by Clare Ashton
Poppy nodded, appreciating the sentiment. “What kind of media or style are you interested in?”
“Oh I don’t know. Something pretty for the wall. Something cheery. That’s what people want, isn’t it.”
At that moment, Poppy’s mother returned brandishing an armful of small boards and canvases. She swivelled round the first – a bleak watercolour of the castle ruin in winter. Crows with skeletal faces possessed the iron grey clouds, their black feathers bleeding into the skies and landscape.
“Oh,” Cerys said. “Um. Do you have a nice picture of the church, maybe?”
Poppy’s mother plucked out another watercolour – an uncompromising scene of gravestones in winter, one where it was impossible not to think of death.
Poppy stepped forward. “Perhaps you’d prefer something less stark?”
“Oh, hello sweetheart.” Her mother looked up, noticing her for the first time. She gave that motherly smile that was etched into Poppy’s psyche and which never failed to warm her inside. Her mother possessed a wide face, which looked content even when the feelings behind it were neutral, the same face so well reflected in the younger Pip.
“I think Cerys was after a cheerful scene, Mum.”
“That’s right.” Cerys joined in keenly. “It is a present for my sister’s birthday after all. And I hope she sees many more. So I’d rather not imply it might be her last.” She chortled, then padded from foot to foot, rather like a chicken about to flee.
Poppy’s mother nodded sagely and shuffled through the remaining set.
“Perhaps you’d like a bespoke piece? Mum does commissions, and they’re not very expensive for the smaller works.”
“Well I’m not sure. I was hoping to see something just right.”
“Do you like the watercolours?”
“I think so. But I like bright colours you see. More like your mam’s cardigan.” She pointed with envy at the vivid woolly. “Not grey and black.”
Poppy glanced at her mother, but Emma remained unmoved and unruffled by the comments.
“How about a spring scene?” Poppy suggested.
“Oh yes, a bit of sunshine would be nice.”
“Perhaps a picture of the castle with daffodils in the foreground?”
“Oh, da iawn. Great idea. Yes, sounds just the sort of thing. A lovely spring picture.”
“And maybe some lambs running around?”
“Beautiful.” Cerys clapped her hands together.
Emma had painted a similar scene for Pip, and Poppy was content her mother wouldn’t find it too onerous. Emma agreed a suitable, Poppy thought generous, price for Cerys and both were pleased with the proposition.
“Well right you are,” Cerys said. “Looking forward to seeing the picture. Might keep it myself.” She giggled and skipped away out of the shop, the door tinkling shut behind her.
“Is that ok, Mum?”
Emma was staring through the multifaceted window, already drifting. She was prone to distraction. People either attributed it to her creative temperament, or less kindly to the large quantity of weed she’d smoked in the seventies. Poppy found it a calming disposition for company and didn’t care about the cause.
“Hmm?” Her mother returned her attention to Poppy. “Oh yes. Nice to have some work. It’ll be the first this year.”
It had been a lean time all round, reflected in the large number of paintings at hand and the dust on the spice jars. Her mother flicked through the stack of pictures, stopping to consider some more closely, then cradled them in her arms.
“I never know why the crows or graveyards don’t sell,” she said. “They’re my favourite.”
“Then you should keep them for yourself.” Poppy smiled.
“Why does everyone want flowers and sunshine I wonder?”
“Because they make people happy, Mum.” Poppy almost laughed. “They want a beautiful view for their wall, to lift them on a dark day. It’s a source of uncomplicated happiness.”
“Hmm.” Her mother nodded. “The winter scenes make me happy though.”
“I like them both,” said Poppy. She smiled indulgently at her mother and readied herself for work upstairs.
“Are you happy, Poppy?” Her mother fixed her with a piercing stare. It was one of those unnerving moments when Emma came down from her clouds for an episode of insightful clarity that took people unawares. “I never stop to think. You’re always such a cheerful girl. But do you have a source of uncomplicated happiness?”
Had her mother asked just an hour ago, Poppy would have answered without a second thought. But now she hesitated and a knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. She looked back at her mother,
“Yes, Mum. Of course I’m happy.” She turned up the stairs clutching her tummy.
