Dont come back, Dad, the little girl says, gripping the table edge. Whenever you leave, Mum starts crying and she cries all the way through the night. I fall asleep, wake up, fall asleep again, and shes still sobbing. I ask her, Mum, are you crying because of you? and she tells me she isnt crying at all, just blowing her nose because of a cold. But Im old enough to know that a cold never sounds like someones voice is full of tears.
John sits with his daughter Poppy at a small café on a quiet London side street. He stirs the cooling coffee in a tiny white mug with a petite spoon. Poppy hasnt even touched the icecream in front of her, a miniature work of art: bright candy balls topped with a green leaf, a cherry, all drizzled in chocolate. Any sixyearold would have swooned over that, but Poppy doesnt. Last Friday she decided she needed a serious talk with him.
John stays silent for a long moment, then finally asks, What are we going to do, love? Stop seeing each other altogether? How am I supposed to live then?
Poppy wrinkles her little noseshaped just like Mums, a tiny carrotsized buttonthinks a beat and answers, No, Dad. I cant live without you either. Heres what well do: you call Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Well go for a walk, and if youre in the mood for coffee or icecream (she glances at her bowl), we can sit here a while. Ill fill you in on everything Mum and I are up to.
She pauses, then adds, And if you ever want a peek at Mum, Ill record her on my tablet each week and show you the videos. Sound good?
John looks at his clever daughter, smiles a little and nods. Alright, thats how well live from now on, sweetheart.
Poppy exhales a sigh of relief and finally picks up her icecream. Yet the conversation isnt over; she still has the most important part to deliver. As the coloured sprinkles cling to the moustache of her upper lip, she licks them off, straightens up, and adopts a serious, almost adult tone. Shes now playing the part of a young woman who must look after her man, even if that man is already a bit olderJohn celebrated his birthday last week. Earlier at nursery she had drawn a big 28 on a card for him, carefully colouring each stroke.
Her face turns solemn again, eyebrows knitting, and she says, I think you should get married. She adds, with a generous dose of whitelie, Youre not that old yet, are you?
John chuckles at his daughters goodnatured push and replies, Youll call that not very old too, wont you?
Poppy, brimming with enthusiasm, continues, Not very, not very! Look, Uncle Stevewhos already been to Mum twice and is a bit baldinghes She points to her forehead, smoothing her soft curls with a fingertip, then freezes as Johns gaze sharpens, as if she has just revealed a secret Mum kept. Both hands press to her lips, eyes widening in feigned horror and confusion.
Uncle Steve? What uncle is that, coming round so often? Is he Mums boss or what? John asks loudly enough for the whole café to hear.
I I dont know, Poppy stammers, suddenly unsure whether to spill the truth to a father she thinks is a bit unreasonable. Maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets, a cake for everyone, and She hesitates, weighing whether to mention the flowers Mum sent him.
John folds his hands on the table, studying them for a long beat. Poppy senses that right this instant he is about to make a very important decision, and she doesnt rush him. She already understands, or at least guesses, that men can be slow on the uptake and need a gentle nudge from the woman they love most.
Silence stretches, then John finally lets out a deep breath, uncurls his fingers, lifts his head and says If Poppy were a bit older, she might recognise the tragic cadence of his voice, the way Othello once asked Desdemona a fateful question. But she knows none of that; shes simply gathering life experience, watching people laugh and fret over trivial things.
So, John begins, lets go, love. Its getting late; Ill take you home and Ill speak with Mum while were at it.
Poppy doesnt ask what he plans to say, but she knows its serious. She hurriedly finishes her icecream, then, realising the weight of his decision, 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, and looks straight at him, saying, Im ready. Lets go.
They dont walk home; they almost jog. John leads, holding Poppys hand so tightly she feels like a flag billowing on a lance, as if a medieval knight were rallying his troops.
When they burst into the lift shaft, the doors close slowly, taking a neighbour up to a higher floor. John glances anxiously at Poppy, who looks up from toe to head and, with resolve, asks, Well? What are we waiting for? The seventh floor is the top, you know.
John scoops her up in his arms and darts up the stairs.
When the apartment door finally swings open, Mum stands there, eyes wide. John rushes forward, his voice trembling, You cant justwhats this about Steve? I love you, and we havePoppy He pulls her into a tight embrace, then draws Mum in as well. Poppy wraps her arms around both of them, closes her eyes, and watches the adults share a trembling, uncertain kiss.
