Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

  Poppy blushed at the compliment and her anger relented.

  “I’ve enjoyed your company so much,” Rosalyn murmured. “Reliving memories I haven’t dared enjoy for years. Revisiting favourite places like Moel Gwyrdd and loving them again. Seeing your wonderful creation of the café and discovering your talent for food. Watching the way you nurture your sister and family and realising all over again what a wonderful human being you are. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege getting to know the incredible woman that is Poppy Jenkins again. And it’s possible, after all these years,” Rosalyn’s breath caught and she said, “I’m still in love with you.”

  A wave of sorrow and anger flooded through Poppy. She threw her hands in the air with frustration. “How? How can you say that? How can you be in love with someone when you abhor their life? How can you love someone when you have no respect for their friends, the culture and the places they love?”

  “Please don’t doubt it,” Rosalyn implored. “From the moment I saw you by the shop, you’ve been in my thoughts every second of the day. And before that, not a week went by when something wouldn’t remind me of you. Every time I witnessed a kindness I thought of you. Whenever people introduced a beautiful brunette they’d always disappoint because they didn’t look like Poppy Jenkins. When I needed a friend to confide in, I longed for you. And when falling asleep it was always you I dreamed of.” She laughed with despair. “I’ve been in love with you for fifteen years, perhaps longer, maybe most of my life.”

  “No. You can’t be in love with me,” Poppy shouted. “This is too infuriating. What were you thinking?”

  “I haven’t been thinking, just enjoying every minute of your company. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “But this is impossible.”

  Rosalyn remained resolute.

  “We’re the most ill-suited couple in existence,” Poppy said, incredulous. “We are poles apart. I couldn’t stand not being out and proud here, but you won’t tell your own father. You pour ridicule on Wells and those I hold in highest esteem. You despise the place I adore. For goodness sake, we want to live in completely different countries. What did you think would happen between us?”

  “I don’t know.” Rosalyn hesitated. “I admit I haven’t thought it through. I simply wanted to be with you. At first I thought as a friend, but I realise that was wrong. I want so much more.”

  Poppy stopped, winded by Rosalyn’s confession. Deep inside, a part of her longed to embrace Rosalyn’s affection, a part that had ached for years and would never be content without her. But the prejudice, the months of humiliation, the years of desolation, the storm of Rosalyn’s return, all ignited Poppy’s anger.

  “I could never be with you.” Poppy glared. “How would I ever trust you? How could I believe you’d never break my heart? You can hurt me so easily because I’m weak when it comes to you. There’s a fracture where you broke my heart at sixteen, and if you did again I don’t think it would ever heal.”

  Rosalyn looked stunned.

  “If we started something,” Poppy said, “it would have to last forever. And when you despise almost everything about my life, I don’t believe it would.”

  She’d said it – the crux of everything that troubled her. She’d at last put every anxiety into coherent thought and words. Her sentence rang with such truth and finality it left her empty.

  They fell silent, both deflated by the realisation. The night had turned black and the air had chilled. They stood staring at the ground between them, neither capable of closing the distance. The quiet was painful and lonely and Poppy wished several times over that things were different.

  It was Rosalyn who broke the silence. “I’m leaving in a couple of days,” she whispered.

  Poppy crossed her arms and managed a nod.

  “I need to pack and entertain Sam, so you needn’t worry about encountering me again.” She stared at Poppy, her face despondent. She looked as if she would step forward, but Poppy clutched her arms tighter to keep Rosalyn distant.

  “I don’t think there’s any more I can say, except good luck, Poppy Jenkins.”

  Rosalyn turned and walked up the square, her head bowed. She didn’t look back as she stepped into the Jaguar and the clunk of the door echoed around the square. The engine roared, the car pulled away and Rosalyn Thorn was gone.

  Chapter 30.

  The sun was shining and the green hedgerows were vigorous with summer growth. Poppy went about her life: walking Pip into Wells, tending the café, washing the errant Jacob in the river. But there would be no more encounters with Rosalyn Thorn.