There was just that small matter of Rosalyn Thorn needling her happiness.
Chapter 4.
“Poppy?” Her mother had called from the shop door. “Come and meet Rosie.”
A man had stood outside, tall and well-built. He smiled with even white teeth. Poppy couldn’t tell how old he was; grownups all looked the same age – either like her parents, as this man did, or like Nain and Taid, her grandparents. He wore shoes like her father’s – shiny caramel laceups with tiny holes punched in the leather trim around the toes. She liked those ones. Her father kept his for best – weddings, funerals and Christmas – but this man wore them as if they were as everyday as wellies.
“Hello, Poppy,” he said. It was an authoritative, well-spoken voice, although at six years old she wouldn’t have given it those names. It was soothing and deep, but confident, as if he was used to commanding respect and it put Poppy at ease.
“My name’s David. This is my daughter, Rosalyn. We call her Rosie.”
He held the girl protectively around the shoulders, although she didn’t look like she needed such a guard.
Rosie had the same poise and assurance as her father. Blonde hair, almost white, was tied into two perfect plaits and an enviably straight fringe cut across her forehead. Pure blue eyes shone beneath extraordinary eyebrows that leant the girl a maturity beyond her years. She wore a dress Poppy recognised of purple and pink plaid with two narrow straps over her shoulders. It came from a shop Poppy’s mum always passed by. “I’m sorry my lovely. It’s a bit pricey in there,” she would say.
The girl’s legs were brown with an unseasonal tan, made all the more vivid by her pristine white socks and shiny shoes. Poppy’s legs had their natural spring pallor, knees all bony and shins grey with bruises beneath her faded Clothkits dress.
“Rosie’s starting at your school tomorrow, Poppy,” David said. He crouched down to her level. “I hope you’ll be friends.” He smiled, and Poppy hoped to please him with her friendship. “We won’t be able to collect Rosie from school, so your mother will look after her at the shop with you. I think you’ll have lots of fun.” He stood up. “Say hello, Rosie.”
The girl stepped forwards without hesitation and smiled. She’d already acquired her adult front teeth, unlike Poppy’s gappy grin.
“I like your hair,” Rosie said. She ran her fingers through Poppy’s locks and teased out a ringlet. It tickled Poppy’s scalp as she played. “I wish I had curly hair.”
Poppy wished for blonde hair. Hers had always been dark, even as a baby.
“Mum says my hair will always be as straight as dried spaghetti,” Rosalyn said. “But Gran says if I eat my bread crusts it’ll go curly. Do you eat your crusts?”
Poppy wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
“I don’t believe her,” Rosie said. “Dad says she talks bollocks about lots of things.”
“Rosie! I’m so sorry, Mrs Jenkins.” David leapt to pacify Poppy’s mother, although no such action was required by the look of amusement on Emma’s face.
Rosalyn was unperturbed. “Let’s go and play.”
Poppy grinned. “Up here,” she shouted and she stamped up the old wooden staircase that twisted and spiralled to the f
irst floor.
This was her favourite place, the store room. Sunshine beamed through the windows, the dusty panes softening the light. Large paper sacks of flour and oats were piled high beside crates of tinned tomatoes and bottles of juice. She took Rosalyn’s hand and led her to the windows. With a hop she landed on the ledge and was effortlessly joined by her new friend.
Rosalyn swung her feet back and forth, tapping the wall. “What’s through there?”
“An old kitchen,” Poppy replied. “Mum said the man who used to own the shop lived here too.”
“And up there?” Rosalyn pointed to a spiral iron staircase.
“It’s empty. Mum doesn’t let me play up there. Says the floorboards are rotten.”
“It’s a bit like the Hall,” Rosalyn said. “Half the rooms upstairs are empty. There are six bedrooms. Mum and Dad said I’m having the second biggest, but it’s at the end of the corridor and it’s creepy.”
It sounded grand, having rooms to spare. Poppy’s dad promised she would have a room of her own one day when he converted the loft. Until then, she slept in a small bed beside her parents’ double.
