Poppy's Return Read online

  PAT ROSIER is a former editor of Broadsheet, New Zealand’s leading feminist magazine, a former school teacher, and currently earns her living as an organisational consultant. She shares a house at the beach with her partner, Prue Hyman, in Paekakariki on the North Island’s Kapiti Coast. Her previous publications include contributions to two poetry collections and, with Myra Hauschild, Get Used To It! Children of lesbian and gay parents, and Poppy’s Progress, also available from Spinifex.

  Other books by Pat Rosier

  Fiction

  Poppy’s Progress

  Non-fiction

  Women’s Studies: A New Zealand Handbook with Candis Craven, Claire-Louise McCurdy and Margot Roth

  No Body’s Perfect with Jasbindar Singh

  Workwise: A guide to managing workplace relationships

  Anthologies

  Been Around For Quite A While: Twenty years of writing from Broadsheet Magazine.

  Get Used To It! Children of gay and lesbian parents, with Myra Hauschild

  PAT ROSIER

  POPPY’S RETURN

  Spinifex Press Pty Ltd

  504 Queensberry Street

  North Melbourne Vic. 3051

  [email protected]

  http://www.spinifexpress.com.au

  First published 2004

  Copyright © Pat Rosier 2004

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealings for the purpose of private study, research, criticism, or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, this book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any process, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

  Cover design by Deb Snibson

  Typeset by Palmer Higgs

  Printed and bound by McPherson’s Printing Group

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Rosier, Pat, 1942– .

  Poppy’s return.

  ISBN 978-1-74219-159-1 Master e-book ISBN

  ISBN 978-1-74219-454-7 (ePub Format)

  ISBN 1 876756 44 6.

  1. Lesbianism – Fiction. 2. Life change events – Fiction.

  3. Interpersonal relationships – Fiction. I. Title.

  NZ823.3

  For Prue for love and support

  and, once again, a title.

  Chapter One

  ‘Your father is dying,’ the letter began. It was handwritten on thin blue airmail paper, folded in thirds to fit the envelope exactly.

  Poppy made herself read the rest of the single page. George had been unwell for some time, his appetite had gone, he’d lost weight, and had less energy every day. He’d been to the doctor several times without finding out what was wrong, finally agreeing to see a specialist and have some tests when the pain got bad. The verdict was that he had liver cancer – inoperable – and the prognosis was bad; he could expect to live not much more than three months. She, Susanna, couldn’t cope, with her arthritis made worse by the stress and George insisting he could manage more than he could, and she had decided it was time his family in New Zealand knew.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit! Bugger! God-dammit!’ Poppy didn’t know who she was angrier with: George for not telling her right away, Susanna for taking it on herself to write… and for directing the letter to her and not Stefan, he was George’s son as much as Poppy was his daughter… Why her? Why not her brother? Susanna wanted her to go and look after George, that was clear.

  Mrs Mudgely appeared, rubbing against her leg, rumbling with her usual purr. Poppy picked up the cat, stroking and cuddling and wiping tears on her fur. ‘Oh, Mrs M, this means I’m going to go, doesn’t it? I’m not going to decide whether to go to Yorkshire and see Jane, I’ll go because of George and Jane’s there, and… Oh, George, poor, stupid George, why didn’t you tell me?’ Anger and distress were hopelessly mixed, overwhelming her. Stefan, she must talk to Stefan. Ten-past-five, he wouldn’t be home from work yet. But May-Yun would be home… No. George was Stefan’s father, not May-Yun’s. He’d be only too ready to let his wife deal with this; she’d wait until Stefan was home before she rang. Better still, she’d go around there. Poppy jumped up, startling Mrs Mudgely. Then stood still. Then sat down again.

  ‘Think,’ she said to herself. Then, ‘Talk to someone. Martia.’ Martia was her closest friend. The phone rang. It was May-Yun, who often rang when Poppy had been thinking of her. ‘Are you all right?’ May-Yun asked after a few minutes. She had rung to tell Poppy that Chan, her middle child, had heard back from a distant cousin they had located in southern China. Chan was planning a trip to southern China to visit the area his great-grandfather had emigrated from.

