It was many years ago, in the bustling heart of London, that I first heard the tale of Poppy Whitmore and Harry Blake. They had met in a little café on Covent Garden, the Rose & Crown, where Poppy was waiting for a friend at a corner table. A steaming cup of tea and a small slice of Victoria sponge rested before her.
Harry had entered the same café looking for a quiet brew and a moment to ponder his future. He was a goodlooking young man, always ready to strike up a conversation with any lass who caught his eye, and Poppy, with her bright smile, did not escape his notice. He approached her with a tone that left little room for refusal.
May I join you? he asked, his voice steady as a clocktower.
Certainly, though Im waiting for a friend and you wont have to linger long, she replied, picking at the sponge.
Im not planning to stay long at all. I only wish to exchange numbers, and a few minutes will do, Harry said, his eyes twinkling.
And who told you Id hand over my telephone? Poppy snapped, snapping off a piece of the cake.
Because you love sweets, and sweets are the favourite of kind folk. So we must be a perfect matchI, too, have a soft spot for sugar, he answered with a grin.
So you consider yourself a kind soul? she laughed.
Of course! Cant you see? Im as gentle as a summer breeze, he replied, sipping his tea.
Ive never seen such confidence in a man before, Poppy mused.
And Ive never laid eyes on a beauty like you, Harry replied.
Poppy, she said, extending her hand.
Harry, he answered, taking her hand, giving it a brief squeeze, and then planting a kiss so bold it made Poppys cheeks blush.
Listen, she murmured, arent you being a bit forward with a stranger?
Im hardly forward, love. Im merely speaking to the most charming woman in the room, he replied, winking.
Ah, not a lady then, Poppy said, sliding a slim wedding band onto her finger. Im married.
And what, has that ever stopped anyone? Harry chuckled. One day youre wed, the next youre free. Marriages these days are as fragile as china.
Be that as it may, I was raised to see marriage as forever. So, dear fellow, I think its time we part ways, she said, her voice gentle but firm.
What are you saying? I feel theres nothing between us that we shouldnt explore. Lets at least exchange numbersno strings attached, just in case we ever wish to talk again, Harry urged.
Youre certainly confident, Poppy replied. Why do you think Ill give you my number?
Im not confident, Im simply honest. If we like each other, why not meet again? he said, his smile disarming.
Alright, give me a moment, she said, dictating her number.
Ill call you now, and youll have my number as well. Keep it safe; youll need it, Harry promised.
Fine, Ill keep it, Poppy agreed, then added, Youd better move to another table; I see my friend arriving, and I have no need for idle gossip.
Dont worry, Ill be out of sight. But we shall meet again, he said, taking his cup and slipping toward the far corner of the café.
A week later, Harry rang Poppys landline. She had been expecting his call, so she agreed to meet him again at the same Rose & Crown.
Poppy, Harry began, Id like to get to know you better.
You see, Harry, she said, taking a sip of her tea, I am married. I work as a nurse at St. Marys Hospital. In principle I could see you, but my husband, George Sinclair, is a very jealous man. He served in the forces overseas and now runs a club training youngsters in unregulated combat. Hes strong, proud, and he carries me as if I were a prize. I would never betray him; besides, I abhor infidelityits dangerous.
Poppy, Harry replied earnestly, Im smitten with you and cant simply walk away. Even though Im a programmer at a modest firm, Im not afraid of your husband. I simply want a friendship, perhaps more.
Harry earned a modest living, enough to indulge in the occasional night out, and he never let a pretty face pass him by. Poppy, too, felt a spark she could not deny, and their secret meetings grew more frequent. She told George she was staying late at the hospital, and one night she stayed over at Harrys modest flat. Before they realised it, they were deeply in love, meeting whenever they could.
One evening Poppy called Harry.
My husbands away on a competition for a week, so Ill be waiting for you at my flat tonight, she said.
Is that safe? Harry asked. Maybe we could meet at my place, as usual.
No, she replied. I want you here. Ill prepare a romantic dinner; Im tired of meeting in your bachelors den.
Alright, Ill be there, Harry promised.
That night, Harry arrived at Poppys door bearing a bouquet, a bottle of champagne, a fine red wine, a cake, and a box of chocolates. She had cooked a delicious meal, the champagne and wine loosening their tongues. After dinner they retired to the bedroom, the night promising the same tenderness as the candlelit supper.
At two oclock in the morning a frantic rap sounded at the door. They sprang from the bed, bewildered. Poppy peered through the peephole.
Its George, Harry, its over! Hide somewhere! she whispered.
Where? Harry asked, panic rising.
I dont know, decide yourself! she cried.
Whos there? Poppys voice trembled.
Poppy, open up, you havent recognised me? a drunken voice bellowed from the hallway. I forgot my keys at work, so Im knocking. Let me in.
What shall we do? Poppy, shaking, looked at Harry.
Open the door, we have no choice, the pale, stumbling intruder replied.
Harry shoved his belongings under the bed and, in his underpants, slipped into the bathroom. Where have you been drinking so much? Poppy shouted. Why didnt you leave?
Our coach broke down, and the lads were getting home in various cars. We stopped for a quick drink at a nearby pub and got a bit too merry, he slurred.
Just a little merriment, Poppy snapped, you cant even stand!
Dont worry, love, Ive got it under control. I just need the toilet, he declared.
Use it tomorrow, Poppy commanded. Now back to bed!
But I need the loo now! he protested.
The drunken George sang loudly, his deep voice echoing: No, no, no, I want it now, I want it now! He laughed like a child at his own joke and made his way toward the water closet. The bathroom was a cramped wet room, the toilet perched next to the tuba design Harry could never quite understand.
Poppy froze, unable to speak, her mind filling with dread. She imagined the worst, closed her eyes, and braced for the inevitable. Yet no sound emerged from the bathroom. How could George not see Harry? Where could he be hiding in that tiny space?
Inside, Harry had clambered onto the raised ledge of the bathrooms tiled wall, stretched out, and pressed his back against the cool tiles, hoping to remain unseen. George, focused solely on the porcelain throne, sang his halfremembered tune, oblivious to the crouched figure.
When Harry saw Georges hulking form and fists, he knew that being discovered would be his final farewell. He held his breath, remaining as still as a statue.
George lingered, humming, the smell of stale beer and the faint acrid scent of the toilet rising. The cramped room amplified every sneeze, and Harry, stifling a violent urge to sneeze, felt his nose itch unbearably. He tried to detach a hand from the wall, only to lose his balance and tumble toward the floor. A sudden, thunderous sneeze echoed, bouncing off the tiles like a crack of lightning.
Startled, George looked up and, for a fleeting moment, thought he saw a shadow resembling a crucifix on the wall. He shivered, turned away, and slipped from the toilet, collapsing onto the floor in a daze.
Realising the danger had passed, Harry bolted from the bathroom, snatched his clothes, and fled down the stairwell. Though Poppy lived on the twelfth floor of a thirtystorey block with two fast lifts, Harry chose the stairs, barefoot, his only garments his underpants and a sack of belongings. No lift could have whisked him away as swiftly as the fear of Georges wrath.
Minutes later, George, having sobered, shook his head and muttered, One ought to drink less. Poppy, watching from the doorway, could only sigh, Youd better learn that lesson tomorrow.
