by Clare Ashton
Perhaps she wasn’t a good kisser.
She practised on an apple. It was recommended by another girl, but the unyielding flesh and waxy green skin wasn’t compelling. Poppy opened her lips around the firm fruit, and there they stayed, splayed on the cool peel and far from impassioned. The temptation to eat the apple proved too much and she crunched into it, which proved satisfactory at least.
Practice on her own forearm had the benefit of greater verisimilitude but it was no more enlightening, and the resulting red patches caused her mother alarm and an embarrassing line of questioning. And after being whisked to the doctors with the suspicion of catching ring worm, Poppy also abandoned this line of betterment.
So she asked Rosalyn. Poppy had lost count of her friend’s beaus and she imagined Rosalyn a seasoned kisser by now. Currently she was seeing a surgeon’s son from an independent school in Shrewsbury. As well as the cachet of private school and the exoticism of another town, he also had the prestige of being three years older. That maturity must have been a great advantage in Rosalyn’s tutelage because she was magnificent.
Kissing Rosalyn was nothing like the boys. She was soft, lovely. As soon as the delicious sensation of Rosalyn touching her lips began, Poppy seemed to float. She felt light and tingled all the way to her fingertips. She was too young for her body or mind to comprehend all the sensations, but that they were superior was beyond doubt.
Poppy came to the conclusion that kissing must be better with someone you loved, because she did love her friend so very much. Poppy decided she would wait until she found a boy she loved just as well. And she did wait, and wait, and wait, until a woman at university persuaded her to stop.
Poppy blushed and threw back the duvet. Her skin, which had perspired more than a little, chilled in the air. She pressed her hands to her face.
“Oh god. I’d forgotten that.” Or rather, she’d not allowed herself to remember.
What if Rosalyn remembered too? She blushed at the prospect. There were a thousand things Rosalyn knew about her – tiny habits, odd events, embarrassing belongings – nothing in isolation, and normal in the awkwardness of childhood, but when she considered it was knowledge of the remote and sophisticated Rosalyn Thorn, it was agonising.
“Why is she back?” Poppy groaned. And back here, up the lane. Rosalyn Thorn was sleeping a five-minute walk away. Perhaps she was lying in bed at this very moment remembering a mortifying kiss with Poppy.
Poppy jumped out of bed and shivered. She was still wearing yesterday’s dress, now crumpled and creased. By the time she’d showered and dressed in fresh clothes her mother and father had left and Nain and Pip’s preparations for school were intensifying.
The front door to the barn was ajar and the sound of Nain and Pip bickering outside greeted her.
“Morning you two.” Poppy grinned.
“Bore da, cariad,” Nain said without looking up. She and Pip stood either side of the Morris Minor, wrestling with rope, the roof rack and a harp. The stringed beast of an instrument slipped and slid while Pip and Nain attempted to strap it into submission with a hundred granny knots.
“I’ve forgotten my music!” Pip dropped her end of the rope and galloped into the house.
“Pip!” Nain bellowed.
“I’ve got it.” Poppy leapt around the car to secure Pip’s side of the instrument.
“Dew dew,” muttered Nain, shaking her head. Poppy knew what was coming next. It happened every Thursday on Poppy’s day off, when Pip had her music lesson and Nain braved the trip to school with the cumbersome instrument.
“Now, you won’t hear me say a word against Welsh culture,” Nain started, “but why in God’s name do we have a harp as our national instrument? Couldn’t have something practical like a recorder, could we? Oh no.”
Poppy smiled in response.
“Why not an instrument with four or six strings, tell me that? No, we choose the one with forty of the wretched things.” Nain continued her tussle with the rope. “And another thing. Why does Miss Pip, who doesn’t show the blindest bit of interest in our heritage, choose this to show her proud Welsh lineage? Heh? Answer me that.”
Poppy laughed. “Good luck trying to fathom Pip’s reasoning. And in some ways I hope her peculiar and special thought processes remain a wonderful mystery.” She smiled indulgently at her nain.
“Pah.” Nain waved her hand. “Peculiar and special would be right.”
The sound of sheets of paper being thrust into the air wafted down from the open attic window. Through the glass, white leaves could be seen fluttering in Pip’s room.
