Will You Remember Me? (6 page)

Poppy felt it beneath her fingers, squeezed it and skimmed it with the flat of her hand, making sure she hadn’t imagined it, seeing if it might move. It didn’t. She then checked on the other side of her torso, hoping to find the little mound mirrored on the opposite side of her body, making it nothing out of the ordinary but simply a little part of herself that she had previously been unaware of. Hidden. Like one of Jupiter’s regularly revealed new moons, or the flabby whalefish discovered in New Zealand at the bottom of the ocean – always there, just undiscovered. Maybe this was like that, a little nub that had always been present but that she had somehow missed, nothing to worry about.

She raised her arm above her head as her hopeful fingers systematically explored the white skin beneath it, inching across the area from her chest to her ribs. Poppy swallowed the disappointment. There wasn’t one on the other side. Nothing, no matter how vigorously she searched.

Instinctively she went back to the lump. She felt a little faint and realised that she was still holding her breath. She exhaled and leant her head on the shower door.

This little thing, no bigger than a baked bean, was large enough to leave her shivering inside the cubicle despite the water temperature, which was if anything a fraction too hot. It was a small nodule but it left Poppy feeling sick with foreboding. The bean-sized lump was already casting a shadow the size of a boulder over her and her family.

Poppy turned off the water and climbed out of the shower cubicle, then wrapped herself in the one big bath towel they owned, a huge sheet that had been a present from Claudia the previous year. She wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at her reflection.

Instantly, Poppy saw a face looming over her shoulder. Her nan’s face. She was smiling and gave a little nod before she spoke. ‘The world keeps turning, girl. Life goes on.’

And Poppy knew, just like that. She knew exactly how the story of this little lump would unfold. She touched her fingers to the node and gazed at the mirror as Dot disappeared into the ether. Her nan was right: the world would keep on turning, no matter what.

Poppy turned and looked around the empty bathroom before placing her hand on the space in the mirror where her nan had appeared. She let out a deep sigh.

Philip Grant OBE, 72, passed away peacefully at home. Devoted husband of Jenny and father of Kate and Emma. Philip was an ex Royal Marine and lifelong supporter of the RNLI, which is where we would like donations sent instead of flowers. Thank you for all your kind wishes at this time.

Poppy wondered what Philip had died of. It irritated her when they didn’t say – not that it was any of her business, she was just nosey. She folded the paper and left it on the table with the out-of-date gardening magazines and the ten identical copies of the local glossy, which was full of adverts for boutiques and flooring shops and included an article on how to make your own bird feeder out of a pair of tights and some leftover stuffing. Her name was flashing on the new hi-tech system in the surgery. She was to report to Room 4, apparently.

Poppy gathered up her coat and scarf, which kept the winter chill from her skin, and made her way along the corridor, noting the garish royal blue carpet squares and yellow walls.

The door to Room 4 was ajar. ‘Hello! Come in!’ A cheery voice beckoned her inside.

Poppy hadn’t met the lady doctor before. She was smiley, rosy-cheeked and make-up-free. She looked to Poppy like the type that would wear hand-knitted jumpers, take brisk walks and pack a flask of soup for the occasion.

‘Hi there, Mrs Cricket. I’m Dr Jessop, what can I do for you today?’ She cut to the chase. No matter how friendly, time was of the essence. There was a roomful of people out there, some snivelling into damp tissues and others with hacking coughs, all waiting to see their name up in lights.

Poppy dumped her coat, scarf and bag on the floor as she sat down. ‘Oh, well, it’s probably nothing, but I’ve found a lump. Just here.’ It was Poppy’s turn to cut to the chase. She pointed through her shirt to the space just behind her bra strap.

‘Oh, right. Do you mind if I have a look?’

The smiley doctor sat forward as Poppy undid the buttons and shrugged her left arm from her top. She placed her hand behind her back, exposing as much of the area as possible.

‘I’m just going to have a little prod, if that’s okay?’

‘Sure.’ Poppy smiled, embarrassed.

Dr Jessop rubbed her palms together before laying her hand on the lump and pushing at it with her index finger. Poppy watched as her smile slipped a little.

‘And you noticed it when?’ The doctor’s fingers pushed, patted and pushed again, then felt the skin around it.

‘Couple of days ago, when I was in the shower. I mean, it’s weird, really, I shower every night and yet I’ve never felt it before.’