“What’s that?” Rosalyn pointed to a metal toolbox set aside from the stock.
“That’s my Dad’s. He’s a carpenter. He’s doing some work for Mum at the moment.” Alarming chisels, bradawls and saws with ferocious teeth protruded from the box. Poppy felt she should elaborate in case Rosalyn didn’t understand. “He makes things and cuts up wood.”
Rosalyn looked at her. “My dad’s a surgeon. He cuts up people.”
“Oh,” Poppy replied. It seemed so at odds with the reassuring presence of David Thorn. “Why?”
“To make them better,” Rosalyn said. “He cuts out bits that don’t work anymore.”
Poppy didn’t like the idea of losing parts that were broken. Things were always breaking. The toaster only toasted one side. The kettle’s switch had fallen off and boiling water was a hazardous activity that involved her mother jamming in a knife while telling Poppy to stand on the other side of the room.
Rosalyn seemed unperturbed. “Dad cut off a man’s toes once because they were going rotten.”
Poppy imagined a man’s toes brown like an apple, and the moment kindled a childhood fear of going mouldy. “Did it hurt? Do they cry?”
“Dad says he does it when they’re asleep.”
And a childhood fear of night-time surgery and waking with no limbs.
“Do you like Operation?” Rosalyn leaned down to her satchel and pulled out a pristine yellow box. “There’s no-one to play with at home so I haven’t opened it yet. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
Poppy shook her head and eyed the game enviously. She’d seen it advertised on ITV. Rosalyn took out the board with its rotund, pink and alarmed patient. She slotted in the plastic bones: spare ribs, funny bone, wish bone.
“There. I think it’s ready.” She frowned. “He looks silly.”
“Why?” Poppy couldn’t see anything amiss.
“He hasn’t got a willy.”
Poppy giggled. “Maybe it’s a girl.”
“Then she hasn’t got boobs. I know.” Rosalyn had a glint in her eye. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a biro.
“You can’t draw on it.” Poppy was shocked that she would deface her toy.
Rosalyn jutted her jaw and began her work – the addition of a large penis down to the patient’s knees. She crossed her arms daring Poppy to tell on her.
Poppy thought for a moment and at last decided, “You haven’t given him testicles.”
Rosalyn grinned and added the missing organs.
“I like you and your mum,” she said, satisfied with her new companion. “I think I’m going to like it here.”
The café came into focus before Poppy’s eyes. Gone were the sacks of staples for the shop and in their place were eight tables and looped-back chairs. Sunlight poured in through sparkling window panes, thanks to Nain’s weekly ministrations. The kitchen had been refitted and Derek from the local tech college clattered around its interior. Poppy’s father had renovated the second floor and ten more tables occupied the large room above.
Today, as was usual at this kind of hour, their only customer was the elderly Geraint Jones. He sat in the far corner huddled over a coffee and a buttered slice of Bara Brith. His head was down while he scribbled in a black notebook, his wild grey hair in a frenzy as he wrote.
“Bore da, Geraint,” Poppy said.
He gave the briefest of nods then turned back to his notebook, the contents of which were a mystery to all.
Poppy breathed in, her hands on her hips, and closed her eyes. She was back again among the sacks and jars and bottles, Rosalyn cross-legged on the floor. It had been years since she’d entertained Rosalyn, even in memory, within these walls, but now her presence was so strong Poppy felt she could have knelt down and played that game of Operation.
What was she doing in Wells? Why come back now? Dai was right, she hadn’t been home for any length of time. Nain would know; she knew everything within a sheep’s bleat of Wells.
Poppy recalled Rosalyn’s shocked face earlier and her stomach twisted in a nervous knot at the recollection. It had been as excruciating a meeting as Poppy could have imagined. But then Rosalyn had softened hadn’t she? Even asked if Poppy was free to further their conversation?
