Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

  Poppy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – at Dai’s heart-felt defence or Rosalyn’s shock.

  “But…does everyone know?” Rosalyn stuttered.

  “Of course.” Dai’s voice pitched up an octave. “Why would she hide it? No-one dislikes Poppy for being a lesbian. In fact, I won’t hear a bad word said about any lesbian.”

  “Really?” Rosalyn derided. She seemed to be recovering.

  “Not in my village.” Dai lifted his chin in pride.

  “Not everyone’s as angelic as Poppy you know.” Rosalyn’s confidence and ironic tone were back in force. “Evil lesbians exist too.”

  Poppy slumped behind the aisle, head in hands. Rosalyn’s reaction couldn’t be much worse.

  “Don’t be daft,” Dai said, his tone sharper. “Of course there aren’t evil lesbians.”

  “I’m just saying some lesbians can be as vile as some heterosexuals, and defending every lesbian is nonsense.”

  “And I’m just saying there’s nothing inherently evil about lesbians, so why would there be evil ones. There may be bad people who also happen to be lesbians.”

  “So what exactly is your problem with my term?” Rosalyn snapped.

  Dai didn’t waver. “You can say an evil person is also a lesbian, but the other way round is derogatory isn’t it. It implies there’s something intrinsically wrong with being a lesbian.”

  Poppy’s heart swelled with pride at Dai’s defence of her sexuality and, in the process, his own intellect as a country boy. But Rosalyn’s reaction couldn’t be more heart-breaking.

  “I think you’re splitting hairs,” Rosalyn retorted.

  “And I think you have a deep-seated bigotry. It’s like when blokes use ‘stupid woman’. They’re not only calling a woman stupid. They’re using bigotry against her gender in the term too.”

  “And when did you become so enlightened, Dai Edwards?” Rosalyn spoke with cutting vitriol.

  Dai hesitated, then said, “When I became best friends with Poppy Jenkins.”

  Ouch. Even Poppy felt that one.

  Rosalyn’s face was ashen. Her lips had been on the cusp of issuing another barbed comment, but it had been wrenched away by Dai’s reminder of her sixth form treatment of Poppy.

  “Well played, Dai,” Rosalyn murmured. “Well played.”

  She reached into her pocket and left two pound coins on the counter. “Keep the change.” And she tucked a loaf of bread under her arm.

  Poppy ducked behind the aisle and held her breath. Rosalyn blasted past, the air gusting Poppy’s long hair. The bell on the door clanged as Rosalyn wrenched it open and again when it slammed shut.

  And she was gone.

  Chapter 23.

  When Dai dipped into the store room, Poppy eased open the shop door and crept outside. She wandered towards the square, her limbs clumsy and numb. Her heart felt like it would collapse all over again with grief.

  “What are you doing?”

  Poppy swallowed sharply. The sixth form Christmas party. Who’d said that? Was it her own voice?

  “What are you doing?” The memory and voice impinged again.

  It was dark by the dance floor of the hotel bar. The red swirling carpet was sticky with beer under foot and cheap disco lights leant the room a green glow. Poppy was drunk, very drunk. Her head spun and she pulled on Rosalyn’s shirt as she stumbled. Poppy could see her bra where the button ripped away, her pale breast perfect inside. Poppy stared. Had she touched?

  Poppy covered her mouth and gasped into her fingers with great panicking breaths. What had she done?

  The memory was clearer now. They were in a dark corner behind the speakers of the DJ’s set. Angels reverberated through the room. Between the speakers, she could see couples swaying on the dance floor, clumsily snogging, groping and blushing. Could anyone see them?

  Her lips were on Rosalyn’s. Just for a moment they’d brushed together. How could she have overlooked that? Had she been saying goodbye – a farewell kiss before the holidays? They kissed on the cheek every day without thinking and surely Poppy had slipped in her drunken stupor.

  Poppy closed her eyes trying to recall. She pictured her lips on Rosalyn’s again, but she couldn’t move the memory forward. Was it just that moment? Please say she was kissing Rosalyn goodbye.

  Cold dread gripped inside and Poppy clutched her stomach.

  “What are you doing?”

