Will You Remember Me? (38 page)

Martin reached over and patted his wife’s hand. ‘See, I told you you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘Martin, I’ve seen her trying to control roller blades and a scooter – she couldn’t even open the front door without bashing into it! It’s a wonder she never broke a bone or the door, and now she’s flying this bloody big plane!’

‘Ah, don’t worry, love, she’s done it more than a few times now and this thing’s got a good set of brakes.’ He chuckled.

‘I bloody hope so.’ She shuffled in her seat, then smiled at the memory of Peg’s ninth birthday. Jo had driven from Marlborough to Larkhill with a pink cake on the back seat, taking the corners so slowly that a line of frustrated, beeping drivers had formed behind her in the lanes. Not that she cared; it was more important not to dislodge the marshmallows that she had spent hours icing on, one by one.

‘That feels like five minutes ago Martin’ Jo mused. ‘Did I tell you I bumped into her old school friend, Jade McKeever? She’s married to a soldier, lives not far from Larkhill.’

‘Yes you did, love.’ Martin smiled, knowing Jo would repeat the story no matter what his response.

‘She’s got four little ones under five! Can you believe it? Four? They were running riot in the supermarket, poor Jade looked exhausted. Her oldest seemed like a handful, giving out orders to the others and contradicting her mum. I think she’s got her work cut out with that one.’

‘Cabin crew prepare for take-off.’

Martin grinned. Peg sounded so calm and in control.
That’s my girl.

Nine hours later, Peg descended from the aircraft with her briefcase under her arm and her long, toffee-coloured hair wound up into a tight bun under her cap. She brushed the dust from her epaulettes and walked across the tarmac under the blue, blue sky.

Peg knew that Uncle Katniss, Kate and all the grandchildren would be waiting at the barrier to meet her, her dad and Jo. For the first time in years they were all going to be together for Christmas and she couldn’t wait. Matilda’s university term had finished and she was flying back from Canada, no doubt with a pile of marking under her arm, as usual. Peg was dying to hear about the developments between her and the gorgeous Nick. Matilda had confirmed when questioned that he did indeed make her tummy go flippy and her face all smoochy! Peg was fully expecting wedding bells within the year.

Even Maxy was leaving behind his latest leggy lovely and was flying in from New York. She was excited about seeing him, thankful that the banking world could spare him for the holidays.

Max was accompanying Granny Claudia, who had been on an art tour of New York, keen to take in Kate’s daughter Lydia’s latest exhibition. Peg had spoken to Granny Claudia a couple of days ago and knew she was very much looking forward to taking up her favourite spot on the terrace and nattering to Kate while Simon supplied his customary iced tea and sugar cookies. The two liked nothing better than to sit in the sun putting the world to rights and watching the comings and goings of Noah and his brother Jack as they appeared for food and a change of clothes before disappearing back to the beach to woo more unsuspecting tourists.

Whenever Peg touched down in St Lucia, her thoughts went to her mum and that very first time, all those years ago, when she had watched the plane progress across the map, her finger on the screen, making out she was flying. Peg smiled. ‘I still miss you,’ she whispered, ‘every day.’

‘Is that your plane?’

‘Sorry?’ Peg looked down at the little boy with glasses and a stubby, freckly nose. He was wearing red shorts and a blue polo shirt and seemed to have broken free from the crowd as he stood staring up at the shiny undercarriage of the 777.

‘Is that your plane?’ he repeated.

‘Yep.’ Peg smiled.

‘What does it feel like to fly it?’ he asked, his eyes wide as saucers.

Peg paused and considered this. Her mum’s smiling face filled her mind. ‘It feels absolutely brilliant!’

She started to walk away, eager to get to her family and begin the reunion; there was a large cocktail somewhere with her name on it.

‘I’d love a plane like that!’ the little boy gasped.

Peg turned and looked at him. ‘You would?’

‘Yes, really, really. I would show everyone in my school. Apart from Toby Patterson, who is mean to me and won’t let me join his gang.’

Peg raised an eyebrow and turned on her navy heel. Removing her hat, she bent down and studied the boy. ‘Toby Patterson sounds like a dickhead.’

‘He is,’ the boy confirmed.

‘How old are you?’ Peg asked.

‘I’m eight.’

‘Hmmm, a good age. And what’s your name?’

‘My name’s Horatio.’

‘As in Nelson?’ Peg asked.

‘Yes.’ Horatio nodded without the hint of a smile.

‘Tough break, kid.’ Peg sighed.

Horatio shrugged; he was used to it.

‘And you want this plane, you say?’

‘I really, really do.’ Horatio’s face lit up.

‘Have you got any cool pencil sharpeners, Horatio? Cos if you have, we might just be able to strike a deal.’ She smiled and wrinkled her nose, laughing as she walked away.

Peg closed her eyes and felt the warm St Lucian sun against her skin. Bliss. She vaguely noticed the two women standing in the window of the arrivals hall, one in a soft pink jumper and navy blue slacks, the other with her reddy-brown hair looped behind her ears and wearing jeans with a neat white shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled above the elbow. Had she looked back, she would have seen that they had disappeared.

And if you haven’t already read the other stories in Amanda Prowse’s gripping
No Greater Love
sequence, read on or click the links below for previews of…

Poppy Day

What Have I Done?

Clover’s Child

A Little Love

Or click one of these links for more information

Amanda Prowse

About
No Greater Love

An invitation from the publisher

Read on for the first chapter of

T
HE MAJOR YANKED
first at one cuff and then the other, ensuring three-eighths of an inch was visible beneath his tunic sleeves. With his thumb and forefinger he circled his lips, finishing with a small cough, designed to clear the throat. He nodded in the direction of the door, indicating to the accompanying sergeant that he could proceed. He was ready.

