Ten Stories About Smoking (4 page)

She’d only met Poppy on a few occasions, all of them at their mother and father’s house in Ashford. Each and every time, the child had refused to leave her side.
Perhaps it was the pink streak in her hair, or the holes in her jeans, or the way she sounded so deep and gruff like a man when she sang; whatever it was, it intoxicated Poppy, and confused
Linda.

In anticipation of Poppy’s birthday, Linda had been knitting her a jumper. Though the September sun was burning that day, it had been a damp and depressing summer, perfect weather for a
pullover. Linda had picked out the pattern herself – pink with white horses on the front – and had guessed at its size, hoping it would fit. She was pleased with the way it had turned
out.

The process of making it had been hugely pleasurable; each evening, after coming back from the bookshop, she would sit and drink whisky, smoke cigarettes and knit. She got out all her old vinyl
and CDs, ones she hadn’t listened to for years; songs that she had loved with devotion, but had, for one reason or another, neglected. Every night, the jumper’s slow progress was
soundtracked by hardcore and hair metal, dustbowl ballads and country rock, traditional folk and free jazz. One night her neighbour, a pinched divorcee, banged on her door. When she answered,
knitting in hand, he asked if he could possibly come in and listen to the Ella Fitzgerald record she was playing. She offered him a beanbag by the chimney breast, and he sat all the way through
Clap Hands, Here Comes Charlie!
After a couple of whiskies he looked red-eyed and far away. As he left he gave her ten pounds for the drinks. She took it without qualm.

‘I’ve brought Poppy a present,’ Linda said, cutting across Daniel. ‘I know her birthday’s not till next week, but . . .’

‘Oh, Linda, you didn’t need to do that,’ he said, the froth from his ale creamy on his top lip. ‘Just having you here is enough for Poppy, believe me.’

‘Well, if I can’t spoil my niece, who can I spoil?’ Linda said. She finished her cigarette and mashed the coal into the ashtray.

‘Thank you, I’m sure Poppy will love it,’ Daniel said and put the beer mug down on the table. He looked pleased; then his smile waned. There was a tentative silence, clicked
away by birds and grasshoppers.

‘Things seem so far away, here,’ she said, ‘so very far away.’

‘It’s certainly relaxing,’ Daniel said, ‘though the commute is a bitch sometimes.’ There was another pause, Linda lit another cigarette; it had been a long
journey.

‘And you’re sure you’re okay?’ Daniel said. ‘It must have been. I don’t know . . .’

Behind a cloud of smoke, Linda laughed. She looked at him now, his face stricken with the possibility that she might break down and spill the whole wretched tale. Part of her wanted to; but she
spared him, and herself, and instead shook her head.

‘I’m okay. Honestly. I have my good days and my bad, but mostly it’s all okay.’

‘And, of course, there are options, I hear—’

‘Daniel,’ she said with a sigh. ‘When I said things seem far away here, that was a good thing, okay. Can we just leave it at that?’

Daniel nodded and got up to get more drinks. For a moment there was nothing again but the sound of the birds and the grasshoppers, then Poppy reappeared clutching a piece of paper.

‘Auntie Linda, look, I’ve drawn you a picture.’

Linda hooked her fringe behind her ear and invited Poppy onto her lap. It was a child’s drawing: out of proportion and garish. Still it was easy to tell who it was supposed to be. For a
moment Linda didn’t say anything, then remembered herself.

‘It’s very pretty,’ she said.

‘It’s you,’ Poppy said, pointing to the stickish replica. ‘You and me.’

‘I look sad,’ Linda said. Poppy nodded.

‘Oh but I’m not sad, Poppy,’ she said. ‘How can I be sad with you around?’ and with that she tickled Poppy who writhed and wriggled and screamed in her
auntie’s arms.

When Daniel came back with the drinks, Christina was behind him. Linda stopped the tickling and the shrieking subsided. Poppy clambered off her aunt and ran to her mother.

‘Look Mummy, Auntie Linda’s here!’

‘I can see that, Poppy,’ Christina said.

Linda got up from her chair and accepted a kiss on both cheeks from her sister-in-law. Her perfume smelled expensive, the kind that lingered in the bookstore after rich women
had shopped there. Christina wore the scent lightly though, as though she’d almost forgotten she’d applied it. Her hair had been recently cut closely, feathered to show off her delicate
features. There was an easiness to the way she carried herself, a quiet yet palpable confidence. She was dressed in dark jeans, ankle boots, and a checked shirt. Though Linda was tall, in
Christina’s presence this was no advantage.

‘Good journey?’ she said.

‘Yes, fine,’ Linda replied. ‘Apart from the bus.’

‘Oh I am glad. But you must let us pick you up next time, it really is no bother,’ she said, putting her hand on Poppy’s head. ‘Anyway, are you ready for the
tour?’

