Poppy's Return Page 6

  ‘Perhaps now she’s gone you could come to the h…?’ Jane squirmed and pulled a face at the pleading tone that had crept in to her voice. ‘If you want.’

  ‘This teenagerish meeting in public places is certainly not my first choice.’ Feeble humour. Didn’t work. ‘Maybe – what I don’t want is to come face to face with her on the doorstep.’

  ‘Why not? Get it over with – or something. Anyway she’s gone.’

  ‘Conquer by confrontation. Look at my arm, just the thought of it brings me out in goose bumps.’ The whole conversation felt forced to Poppy, the situation was exactly what she had wanted to avoid. Héloise had clearly worked out something close to the truth for herself and Poppy wished Jane had…

  ‘That or the cold wind. Come on.’ It was Jane who stood. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know, really, I need to work my way into, you know, a place in the house with George and Susanna, it doesn’t feel right to keep sloping off and I don’t think I can be much help with… your stuff… not really, it’s not my business.’

  Jane’s short, tearful laugh was hard to bear. ‘I know,’ she gulped, ‘you want me unencumbered. As I do you.’ And at the look on Poppy’s face Jane turned abruptly and set off towards the car.

  They separated miserably outside George’s house. As she crossed to the driver’s seat Jane said, ‘I’m not going home, I’ll go to Rachel’s, stay the night even, if she’ll have me.’

  Everyone worked hard over dinner and they more or less succeeded in making it a pleasant evening. Even after a long afternoon sleep George looked tired and grey, and he clearly flagged from time to time but would rally himself and rejoin the conversation. When he went up to bed soon after nine, insisting that he needed no help with the stairs, Susanna followed him, making a comment as she left that George was, ‘right fortunate’ in his family.

  ‘There’s not been a sign of her daughter or son since I got here.’ Poppy hadn’t thought of that before and it seemed odd. The son from Harrogate had called in one afternoon since they had arrived Stefan reported, but that was so he would miss the rush-hour traffic on his way home after a deputy principal’s meeting at Middlesbrough Secondary. May-Yun thought Susanna was very pleased to see him and he was a bit off-hand with her, spending most of the time telling them all about his ‘brilliant, twenty-something children’.

  ‘What about the daughter?

  ‘Yes, Sylvia, she lives around here somewhere but apparently they don’t get on,’ Stefan offered.

  ‘We suggested asking her over for a meal when we first got here,’ added May-Yun, ‘but it never happened.’

  When she had waved them off to their B&B, promising to be back first thing for breakfast together before they left for York and London, Poppy found some paper in the printer with George’s computer and sat at the kitchen table writing a list.

  Ask George

  using his computer – password?

  S’s relations

  (& S) downstairs bedroom

  doctor/medications

  how would she know what to do and when to do it?

  Don’t be silly, she told herself, talk to him.

  his idea of routines – nurse visits? shopping, washing

  cooking – should she simply do it all?

  Would there be enough for her to do, she wondered. How would she fill her days? What did Susanna do all day; did she have friends? How would she fit Jane in? She almost wished Jane lived somewhere else. She did wish Jane lived somewhere else, so there’d be a tidy separation of this and that; no, no, not really, people dealt with much more, all the time.

  A picture floated into her mind, her Mt Eden house, Mrs Mudgely, Jane a hope, a dream, something to look forward to, in the meantime a life she was in charge of. That was it, that was what was unsettling her so badly, she wasn’t in charge, life events were happening to her. But surely she could cope with that? How feeble, hankering for her orderly, predictable, plannable life and she’d been here only a few days.

  What if George got better? Or stopped getting worse? What if it went on for months and months, and she had promised to stay? What if she were bored? Lonely? Ah, lonely struck a chord. She couldn’t expect too much of Jane, there had to be other people. George didn’t want support groups, maybe she did. No, that wasn’t it, there was something about being lonely. Jane had only ever mentioned one friend, Rachel, and Poppy wasn’t even sure if she was a lesbian. She had no idea who Jane hung out with. A check in the phone book under ‘l’ found her a lesbian line number and she added ringing that to her list of things to do.

