Will You Remember Me?

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘I doubt it, he’s a bloody vicar!’

  ‘Boat! Three… four…’ Max had a tendency to echo any word that caught his interest and throw in some figures for good measure.

  ‘My clever numbers boy.’ Poppy kissed her son on the cheek. ‘I suppose you’re right, Mart. I should call him.’ She hesitated. ‘You’d think my mum might have called me before giving out my details.’

  ‘Really? You know what she’s like…’ Martin let this trail.

  Poppy got the message loud and clear. After all these years of lack of interest and poor judgement, did she really expect her mum to change?

  Martin was right of course.

  Poppy ran her fingers through her hair and gathered it into a ponytail before securing it with one of Peg’s elasticated pink bands. ‘I lived with my nan my whole life. I can’t believe she had a son that I knew nothing about.’

  ‘It must have been before she married Wally,’ Martin surmised.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Poppy twisted her mouth and reached for her mobile phone. Although she knew it would be the same time of day in Lanzarote, Cheryl sometimes worked all night at the bar and slept all day.

  Martin looked at his watch. ‘Err… same as here, I think, at the moment. Give it a go. She can always ignore the call.’ He raised his eyebrows at her; they both knew she would do so without a moment’s hesitation.

  Poppy closed her eyes and ran her palm over her face before punching the screen to locate her mum’s number. She hated calling her; was never sure of the reception she would get. She flexed her fingers and blinked at the screen.

  ‘S’all right, I’m here.’ Martin tried to reassure her.

  ‘Can I tell Cheryl that I’m getting a pet?’ Peg piped up.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Poppy whispered. It struck her like a tiny dagger, every time Peg referred to her mum as Cheryl and not Nan, although she understood, perfectly; Cheryl was a vague and distant character in the kids’ lives. Nan was a term that Cheryl had in no way earned, quite unlike Granny Claudia.

  ‘’Ello.’ Her voice was gruff, irritated.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Is that you, Poppy?’ Cheryl’s tone lifted slightly.

  ‘Yes.’ Poppy sighed. Who else in the world would call her ‘Mum’? Although as the point of the call was to enquire after an uncle that had appeared from nowhere, who knew what other skeletons lay in the cupboard?

  ‘Everything all right, love?’

  Poppy heard the unmistakable sound of a flint sparking, probably igniting the first cigarette of the day.

  ‘Yes. Fine. Is this a good time to talk?’ Poppy hoped it wasn’t and that she could end the call. Put it off till later.

  ‘Yeah, go on. Me and Frank aren’t up yet, but he’s snoring like a bleedin’ whale and I can listen.’

  Poppy cringed. She had no idea who Frank was, but she could picture him: another fat, sweaty, boozing lech. She had met enough of Cheryl’s ‘Franks’ throughout her childhood to know the type.

  ‘Right. It’s just that we got a letter today. A letter from St Lucia…’

  Poppy paused, hoping that was enough information to prompt her mum’s response. Apparently it wasn’t.

  She heard her mum draw deeply on her cigarette. ‘Oh yeah?’ She sounded uninterested.

  Poppy continued. ‘From someone called Simon? Apparently you gave him my details. He says he’s my uncle. Your brother.’

  The penny dropped. ‘Oh that,’ Cheryl said, as though they were discussing something of no consequence. ‘Blimey, that was a turn-up for the books, wasn’t it? Fancy Dot getting up to no good with a black man, dirty cow. And him being a vicar! I nearly wet meself laughing! I wonder, what would he have made of her and Wally – don’t think they ever went into a church, apart from when they were dead!’ Cheryl started one of her cackling laughs that quickly turned to wheezing and pretty soon she was emitting a throaty cough.

  Poppy held the phone at arm’s length, wanting to distance herself from her mother’s germs and comments. Eventually she pulled the phone back towards her ear. ‘So what happened, Mum? Apparently he sent you a letter?’

  Cheryl wasn’t finished. ‘Yeah, something like that. It was a while back. To tell the truth, I can’t be arsed with it, Poppy Day, but I thought you might like to hook up with him. I figured, I’ve managed my whole life without a brother, particularly some Holy Joe – don’t reckon I have the need of one now. Can you imagine? I’m a bit too far gone for saving. Unless you think I could become a nun – what d’you reckon, Frank? Shall I become a nun?’