‘Is it causing you any pain, weeping at all?’

Poppy shook her head. No and no. ‘It’s a little tender around it, but that’s probably where
I’ve
been having a prod.’ She gave a small laugh as she borrowed the doctor’s phrase.

‘I don’t like the look of it,’ the doctor stated, quite matter-of-factly, ‘but nothing to worry about, not at this stage. Let’s get it looked at by an expert and we can go from there. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds fine.’ Poppy had so many questions, but they all felt a little premature, embarrassing. Suppose it turned out to be nothing? She would wait.

The GP tapped at her keyboard. ‘I’m referring you to the breast cancer clinic, just to be on the safe side. The process is all quite joined up, so I’ll be kept in the loop and they can see you in…’ She ran her finger across the screen and clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Ten days. Shall I book that for you?’

Poppy nodded.
Breast cancer clinic… Holy shit.
‘Yes, thank you.’

The words ‘breast cancer clinic’ had tripped off the doctor’s tongue, but even hearing them spoken out loud filled Poppy with a cold dread. She decided to keep it to herself. No point causing a fuss, not with Martin only just home and going back to work with his unit and Peg starting a new term. She’d tell Martin when it was all over.

‘Mum!’ Peg shouted the second Poppy placed her key in the door. ‘Come and see what Toffee can do!’ She grabbed her mum’s hand and ran with her to the corner of the dining area, where Toffee’s monstrous cage, the guinea pig equivalent of Center Parcs, had pride of place.

‘Kneel down here.’ Peg pointed to the floor next to where she crouched. Poppy did as she was told and knelt in front of the cage. She watched as Peg held a sliver of carrot through the bars. ‘Right, Toffee, come on, remember what I taught you, say “din-dins”!’

Poppy collapsed on the floor in a heap, rendered helpless with laughter. She clutched at her sides and laughed until her tears pooled.

‘It’s not funny, Mummy! I’ve been teaching him since I got in from school!’

‘You’ve been teaching him to speak?’ she managed through her giggles.

‘Yes! And he can say “din-dins” and “goodbye”.’ Peg folded her arms across her chest, infuriated by her mum’s response.

Martin came in from the garden. ‘What’s so funny, girls?’

‘Mummy’s being a bit mean to me.’ Peg pouted.

‘I’m sorry, love, I can’t help it.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Peg has spent the time allocated for her homework teaching Toffee to speak and apparently he can now say “din-dins” and “goodbye”.’

Martin sniggered and leant on the table. ‘Well, that is wonderful. I’ve always wondered how I can make my million! We have a talking guinea pig, whoohoo!’ He clapped his hands. ‘I’m phoning the BBC right now.’

‘I hate you both.’ Peg jumped up and flounced from the room, then vaulted up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

Poppy trod the stairs and knocked as she entered Peg’s bedroom. Her little girl was curled on top of the duvet, facing the wall. Poppy sat on the edge of the mattress and stroked Peg’s back.

‘I’m sorry I laughed. I think it’s wonderful that you have the patience to teach Toffee to talk.’

Peg rolled over. ‘I was really good all day today, Mum, but I still wasn’t picked to be register monitor.’

‘Oh well, that doesn’t matter, love.’

Peg’s bottom lip trembled. ‘It matters to me.’

‘Come here.’ Poppy gathered up her daughter and hugged her into her chest. She winced as Peg’s small hand came within inches of the lump that sat like a secret between them.

‘It’ll all be okay, Peg. Going back to school, new term, Daddy coming home, all of that stuff can make you feel a bit out of sorts, but it will all be okay. Everything will settle down, you’ll see.’

‘Promise?’ Peg sniffed and wiped her nose on her mum’s shirt.

‘I promise.’ Poppy closed her eyes and hoped that she wasn’t lying.

* * *

Ten days later, Peg was still exhausted from being back at school, bodily shocked at having to get up early every morning and concentrate for six or so hours a day. She and Max were already tucked up in bed, leaving Martin to eat his supper in peace and Poppy to get on with the washing-up, her arms immersed up to her elbows in the suds.

Martin tucked into his shepherd’s pie with relish. ‘This is lovely, Pop. I really missed your cooking while I was away.’

‘Blimey, the food must have been bad!’ She laughed.

‘Don’t put yourself down, you’re a smashing cook. Even if your repertoire is a bit limited, what you do, you do really well.’ He beamed at her as he filled his mouth with mashed potato.

