I suppose, perhaps, that I need to change it. I’ll never be like Poppy – I was never as limber or as agile, even when we were little – but I could most definitely be a new and improved version of myself. Maybe, by the time I bring Joe back here, I’ll be able to actually enjoy it, instead of wheezing like a vandalised steam engine.
Poppy is standing still at the summit, a few feet away and, as I look up at her, I see a strange expression on her face. I’d expected contempt, possibly disgust, but instead, I see … sympathy. For some reason, this makes me feel even worse, and I put on as much of a sprint as I can to catch up with her.
By the time I do, she is opening the hamper, making herself busy – deliberately, I suspect, to give me the chance to catch my breath again. Allowing me some dignity as I suck in air. A small kindness that I don’t want to be on the receiving end of.
She pulls the achingly familiar black-and-red tartan blanket out, gathers it into her fists, and sniffs it so hard it looks as if she is inhaling it whole. I screw my eyes shut, and try not to cry. I know what she is doing – she is looking for the lost traces of our mother – and it is like a punch to the heart. I fight the urge to run at her, snatch the bobbled fleece from her hands, and do exactly the same.
She throws it out, and stretches it over the shaggy grass, and starts to unpack the picnic. So much for an apple, a pear and a Mars Bar if you dare – there’s practically the entire contents of a posh deli here. Slivers of Parma ham, smoked salmon, a chunk of Brie, cherries, nectarines. Granary bread rolls, pastries, a small glass jar of duck paté. Just as I think she’s finished, she produces a box of Ritz crackers and a plastic tub of cocktail sausages. My childhood favourites.
‘I didn’t know if you still liked these …’ she says, looking vaguely embarrassed. As though remembering has somehow rendered her less impressive.
‘Of course I do,’ I reply, lowering myself to the ground. ‘You don’t get a figure like this without comfort food, Poppy. And I guess I’ve needed a lot of comfort over the years.’
She looks up at me sharply, and actually bites her lip so hard it bleeds. Like she’s snatching back sharp words. Like what I’ve just said has been perceived as a dig, which I suppose, from her point of view, it could have been. It wasn’t a dig – not at her, at least – but I don’t have the energy to explain the complexities of my current self-loathing, and instead distract us both by tearing open the box.
We sit, and we eat – some more than others – and we sip the chilled bottles of Buck’s Fizz that she’s brought with her.
Afterwards, full and very slightly tipsy, I lie back in the sunlight, letting it warm my face, screwing my eyes shut against the glare. I try to pretend that I am alone here, or at least with someone I want to be with, like Joe or my mum, and let my mind wander. Poppy stays sitting, her knees drawn up sharply to her stomach, clasped into the embrace of her own arms. She’s wound so tight she could explode at any moment.
‘We came up here with Patch, didn’t we, on the day he died?’ she asks, staring off into the distance.
‘Yeah, I think so,’ I reply, swatting away a fly and hoping no wasps come and join the party. ‘She said it was his last hurrah, and we carried him the last bit. Poor thing was knackered.’
‘Then we had one of Mum’s special garden funerals, didn’t we?’
I nod, and wonder why she’s picking on this particular memory. Mum had asked us to remember the good times, and we’re here talking about a dead dog. Maybe that’s all she can come up with – and I suppose, in a way, it is part of the good times. Mum’s garden funerals were always quite the occasion, and Patch’s was no exception.
‘She read that poem she’d written – an “Ode to Terriers”, or something like that,’ I say. ‘And played “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by the Rolling Stones so loud that all the magpies squawked out of the trees and flew away.’
‘But instead of singing “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” in the chorus, we all sang “Jumpin’ Jack Russell” … yeah. Well. As we’ve already established, she was a bit of a nutter … shall we do it, then?’
‘Do what?’ I ask. I’m feeling so physically wrung out that I am actually starting to relax a little – the walk, and the sunshine, and the food, and the lack of oxygen, have squeezed at least some of the tension out of me. For a tiny second, I had simply been feeling warm and content, lying in the sunshine, losing myself in the moment.
‘The ashes thing,’ Poppy replies, turning to give me a look that makes me feel about as useful as pickled walnut. As though I’ve forgotten why we’re here, because I’m such a knob, and she’s had to remind me. Like she’s had to pack the picnic, and drive the car, and sort out the whole shebang. It is a look that immediately drains me of all contentment, and any fleeting sense of relaxation, and puts all my nerve endings back on high alert.
I would quite like to punch her in her perfectly skinny face, but that would not be in the spirit of the A–Z of Everything, I remind myself. I can’t fail on A, I just can’t. I need to at least hold out until M for Murder if I want to kill her.
I climb to my feet – this takes a while – and nod. I get the box out of the Bag 4 Life, and try not to engage with any potential ickiness. This, as my mother said in that letter, is not her – this is simply what is left of her body. It’s not the most important thing about her, and I must not allow myself to collapse at this stage.
I can’t stop the tears from filling my eyes, though, as I open the horrible thing up. I look at my sister, and see that she is crying too. She nods once, acknowledging what is happening, not even trying to hide her tears, and takes the box from my now trembling hands.
This is what we came here to do, at least in part – and yet I still don’t feel ready. I don’t feel ready to give her up, throw her away, cast her aside. To admit that she is gone.
‘Come on,’ says Poppy, firmly. ‘We can do this. It’s what she wanted. We can’t take her home and keep her in an urn on the mantelpiece – it’s not what she asked for. We’re here, and it’s a beautiful day, and there will never be a good time to do this, so we might as well get it over with. We’ll do this, and we’ll save some for Lewis, and then we’ll move on to “B”.’
‘What is “B”?’ I ask, not really caring right now but wanting to put off the inevitable. ‘Have you looked?’
‘It’s a recipe, bizarrely. And a card. We’ll read it properly tonight. Are you ready?’
She lunges towards me, and I have a momentary panic – maybe she wants to punch me in the face, too – until I realise that she was just swatting away a wasp. She always was good at that; a fearless warrior in my ongoing battle with the stingers.
‘No,’ I reply, honestly. ‘But I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. So let’s just do it.’
Poppy nods, opens the folds of the box, and starts to whirl around, energetically throwing the ashes in all directions, whooshing them into the sky as she spins. I’m glad there’s only a gentle breeze, and it whirls away in small clouds, taking what feels like forever. It’s actually quite shocking how much there is in there, for such a tiny woman.
‘“Goddess Good and Goddess Fair”,’ chants Poppy, as she whirls, ‘“we cast our mother to your care … Goddess Good and Goddess Fit, keep her out of that cow shit …”’
Ah, Poppy. She always did have a way with words. A way of expressing herself that wasn’t quite like anybody else’s.