  Poppy knew the words and crumpled with their implication. It must have been Rosalyn speaking. She looked angry and stood tall as Poppy clutched her arms and snatched at her shirt. But Poppy laughed in response. Rosalyn thrust her to the floor and with one last agonised glance back disappeared into the darkness.

  “Oh god.”

  Poppy stumbled to a bench in the square. She slumped onto the seat and buried her head in her hands, overwhelmed by the memory.

  She concentrated on breathing. A long draw in and cool air whistled between her fingers. Out, and moist breath flowed in her hands. She closed her eyes and thought of nothing but the sensation, in and out, until her thoughts were still.

  The memory had been buried deeper than most. It was the Christmas party before Rosalyn left for her ski trip and the last time they were friends. Poppy had hidden the moment along with all of that Christmas, wrapped up in a box to protect her from the pain. She’d opened it a little, and peeked inside, but she hadn’t been prepared for that night to burst out.

  In and out, she breathed again.

  Whenever that memory had broken the surface of consciousness, she’d always assumed Rosalyn abhorred her drunken state and looked at Poppy pawing for support with disdain. But there must have been more. Perhaps that brushing of the lips had been a forceful kiss. Perhaps Poppy had tried again.

  Poppy slumped lower with realisation. This was it. This must be why she’d been discarded – a drunken and clumsy surfacing of her sexuality. And now Rosalyn knew it wasn’t an experiment, it had been a true reflection of Poppy’s disposition.

  Poppy’s mind raced. She tried to reason that the grown Rosalyn was a bright, liberal woman, if anything someone who’d defend gay rights. But Poppy’s heart ached and her stomach turned with fear. And the thought of Rosalyn walking out of her life again overpowered her.

  She covered her face, ready for despair to engulf her, when a comforting arm wrapped around her. An always familiar and welcome figure squeezed beside her.

  “Oh, Mum,” Poppy gasped.

  Emma gazed at her with love and sympathy and held her tight.

  “I didn’t even talk to her. Dai let it out. I heard them.”

  Her mother squeezed her tighter. “And what did she say?”

  “Nothing. She didn’t have to. Her face said it all. She couldn’t have been more horrified.”

  Emma squeezed her in a soft embrace and rocked her gently. “It was probably a surprise. I’m sure she’ll settle when you meet again. Just talk to her. She’ll see you for the lovely woman you are and always have been.”

  Although her mother meant to reassure her, Poppy’s spirits sank deeper. “I don’t think she will. You should have seen her.” Rosalyn’s sickened, pale face wasn’t a reaction that would be mollified by a friendly chat.

  “Who knows what Rosalyn’s thinking or why she reacted that way. But that’s why you need to talk to her.”

  Poppy remained silent. A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach at the memory of the party. She was ashamed of drunkenly lunging at Rosalyn and didn’t want to admit the clumsy fit of passion to her mother.

  Emma stroked her hair. “Go home,” she murmured. “I’ll shut the shop. People can pay upstairs if they’re desperate.”

  Poppy sat up and shook her head. “No, I’m not leaving you in the lurch, Mum.” She wiped her tears away and sniffed. “It’s busy today.”

  “Then go home early. You get Pip from school and I’ll close up.”

  Poppy nodded. She looked at her mother’s beautiful wide face, with its lines from years of anxi
ety, laughter, creation and love. Her expression spoke of all-consuming concern for Poppy and steadfast support.

  Poppy smiled at her mother with tearful gratitude. She lifted her hand to Emma’s soft cheek, the way she’d cradled it when small enough to sit on her knee.

  “Thank you Mum,” she said. “Thank you for always being there.”

  Pip was mercifully quiet on the way home and seemed content to dwell inside her own head. For once, Poppy was happy to leave her there, rather than tease out her troubles. But she held her sister’s hand, as much for her own comfort as Pip’s.

  When they arrived home, however, Nain was far from peaceful.

  “Have you seen The Shropshire Express?” She brandished the weekly newspaper aloft, while remaining spread on the sofa. “She’s been at it again. Mark my words.”

  Poppy winced, in no mood for one of Nain’s tirades. She looked to her father, but he rolled his eyes and hid behind the Racing Post.

  Poppy slumped her shoulders, anticipating exhausting exasperation. “What’s that, Nain?”

  “Look.” Nain pointed her translucent finger to a headline. “Fraud! Two council officers suspended.”

