Dad, dont come back to us any more. Every time you leave, Mum starts crying and she doesnt stop until the morning. I fall asleep, wake up, fall asleep again, and shes still sobbing. I ask her, Mum, are you crying because of Dad? She says she isnt crying, just blowing her nose because she has a cold. Im old enough to know that a cold never makes your voice sound watery.
John sits at a small table in a coffee shop in London, stirring the lukewarm coffee in a tiny white cup with a little spoon. His sixyearold daughter, Poppy, doesnt even touch the icecream sundae in front of hera miniature work of art: colourful beads covered with a green leaf and a cherry, all drizzled in chocolate. Any other child would have pounced on it, but Poppy doesnt. She has already decided, last Friday, that she needs a serious talk with her father.
John stays silent for a long moment, then finally asks, What are we supposed to do, darling? Stop seeing each other completely? How am I supposed to live then?
Poppy crinkles her cute buttonnose, a little like Mums, and after thinking she replies, No, Dad. I cant be without you either. Heres what well do: call Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Well go for a walk, and if you feel like having coffee or icecream (she glances at her sundae), we can stay in the café. Ill tell you everything about how Mum and I live together.
She pauses, then adds, And if you ever want to see Mum, Ill record her on my phone every week and show you the pictures. Good?
John looks at his clever daughter, smiles a little and nods, Alright, lets live like that, love.
Poppy exhales with relief and reaches for her sundae. Yet she isnt finished; she still has to say the most important thing. As the colourful sprinkles gather on her upper lip, she licks them off, straightens up, and looks almost grownup, almost a woman who must look after her maneven if that man is already getting on in years. John turned twentyeight last week, and Poppy had drawn him a birthday card in nursery, carefully colouring the big 28.
She folds her eyebrows and says, I think you should get married. She adds generously, Youre not that old yet.
John chuckles at his daughters wellmeaning gesture and replies, Youd call it not that old too?
Poppy, eyes bright, continues, Not that old, not that old! Look, Uncle Simon, whos come round to Mum twice already, is even a bit balding. See? She points to her forehead, smoothing her soft curls with a fingertip. She pretends to understand when Johns gaze sharpens, as if shes just spilled Mums secret. Her hands move to her mouth, eyes wide with faux horror.
Uncle Simon? What Uncle Simon keeps turning up at your house? John raises his voice, half to the whole café, Is he Mums boss?
I dont know, Dad, Poppy stammers, feeling the heat of his reaction. Maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets, a cake for everyone, and She hesitates, wondering whether to mention the flowers Mum sent him, because he seems a bit difficult.
John folds his hands on the table, staring at them. He realizes that, at this very moment, he is about to make a very important decision. Poppy, sensing this, does not rush him. She already suspects that men can be slow to decide and need a gentle pushespecially the man who is, to her, one of the most precious people in her life.
The silence stretches. Finally, John lets out a loud sigh, shakes his fingers loose, lifts his head and says If Poppy were a bit older, she might have recognised the tone of a tragic Shakespearean line, but she knows neither Othello nor Desdemona. She is simply gathering life experience, watching people laugh and worry over little things.
John says, Come on, love. Its late; Ill take you home and have a word with Mum.
Poppy doesnt ask what hell say, but she knows its important. She darts back to her sundae, then, realizing that what John is about to decide outweighs even the tastiest treat, she flings her spoon onto the table, slides off her chair, wipes the chocolate from her lips with the back of her hand, blows her nose, looks straight at John and declares, Im ready. Lets go.
They dont walk home; they almost run. John is the one hurrying, but he holds Poppys hand so tightly she feels like a flag fluttering in the wind, as if a knight were gripping the pennon of his banner on a battlefield.
When they burst into the lift lobby, the doors close slowly, taking a neighbour upstairs. John looks a little bewildered at Poppy, who glances up, then down, and asks, So? What now? Who are we waiting for? Were only on the seventh floor.
John scoops Poppy up and rushes up the stairs. When his mother finally swings the door open, he jumps straight to the point: You cant do this! Whos this Simon? I love you, and we havePoppy
Without letting go of his daughter, he pulls Mum into his arms as well. Poppy wraps both of them around her neck and closes her eyes, because the adults are now kissing.
