Poppyland (26 page)

‘Mmm, yes, it's so fancy that I don't know how I could bear to bring it here,' I agree, delving through it. ‘Hey, look! I've got some shoes here you can borrow.' I am half undressed too, by now, and pass the shoes while diving into a pink dress I bought especially. It came with a warning that crumpled was best, that was why I bought it. ‘Oh my God, it's too tight.'

Lucy yanks at the dress. ‘No, you haven't undone the zip, stoopid. Let me see. GOD, that's so unsuitable – I want it. Hand it over. It's gorgeous, I am the eldest.'

‘But I look like a rhubarb fool.'

‘No – plum tart, I reckon. Oh my God, Grace, that's so NAUGHTY.' Lucy is stroking the dress longingly, holding up a limp flowery one which she is about to put on, unable to let go of mine. She quickly ducks her head, saying about her skirt, ‘Look at this, Grace – it came from Mum.'

She waves it bravely. I have unhooked the pink dress and am wriggling out of it. ‘Here, Luce, you wear this one, I want to wear Mum's.' I am good at being determined, Lucy knows that, and the challenge in my eyes, as well as the fact that Mac is shouting in a stage whisper from downstairs, ‘Quick, it's time, they're all arriving', stops Lucy protesting. Silently she takes the dress and pulls it over her head. I whistle under my breath. It's sexy, and just as Lucy said, most unsuitable. Thank God we've run out of time so she can't change. I wink at her.

‘Very good . . . Luce by name and loose by nature.'

‘Thank you, Grace. I haven't worn anything like this for years.' Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, and she looks about eighteen. I hold up Mum's chiffon thing and slide it over my head. It is completely see-through. Mum certainly didn't wear this with us around.

‘Oh shit.' I stare at the mirror in horror.

‘Don't worry, it's only the light in the bathroom. She had it from when she was about twenty, I thought it was quite demure.'

‘Lucy, you're a bloody liar! Maybe I should wear a cardigan, or will that just make it worse?'

‘It will when you take it off, and it's going to be hot.' Lucy is putting lipstick on and being the older sister by setting an example of hurrying and having good deportment.

Defiantly, I reach into my bag again and drag out the borderline hat. Borderline ridiculous. I pull off the tissue from the layers dyed dark purple, almost black, at the crown, turning to crimson like a poppy. ‘Look, shall I wear this?'

‘Oh Grace, I love it! Yes, definitely, you must wear it. Those colours remind me of that poem you read at Mum's funeral, you know. “The pansy freaked with jet.” You must wear it, it looks amazing. Honestly.'

Making faces at the mirror, I'm not sure. ‘It's a bit vampy,' I suggest, ‘and I don't want to give all Mac's aunts a bad impression. I want to be part of your family, not the black sheep.'

Lucy grabs my wrist. ‘No time to change anything now, we've GOT to go, poor Mac is holding the whole thing together on his own.' And then, as we
clatter down the stairs, she turns to me, her face stricken. ‘Do I really look like a tart in this dress?'

I raise my eyebrows back at her. ‘Yes, it's great isn't it?'

The small front garden is full of people I don't know. I place myself close behind Lucy and Mac, fascinated to see them among their friends and family.

‘This is Grace, Lucy's sister from New York.' Introducing and greeting, Mac and Lucy thread through the garden. ‘We should be heading to the church now. I've just got to find all the godparents.' Mac marches off around the side of the house, Lucy moves on towards the lawn where the children are playing with Aunt Irene in charge.

‘Hey, guys, meet Grace.' Lucy kisses a blonde woman and a man wearing a pale purple suit. I smile at them, and follow on in Lucy's wake. Briefly meeting Mac's family, I realise with a start that I am all there is left of Lucy's except for Aunt Sophie who cannot travel any more.

The garden is full of laughter and voices bubbling with enthusiasm. The apple tree by the gate has sprouted pink blossom, which almost seems to have happened since this morning. My shoe keeps slipping off my foot, when it's not sinking into the grass up to the top of the heel, so I crouch to tighten the strap. Everyone has started crossing the field towards the church, leaving silence a swathe behind them. A sudden chatter of birdsong pours out of the hedge beside me, and I try to look in without touching, guessing that I am close to a nest.