“What are you doing, Pip? We’ll be late,” Nain bellowed.
“I’ll be there now in a minute,” Pip’s muffled voice replied.
“Now in a minute.” Nain rolled her eyes. “God save us.”
Poppy tugged on the last of a series of just-to-be-sure knots. “There. Done this side.”
Nain stepped back and brushed her hands together. “Heaven knows how long it’ll take to untie at the other end. But anyway,” she sighed. “So what about you? Where are you off to today?”
Poppy breathed in, “I don’t know. I’d only planned as far as a lie-in.”
“And our squabbling’s put paid to that.” Nain rolled her eyes.
“No, I was awake anyway. Perhaps I’ll find a book, take a stroll and see where the day takes me.” She happened to look over Nain’s shoulder, up the lane towards the main road. A small wood of Lebanese cedars, oaks and towering beech trees protected Rhiw Hall from prying eyes. The top of the Hall’s slate roof peeped above the tree tops.
“Oh no. You’re not thinking of visiting Rosalyn.”
“No. Of course not. Don’t be silly.” Poppy blushed. That was right. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t thinking of seeing Rosalyn. Was she?
“You don’t want to rake up the past with that girl,” Nain muttered.
“No, I don’t,” Poppy agreed.
But starting something new might be nice.
“No. No!”
Where had that come from? But the image of Rosalyn’s beautiful physique was uppermost in her mind. Those long legs, the tantalising body, shapely breasts. Oh to see the view under that T shirt again.
“No, definitely not. Nothing like that.”
Nain eyed her unusually voluble granddaughter from beneath her brow, hand placed firmly on hip.
“I know it’s a long time since you’ve had a girlfriend, but Poppy,” Nain shook her head, “I don’t think there’s a more straight, less suitable and unobtainable girl in the whole of Wales.”
“Nain,” Poppy said, affronted. “How can you suggest I’m interested in Rosalyn Thorn in that way?”
Nain’s eyebrow shot skywards. “It’s not only a man’s libido that leads astray. The urges between a woman’s legs have made fools of many.”
Oh god. Poppy blushed, both nauseous and embarrassed. “Nain. It’s nothing like that. She mentioned meeting up again before she left. That’s why I was, perhaps, considering it. Maybe.”
“Now when was this, Poppy Jenkins? You hadn’t said anything about planning to meet Rosalyn again.” Nain stuck both hands on her hips, indicative of a serious escalation in vexation.
“I only saw Rosalyn yesterday on the way to school, just that once, and she only mentioned it in passing. That is, perhaps meeting again before she leaves. And I don’t know when that is. Or why she’s here in the first place. And I’m surprised she’s here at all. So I thought, maybe, perhaps, I was thinking, or I was on the verge of having it in my thoughts, that I should catch her before she leaves.”
“Why?”
Now, that was a very good question.
“Because…” Poppy breathed in. If Rosalyn Thorn treated her like a dignified human being, Poppy could let the flood of childhood memories wash over her whenever the tide turned them. It would be a relief not to shore up the memories in a dark corner of her mind, defending her soul and happiness against them. Poppy smiled, almost convinced
. “To lay the past to rest.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, I think that’s the best I could hope for.” Poppy nodded solemnly
“Sounds like complete rot to me.” Nain tutted. She fiddled with the rope’s end and gave it a tug. “Sometimes things should be left buried. No point digging up an old carcass just to find it’s a putrid, rotten mess. Leave it be, Poppy bach. You’re happy. It’s a long time ago. If she ever meant to apologise she would have done it years ago. Now leave that body to rest in the ground and let the flowers grow on top.”
Poppy sighed. “You’re probably right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Nain leaned forward and squeezed Poppy’s hand. “You’re a good girl. Don’t let unkind folk take the shine from your life.”
“Got them!” Pip exploded from the house, sheets of music held aloft.
“And about time. Get in.” Nain shouted. “Sorry, Poppy. We’re horribly late.”
Pip leapt into the passenger seat and Nain flumped into the driver’s side. The engine groaned into something much less than a roar and the exhaust pipe rattled out a black cough. The old Morris Minor crawled up the stony lane, harp twanging in protest from the roof.
