Will You Remember Me?

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘I did, but they cut the tour short.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t want to say anything to Poppy in case everything changed. You know how it can.’

  Jo nodded. ‘Don’t I just.’

  ‘It was all very last-minute, but I got to Oxford on Christmas morning in the early hours.’

  ‘You lucky sod.’ Jo wrung the tea towel in her hand; she wanted her husband home too.

  ‘Danny all right?’ Martin asked after his drinking buddy and fellow armchair Spurs supporter; he had been one of the last to be deployed to Afghanistan.

  ‘Yeah. Y’know.’ Jo shrugged. She didn’t need to elaborate on how horrible it was to be separated, especially over Christmas.

  ‘Give him my best.’ Martin nodded, sincere.

  ‘Will do, mate. Tell Pop not to worry about tonight. We were going to open a bottle of plonk and watch a bit of telly, but tell her I’ll catch up with her in the week.’ Jo hovered.

  Martin nodded again in her direction. He had no intention of allowing Poppy to honour this engagement; tonight he wanted her all to himself.

  Poppy stood in the kitchen and watched as her man lumbered through the door, laden with bags of laundry, presents and the detritus that gathered in the car on any journey.

  ‘You’re home,’ she whispered.

  ‘The place looks lovely!’ Martin grinned, taking in the immaculate leather sofa, shiny laminate floors, cushions plumped just so and dust-free surfaces. He smiled at the tiny Christmas tree in the window and the Santa statues on the side table; he was glad they had made the effort even though they were away for Christmas itself. It made the place feel like home. He loved how Poppy cared for their house; he felt a sense of pride every time he opened the door. ‘And bloody huge! Living inside a tent and washing in a communal block every day makes this feel like a palace!’

  ‘Is that right? Better get me a tent then. I’ll kip in that for a couple of weeks and then come in and be as chuffed as chips with this grotty quarter.’ Poppy slipped her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him on the mouth, running her fingers over his shorn, fair hair. He knew she loved this house and loved looking after it, finding it far from grotty.

  ‘How soon can we get the kids off?’ he whispered gruffly into her hair.

  ‘Well, that depends. If I had a hand with cooking tea and getting them into their PJs, it would all happen a lot quicker.’

  ‘Consider it done.’ Martin clapped his hands, loudly. ‘Right, Peg, Maxy, who wants what for tea?’

  The two thundered into the lounge. ‘Chicken nuggets, chips, peas and chocolate mousse please, Dad!’ Peg shouted.

  ‘Yes, nuggets!’ Max nodded his agreement.

  ‘Coming right up.’ Martin bowed. ‘Is that on the same plate?’

  The kids giggled. ‘I love having my daddy home!’ Peg pogoed up and down, Max joined her.

  ‘Tell you what, babe, why don’t you go have a shower, have a moment to yourself,’ Martin said to Poppy as he headed for the kitchen.

  Poppy smiled. She liked having their daddy home too.

  She kicked her pants on top of the jeans and T-shirt that lay in a heap in the corner of the bathroom, and let the water splat against the shower tray. She usually jumped into the slightly chilly deluge and started scrubbing as it warmed, but not tonight. Instead, she carefully laid out her silky nightie, dressing gown and only matching set of bra and pants, then positioned her perfume bottle ready for a quick spritz before she went downstairs. He’s home! She grinned into the mirror and practised her smouldering pose: hair over the shoulder, cheeks sucked in slightly, eyes fixed. She laughed; she was rubbish at that stuff and she knew that, after eighteen years together, Martin would only find it comical, not alluring. She felt sexy enough without trying to do sultry as well.

  Steam engulfed the space as she let the hot water wash over her. She squeezed a blob of her new, expensive shower gel into her palm – a gift from Claudia that she had been determined to save for special occasions. Well, this was certainly a special occasion: it was New Year’s Eve. Again she smiled at the thought that her man was on the floor below her instead of miles and miles away, across a sea or two.

  Poppy inhaled the shiny, amber-coloured liquid. It smelt of vanilla and honey; lovely. She rubbed her hands together to make lather and ran her palm over her arms, neck and chest. Like most people, she had a familiar ritual for her washing routine, doing it in the same way and soaping her body parts in the same order. To deviate would feel odd. She considered this and smiled, wondering how long it had taken for this sequence to become habit. Did other people for example start at their feet and work upwards? Poppy grimaced; that would be entirely wrong.

  She began to sing, loudly. ‘Let your love flow…’

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ Peg banged on the bathroom door, then tried the handle and realised to her delight that it wasn’t locked. She strolled in and gathered up Poppy’s silky nightie with its lacy edges and side split. ‘What is this? Mum, is this a dress? It looks fancy! Are you going to a party after all?’

  Poppy turned her face to the shower nozzle and let the water cover her blushes. ‘Oh no, that’s just a very comfy nightie – it’s nice and cool when it gets hot.’

  Peg ran her fingers over the silky material. ‘But it’s a bit snowy outside, Daddy’s freezing!’

  Poppy turned off the shower, knowing that her allocated ‘me-time’ was over. ‘Yes, I know, but it can sometimes get a little toasty if we leave the heating on.’

  ‘Why don’t you just turn the heating off?’ Peg stared at her with her head cocked to one side and her nose wrinkled.

  ‘Good point, love. I shall do just that.’

  As Poppy wrapped herself in the large towel and ran her fingers through her hair, Peg slipped her mum’s nightie on over her head and tucked the bottom of it into her jeans. ‘Dad says we can go on the trampoline!’ She clapped her hands.

  If anything good happened or they were celebrating an anniversary, the whole family always took to the trampoline, deciding beforehand how many bounces were appropriate, ten being the most. The impending arrival of Max two years ago had merited a ten, and so had the loss of Peg’s first baby tooth. The occasions weren’t always the most traditional.

  ‘Really? Tonight?’ Poppy tried to hide her slight irritation; this wasn’t how she’d seen their evening of passion beginning.

  ‘Yes! It’s New Year’s Eve! And we’ve got a lot to look forward to.’

  Poppy kissed her little girl’s forehead. ‘Yes we have, my darling.’

  ‘I mean, I’m going to be nine next year and I’m getting a new pet, aren’t I?’

  Poppy nodded as she reached for her toothbrush. She was still hoping that acquiring a guinea pig might lose its appeal, even though Martin had readily agreed to the idea.

  ‘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.’ Popp
y 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.’

  Two

  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.’