‘Are you really interested in that hedge?'

The voice is familiar yet unknown. I squeal in surprise and clap my hand over my mouth.

‘Oh God, you made me jump,' I mutter, my heart pounding, and everything contributing to self-consciousness in the peaceful summer garden. I have knocked over the flowers I was bringing in a small jug to put in the church porch. Crouching to pick them up, I push up the hat and find him beside me. He passes me a flopping sprig of lilac.

‘Here,' he says.

It is him. Ryder. The man from Denmark. My immediate thought is not ‘How weird'. It's, ‘I knew you would come.' I am so surprised that all native wit and intelligence desert me.

All I can say is, ‘Oh. It's you.' We look at one another for as long as it takes to blink, and I am so overwhelmed that I lapse into nervous superficial thoughts.

‘Oh bugger, why did I wear this freaky hat and see-through dress? I look like a tea lady, and my underwear shows, and in a minute I'll have to stand up; how can I hide?'

Ryder picks up another gasping bloom from where it had fallen, and threads it into the jug between my hands and he doesn't look away from my face.

‘So they're not your children,' he says. ‘And I want you to tell me what you saw in that hedge just now.'

My knees are about to give way, I stand up, and try to stand only half facing him. Thinking about my knickers is making me blush, and I am distracted and confused.

‘What? The girls? No, they're my sister's children.' He is very close to me.

‘I was looking for a nest in the hedge.'

He pulls a twig out of my hair and for a moment our eyes meet. I feel very shy, everyone has gone into the church, Lucy is beckoning from the door with the vicar, who looks like an angelic host in his long gown. I pull his sleeve, ‘Come on, it's time to go in. It's my sister's children's christening, you know.'

He nods, and a smile is breaking in his eyes. ‘I know, I'm a godfather,' he says. I stop and stare at him.

‘Are you Mac's friend?'

‘Yes. Does being a godfather make me related to my god-daughter's aunt?'

I have to cross my arms to make my dress more decent as we walk through the churchyard. ‘Only distantly,' I tease him back.

We are almost at the door when he glances across and adds, ‘I am so glad.'

‘What? About the christening?'

‘No, that they are not your children.'

‘Yes, me too. Though of course they are lovely, but . . .' I suddenly realise that he is THAT friend of Mac's. The one with the sister, and as if I am having a divine experience, another understanding crystallises as we step into the church porch. Everyone else is inside and the vicar is saying something, his voice full of soothing cadences like a cooing pigeon in the shady summer space of the church. I put my hand on Ryder's sleeve to stop him and I whisper, ‘What do
you mean? Why would the children be mine? What children are you talking about, anyway?'

‘Yesterday I saw you on the beach,' he whispers. We are inside the doors now, he touches my back to guide me in and excitement races as clear as a bell.

‘Oh God. Was that you?' All the fragments are rushing together and the picture suddenly makes beautiful sense. A lot of people are looking at us, and Lucy is making a ‘hurry up' face.

In a moment I turn to him and I can't stop myself saying, ‘I'm so pleased I've seen you again.'

Ryder
Norfolk

She smells of patchouli. A trace of it lingers like smoke next to him as he takes his place in a pew a few rows behind Grace where she has joined Mac and Lucy. Ryder smiles apologetically at the person next to him, and bows his head, relieved to have a spell of quiet contemplation thrust upon him for a while. Grace is Lucy's sister. Ryder finds he is experiencing a strong sense of completion.

All the way to Winterton, every moment until he saw Mac, he was haunted by thoughts of Bonnie, and how he could make it up to her memory that the children whose christening he was attending were not hers. It was irrational, but nothing to do with grief has ever been rational in Ryder's experience, and his sister was so clear in his heart that he could see her long dark hair, her laughing eyes and her dimpled smile. Of course, Bonnie never asked him to make up for
anything, but Ryder's need to do so sat like a lump in his throat.

He pulled up outside the gate of Chapel Farm Cottages and parked the car across the road. The house was low, built of knapped flint, most of the windows upstairs were open, and anyone leaning out of one would be able to reach a hand up and touch the rosy-tiled roof. No one was leaning out, but as Ryder shut the gate behind himself, a man, tall in a dark suit, appeared in the doorway and raised a hand in greeting. It was Mac, older, of course, but with the same silhouette, the same imprint on the world.