  Poppy couldn’t make out the growl of words that the recently awakened Frank issued at the suggestion. ‘Did Nan never mention it to you, Mum? I seem to remember her saying something to me before she died about a baby and his name was Simon, but as I said to Mart, I thought it was just her dementia talking. It’s quite amazing, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so, love.’ Cheryl took another drag on her ciggie. ‘How’s your lot?’

  My lot… Poppy wondered if her mum could actually recall their names. She looked at her blond-haired boy, pushing a piece of toast around the table as if it were a vehicle; at her husband standing close by, concern etched on his face, waiting to mop up the fallout that inevitably followed any contact with her mother; and at Peg, who was mouthing ‘Tell her we’re getting a pet!’ She smiled at all the family she needed, all the family that she had ever needed.

  ‘They’re wonderful, really wonderful. I’ll let you go, Mum. Speak soon.’

  ‘Oh. All right, love. Merry Christmas.’

  Poppy closed her eyes. It was January the second. ‘Yes. Merry Christmas.’

  Martin sat down next to his wife. ‘Well, that was quick. Did you learn anything?’

  Poppy ran her fingers over the fine script of Simon’s handwriting, hoping that he was part of a family that made him feel safe and secure and that he was loved by someone in the way that she loved Martin; unlike Cheryl, who sadly had neither. Maybe Martin was right: it was exciting.

  ‘I learnt that my mum hasn’t changed a bit, her latest beau is called Frank and apparently he snores. Oh, and my uncle, her brother, the vicar who she has no interest in seeing, is black. That about sums it up.’

  Martin laid his hand over his wife’s. ‘Wow!’

  ‘Yep,’ Poppy confirmed. ‘Wow.’

  Four

  Peg raced ahead into the store as Poppy and Martin strolled at the pace of the pushchair-free Max, who was following slowly in her wake. By the time they caught up with her, she was chatting to Jackson, who was resplendent in his uniform polo shirt and baseball cap; he was apparently an expert on small pets, if the badge on his shirt was anything to go by. Poppy caught the tail end of Peg’s introduction.

  ‘So, any of them would be good, really. By the way, my mum’s uncle is black too, but I’ve never met him and he never actually met his mum, who is dead now, because he was born out of wedlock.’ Peg smiled.

  Poppy stared at Martin. Out of wedlock? Where on earth had she got that?

  Jackson turned to Poppy with a look close to fear in his eyes.

  ‘Hi, Jackson.’ Poppy repeated the name on his badge. ‘Sorry about my daughter, she is full of useless bits of information. The important thing is, we are here to get a pet.’

  ‘Yes, she said.’ He glanced briefly at Peg. ‘Although I’m not sure we can help.’

  ‘No? Oh, that’s a shame. We thought it would be quite straightforward.’ Poppy looked at the rows of cages and tanks that seemed to be crammed full of tiny animals all wanting to come and live in their house. She wondered if Peg had offended him in some way.

  ‘It is usually quite straightforward, but we don’t have otters, badgers or baby lion cubs here.’

  ‘Peg!’ Poppy shouted. ‘We’ve told you, a guinea pig or nothing. Sorry, Jackson.’

  He shrugged; it obviously wasn’t the strangest request he’d ever had.

  Peg bounced a pet ball she had found on the floor. ‘I was only asking!’


  Peg had to be prised away from Toffee at bedtime. He was apparently the best thing she had ever had, ever! ‘Even better than Maxy!’ Poppy and Martin decided to ignore the last bit.

  Poppy sat on the sofa with her head on Martin’s shoulder. The lamplight made everything look cosy. He poured them both a large glass of wine, which they nursed as they chatted, their stockinged feet stretched out and resting on the coffee table.

  She stroked her husband’s forearm. ‘This is nice.’

  ‘Oh, it’s more than nice. It’s everything. When I’m away, I dream of sitting on this sofa with you next to me, sharing a bottle.’

  Poppy snuggled closer. ‘I feel sad that Nan couldn’t tell me about her baby sooner, couldn’t tell anyone.’

  Martin nodded. It was sad.