Being polite. She was just being polite. Well that was a change. How many other differences were there, Poppy wondered? Rosalyn’s looks, pretty as a child, worked all the more as an adult. Poppy blushed at how she’d admired Rosalyn before realising her identity – the shapely legs, the curve of her hips, the tantalising glimpse of her back. And Poppy blushed deeper as she remembered Rosalyn’s breasts.
She shivered to rid herself of the creeping feeling of embarrassment. Rosalyn would be gone soon enough. What had Dai said – a week or two? Then, no doubt, she’d be gone for another decade.
“Still no rise in customers then?”
Poppy was so unaccustomed to hearing Geraint speak she checked down the stairwell to locate the source of the voice. And the kitchen, then up the stairs. At finding the place empty, she eyed her taciturn customer.
“Geraint?” Poppy beamed. “Did you just say something?” She approached his table, filled with joy that her oldest customer had finally talked to her.”
“Still no busier?”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“They’re missing a treat.” He held up the slice of cake. “Finest Bara Brith I ever tasted.”
The distinctive and sticky fruit loaf made with a generous dose of tea was one of Nain’s specialities.
“They’ll come eventually. Things this good don’t go unnoticed.”
“I hope so, Geraint.” Poppy could have kissed the funny little man for cheering her day and providing a welcome distraction.
With renewed vigour she marched into the kitchen to make lunch and additional cakes for the afterschool rush. Poppy cooked, waited tables, chatted and laughed until six o’clock, and she could have sworn she pictured Rosalyn Thorn’s beautiful face only another ten times. But of course, the day wasn’t over.
Chapter 5.
Poppy wanted breasts. By the time they were ten years old, Rosalyn was already wearing a B cup while Poppy remained a child.
“Oeufs sur le plat,” Rosalyn told her. “That’s how the French describe it.”
Poppy smoothed her fingers over her chest. Eggs on a plate.
They walked home from school, across the stone bridge and into the square, the castle mound and ruin opposite casting long shadows. A sharp left took them down to the river path, the way home for both. Here, beside the old bridge, was the most picturesque part of the river, a large pool deep enough for a child to swim and cascades of frothing water above.
It was popular that day. The summer sun baked the boulders on the banks and set the shimmering waters alight. Children in swimsuits, shorts and knickers splashed and screamed.
&
nbsp; Dai Edwards, the large boy from the village shop, waved to Poppy. “Come and play.”
Poppy waved back with a grin, then turned to Rosalyn. “You coming in?”
Rosie shook her head. “I haven’t got a costume.”
Poppy was about to suggest stripping off to her undies when she realised it was no longer appropriate for Rosie. Fine for prepubescent Poppy, another matter for the tall Rosalyn whose body was beginning to curve.
Unable to resist, Poppy dropped her satchel on the ground and began to undress. Two girls sitting on a boulder kept peeping towards them. Poppy didn’t listen at first to their conversation but their Welsh filtered through – why does she play with that English pig? That was the politest translation Poppy could muster.
“Are you off home?” Poppy said loudly. “Is it ok to walk home by yourself? Does your dad let you?”
Rosalyn caught her eye and smiled. “I do understand that much Welsh.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry. I know the Welshies don’t like me.”
Poppy frowned, disturbed by the accusation. It made her uncomfortable that people talked about Rosie that way, but she didn’t like Rosie using “Welshies” either.
“I don’t know why they say that,” Poppy said. “Ignore them.”
“Dad says it’s because we bought the big house and they think someone Welsh should have it.”
“Why?”
Rosie shrugged.
“But it’s not your fault you live there. You didn’t choose it.”
Rosie shrugged again. “It’s ok. You and your mum are nice to me, and you’re the ones that count. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She flipped her satchel strap over her shoulder and walked away.
The water was cold and made Poppy dance in the shallows. She giggled but then screamed as a rock plunged into the pool showering her with chilling droplets.
“You …” She shot a look at Dai, who was laughing from the top of the cascades.
“Nearly made you swear Poppy Jenkins.”
She dipped her hands into the water, cupping a great scoop, and thrust it up. The squeal, scream and deep groan all at once of Dai’s voice, which teetered on the edge of manhood, was satisfying revenge.