‘Hey, Ryder,' he said, and walking over to Ryder he had a smile breaking, ‘it's so good to see you.' Their arms wrapped around one another in a bear hug, and Ryder's heart was hammering so he could only just speak.

‘I am here at last,' he said.

Mac nodded, gripping Ryder's hand. ‘I'm so glad you could come, you know.'

‘Me too,' said Ryder, ‘though I've been worrying like hell that I won't make the grade with the vicar. Or with Bella. What's her take on the day?'

‘Oh, she's excited – mostly, it has to be said, about the cake which she helped make, and which she has been licking secret dollops of whenever she can get near it.'

Mac and Ryder, hands in pockets, hovered together on the lawn in front of the house, talking about nothing, getting over the initial enormity of seeing one another. After a few minutes they moved inside.
Ryder looked around, absorbing the happy chaos. He was beginning to recognise a few key elements – miniature shoes scattered about, dolls looking like victims of domestic violence, and a lot of low-level stacking and tidying.

Following Mac through the kitchen and into a hall with a flag-stoned floor which bowed in the middle with hundreds of years of wear, he felt his heart thudding again. It was a big deal coming all the way here, meeting Mac's wife and their children. But most of all, it was a big deal to see Mac again. All of it brought a layer of acceptance he hadn't realised he was looking for.

‘I'm afraid we have no space downstairs that isn't carpeted with dolls,' apologised Mac. ‘I've got used to it now, and I've noticed a tendency for the plastic nightmare to creep into some of my editorial work as well.' He grinned. ‘But I'm hoping I'll grow out of it soon.' Mac stepped around a pink doll's pram which had been crashed into the bottom of the stairs and opened the door into a sunny room where a cat lay curled asleep on a crocheted blanket in front of the fireplace.

‘You've got plenty here for inspiration though,' said Ryder, forgetting the rest of his thoughts as he noticed the two small girls perched on the arms of a big yellow sofa. How very odd. Not being a small-child expert, Ryder was inclined to doubt himself, but looking at these two, he would put hard cash on them being the ones from the beach yesterday. Same size, same hair. How many could there be like this in Norfolk?

Suddenly every whirling emotion he had experienced in the past few weeks collided within him and he had a sense that he might explode. Mac and the girl from Denmark? Surely not? But why not? No, it doesn't fit. Oh God. It can't.

Through the mist in his head he heard Mac explaining something to him, ‘Lucy's upstairs changing, and I doubt she'll be ready before we are meant to be there, so I'll introduce you to my little ones.' Lucy. Ryder pulled himself back into sense. And in his head he reminded himself that she is called Lucy. He knew that perfectly well. Not Grace. Maybe they aren't the ones from the beach? After all, isn't one small adorable blond infant very much like another? Surely? He stared again at the little girls, and noticed they both had riding hats on. With party dresses and solemn expressions.

‘What are they doing?'

‘They're under starters order,' explained Mac. ‘They've got the Derby coming up to compete with their christening.'

‘Are they into gambling?'

‘Oh yes,' said Mac, mock-serious as he pulled a betting slip from his pocket. ‘They've each taken a punt today. Bella's on a long shot, Fuse Line, at fifteen to one, and Cat's gone for the second favourite, Dutch Landscape. I reckon she'll be in the money.'

Sparkling eyes stared up at Ryder and Mac. Ryder smiled and put down the bag he had been carrying. ‘I like the look they've got,' he said, ‘hats are great.'

Mac sat down on the sofa between his daughters and bounced them into his arms, where they fell in a giggling heap.

‘Bella and Cat, here is Ryder, and he is my great old friend.'

Frankly, Ryder thought, the children looked as though they could take or leave him. He removed his sunglasses from on top of his head and tucked them in a pocket instead and proffered the bag hopefully.

‘I've got some Barbie dolls for you.' He was embarrassed by how shy he felt, how humbled by the vibrant innocence and sweetness of these children. Both of them looked suspiciously at the bag. ‘They used to belong to some little girls called Amy and Rachel,' he added, ‘and they asked me to give them to you two.'

He had no idea where this had come from, and had forgotten that he knew the names of Anthea's children, but it seemed to be the right thing to say.