  ‘I would have helped her find him, or something, I don’t know. Or at least tried to make her feel better about everything.’

  ‘I don’t think there would have been a lot you could have said, love. She must have carried it with her always.’

  ‘I know and I can’t imagine what that must have been like. If I think of not seeing Maxy, God, even the idea of it is horrible. It must have ripped her in two.’ Poppy gulped her wine, enjoying the warmth it produced in her throat and chest. It soothed the ache that had appeared suddenly, at the idea of not being there every night to tuck her son into bed and every morning to kiss him when he stumbled into her arms, crumpled and groggy from sleep.

  ‘Do you think that’s why she was a bit…’ Martin verbally tiptoed, trying to find the right word. ‘Eccentric?’ he settled on.

  Poppy smiled at him, knowing he had wanted to say ‘loopy’. ‘Who knows? It can’t have helped, can it? Keeping secrets like that can’t be good for anyone and if she was hurting as well for all those years… That’s enough to send anyone a bit eccentric.’

  ‘Are you going to contact him?’

  ‘I think so. I just don’t know what to say. I’m working up to it.’

  ‘Do it now! While you’ve got some Dutch courage.’ Martin clinked his glass against hers.

  ‘Oh, yes, that’ll be good, me half cut. He’ll think I’m as bad as me mother.’

  Martin laughed. ‘You are in no way, not one single bit, like your mother.’ He shuddered at the comparison.

  ‘I think I’ll wait a bit, Mart, before I call him. Get my head round the idea and think about what I should say. It feels like a big deal and I want to get it right.’

  ‘It is a big deal!’ he confirmed. ‘It’s not every day a new uncle turns up.’

  ‘You don’t think there are more of them waiting to leap out of the woodwork do you?’ Poppy looked aghast at the prospect.

  ‘Well, if there is, mate, we are definitely going to have to start budgeting better for Christmas. All those pairs of socks and chocolates can really mount up.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘I think that’s what Danny’s got waiting for him when he comes home. Jo’s bought up half of Marks and Sparks.’

  ‘It must be rotten not having kids to buy for when all you wanted was to be a mum,’ Martin said.

  ‘I know; rotten for both of them. I feel sorry for her really. I’ve told her that you can’t have everything and that she and Danny are lucky: no sicky kids in the middle of the night, no early starts when all you want is another five minutes in bed. They can be spontaneous! Go to the cinema or even on holiday. We can’t do any of that. I said she was lucky in some ways.’ Poppy sipped her wine.

  ‘And did she believe your lies?’ Martin pulled her towards him.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You wouldn’t swap broken nights and early starts for a day without them, would you?’

  Poppy thought again of Dorothea having to give up her little boy. ‘No. No, I wouldn’t, Mart, not one single day.’

  ‘Poor Jo.’

  ‘Yep, poor Jo.’

  They both jumped as Toffee moved in his cage; they had forgotten he was there. They giggled as they hugged each other; a hug that led to kissing and kissing that led to them creeping up the stairs and pulling the chest of drawers across their bedroom door, which they routinely did whilst simultaneously shedding their clothes and giggling into their palms.

  Poppy left Martin snoring and quietly descended the stairs, knowing she wouldn’t be able to nod off until her chores were finished. The kitchen needed a bit of a tidy; she liked to plump the cushions before she went up so it was just so in the morning; and she wanted to put the rubbish in the wheelie bin. She laid out Peg’s clean uniform on the dining table, ready for the first day back at school, and placed her little rucksack next to the front door. Martin was going to take her in tomorrow as per her request. Poppy didn’t mind a bit, she knew the novelty of having her daddy home wasn’t going to wear off anytime soon.

  Poppy slipped into the bathroom and ran the shower, letting the water run over her head. Poor Jo. She felt a jolt of sadness for all the things her mate missed by not having kids. It seemed unfair that there were women like Jo who longed for children and women like Cheryl who conceived with ease but then didn’t want them when they arrived. There was so much her mum missed. Simon would be one more thing to add to the list, along with family birthdays, Christmases and a place in her children’s hearts.

