Martin rubbed her down with her favourite bath towel, helped feed her arms into a warm nightie and placed clean, thick socks on her toes.

‘Okay? Warm enough? Happy enough? Painkillered enough?’

Poppy nodded. ‘Yes, yes and yes. Thank you.’

‘I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Got to get Peg’s packed lunch ready for tomorrow and iron my kit and whatnot.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t help you.’ Her distress was as ever near the surface as she watched him juggle the kids, his job and caring for her and the house. At first, ensconced in their bedroom, she had lain there fretting, wondering if he’d stacked the dishwasher correctly and plumped the cushions how she liked them, but recently she had begun caring less and less about these details. She had much bigger things to occupy her thoughts.

‘Don’t be daft. Anyway, Claudia comes back tomorrow and I can skive off again.’

‘There are a couple of things, Mart.’

‘Name them.’ He smiled as he leant on the doorframe.

‘Can you put this in Peg’s memory box for me?’ Poppy handed him her three-quarters-full bottle of Angel perfume.

He nodded. ‘That’s a nice idea.’

‘And can you ask Peg to come and see me and tell her to bring a sheet of paper and an envelope.’