  Starting Monday, she resolved, there would be a plan. Several plans. George (lots of time with him). Jane. Susanna and her family (maybe). Herself – lesbian company, exercise, reading (local library?), some supply teaching (maybe). Check out lesbian places and groups. This felt better; familiar territory, planning. She chuckled at herself, she must be a teacher!

  An hour later she was lying in bed unable to sleep. There was so much swirling around in her brain that after a restless hour she turned on the light and went back to her list. Several minutes of doodles later she flung paper and pen on the floor but remained sitting up in the bed, a blanket around her shoulders, hugging her knees, acutely missing Mrs Mudgely, her silky fur, soothing purr and ‘wise counsel.’

  Poppy knew there was a core in herself that would handle her father’s dying and death, both the practical and the emotional aspects; if she had to clean and wash him, she would. This slow, creeping death was very different from her only other experience of losing someone she loved deeply, the sudden ripping from her of her beloved Kate by a silly boating accident. It was, after all, in a very basic way, ordinary to have a parent die, though the actual happening of it was particular, enveloping, she could feel herself – just the beginnings so far – sliding into his – what? orbit? arena? ambience? She would increasingly align herself with his state of being, his needs, his rhythm, she would, she realised, be grieving for her loss of him as he – diminished? became less, less what? less the father she remembered, wanted to remember afterwards, the loving, sometimes annoyingly sentimental, always caring father she had been blessed with. This time was such a small portion of their knowing of each other, ending, not negating what had gone before, not a wrenching so much as a gradual withdrawal, fading into memories. Do not, she told herself, do not let all the other memories be extinguished by these painful and difficult ones.

  Afraid that in the morning she would have forgotten these insights – and they were important, and she’d bet she wasn’t by any means the first to have them, though they were new to her – she scribbled words and phrases on the back of her list. Another idea – a notebook for her lists and thoughts; she couldn’t risk leaving scraps of paper lying about and she might from time to time need to remind herself. Yes, a notebook. She turned the page and added it to her list.

  But – and it was a big but – could she immerse herself in her father’s dying and in whatever it was – a love affair? a relationship? – with Jane. Had Jane really expected Héloise not to notice that Poppy’s arrival, was, at least, significant?

  Suddenly there was a stern Mrs Mudgely perched on the end of the bed. ‘Of course you can handle it all! Don’t get grandiose about George, you’re not the only person involved! And don’t expect ‘happy ever after’ with Jane in two weeks!’

  ‘Gosh, that was a…’ the image was disappearing as she spoke… ‘long speech for you, Mrs M.’

  Poppy started writing thoughts as they came into her head.

  One day at a time – small steps – give love a chance – letting go – time will tell – live in the present – it takes two people – look after yourself – a trouble shared – that’s what friends are for – go with the flow –

  Omigod! Clichés every one! She scribbled over them, then wrote:

  Martia – email

  Katrina – phone

  S & M-Y – email

  Mrs M – who knows?

&nb
sp; lesbian line – ?

  and felt much better. Like the hungry caterpillar in the children’s picture book, she thought, and added, Don’t take myself too seriously to her list. Then she noticed she had also written: Jane – weekend away. Where had that come from? It would certainly give them an opportunity to spend some time together away from everything else that was going on for them both. And a place to – talk – whatever – ‘make love’ – she forced herself to say under her breath.

  Chapter Six

  They were sitting around the breakfast table. No-one wanted to initiate Stefan and May-Yun’s departure. George kept the conversation going, putting off the inevitable, Poppy thought, on the verge of making a move herself when Susanna stood up and said she must go and have a cuppa with her friend Glory next-door-but-one, she hadn’t seen her all week. So she said her goodbyes, and there was no reason for the rest of them to dally any longer.

  May-Yun went to George first, and they held each other in a long hug, talking quietly. Stefan opened his arms to Poppy; she was certain his eyes were wet.

  ‘Go well, Sis,’ he said. ‘phone, write, anything, any time. I’m not sure I could do what you are… but I do want to know…’ he nodded towards George.