  ‘Poppy, what is it? Say something to me.’

  ‘I’ve had some word of George, I need to speak to Stefan about it, I’d like to come around this evening.’

  ‘You know you are welcome any time.’ Poppy could tell from her tone that she had hurt May-Yun’s feelings by not telling her right away what the word from George was.

  ‘Oh hell, please don’t be offended, I was just wanting Stefan to, you know, take responsibility, not leave it to you, so I was going to tell him first…’

  ‘I am offended that after twenty-five years in this family I am not allowed to know something until after my husband, that is all.’ Poppy could feel ten years of friendship dribbling away through the phone line.

  ‘No, no May-Yun.’ She was trying desperately to keep the tears out of her voice. ‘Look, I’ve done this all wrong, I’m terribly sorry. I’ve had a letter from Susanna, just a minute, I’ll get it.’ She read the letter over the phone.

  ‘I am very sorry, Poppy, that George is ill, we must all talk about it. Would you like me to come and get you, or for us to come to your place? Yes, that’s it, we will come to your place, I will catch Stefan before he leaves work and we will come right over. I’ll tell Ivan and he can decide for himself.’ Ivan was fifteen, her and Stefan’s youngest child.’

  ‘But I don’t…’

  ‘Never mind about dinner, we can go out, or get something in. We will be there very soon.’

  Once again, May-Yun had done the right thing. Her brother seldom came to her house, she usually went to his. This time they would be on her patch. ‘I know,’ she scratched Mrs Mudgely between the ears, ‘you don’t need to look disapproving, this is no time for sibling rivalry, this is George and he’s really ill.’

  Poppy started thinking how little information there was in Susanna’s letter. She saw George’s face – her kind, loving father, taking a quiet place in the world, studying his trichoptera, happiest often in a world of insects – and could not imagine his absence. Even though he’d lived in Yorkshire for thirty years he’d stayed part of her life, working hard to keep in touch, sending her little parcels, phoning and emailing regularly, always encouraging her to visit and coming back to New Zealand himself occasionally. What did it mean, Susanna saying he was dying? Wasn’t everyone dying? ‘Don’t growl at me Mrs M, you know what I mean.’

  Three months. That would be mid-August. And didn’t the doctors often get it wrong? It could be much longer. Or shorter. Poppy walked around, picking things up, putting them down, staring at the photo of George and herself at Windermere that Susanna had taken – how many years ago? He was laughing, they both were, he looked so young, he couldn’t be dying. He was younger than Katrina and she was perfectly healthy. ‘I know, my mother’s age and health is irrelevant, I’m having random thoughts.’ This to the cat who was following her around the house.

  She should be doing something. Ringing Susanna, no George, what was the time difference? Was it elev
en or twelve or thirteen hours at this time of year? Where’s the phone book, that would tell her. Never mind, the latest it could be was six in the morning, and that was too early. Oh heavens, she’d said she’d meet that new woman, Joy, at the movies tonight, where was her number?

  If Joy didn’t go home after work she wouldn’t get the answer-phone message. ‘Sorry, a family emergency, I can’t make the movie so I hope you get this,’ she said to the machine. Biscuits, did she have any biscuits? There were crackers and cheese and olives so she busied herself setting them out on a plate, filled the jug, and checked that there was still some dry white in the cask in the fridge.

  ‘Early dinner for you,’ she said to the cat at her feet, crumbling left-over cooked fish from the night before into one side of the cat bowl and scooping jellimeat into the other. There was nothing else to do, so she opened the front door and sat on the steps looking across the city at the western hills. The sun was low, casting its twilight colours onto the few clouds. She saw an image of George, leaning over her beside a stream, his hand over hers on the handle of the net, making her wait for exactly the right moment to scoop up the insect. His delight was equal to hers when she succeeded and palpable every time she agreed to go caddis-fly hunting. She didn’t dwell on his equally obvious disappointments when she was older and preferred going out with her friends, or her own irritation when he was – she thought – over-friendly with them. Especially after one had described him as ‘nice, but a bit drippy.’