  Her world was a simpler and quieter place without Rosalyn. Poppy had thought the peace would be a pleasant relief, but it was a desolate kind of quiet, and it didn’t need too much introspection for Poppy to realise she missed her friend greatly.

  No matter the heartache, no matter the differences, she craved Rosalyn’s company, and however much she tried to congratulate herself on her good fortune in life, it was missing something vital and her step lacked the spark it had but a few weeks ago.

  She felt the loss of Rosalyn most keenly as she approached Rhiw Hall to meet David Thorn. Rosalyn’s absence loomed larger here. Walking along the stable block, the Hall resplendent at the end of the track, Poppy’s heart ached for any other resolution than their own.

  She wished Rosalyn had confessed to her all those years ago. She willed her friend to put aside her anger and embrace all the vitality life could bring. Poppy clutched her chest, grieving that neither would ever be possible, and breathed in to clear her sorrow before meeting Rosalyn’s father.

  He was waiting at the front of the Hall and waved from beneath the ornate veranda. The wrought iron bloomed with rambling white roses whose delicate scent fragranced the warm summer air.

  David looked well. He stood proud and welcoming, his walking stick leaning against one of the intricate columns a few metres away.

  Poppy beamed when she saw him. “How far are you managing?”

  “Quite a way now.” Bashful pride brightened his face. “Not a good idea to leave the house without the stick, but it’s good to throw the damned thing away once in a while.”

  “That’s brilliant.” Poppy smiled so much her eyes watered with joy. “And today? Will you attempt a walk without it?”

  “Ah.” He raised a hand. “I wanted to talk to you about that. Instead of a walk, I wondered if you’d join me for lunch. It’s another challenge I’ve set myself. I want to get Lillian out of the house and back to work, so I need to prove I can take care of me and the occasional company while she’s away.”

  “Of course. I’d love to.”

  He turned slowly towards the front door. “Don’t expect anything elaborate though. Or anything like punctuality either,” he said and they giggled as they entered the house.

  Poppy followed him into the shade of the great gallery which ran inside the length of the frontage. A white iron bistro set had been arranged with a commanding view through the veranda to the lawns and majestic copper beech trees, which towered higher than the Hall.

  “I’m glad you accepted,” he said. “It’s taken me an hour to cart those damned things in.

  “You could have saved that challenge for another time.” Poppy smiled with mock chastisement.

  “I know. One step at a time.” He gestured towards the table and a glass jug of fresh lemonade. “Help yourself while I prepare luncheon. Can’t take the credit for the drink I’m afraid. Lillian made it before she left.”

  “Thank you,” Poppy said, and she watched him retreat into the house, his limp still pronounced but not as precarious as it had been.

  Poppy hadn’t ventured beyond the front door since her teens. She remembered playing skittles on the polished floor with Rosalyn, the gallery perfect for a long run up and vigorous thrust of a ball. She smiled at the memory of Lillian shrieking at the constant clatter of pegs. The floor had since been softened with jute carpet and it now had the look of a cosier room. />
  Every wall presented a work of art, and among the modern landscapes on the back wall a school portrait of Rosalyn caught her eye.

  Rosalyn must have been fifteen in the photograph and her long, almost white, blonde hair flowed around her shoulders. Poppy recalled it being taken. She was next in line as they queued in the school hall. The photographer was facing a losing battle at eliciting a sweet expression from the precocious Rosalyn, but she’d glanced at Poppy. Their eyes had met and they’d giggled with mischief. He’d snapped that second and captured a picture where Rosalyn’s eyes sparkled with joy and perhaps, what Poppy now recognised as, love. It was a beautiful photograph – Rosalyn in the most charming of moments. Poppy’s heart ached and she wished she could see that smile again.

  There were no more formal photographs. No sixth form photo, no snap of Rosalyn in a graduation gown, no stints as a bridesmaid or joyful pictures of the family together at Christmas. She’d disappeared from official record.