  Poppy frowned to concentrate on the article and attempted to follow Nain’s train of thought. “Is it anyone we know?”

  Nain’s pudgy finger traced down to a list of names.

  “Gareth Jones?” Poppy raised her weary eyebrows. “That could be any of three hundred people we know.”

  Nain raised her finger. “It isn’t. It’s that boy in your year. Ginger-haired lad with so many freckles it was easier to count the white spaces in between.”

  Poppy remembered. He’d been a surly boy at school who kept his distance even when she’d been cordial.

  “And him?” Nain’s finger jabbed into the paper again.

  “Glyn Owen?” Again, there were a few of those.

  “That’s another boy in your year.”

  “Which one?”

  “Glyn Owen Buwch, not Glyn Owen Coch”

  “Dairy farmer’s boy,” Poppy said with recognition. Poor lad. Cow Glyn Owen as opposed to Red Glyn Owen from the post office.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Oh,” Poppy said. She couldn’t recall much about him. He was another boy who’d kept to himself. Perhaps he’d hung around with Gareth Jones, she couldn’t remember.

  “What have they been accused of?” Poppy asked.

  “Taking back-handers.” Nain tutted. “Likely tale.”

  “Do you think they’re innocent?”

  “Of course.” Nain’s voice shrieked up a pitch. “Don’t you remember them? Voices like angels when they were young? Singing in the choir at church?”

  Poppy shook her head.

  “Well why would you remember? You hardly ever made a service. Heathens the lot of you.” She aimed the accusation at the whole room, and Iwan raised his paper a notch. “Good as gold those two. I remember the boys from when I used to clean the church. They always asked if I needed help after the service.”

  “You sure they weren’t trying to nick money from the collection?” Pip grinned and Poppy’s lips twitched in amusement.

  “Don’t you tar them with the same brush Philippa Jenkins. Just because that’s the kind of sinful racket you’d think of.”

  “So what’s happened?” Poppy enquired more to defend Pip than out of interest.

  “Well listen to this.” Nain squinted into her bifocals. “The officers have been suspended while a complaint is investigated. A member of the public raised concern that a disproportionate number of planning applications have been accepted and fast-tracked in Welshpool, while villages and smaller towns nearby have been mired in multiple applications and assessments.”

  “And have they found evidence?” Poppy shrugged, wondering what specifically had irked her grandmother.

  Nain’s gaze pierced Poppy like dumb prey. “‘A member of the public’? Two boys from your class?” Her stare was unwavering. “Now who do we know who likes stirring up trouble?”

  “Rosalyn,” Pip breathed with glee.

  Poppy could feel her colour drain away. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Oh, Nain. That’s quite a leap.”

  “It’s her I tell you.”

  “Is she going to burn something?” Pip was almost leaping up and down.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. If those two are released, I’d bet the church fund on her exacting retribution.”

  Poppy slumped onto a wooden footstool beside her father, while Pip bounced up and down and Nain expounded her theory. This was the last thing Poppy needed this evening.

  Her father’s hand squeezed her shoulder.

  “Hi, Dad,” she whispered and she gave him a fatigued look.

  “Come with me, cariad.” He smiled.

  They quietly left their seats and Poppy followed him to the kitchen. Iwan reached into his tool box by the door and drew out a short piece of beech wood, triangular in cross section. He pinched the ends between his fingers and presented a smooth face to Poppy.

  “A little bird told me someone had her first booking today.”

  He rolled the piece of wood so letters appeared on the revealed facet.

  Poppy’s mood brightened immediately. “A reserved sign”. She grinned.

  He handed the bevelled wood to her, still dusty from its final smoothing with flour paper.

  She turned it in her hands, over and over, stroking along the curling grooves of the letters. He’d gouged the letters by hand and the flecked and smooth finish of the beech wood made the object appealing in itself.

  “Oh, Dad.” Poppy looked at her father, a tear in her eye. “I love it.” And she clasped it to her heart.

  “Well done, cariad.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad it’s cheered you a little.”

  Chapter 24.

  Poppy watched sheets of rain glistening in the morning light. The sun and clouds had been battling beyond her bedroom porthole since she’d stirred. She had no intention of moving and watched sparkling rivulets of water explore down the pane.