  But none of that mattered because George had loved Kate. Kate, Poppy’s soul mate, lover, partner for thirteen years until her death in a yachting accident, 14 February 1990. Ten years ago this year. On the anniversary, Valentine’s Day, Poppy had invited her closest friends to dinner. Martia, Rina, Eve, Shirley, Bessie, Alexa – they had all been there at that terrible time. She had wanted to invite May-Yun, the other person who had held her together, but in the end didn’t know how to without including her brother, so had lunch with her on the day. Katrina had rung, she hadn’t forgotten, but her mother and Kate had not really gotten on. George had sent her an email card with music, and then rung and cried with her. Now George himself was dying, and she was here on the other side of the world, knowing practically nothing of how he was, what was happening to him, what she should do…

  ‘The Internet!’ She jumped up and ran down the hall to her ‘office’, the small third bedroom of the house, jiggling impatiently while her imac connected, then typed ‘liver cancer’ into the Google search field, opening and scanning quickly down the first of the thousands of sites it brought up almost immediately. ‘Generally not diagnosed until advanced stage,’ she read. ‘Cirrhosis of the liver a major disposing factor of primary liver cancer – patients with cirrhosis forty times more likely to…’ then, ‘Men are twice as likely as women…’ She stared at the screen, trying to make sense out of what she was reading. George didn’t have cirrhosis, surely, he drank very little alcohol… but then non-smokers did sometimes get lung cancer…

  ‘Hellooo.’ Stefan was in the hallway. He hesitated in front of Poppy, then hugged her briefly, patting her shoulder and saying, ‘Well, Dad’s in a pickle, then.’ May-Yun said nothing at first, her hug long and close, then stood back and said, ‘It is a big thing, a parent being sick, very sick, dying sick,’ and Poppy nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘I’ve come straight from work, I’ll put the jug on, shall I?’ Stefan was heading for the kitchen.

  ‘No, I’ll do that, you sit down and talk to your sister.’

  Stefan and Poppy sat at opposite sides of the dining table. She pushed Susanna’s letter across to him and sat silently while he read it. Twice. Then he looked up and said, ‘I don’t…’ at the same time as she said, ‘We must …’ They both stopped.

  ‘You go,’ said Poppy.

  ‘I was just going to say I don’t know what we should do.’ Stefan was looking towards the kitchen. Hoping for help from May-Yun, thought Poppy.

  ‘Neither do I,’ she said, ‘except that as soon as it’s a reasonable time over there I’m going to ring George. He’s sick, not incapable,’ she added at the look on her brother’s face, ‘he’ll be able to talk to m… us. We don’t know anything really, well, not much. I started looking up liver cancer on the internet…’ Her voice trailed off. Brother and sister looked at each other across the table, then looked away.

  May-Yun came in with tea and the plate of food Poppy had prepared. She smiled at them. ‘I don’t think you two are making much progress,’ she said, as she sat down and started pouring tea, ‘so I’ll make a suggestion. But first of all does either of you know when England goes on to summer time?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘I could fi…’, Poppy began, and stopped as May-Yun continued, ‘It seems likely that they are by now, so it will be,’ she looked at her watch, ‘about 7.00 a.m. there. ‘So if we go out and get some dinner, when we get back it will be late enough to ring.’

  Poppy didn’t feel like eating, though Stefan was making an impact on the cheese and olives. But what other way was there to spend the hour or so until they could ring? It would be easier if it were just May-Yun and I, she thought, we’re both holding back because Stefan is here. The table was vibrating slightly, and she looked down to see her hands, around her mug, shaking. Hot tea spilled, stinging her fingers, and she cried out and jumped up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, then wished she hadn’t. She wasn’t sorry about being upset because George was ill. ‘I can’t go out to dinner just like this isn’t happening.’