  The next portrait featured Rosalyn in a torn T shirt and khaki trousers, her arm wrapped around a small child whose grin shone from a broad, dark face. A lush green mountainside, whose scale suggested another country and continent, provided the backdrop. It must have been taken on one of her charity’s projects.

  Rosalyn’s face was beautiful and bare of makeup, her eyes fatigued and her hair tied carelessly, but her smile was of deep satisfaction. She was older than in the school photograph and her face had attained the mature beauty it had today.

  Then Poppy saw it. It wasn’t a printed photograph; no proud memorabilia sent home from a child wanting to impress. A small caption below reported the extent of the Clean Water charity’s work in Bolivia and Poppy realised David must have torn it from a newspaper.

  “Oh, Rosalyn,” she whispered. Poppy grieved for David and Lillian and the cold distance they’d had to endure from their only child. So desperate for an image of their girl they’d resorted to public media for their keepsake.

  How damaging the past had been. Rosalyn’s closeted existence had been crippling for them all and Poppy felt the raw sorrow of Rosalyn’s family as well as her own.

  A rattle broke her contemplation and she turned to see David leaning heavily on a silver hostess trolley.

  “Let me help,” she said.

  “No, please,” he said labouring. “Don’t let me fail with a few paces to go.” He pushed the trolley to the table and slumped into a chair.

  Poppy let him regain his breath and took a seat.

  “Did it.” He panted. “Assuming we both survive lunch, I’m going to consider this a success.”

  Poppy laughed. “And so you should.”

  “Now, can I tempt you with a cucumber sandwich, or beef and horse radish?”

  “Both please.”

  David started to serve the food, his eyes distracted by the photos on the back wall. He must have seen Poppy examining them. “You know, I’m kicking myself for not taking a single picture of Rosalyn while she was here.”

  “I imagine time flew by.”

  “Yes, it did.” He nodded. “Particularly at first. I was unconscious or asleep for the first weeks.”

  “Was it good to have her home?” Poppy wanted to encourage his conversation but also feared where it might lead.

  “Very good. A real luxury to have her home for several weeks. That’s the most I’ve seen her since school, and by that I mean early teens. She helped enormously. It was vital for Lillian to have someone else to take the strain. But you know,” he sighed, “although she was attentive and stayed weeks, Rosalyn was still elusive. I’m not sure we talked about anything of any importance.”

  He looked at Poppy, his face suddenly tired and less hopeful. “I don’t think I know anything more about her than before this episode.”

  “I’m sorry,” Poppy said sympathetically, but inside a knot tightened, aware of the reasons for Rosalyn’s evasion.

  “Anyway.” He sat up straight and attempted to lighten the mood. “Tell me, how are things with you? I hear the café is booming.”

  Poppy laughed. “Oh, that might be an exaggeration. But, even with the odd hiccup, it’s doing very well this summer. You must come, for a meal on the house of course.”

  “Yes, I’ll treat Lillian to a coffee and a delicious cake. And we’ll pay for it. It’s about time we supported the local businesses.”

  “Always appreciated.” Poppy beamed.

  “And you’ve never said. Do you have a partner? Boyfriend? I know your family keeps you here, but I hope there’s someone to care for you too.”

  Poppy froze. Her mouth was open, on the verge of delivering the simple version of the truth. She hesitated and stared at her hands, which squirmed in her lap.

  “Sir,” she said. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Never have.” She looked up and prepared for the reaction. “I’m gay.” Poppy smiled, as she always did, no sign of regret in her countenance.

  “Oh.” David sat back. His features fell and his gaze softened into the distance. He frowned at his thoughts. “I did wonder, at times,” he said at last. “Over the years.” Then he smiled kindly. “It was unusual for someone so attractive, both in looks and personality, not to have a string of boyfriends.”

  Poppy nodded, while her fingers twisted in her lap.

  David hesitated. Poppy could see his thoughts racing through the connotations. “Then… Is…,” he looked pained.

