‘Is it messing with your head, being here?’ Poppy asks, closing the karaoke book and giving me her full attention. I nod, not really wanting to get into it with her. We’re in this incredibly strange position where only the two of us know what the other is going through, but neither of us is quite able to offer comfort or consolation. We’re still like prickly cacti, trying our best but constantly spiking each other by accident.
‘I get that,’ she replies, reaching out to touch my hand but thinking better of it at the last minute and snatching it away. ‘It’s hard. Being in all the places she’s been, seeing her friends, finally being part of her life but doing it too late.
‘It’s like we’re retreading her footsteps and she could appear at any moment, isn’t it? I feel the same way – as soon as I walked in here, I remembered that New Year’s Eve we had together … anyway. I can’t deal with all of that right now. I need to switch off for a bit, if that makes sense, or I might spontaneously combust. I’m just planning on drinking and flirting my way through it tonight.’
I’m jealous of her ability to do either of those things, but am saved from further conversation by the arrival of Lewis, looming above us in all his bulk. He really is enormous, and still dressed in a suit and waistcoat, even in the pub on a Friday night.
‘Ladies,’ he says, nodding in greeting. ‘It’s nice to see you again. I’m delighted that you made it to K at least. I trust you’re both keeping well?’
‘If by “well” you mean “nervous wrecks”, then yes, thank you Lewis, we’re doing fine,’ replies Poppy, raising her eyebrows at him, her tone slightly snippy. I still don’t think she’s forgiven him for giving me the keys to the cottage.
‘Yes, thanks Lewis,’ I add, hastily. ‘Thanks for everything – for looking after our mother like you did. We really appreciate it.’
‘There’s nothing to thank me for,’ he says, smiling. ‘Every moment I spent in your mother’s company was a privilege. I look forward to seeing your performances later.’
With a polite nod he ambles off, making his way through the crowds to sit in the far corner. The corner where Mum always used to sit. I’m probably imagining it, but I think he looks so sad, so lonely, sitting there on his own – as though the other half of him is missing.
‘Right. I’m going to chat Jake up a bit more, get another drink, and start on the karaoke. Are you with me?’ says Poppy, standing up and looking determined.
‘No,’ I say simply, ‘but knock yourself out.’
She shrugs, and I look on as she shimmies through the pub, attracting admiring glances as she goes. Still gorgeous, like she was as a teenager – but these days, she knows it.
I sit mainly alone for the rest of the night, chatting to a few passing people who stop and express their sympathies, to Tasmin again, and to Gloria Lubbock, our old head teacher, who seems unbearably disappointed that I never gained my PhD. She was hoping for her first doctor, she says.
Poppy sings the Girls Aloud track, which brings the house down, and Tasmin does ‘Like A Virgin’, and even Lewis gets in on the act, doing a splendidly dignified version of ‘My Way’. I manage to get through ‘Big Spender’ purely on adrenalin, acting it the way I thought my mother would act it, pretending I’m not me, but someone far sexier – someone farmers would like to watch waggling her huge hips.
It goes surprisingly well, and someone yells ‘eat your heart out Shirley Bassey!’ as I stagger back to my seat. Nobody has been hostile at all, everyone has in fact been incredibly kind, and somehow that is making me feel worse – like I don’t deserve their kindness. Perhaps I’d feel better if they chased me on to the village green and whipped me with sticks.
After a couple of hours, I am desperate to go back to the cottage and pull the duvet over my head, but Poppy is feeling extremely merry and shows no inclination to end the evening at all. It seems to have become an unwritten rule of the A–Z that at least one of us must be drunk at all times.
‘Can we go soon?’ I ask, as she brings me yet another glass of Coke.
‘Not yet, Rose … please? I’ve put us down for one more song. After that, I promise I’ll come. Or you can go, at least, and I’ll make my own way back.’
‘By make your own way back, do you mean spend the night with Tasmin Hughes’s son and do the walk of shame through the village in the morning?’
‘Maybe I do, and maybe I do …’ she replies, grinning. She looks happy and, much as I want to resent her for it, I don’t seem to have it in me. Progress of sorts, I suppose.
‘One more song,’ I say, like a stern mum relenting on one battle in a long war.
‘One more,’ she says, ‘for Mum. We’ll do “Summer Nights” – bagsy being Danny …’
Chapter 43
Poppy
When I get back to the cottage the next morning, I find Rose already up and about – unsurprising as it is almost midday – pottering in the garden, a duster in her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, walking barefoot towards her, sandals dangling from my fingers. ‘Polishing the geraniums?’
She looks up at me, as though I’ve caught her out doing something sinful, and replies: ‘No. I was dusting the garden gnomes’ heads. You didn’t walk all the way from the village like that, did you?’
‘Nah,’ I reply, collapsing on to the grass and stretching out. The sun is warm on my face, and the blue tits and their friends are tweeting away so much it feels like something out of a Disney cartoon. ‘Jake gave me a lift to the end of the lane.’
I shield my face from the sun, and squint up at her. All I notice is her eyes – those big, beautiful eyes that are so much like my mother’s. That image goes perfectly with her disapproving expression, and her stern voice as she asks: ‘Did you have sex with Tasmin Hughes’s son?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘we stayed up all night listening to music, and just talked and talked and talked … it was so special. It’s like we’re soul mates or something.’