  It was Stefan who stood up and put an arm around her shoulders and led her into the living room where they sat side by side on the sofa. The three of them talked about George, and his trips to New Zealand, and theirs to visit him in Middlesbrough, and Stefan read Susanna’s letter again and commented that he had ‘never taken to her, though he never said so because she and George seemed happy with each other.’ That was the most personal remark Poppy could remember him having made about any member of their family for years. ‘Should we think about what she wants from us before we ring?’ he continued.

  ‘No.’ Poppy was definite. ‘Let’s just talk to George first, and see what – I dunno – how he is, or something.’ The time had crept around to half-past-seven, which they had decided would be half-past-eight in the morning in England. They all looked at each other and nodded, so she went and got the cordless phone and George’s phone number. When she was about to press the first number, she suddenly gave them both to Stefan, who hesitated for a moment then dialled. ‘George, please answer the phone yourself,’ Poppy muttered under her breath. Mrs Mudgely was settling herself in Stefan’s spot on the sofa, so he perched on the arm.

  ‘Hello? Dad? It’s Stefan. Yes, that’s right, Stefan. How are… I’m at Poppy’s, I hope we didn’t wake you. Good. Dad, Poppy had a letter from Susanna today, and well, we’re all a bit worried…’ He made writing gestures in the air. ‘Hang on a minute Dad, I’ll take a note of all this.’ Not so sure it had been a good idea to have her brother speak to him first, Poppy passed him a pen and moved closer until she could just hear her father’s voice, but she couldn’t make out enough words.

  ‘That’s good Dad, gives us a better idea… yes, Poppy’s right here and she’s dying – sorry, wrong word – to talk to you herself. You take care and I’ll talk to you again soon,’ and he held out the phone.

  ‘Oh George, why didn’t you tell me?’ They were both crying within seconds. He’d been feeling unwell for some months and put it down to getting older until his loss of appetite and the pain began to bother him. The doctor had had some tests done and eventually, after several weeks, referred him to a specialist.

  ‘According to Susanna’s letter the doctor had to insist on a specialist,’ commented Stefan, when Poppy was off the phone and they were sharing information.

  The specialist had ordered a CT scan, the results of which came through about a week ago. That would be when Susanna wrote, Poppy thought. The resul
ts showed that there was one large tumor and several smaller ones, with evidence of affected lymph nodes. Surgery was not an option. George was refusing any of the other possible treatments, all of which had severe side effects.

  ‘It looks pretty grim,’ Stefan said. ‘He seems to think that various treatments might slow it – the cancer – down but they make you sick anyway and, as he put it, he’s “had a pretty good innings”.’

  ‘I asked him about the three months’ prognosis that Susanna referred to,’ said Poppy, ‘and I didn’t get a proper answer. I think that was probably what the specialist had said – but they’re never definite, they usually say this to that range of weeks or months so maybe that was the longest…’ she struggled to go on. ‘I’m going to go, really soon.’

  ‘We must all go.’ May-Yun had not spoken for a long time. She looked at her husband. ‘You have a few week’s leave owing…’

  ‘Four, but …’

  ‘I think you and I should go as soon as we can and we can report back to Poppy who will probably want to go for longer,’ – Poppy nodded – ‘even until… I’m sorry, my dear.’ Poppy reached out a hand and May-Yun clasped it, ‘until the end.’

  There wasn’t a lot more they could discuss, but it was still after nine o’clock when May-Yun and Stefan left. May-Yun had looked at Poppy very closely, ‘Will you be all right on your own?’ Poppy nodded. ‘Perhaps I could ring Martia and ask to her come? Or I could stay myself? Stefan and Ivan can manage.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Poppy insisted. ‘Truly, I’ll be fine.’

  What will I do, she thought after they had gone, whatever will I do? Mrs Mudgely was at her ankles, so she gathered up the cat and returned to the sofa. ‘I need to talk to people,’ she nuzzled into the fur, ‘who will it be first, Katrina or Martia?’ She decided on her mother, who had after all been married to George for over twenty years.