‘Coming!’ Poppy cast the sing-song word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note to fix the front door bell as the internal mechanism grated against the loose, metal cover. The intensely irritating sound had become part of the rhythm of the flat. She co-habited with an orchestra of architectural ailments, the stars of which were the creaking hinge of the bedroom door, the dripping
BATHROOM
tap and the whirring extractor fan that now extracted very little.

Poppy smiled and looped her hair behind her ears. It was probably Jenna, who would often nip over during her lunch break. Theirs was a comfortable camaraderie, arrived at after many years of friendship; no need to wash up cups, hide laundry or even get dressed, they interacted without inhibition or
PRETENCE
. Poppy prepped the bread and counted the fish fingers under the grill, working out how to make two sandwiches instead of one, an easy calculation. She felt a swell of happiness.

The front door bell droned again, ‘All right! All right!’ Poppy licked stray blobs of tomato ketchup from the pads of her thumbs and laughed at the impatient digit that jabbed once more at the plastic circle on the outside wall.

Tossing the checked tea towel onto the work surface, she stepped into the hallway and looked through the safety glass at the top of the door, opaque through design and a lack of
DOMESTICITY
. Poppy slowed down until almost stationary, squinting at the scene in front of her, as though by altering her viewpoint, she could change the sight that greeted her. Her heart fluttered in an irregular beat. Placing a flattened palm against her
BREASTBONE
, she tried to bring calm to her flustered pulse. The surge of happiness disappeared, forming a ball of ice that sank down into the base of her stomach, filling her bowels with a cold dread. Poppy wasn’t looking at the silhouette of her friend; not a ponytail in sight. Instead, there were two shapes, two men, two soldiers.

She couldn’t decide whether to turn and switch off the grill or continue to the front door and let them in. The indecision rendered her useless. She concentrated on staying present, feeling at any point she might succumb to the maelstrom within her mind. The whirling confusion threatened to make her faint. She shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. It worked.

She wondered how long they would be, how long it would all take. There were fish fingers to eat and she was due back at the salon in half an hour with a shampoo and set arriving in forty minutes. Poppy thought it strange how an ordinary day could be made so very extraordinary. She knew the small details of every action, usually forgotten after one sleep, would stay with her forever; each minute aspect indelibly etching itself on her memory. The way her toes flexed and stiffened inside her soft, red socks, the pop and sizzle of her lunch under the grill and the way the TV was suddenly far too loud.

She considered the hazy outlines of her as yet unseen visitors and her thoughts turned to the fact that her home wasn’t tidy. She wished she wasn’t cooking fish. It would only become curious in hindsight that she had been worried about minutiae when the reason for their visit was so much more important than a cooking aroma and a concern that some cushions might have been improperly plumped.

Columbo
was on TV. She hadn’t been watching; it was instead a comforting background noise. She had done that a lot since Martin went away, switching on either the TV or radio as soon as she stepped through the door; anything other than endure the silence of a life lived alone. She hated that.

Poppy looked again to confirm that there were two of them; thus reinforcing what she thought she already knew. It is a
WELL-KNOWN
code; a letter for good news, telephone call for minor incident, a visit from one soldier for quite bad, two for the very worst.

She noted the shapes that stood the other side of her door. One was a regular soldier, identifiable by his hat; the other was a bloke of rank, an officer. She didn’t recognise either of their outlines, strangers. She knew what they were going to say before they spoke, before one single word had been uttered; their stance was awkward and unnatural.

Her mind flew to the cardboard box hidden under the bed. In it was underwear, lacy, tarty pieces that Martin had chosen. She would throw them away; there would be no need for them any more, no more anniversaries, birthdays or special Sunday mornings when the world was reduced to a square of mattress, a corner of duvet and the skin of the man she loved.

Poppy wasn’t sure how long she took to reach for the handle, but had the strangest feeling that with each step taken, the door moved slightly further away.

She slid the chain with a steady hand; it hadn’t been given a reason to shake, not yet. Opening the door wide, it banged against the inside wall. The tarnished handle found its regular groove in the plasterwork. Ordinarily, she would only have opened it a fraction, enough to peek out and see who was there, but this was no ordinary situation and with two soldiers on the doorstep, what harm could she come to? Poppy stared at them. They were pale, twitchy. She looked past them, over the
CONCRETE
, third-floor walkway and up at the sky, knowing that these were the last few seconds that her life would be intact. She wanted to enjoy the feeling, confident that once they had spoken, everything would be broken. She gazed at the perfect blue, daubed with the merest wisp of cloud. It was beautiful, really beautiful.

The two men appraised her as she stared over their heads into the middle distance. It was the first few seconds in which they would form their opinion. One of them noted her
WRINKLED
, freckled nose, her clear, open expression. The other considered the grey slabs amid which she stood and registered the fraying cuff of her long-sleeved T-shirt.

Their training told them to expect a number of varied responses; from fainting or rage to extreme distress, each had a prescribed treatment and procedure. This was their worst
SCENARIO
, the disengaged, silent recipient with delayed reactions, much harder for them to predict.

Poppy thought about the night before her husband left for Afghanistan, wishing that she could go back to then and do it differently. She had watched his mechanical actions, saw him smooth the plastic-wrapped, mud-coloured, Boy Scout
PARAPHERNALIA
that was destined for its sandy desert home. A place she couldn’t picture, in a life that she was barred from. She didn’t notice how his fingertips lingered on the embroidered roses of their duvet cover, the last touch to a thing of feminine beauty that for him meant home, meant Poppy.