Christmas for One: No Greater Love (44 page)

Martin jumped out of bed and fastened his dressing gown around his waist. As he opened the door, Peg jumped on him, knocking the wind out of him.

‘Blimey, Peg, you nearly pushed me over!’

‘I can’t help it, Dad. I am so excited!’

‘So I gathered. Look at you, all up and dressed.’ Martin kissed her cheek.

‘I’ve been ready for ages. Can we leave in a minute and get there when the shop opens?’

‘Sure we can. I’ll just have a quick shower and grab a cup of coffee. What time is it now?’

‘It’s nearly five o’clock!’ Peg announced.

Poppy raised her head from under the pillow and squinted at the digital clock on Martin’s bedside cabinet. Peg was right. Poppy laughed and pulled the duvet over her head, leaving the early morning excitement to the best dad in the whole wide world.

After much coaxing and a few tears, everyone went back to bed for an hour or two. So it was at a much more respectable 8 a.m. that the Cricket family gathered round the dining table for breakfast, with Radio 2 providing the background noise.

Poppy poured juice for Max while Peg shovelled Cheerios into her mouth. She was in too much of a rush to bother swallowing before loading up her spoon for re-entry and her cheeks bulged.

‘Peg,
you
look like a guinea pig. Eat nicely please,’ Poppy instructed between coffee sips.

Peg gulped her breakfast. ‘Can it just be Daddy and me that goes to get Toffee?’ She concentrated on stirring her cereal. This lack of eye contact was enough to alert Poppy.

‘I think we’ll all go, Peg. It’ll be nice for Maxy to see the animals.’

‘Max told me he didn’t want to go because he thought it might be boring,’ Peg mumbled with her mouth full.

‘Max said all that?’ Poppy looked at her daughter quizzically.

Peg nodded repeatedly.

‘Well, after he told you that, he told
me
that he didn’t want his big sister making up things that he had said just to get her own way.’

‘Diggerduck! One… two… three…’ Max shouted as if in confirmation. His words were a little confused, but there was nothing amiss with his counting.

Poppy watched Peg’s lip curl in dislike at her suggestion. She knew her daughter well enough to guess that if she was left to her own devices and under the very pliable watch of her dad, they would end up with a guinea pig, cat, dog, fish, goat and any other beast that Peg could persuade Martin she couldn’t live without. One look at their little forlorn and hopeful faces and Martin would willingly load them into the car, turning their three-bed terrace into a stinky petting zoo. Poppy was not about to let that happen.

Martin stood by the table holding the mail. His fingers stilled and his eyebrows knitted as he pondered an envelope that looked unfamiliar. It caught his eye, standing out among the pizza flyers, taxi leaflets, bank statements and sales literature for a stair lift.

‘This one’s for you, from…’ Martin lifted the envelope to his face and squinted at the postmark that sat in wiggly lines over a beautiful, tropical bird. ‘Looks like St Lucia! Who the bloody hell is writing to you from St Lucia?’ he quizzed.

‘What am I, psychic? How do I know? Open it!’ Poppy nodded at the flat blue letter in his palm.

Martin used the stubby end of his index finger to prise open the envelope, then teased out the thin sheet.

‘Come on, the suspense is killing me!’ Poppy gripped her mug with both hands and stood facing him.

Martin’s expression was solemn. ‘Jesus.’ He pulled a chair from the dining room table and lowered himself onto it. ‘This is a weird one, Pop.’

‘What is it?’ Poppy watched as a crease appeared on the top of his nose.

‘It’s from some bloke, says he got your address from Cheryl.’

‘What bloke? Who’s she been giving my address to?’ Poppy laughed a little nervously and pulled a face at Peg. If her mum was involved, it probably wasn’t anything she wanted to be part of.

Martin read the letter slowly, lowered the sheet of paper and then raised it again for a second read. He looked up at his wife. ‘He says he’s your uncle.’

‘Well, it’s obviously a mistake. I haven’t got an uncle. My nan’s sister Dee was married, so I suppose her husband was my uncle, but he died a long time ago and I never met him. They lived in Canada; she still does.’

Martin took a deep breath. ‘He says he’s your uncle; Uncle…’ He was silent again as his eyes scanned the words and he digested the information. ‘I don’t know what to make of it. He says Dorothea was his mum.’

Poppy snorted her laughter through her nose. ‘That’s ridiculous! It’s obviously some kind of wind-up. Don’t you think my mum would have mentioned that she had a brother! It’s a joke, or one of them “Please send me your bank account details and pin number so I can randomly give you some of my inheritance and I promise not to rob you, honest!” Just bin it, Mart.’