  ‘Of course.’ Poppy pulled back and looked at him. ‘You came, that’s the main thing. I can do this,’ she went on, ‘and I want to. You have a really, really good time on the way home.’

  And there was nothing more to delay father and son from making their farewells. George was openly weeping. Poppy and May-Yun moved away.

  ‘I can do this, and I want to.’ Poppy repeated her statement to her sister-in-law.

  ‘I know you can. This is a good family, I am fortunate to have married into it.’ And May-Yun was wiping away tears. Poppy thought of the dead or dispersed relatives that May-Yun and her brother were trying to uncover for Chan, her Chinese-looking son, and said, ‘I think we’re the lucky ones.’ And they both laughed, neither knowing why and hugged warmly.

  Poppy and a still-weeping George, arms around each others’ shoulders, waved them off in their rental car, then Poppy led him inside and they sat side-by-side on the dining room couch.

  George was entitled to his emotion, he would not see his son again, Poppy told herself. So she sat, still and silent, keeping her arm around his shoulder, increasing the hold slightly until he sat up and blew his nose on a damp handkerchief.

  ‘According to the book on grief I’ve just read…’ he began.

  ‘But I thought you didn’t, weren’t going to…’

  ‘This isn’t about me, I wanted to know what it would be like for the rest of you.’ He paused for a moment and Poppy nodded. ‘Well, you and Stefan really, Susanna has her own ways.’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy saw a chance, ‘I wanted…’

  George held up a hand. ‘In a moment. What the book said was it’s easier for people when a parent dies if old wounds have been attended to.’ He was silent for a moment, then went on. ‘And I think Stefan and I have done that, attended to our old wounds.’ He smiled at his daughter, ‘And they weren’t all the same, his wounds and mine. That was very interesting.’

  ‘Do you think we…’

  ‘Have old wounds? No. Do you?’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘Should I read the book do you think?’

  ‘If you like.’ He wiped his eyes again. One thing about her father, Poppy thought, he had never been ashamed of showing his emotions.

  ‘No, don’t get up,’ she said, ‘tell me where and I’ll get it, I want to get something else.’

  The book was, as he said, beside his bed. While she was there she looked around at the twin beds, the dressing-table, two sets of drawers, the wardrobe, the two bedside cabinets, the lamps on them, sizing them up for the room downstairs. Then she went into her room to collect her list and pen and returned to the dining room. Susanna was back, putting on the jug. It was eleven-thirty and Poppy already felt like it had been a long day. What was Jane up to, she wondered, was she staying at home while Héloise moved out? She’d never had to do that herself, separate belongings after living in a shared house for a long time, she’d seen friends do it, some did it easy, some hard.

  ‘Cuppa?’ Susanna was holding up the teapot.

  Poppy shook her head, and brandished her list, ‘But I would like to talk to you both,’ and sat down at the table.

  An hour later she had a much clearer idea of how the coming days might work out. She’d drawn up a daily calendar for the week and it was on the fridge door (held by two New Zealand magnets: one a sheep, one a kiwi) with the trip to the doctor and the cleaner’s times blocked out. Also, a note in the Friday night slot said, ?Poppy away weekend? an idea George had endorsed enthusiastically. Poppy couldn’t tell what Susanna’s reaction was and couldn’t think what Susanna had been like with her and Kate, and supposed it had been all right or she would have remembered.

  George took her through the basics of using his computer, which sat on a small desk in a corner of the dining room, covered with a flowery table cloth. ‘I hardly use it now,’ he had said, ‘I’ve unsubscribed from most things, can’t seem to get interested any more.’

  ‘Why’s that, you always…’

  ‘Can’t see the point. Conserving energy for the important things, you know. Don’t look like that, Poppy dear, your old father’s dying, and he knows it. Do you know what they say in these parts?’

  ‘No.’ So she’d had that wrong. He wasn’t avoiding the idea of death.

  ‘Goin’ dahn t’nick,’ he said, with a fair imitation of a Yorkshire accent, ‘ill and not going to get better.’ He smiled at the doubtful look on her face. ‘It’s all right you know, I don’t mind, really, I’ve done enough for one average kind of chap. Come on, give us a smile.’ So she did and he went off to ‘grapple with the Observer’ as he said.