  “Please don’t ask,” she whispered.

  “But is she?”

  Poppy shook her head, not wanting to be questioned.

  “Is Rosalyn gay?” he pleaded.

  “You can’t ask me that.”

  He stared at the floor in anguish. “Please tell me, Poppy.”

  “You need to ask her.”

  “I’ve wanted to, believe me, many times. On those rare occasions we saw her. That handful of times when she ran out of excuses and Lillian cajoled her into letting us visit. I should have asked. But I didn’t want to scare her away any more than she already was.”

  Poppy’s throat strangled with sorrow, seeing this able and affable man debilitated by the loss of his daughter.

  “Please, Poppy,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “Either of us could be gone tomorrow,” he said, “but given my circumstances it’s more likely to be me.” He stared at her, his expression contorted with grief. “I don’t want to die not knowing my daughter.”

  Poppy covered her face, not wanting him to read her thoughts, which were plainly written there, but also unable to bear the raw anguish of the father. Warm tears ran from beneath her tight eyelids, and she didn’t dare breathe lest she indulge her sorrow in a sob.

  “Please,” he murmured.

  She slowly lowered her hands. “Promise me. Please promise that you will talk to her.”

  He nodded. “I would keep a promise to you, Poppy.”

  “Then yes. Rosalyn is gay.”

  It was as if he’d been punched. “That’s it?” he gasped. “Is that all it’s been?” His countenance was incredulous. “Is that what’s kept her away all these years?”

  “I don’t know,” Poppy stuttered.

  “Is she with someone? Is she happy? Please tell me why she stayed away.”

  “I know a little, but you must to talk to Rosalyn.”

  “Why did she hide it?” he said, throwing his hands up in despair. “Did she think I would care? Did she really think I would give a damn she was gay?”

  Poppy looked away.

  “Did she think we were homophobic? Well, did she?” His voice edged towards anger.

  “No, no. I don’t know. Please just talk to her.”

  “I wouldn’t have cared a jot.”

  Poppy tried to smile and appease him. “It’s easy to say in retrospect, but are you sure you’d never have taken it badly or said something hurtful?”

  “She’s my daughter. I would have welcomed her and any girlfriend with open arms.”

  “But are you c
ertain? All those years ago?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “When she was a teenager, who people don’t consider know best? What if you didn’t approve of her girlfriend?”

  He was about to speak, but Poppy wanted to raise one more issue. “Would your wife have been so accepting?”

  David sat back, quiet and thoughtful again. He roused once more, perhaps to defend his wife, but then thought better of it. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll never know.”

  His eyes flickered in agitated thought. “God, all those times she’d only meet us in restaurants. All those friends with whom she shared flats, but we thought we weren’t important enough to meet them. We hadn’t got a clue what was going on.” He looked at her, imploring. “Why couldn’t she have said?”

  Poppy almost laughed with shared frustration. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Why didn’t she confide in someone?”

  Poppy shook her head. “I can’t tell you.” And Poppy’s heart ached for her own loss – the pain of losing her closest friend and perhaps a cherished lover. “I wish she’d told everyone.”

  Chapter 31.

  Poppy didn’t return home after visiting the Hall. Her feelings about Rosalyn were in turmoil after seeing the toll she’d taken on David. Poppy wasn’t ready for scrutiny and observation back at the cottage and she was drawn to her place of seclusion by the river – the small beach with its ancient branch seat.

  She stared down at the river, her reflection in flux in the moving waters. No clarity came of gazing there, only a cycle of frustration and sorrow.

  A rustling behind pulled her from her trance and she turned to see her mother lifting a leafy branch aside and peeping through.

  “I’m sorry to intrude.” Emma looked at her sadly. “Can I come in?”

  Poppy nodded and her shoulders slumped in submission to all the things that preyed on her mind. Her mother’s feet crunched over the pebble beach and she sat next to Poppy with a reticence about her movement. Emma peered at her with overt concern.