He gathered up the letter again and reread it one more time. ‘It doesn’t sound like a wind-up. He says his name is Simon and he’s only a bloody vicar!’

Poppy placed her coffee cup on the table and gripped the back of the chair. Her nan’s words flooded her brain with clarity. It was like watching a replay on a screen. She pictured the residential home in which her nan had lived, could see the bright light coming from the neon strip in the hallway, could smell the disinfectant that coated the shiny floor. Poppy had been tired that day: Martin was in Afghanistan and she had been about to leave for home. She’d bent forward and kissed her nan’s forehead.

‘Goodnight, Nan. Sweet dreams.’

Her nan’s voice had boomed against her back, urgent and deliberate. ‘Simon. His name was Simon.’

Simon. Simon. That was what she had said and Poppy remembered it like it was yesterday.

‘You all right, Poppy? You’ve gone really pale.’ Martin’s words drew her into the present.

Poppy slid onto the chair and let her shoulders slump.

‘This is so weird, Mart. Years ago, when she was in the home, Nan told me she’d had a baby and she said his name was Simon. I thought it was just her dementia talking, you know what it was like. She told me so many things, including that she’d played the violin with the band on the
Titanic
.’ Poppy smiled at that memory. ‘But I remember this clearly and it struck me at the time that she was quite with it. She definitely said his name was Simon. I remember… Simon.’

‘Bloody hell, Poppy. So you think he’s kosher?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. And I seem to remember her talking about St Lucia as well, but I can’t quite recall what she said. It’ll come to me.’

Poppy took the sheet of paper that Martin slid over the tabletop and there it was. She read the information and reread it. He had apparently tracked down her mum and written to her, and Cheryl had given him Poppy’s address as the best contact.
Bloody typical.
Her stomach flipped; she felt confused with a frisson of excitement at the idea of this new man in their lives. No matter how unrelated, she couldn’t help but think that if this Uncle Simon could track her down, then maybe so could her dad…

‘What am I supposed to do now?’ Poppy asked.

Martin shrugged. ‘You don’t have to do anything at all, but if I were you, I’d call him. It’s exciting, having family you didn’t know about – and in St Lucia! Fancy that! It’s in the Caribbean, isn’t it?’

Poppy nodded. ‘I think so. Just think, Mart, all them tropical beaches with soft, powdery sand.’ Poppy closed her eyes and pictured lying on one in her bikini.

‘You should call your mum first, find out what it’s all about.’

Poppy looked at her husband. He knew how she dreaded contact with Cheryl.

‘Ooh, love, just think, he might be a multi-millionaire with a mansion and a great big boat!’ Martin laughed.

‘I doubt it, he’s a bloody vicar!’

‘Boat! Three… four…’ Max had a tendency to echo any word that caught his interest and throw in some figures for good measure.

‘My clever numbers boy.’ Poppy kissed her son on the cheek. ‘I suppose you’re right, Mart. I should call him.’ She hesitated. ‘You’d think my mum might have called me before giving out my details.’

‘Really? You know what she’s like…’ Martin let this trail.

Poppy got the message loud and clear. After all these years of lack of interest and poor judgement, did she really expect her mum to change?

Martin was right of course.

Poppy ran her fingers through her hair and gathered it into a ponytail before securing it with one of Peg’s elasticated pink bands. ‘I lived with my nan my whole life. I can’t believe she had a son that I knew nothing about.’

‘It must have been before she married Wally,’ Martin surmised.

‘I suppose so.’ Poppy twisted her mouth and reached for her mobile phone. Although she knew it would be the same time of day in Lanzarote, Cheryl sometimes worked all night at the bar and slept all day.

Martin looked at his watch. ‘Err… same as here, I think, at the moment. Give it a go. She can always ignore the call.’ He raised his eyebrows at her; they both knew she would do so without a moment’s hesitation.

Poppy closed her eyes and ran her palm over her face before punching the screen to locate her mum’s number. She hated calling her; was never sure of the reception she would get. She flexed her fingers and blinked at the screen.

‘S’all right, I’m here.’ Martin tried to reassure her.

‘Can I tell Cheryl that I’m getting a pet?’ Peg piped up.

‘We’ll see,’ Poppy whispered. It struck her like a tiny dagger, every time Peg referred to her mum as Cheryl and not Nan, although she understood, perfectly; Cheryl was a vague and distant character in the kids’ lives. Nan was a term that Cheryl had in no way earned, quite unlike Granny Claudia.