  She’d been half-conscious of Pip and Nain’s rumblings when leaving for school and Iwan’s deeper voice chatting to Emma. Now it would be just her mother downstairs, the shop and café shut for the day.

  Poppy was glad she’d snuggled up in her favourite pyjamas. The faithful set of red-checked brushed cottons were the comfort she needed, and she clasped the duvet under her chin for extra warmth.

  She was drifting off again, when there was a quiet knock at the door and her mother’s head peeped round. “You have a visitor,” she said, an unsure look on her face.

  Poppy rubbed her eyes and sat up.

  “It’s all right Emma. I’ll come back another time.” Rosalyn’s voice came from downstairs.

  Her mother gave Poppy a quizzical look to relay the question.

  Warm and docile from snoozing in her bed, Poppy gave a sleepy nod.

  “Let her up. She’ll have to find me as I am.” She was tired of worrying about Rosalyn’s opinions and this morning Poppy was too exhausted to fret.

  Emma disappeared and a few moments later Rosalyn came to the door. She was soaking wet, her trench coat blotched dark with rain and her blonde hair trailing in honeyed ribbons. Her makeup ran and, of the two, Poppy thought she could give the usually well-turned-out woman a run for her money this morning.

  “You’re a mess.” Poppy smiled.

  Rosalyn didn’t speak. Her expression was full of such contradictory feelings Poppy had small chance of discerning her mood.

  With little to go on, Poppy threw caution to the wind, and her feet out of bed, and rummaged through the chest of drawers.

  “Here.” She handed Rosalyn a towel.

  She took the coat from Rosalyn’s shoulders and hung it to dry on the door. Rosalyn seemed to fail to comprehend the purpose of the towel and, with a smile, Poppy eased it from her cool fingers.

  “You’ll catch a chill, or a horrible bug from P
ip, if we don’t get you dry.”

  Poppy wrapped the fluffy towel around the back of Rosalyn’s head and squeezed her damp locks. Her attention hovered between her work and Rosalyn’s wide-eyed look of hurt and confusion.

  “There,” Poppy whispered. “Come and sit down.” She led Rosalyn by the hand. “I’m afraid the bed is still the only seating.”

  They perched on the edge and Poppy enveloped them in the duvet. She pinched it around her and encouraged Rosalyn to do the same.

  Rosalyn stared through the window, her face still troubled. “I’m sorry. I don’t have your phone number, otherwise I would have called ahead.”

  Poppy shrugged, glad she’d been spared the time to agonise.

  Rosalyn opened her mouth, as if to speak again, but no words came out. Her breathing quickened, but no voice made itself heard.

  Poppy’s heart thumped in anticipation, and she willed her to speak. Rosalyn opened her mouth once again, but it was Poppy who blurted. “I’m gay.”

  “Dai told me. He wasn’t gossiping. It just came up.” Rosalyn’s words tumbled out.

  “I know. Dai wouldn’t gossip like that.” And she waited for Rosalyn to respond.

  They were silent, but Poppy remained calm. Being gay was nothing she could hide and there was nothing of which she was ashamed. She was ready to answer anything Rosalyn needed to know.

  “How long…?” Rosalyn started. Her face was knotted with tension and concern. “When did you come out?”

  “University. As soon as I had a girlfriend. Actually I wasn’t sure I was a lesbian until that moment. But I was then.”

  “And when did you tell people at home?”

  “Oh, straight away.”

  “And they’ve been all right?” Rosalyn was a mix of incredulity and apprehension.

  “Yes. A few surprised looks, I’ll give you that. But I’ve had an easy time of it.”

  “People in the village? People like Dai were accepting straight away?”

  “Dai laughed when I told him. He said it was no surprise at all. He thought I’d been saving myself for something out of the ordinary.”

  “And your Mum and Dad?”

  “Didn’t need to tell them.” Poppy smiled. She stared through the window, recalling the moment. “I was home after the first term at university, and I was babbling about everything at the kitchen table – the course, my digs, friends. Mum suddenly asked, ‘When are you going to bring her home?’ I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. She and Dad were grinning with their arms around each other. Then Dad said, ‘Your girlfriend, bach. You’re suffering from mentionitis about someone in particular. I can tell you’re smitten. Why don’t you bring her home for Christmas?’”