Beer in hand, Linda ummed and ahed as Christina – with Poppy as accomplice – explained about boutiques and designers, storage space and bespoke radiators. It was an
endless tour of endless hallways with endless doors. Had she been tested on it, as a memory exercise, Linda would not have scored well; there was just too much to take in. Over three floors she saw
bedrooms of various sizes, two home offices with views over the garden, several bathrooms and cloakrooms and at least four reception rooms. Yet only two rooms made any kind of impression upon
her.

The family room – as Christina described it – was warm and comforting. Linda could imagine them together, the three of them, watching television with their legs tucked underneath
their bodies, laughing. There was a lavish fireplace and two big red sofas, so inviting and soft you could sleep there as soundly as in one of the house’s many beds. Above the hearth was a
triptych of photos that had been printed onto canvas. Linda knew that should anything happen to her brother’s family, these were the photos that would be given to the television and the
newspapers.

Upstairs, Poppy’s room was the perfect kid’s retreat. Bright and cheery, it was a practical space, stuffed with toys and educational wall-hangings. Poppy jumped on her bed as Linda
nosed around, amazed at the size of the room, at its space. The room she’d had as a child – the one to which she had returned too many times in her adult life – was nothing like
this.

‘You’re such a lucky girl,’ Linda said, mussing Poppy’s hair. It was an odd thing for her to say. She didn’t even believe in luck. Believing in luck, her
ex-boyfriend Carl used to say, can only lead to misfortune.

The tour ended at the room where she was to sleep. The floor was covered in a kind of hessian material which gave off a warm, woodsy smell. White walls were decorated with framed line drawings
of Wendover and Marlow in the 1850s. The large windows looked out over the swimming pool and there was an en suite bathroom, complete with bath and power shower. It was the cleanest, most
comfortable accommodation that she’d ever been offered.

‘This is just amazing,’ Linda said, ‘it’s just so gorgeous.’

‘It’s taken us years to get it right, but we’re there, finally!’ Christina said.

Christina pointed to Linda’s bag, which Daniel had put on a wicker chair.

‘Is that everything?’ she said.

‘I always travel light,’ Linda replied.

‘Oh I wish I could do the same!’ Christina said, suddenly animated. ‘My overnight bag looks like I’m moving in for a month,’ she said, her unflappable air ruffled
for just a moment. Poppy, who had begun to lose interest in the tour, went over to the rucksack and began to unzip it.

‘Poppy, leave that alone!’ Christina moved quickly to her daughter.

‘Why?’ Poppy said.

‘Because they’re Auntie Linda’s things and she doesn’t want you going through them, that’s why.’

‘Are there presents in there?’

‘There might be,’ Linda said, ‘but you’ll never know if you go on snooping.’

Poppy took her hand from the bag and ran to her auntie.

‘I am sorry about her, she can be so difficult sometimes. Anyway, we’ll leave you to it. There’s plenty of toiletries in the bathroom, you must help yourself to whatever you
fancy. The Moulton Brown bath stuff is just heavenly.’ Christina put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and pointed her to the door.

‘I’ll keep this terror out of your way for an hour or so, then drinks and nibbles for six. Is that okay?’

‘Perfect,’ Linda said.

She took a bath, pouring in a generous amount of honey and almond scented oil. It was so warm the mirrors fogged up and beads of sweat formed at her temples. There was no bath
in the bedsit, just a shower that cut out whenever a tap was turned on. Lolling in the water, she felt her body relax; the bedsit, Carl and everything else falling away into the distance.

Using the shower attachment she washed her hair with mint and tea-tree shampoo, then with a jojoba conditioner. The scents confused one another in a pleasing way, rising up thickly from the
bath. Out of the water, she went to the shower cubicle and doused herself with freezing water. Her whole body jolted, her jaw clamped shut. She took the cold for some time before turning off the
flow.

In the mirror she was partially clothed by the steam, but she could still see where there was the odd scar. Her ribs were plainly visible, her hip bones too; she looked better though, not quite
so skeletal, nor so bruised. She thought about a man she’d heard speak at one of the group sessions. He used to put cigarettes out on his own asshole, holding them there until he passed out
from the pain. At the time she had not squirmed; but now she flinched at the memory. Scorched but better, she thought. Rolling with the punches.

Dry and dressed in shorts, T-shirt and trainers, Linda took her cigarettes from her jeans pocket, her sunglasses from her bag and bounded down the stairs. Outside, Daniel was filling up the
barbecue from a sack with Restaurant Quality Charcoal stencilled on the side. He waved towards her.

‘Poppy’s having her bath, I told her you’d read her a bedtime story, is that okay?’

Linda nodded and lit a cigarette. The best cigarette of the day. ‘No one should ever be too clean,’ Carl used to say. ‘It’s not good for the soul.’

Daniel poured fluid over the coals and struck a match. It took first time. ‘Excellent,’ he said and came to join his sister. ‘Another beer?’

‘Can I have a gin and tonic instead?’

‘Right you are,’ he said and took off his barbecuing gloves to rub his hands before making his way back into the house.