  The internet-based email account she had set up before she left home, had only one message in it and that was from Martia. Pleased, she opened it, as usual in Martia’s idiosyncratic email-writing style. ‘I gave up on Mavis Beacon’s keyboarding programme before I got to capitals’, had been her explanation.

  dear pops,

  all fine here

  nothing to report except mrs m misses you and so do i

  oh yes, one thing, i got the woman joy and she had waited outside

  the movie theatre for you but said she didn’t mind in the

  circumstances

  she came round for a coffee. nice woman, finding auckland hard

  to break into

  she liked your house a lot

  so do i, just as well i’ve got plans for when you get home or you

  might not get rid of me

  how’s it going over there, hard i imagine

  how’s george

  how’s jane

  and, most important, how are you

  write soon

  lots of love and hugs

  martia

  ps nearly forgot

  got a job, temporary, two hours a day mon-fri at the local fruit

  and veg, it’s okay, like the walk there and back specially when it’s

  not raining

  Poppy started replying right away; thoughts and feelings from the night before pouring out fingertips onto the keyboard. Then Susanna came in and started making lunch and George was putting things on the table, asking who she was writing to… Anyway it was time for lunch; though she wasn’t hungry she could hardly keep writing while they ate, so she joined them at the table.

  ‘What do you think about Stefan’s idea of making a downstairs bedroom?’ Poppy addressed the question to them both. George thought it was a good idea but a bit soon. Susanna said he should do it while he was still reasonably well and that she would prefer to stay upstairs, she didn’t like the downstairs lavatory, it was narrow and awkward and she worried about falling there and then the door wouldn’t open and if she couldn’t get up… And she did like her bath and that was upstairs, and Glory had just had a special thi
ng put on the wall by the bath that helped her get out, one of those would be good, she could find out where Glory got hers. George paid close attention while she was speaking and Poppy started another list.

  ‘What else needs doing?’ She had her pen poised, ‘I know, see if that lavatory door can be changed to open outwards,’ then to Susanna’s ‘Huh!’, ‘not to make you move bedrooms, it’s just that it might be dangerous for George, too, when…’ He was nodding at her, so was Susanna now. Poppy told herself to get over her reluctance to say out loud anything about George getting more ill.

  ‘That computer,’ George said, ‘might just fit in your room, Poppy, you’re the one that’ll be using it.’ He turned to his wife, ‘Now where was the extra phone jack put in that time, it was somewhere upstairs, I’m sure.

  ‘But – what do you think about that, Susanna, putting the computer in my room?’

  ‘It’s nowt to me, dear, I’ve not used it and I’d be pleased enough to have it away from here. The phone jack, that’s in the hallway, directly under my mother’s picture.’

  And so, another plan developed. Both Susanna and George were pessimistic about having furniture moved and grumbled about tradesmen. Spurred on by George saying it was a shame they hadn’t managed to get onto all this while Stefan was here, after all it was in his line, Poppy undertook to make sure everything got done; she started by looking up the classified ads in the Evening Gazette.

  When George went off for a sleep, Susanna and Poppy cleared up together, and for the first time since she had arrived they were alone together. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m taking over too much,’ said Poppy. Susanna was washing dishes slowly and probably painfully. She turned and faced the younger women, holding her dripping hands over the sink.

  ‘Don’t you be worrying about that,’ she said. ‘I’ll not hold back if it’s too much you’re doing and I’ve no complaints yet,’ and turned back to her task. Poppy, drying every dish unnecessarily thoroughly so she didn’t catch up with the washing, was about to ask about Sylvia when Susanna, not turning around this time, started telling her about how she had been thinking for some time about how to get them sleeping in different rooms. She didn’t think George realised, she went on, how much he grunted and groaned at night and she had her own troubles with getting asleep and staying there when she did, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings. She suggested it would be a good idea to leave the sofa and maybe an armchair in the sitting room, then when he couldn’t get up much they could sit with him; and the television could go in there, there were a few programmes they liked to watch together. He could lie down then, and even drift off, but it would be companionable.