‘Thank you – I think.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I can’t work out if you are being nice or having a dig.’

‘What have you done today?’ he asked, casually, as he always did, only half listening to her response.

She answered in the same manner. ‘Oh, you know, took Peg to school, dropped Maxy with Jo, went to that dentist appointment I told you about…’ She turned away from him: easier to lie without looking him in the face.

‘All okay?’ he enquired as he reached for the bottle of ketchup that he would quite happily slather over any and every dish of cooked food.

She nodded.
Yes, all okay. They took a biopsy and it hurt and I had a scan and gave some blood. They’ll call me in three to ten days and give me the results. Even being in the building made me feel really, really scared. I’m really scared, Mart.

‘Do you want some pud?’ she asked, brightly. ‘I’ve got some ice cream, I could open a tin of peaches to go with it?’

‘See! And there’s you saying you aren’t all cordon bleu! Peaches and ice cream would be lovely.’

Poppy reached for the sauce bottle. ‘I assume you don’t want this on your ice cream?’

‘No, of course not. I don’t need to disguise the taste of that.’

‘You cheeky sod!’ She swiped at the back of his head with her cupped palm.

‘Tell you what, why don’t we Skype Simon after tea? Shall I look and see what the time is in St Lucia?’ Martin was animated.

‘’Fyalike.’ Poppy felt nervous. She watched as, between mouthfuls, Martin opened his laptop on the table. Almost immediately the Google result showed that it was half three in the afternoon.

‘Come on, Pop, that’s a good time, let’s do it!’

‘I don’t know…’ She squirmed, biting her bottom lip.

‘I’m right by your side. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, then we can cut the connection, make out it was a technical problem. And if you don’t like him or he’s a weirdo, we need never contact him again!’ Martin placed the last of his supper in his mouth and pushed the meat and mash-smeared plate away from him.

Poppy knew he wasn’t going to give up. ‘Okay, then.’ She combed her fingers through her hair and pulled her T-shirt sleeves down, then ran her tongue over her teeth.

Martin opened the Skype site and tapped in the details Simon had sent, asking to be accepted as a contact. Simon was obviously prepared, keen and online; it came back with an almost immediate yes.

‘Oh God! Supposing he’s a right religious nutter or something?’ She pulled a face at Martin.

‘Then it’s Plan A, remember? We end the call and say it was a technical fault. This’ll be easy. You ready?’

Poppy shook her head, but Martin clicked on the contact anyway and before she had a chance to panic, the call was being answered.

And just like that, there he was. Her uncle. Smiling at her from St Lucia. Poppy felt an inexplicable wave of sadness that she was unprepared for: what wouldn’t Dorothea have given to be connected to her son via a couple of clicks, just once in all those years.

He looked like a big man, with a wide smile showing perfect teeth, and hair that sat in braids that reached his shoulders. He was wearing a white T-shirt that showed off his muscled neck and chest. Despite being a couple of years older than Cheryl, he looked a lot younger.

Simon shook his head and when he spoke, he too sounded quite choked with emotion. He beamed at her from the screen. ‘Well, well, well. I must admit, Poppy, I am feeling quite nervous!’ His voice was slow and deep.

‘Oh God, me too.’ Poppy swallowed and regretted using the word God – was it okay when talking to vicars? She didn’t really know. ‘You sound a bit American.’

‘Ah, Canadian actually. That was where I grew up and went to school.’

‘Was it cold there?’ Poppy felt the spread of a blush.
Was it cold?
She didn’t know why she’d said that! She wiped her hands on her arms to remove the cool layer of sweat from her palms and gulped to moisten her dry mouth. Her nervousness was palpable.

‘Yes, sometimes very. Bit different to here.’ Simon leant back and moved to the right and Poppy could see the lush green of spiky plants and palm trees against a bright, blue sky. He was sitting on a veranda of sorts.

‘Oh wow! That looks beautiful!’

‘It is.’ Simon came back into focus. ‘And you guys are in Wiltshire?’

‘Yes, it’s cold and dark right now, night time. Do you know Wiltshire?’ Again she shook her head, feeling as if she kept saying the wrong thing.

‘I went to Bath and then Stonehenge once and you are near there, right?’

Poppy nodded. He had been that close to her home… ‘Yes, very near.’