“Don’t go anywhere near the Hall!” Nain yelled and she waved from the window.
“I won’t!” Poppy gave them a vigorous wave and watched the old car lurch up to the brow of the hill then disappear behind the hedge along the road to Wells.
Poppy could see the track to the Hall from where she stood. It began on the opposite side of the main road.
She laughed. Nain was right. What was she thinking? Going to see Rosalyn? It was a truly awful idea. After all the years of expelling her from every memory and corner of her mind.
Rosalyn didn’t really want to meet her again. It was just a pleasantry that tripped off the tongue of a woman like that.
Silly. Poppy was being very silly. A beautiful, sophisticated woman, with a voice of honey and a body to dream about. It really was not a good idea entertaining any thought whatsoever about getting reacquainted with Rosalyn Thorn.
So why was Poppy walking towards the Hall?
Chapter 10.
Poppy’s tummy somersaulted as she crossed the main road. She hadn’t walked this way for years and, judging by the grassy lane opposite, few had driven the route.
The Hall’s main entrance stood further along the road – a grand gate and tree-lined avenue up to the gravelled turning circle of the Regency Hall. But Poppy had always taken this service route as a child, scampering up to the Hall to see if Rosalyn wanted to play.
The track passed old farm-worker cottages – a terrace of sweet brick houses no longer inhabited. The cottages faced a large block of stables, barns and hay lofts that towered almost as high as the Hall itself. Along the walls lay rusting ploughs that sprouted bristles of long dry grass. Huge double doors, large enough to accommodate a carriage or a modern tractor, peeled with grey paint and the timbers hung rotten at the ground like stubby old teeth.
The outbuildings had been a favourite playground for Poppy and Rosalyn, with treasure troves of ancient beer bottles, animal skulls and farm paraphernalia, enough to re-enact everything from Charlotte’s Web to Treasure Island.
Poppy smiled. She could picture every corner inside those stables. She doubted anything had changed since their feet scuffed through the dust and straw.
She turned the corner and hesitated. The lane ran between a row of hawthorn bushes and the long wall of the outbuildings, then beyond stood the white manor house in a circle of well-tended lawn. She could approach the Hall unnoticed this way. Just two windows in the upper floor overlooked the back lane, the lower floors obscured by the stretching arms of a cedar. The front entrance and its ornate iron veranda, blooming with rambling white roses, was situated to the right. Poppy wandered closer and peeped along its extent. The white metal benches were vacant and all seemed quiet. Perhaps no-one was home.
Poppy stopped to gather herself, doubt gnawing in her belly. She was here now. Even if the house was empty the occupants could return any moment. What was she going to say?
She stared at the ground. Her mind was blank, completely blank.
She tried to prepare a greeting, warm introduction and inquiries after the family’s health, but after much straining she managed a practice, “Hi.”
She held her breath. Her mind clung to its complete blankness.
“Oh god,” she groaned. Her heart was pounding and her face flushed. If she wrung her hands any tighter her fingers might break.
“Relax.”
Rosalyn had mentioned seeing her again, and Poppy was merely following it up in a spare hour. Poppy was a busy woman with the café and her share of minding Pip, so it was sensible to enquire when Rosalyn might be available. There. That was reasonable.
She put on a smile, usually an effortless expression for Poppy, but her countenance felt tight today. “I can do this,” she said through her teeth. But her feet wouldn’t move.
Poppy clenched her fists, screwed up her eyes and growled. “This is stupid. I’m a grown woman. I’m going to walk to the house, ring the bell and say ‘good morning’. What could be simpler than that?”
Poppy breathed out and opened her eyes, more relaxed. Her foot allowed her to take a step forward and she beamed her charming smile. “Oh thank god.”
But after another pace, a woman burst from the house. Poppy was still a distance away but she recognised Rosalyn’s mother immediately.
Poppy froze and her heart stuttered with palpitations at the sight of a grim-faced Lillian Thorn. She looked as stony as the last time Poppy had visited at sixteen years old. Now obviously older, but still tall, beautiful and proud, it was clear where Rosalyn inherited her stature and cold manner.
Poppy darted behind a hawthorn bush, her heart pounding.