  Poppy was distracted, thinking alternately about Peg’s packed lunch, the mysterious Simon and the fact that he lived in a warm, sunny climate on the other side of the world while his mum had never left London. She wondered if Dorothea would have liked to have gone somewhere hot and exotic.

  Suddenly, her thoughts crystallised. With clarity and poise, she stood upright and held her breath. For there, beneath her soapy hand, sitting in the gap between her breast and her armpit, was a little lump.

  It made her jump, so odd and unexpected was the discovery. She ran her hand over her breast and shoulder, before snaking back to where it was sited. Yes, there it was. Her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘What the…?’ she murmured into the steam.

  Poppy felt it beneath her fingers, squeezed it and skimmed it with the flat of her hand, making sure she hadn’t imagined it, seeing if it might move. It didn’t. She then checked on the other side of her torso, hoping to find the little mound mirrored on the opposite side of her body, making it nothing out of the ordinary but simply a little part of herself that she had previously been unaware of. Hidden. Like one of Jupiter’s regularly revealed new moons, or the flabby whalefish discovered in New Zealand at the bottom of the ocean – always there, just undiscovered. Maybe this was like that, a little nub that had always been present but that she had somehow missed, nothing to worry about.

  She raised her arm above her head as her hopeful fingers systematically explored the white skin beneath it, inching across the area from her chest to her ribs. Poppy swallowed the disappointment. There wasn’t one on the other side. Nothing, no matter how vigorously she searched.

  Instinctively she went back to the lump. She felt a little faint and realised that she was still holding her breath. She exhaled and leant her head on the shower door.

  This little thing, no bigger than a baked bean, was large enough to leave her shivering inside the cubicle despite the water temperature, which was if anything a fraction too hot. It was a small nodule but it left Poppy feeling sick with foreboding. The bean-sized lump was already casting a shadow the size of a boulder over her and her family.

  Poppy turned off the water and climbed out of the shower cubicle, then wrapped herself in the one big bath towel they owned, a huge sheet that had been a present from Claudia the previous year. She wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at her reflection.

  Instantly, Poppy saw a face looming over her shoulder. Her nan’s face. She was smiling and gave a little nod before she spoke. ‘The world keeps turning, girl. Life goes on.’

  And Poppy knew, just like that. She knew exactly how the story of this little lump would unfold. She touched her fingers to the node and gazed at the mirror as Dot disappeared into t
he ether. Her nan was right: the world would keep on turning, no matter what.

  Poppy turned and looked around the empty bathroom before placing her hand on the space in the mirror where her nan had appeared. She let out a deep sigh.

  Five

  Philip Grant OBE, 72, passed away peacefully at home. Devoted husband of Jenny and father of Kate and Emma. Philip was an ex Royal Marine and lifelong supporter of the RNLI, which is where we would like donations sent instead of flowers. Thank you for all your kind wishes at this time.

  Poppy wondered what Philip had died of. It irritated her when they didn’t say – not that it was any of her business, she was just nosey. She folded the paper and left it on the table with the out-of-date gardening magazines and the ten identical copies of the local glossy, which was full of adverts for boutiques and flooring shops and included an article on how to make your own bird feeder out of a pair of tights and some leftover stuffing. Her name was flashing on the new hi-tech system in the surgery. She was to report to Room 4, apparently.

  Poppy gathered up her coat and scarf, which kept the winter chill from her skin, and made her way along the corridor, noting the garish royal blue carpet squares and yellow walls.

  The door to Room 4 was ajar. ‘Hello! Come in!’ A cheery voice beckoned her inside.

  Poppy hadn’t met the lady doctor before. She was smiley, rosy-cheeked and make-up-free. She looked to Poppy like the type that would wear hand-knitted jumpers, take brisk walks and pack a flask of soup for the occasion.

  ‘Hi there, Mrs Cricket. I’m Dr Jessop, what can I do for you today?’ She cut to the chase. No matter how friendly, time was of the essence. There was a roomful of people out there, some snivelling into damp tissues and others with hacking coughs, all waiting to see their name up in lights.

  Poppy dumped her coat, scarf and bag on the floor as she sat down. ‘Oh, well, it’s probably nothing, but I’ve found a lump. Just here.’ It was Poppy’s turn to cut to the chase. She pointed through her shirt to the space just behind her bra strap.