‘’Ello.’ Her voice was gruff, irritated.

‘Mum?’

‘Is that you, Poppy?’ Cheryl’s tone lifted slightly.

‘Yes.’ Poppy sighed. Who else in the world would call her ‘Mum’? Although as the point of the call was to enquire after an uncle that had appeared from nowhere, who knew what other skeletons lay in the cupboard?

‘Everything all right, love?’

Poppy heard the unmistakable sound of a flint sparking, probably igniting the first cigarette of the day.

‘Yes. Fine. Is this a good time to talk?’ Poppy hoped it wasn’t and that she could end the call. Put it off till later.

‘Yeah, go on. Me and Frank aren’t up yet, but he’s snoring like a bleedin’ whale and I can listen.’

Poppy cringed. She had no idea who Frank was, but she could picture him: another fat, sweaty, boozing lech. She had met enough of Cheryl’s ‘Franks’ throughout her childhood to know the type.

‘Right. It’s just that we got a letter today. A letter from St Lucia…’

Poppy paused, hoping that was enough information to prompt her mum’s response. Apparently it wasn’t.

She heard her mum draw deeply on her cigarette. ‘Oh yeah?’ She sounded uninterested.

Poppy continued. ‘From someone called Simon? Apparently you gave him my details. He says he’s my uncle. Your brother.’

The penny dropped. ‘Oh that,’ Cheryl said, as though they were discussing something of no consequence. ‘Blimey, that was a turn-up for the books, wasn’t it? Fancy Dot getting up to no good with a black man, dirty cow. And him being a vicar! I nearly wet meself laughing! I wonder, what would he have made of her and Wally – don’t think they ever went into a church, apart from when they were dead!’ Cheryl started one of her cackling laughs that quickly turned to wheezing and pretty soon she was emitting a throaty cough.

Poppy held the phone at arm’s length, wanting to distance herself from her mother’s germs and comments. Eventually she pulled the phone back towards her ear. ‘So what happened, Mum? Apparently he sent you a letter?’

Cheryl wasn’t finished. ‘Yeah, something like that. It was a while back. To tell the truth, I can’t be arsed with it, Poppy Day, but I thought you might like to hook up with him. I figured, I’ve managed my whole life without a brother, particularly some Holy Joe – don’t reckon I have the need of one now. Can you imagine? I’m a bit too far gone for saving. Unless you think I could become a nun – what d’you reckon, Frank? Shall I become a nun?’

Poppy couldn’t make out the growl of words that the recently awakened Frank issued at the suggestion. ‘Did Nan never mention it to you, Mum? I seem to remember her saying something to me before she died about a baby and his name was Simon, but as I said to Mart, I thought it was just her dementia talking. It’s quite amazing, isn’t it?’

‘If you say so, love.’ Cheryl took another drag on her ciggie. ‘How’s your lot?’

My lot…
Poppy wondered if her mum could actually recall their names. She looked at her blond-haired boy, pushing a piece of toast around the table as if it were a vehicle; at her husband standing close by, concern etched on his face, waiting to mop up the fallout that inevitably followed any contact with her mother; and at Peg, who was mouthing ‘Tell her we’re getting a pet!’ She smiled at all the family she needed, all the family that she had ever needed.

‘They’re wonderful, really wonderful. I’ll let you go, Mum. Speak soon.’

‘Oh. All right, love. Merry Christmas.’

Poppy closed her eyes. It was January the second. ‘Yes. Merry Christmas.’

Martin sat down next to his wife. ‘Well, that was quick. Did you learn anything?’

Poppy ran her fingers over the fine script of Simon’s handwriting, hoping that he was part of a family that made him feel safe and secure and that he was loved by someone in the way that she loved Martin; unlike Cheryl, who sadly had neither. Maybe Martin was right: it was exciting.

‘I learnt that my mum hasn’t changed a bit, her latest beau is called Frank and apparently he snores. Oh, and my uncle, her brother, the vicar who she has no interest in seeing, is black. That about sums it up.’

Martin laid his hand over his wife’s. ‘Wow!’

‘Yep,’ Poppy confirmed. ‘Wow.’

Peg raced ahead into the store as Poppy and Martin strolled at the pace of the pushchair-free Max, who was following slowly in her wake. By the time they caught up with her, she was chatting to Jackson, who was resplendent in his uniform polo shirt and baseball cap; he was apparently an expert on small pets, if the badge on his shirt was anything to go by. Poppy caught the tail end of Peg’s introduction.