As she hid, it was impossible not to think of the visit all those years ago. She remembered Lillian Thorn at the imposing front door, holding it ajar as if to prevent Poppy from entering.
“What do you want, Poppy Jenkins?” she’d snapped.
Poppy had taken a step back, shocked at her vehemence. “I wanted to see Rosalyn. Is she here? Is she ok?”
It was New Year’s Eve and Rosalyn had been away for a Christmas skiing holiday. Poppy had pined for her every day, unused to spending the entire break apart. She’d known the exact minute the Thorns came home. She’d seen the lights of the top floor blink on above the trees. That had been two days ago.
“As I told you on the phone, Rosalyn can’t see you.”
“Is she ill?”
Lillian Thorn drew in her breath, a slow action that communicated her irritation as effectively as her vitriolic tone.
“This is getting awkward. Just leave her alone, Poppy. She doesn’t want to see you.”
“What? Why?”
“Perhaps she’s outgrown your little friendship. And about time too, for both of you. Now please leave.”
“I don’t understand.” Poppy felt the blood drain from her face. Her head swirled and she grabbed for the pillar of the veranda. “What’s happened?”
“Look, if Rosalyn can’t be bothered to explain, you can’t expect me to enlighten you.”
Poppy shivered in the winter chill and reeled with the even colder rejection. “But I haven’t a clue what’s going on.”
Lillian hesitated a moment, her shoulders relaxing. Would she relent and let Poppy in? Perhaps allow her to listen to what Rosalyn said?
“Poppy, just go. She’s had enough of you.” And Lillian Thorn closed the door.
A tear ran down Poppy’s face, then and now. She had run all the way home, the cold air raw in her chest. She’d sprinted to her room and hidden beneath the duvet, the anxiety of the last two days released in unstoppable tears.
The next days were filled with heartache as Poppy withdrew from her family. Then heartbreak turned to dread as she waited for the school term. The first day back, it was as if Poppy didn’t
exist.
Rosalyn was thick as thieves with a new girl and didn’t look at Poppy. Whenever Poppy ventured into the sixth form common room, the other students would stare. Was Rosalyn here too? What would she say? Would she give Poppy one of those withering looks? Why weren’t they best friends anymore?
The girls sniggered and Poppy could hear them whispering. Rosalyn had a holiday fling they said – a handsome college student and football player who worked at the bar. His eyes had locked with Rosalyn’s as soon as she walked through the hotel door, and they’d fucked the whole ten days. Rosalyn was a woman now.
Was that the difference? It wasn’t that Rosalyn simply ignored Poppy. She had an air about her – an arrogance Poppy hadn’t noticed before. Rosalyn didn’t have time for anyone beyond the new girl, the daughter of the local MP who’d latched onto Rosalyn with glee, and the new friend regarded Poppy with a gloating stare.
Poppy and Rosalyn only spoke one more time. It was after school one evening when Poppy rushed back to fetch her English text. She flung open the common room door, expecting the room to be empty, and stopped dead when she saw Rosalyn working at a desk.
Rosalyn looked as shocked as Poppy and stood. For a moment Poppy saw the old Rosalyn, her eyes kind, almost admiring, but her features froze and a sneer curled at her mouth. She sat down and returned to her essay without a word.
Poppy stared at her. She couldn’t move. Her cherished playmate and lifetime of friendship seemed a world away.
“What was it?” Poppy asked, her voice cracking. “What did I do wrong?”
Rosalyn lifted her gaze. Her clenched teeth knotted her cheeks, but she didn’t answer.
“Why don’t you want to be friends with me anymore?”
Rosalyn broke into a laugh that jeered. “Why don’t you want to play with me anymore?” she mocked in a child’s whine.
“Why are you like this?”
“I’ve had enough,” Rosalyn snarled and she threw down her pen. “I’m sick of school, and eisteddfods and local shows. I’m sick of idiots treating me like a child when they don’t have two brain cells to rub together. Don’t you people realise there’s more to life than this shitty village and just because I don’t fit in here doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me – quite the contrary. There’s an amazing world out there, Poppy, full of intelligent people willing to try something new. They’re beautiful, exciting people with their sights set far beyond Mid-Wales.” She stared at Poppy. “So why the fuck would I spend another second with you?”