the flat until her mum went off to the Canaries with her latest beau. There was no discussion concerning the new domestic arrangements, largely because Cheryl made the decision, packed her bags and was Heathrow-bound within a twenty-four-hour period. It was assumed by all that Poppy would continue in her unofficial role as Dorothea’s nursemaid, jailor and confidante. If anything, her life was easier without her mum’s drunken presence and the procession of wastrels that followed in her unsteady wake.
Dorothea and Poppy plodded along amicably until the old lady’s mental health deteriorated and her behaviour became increasingly odd. Poppy came home one lunchtime to find her sitting on the loo, wearing nearly all of her clothing including coats, hats, scarves and gloves, clutching a rolling pin as a weapon.
‘The bloke in the flat upstairs has been crawling through a hole in the ceiling and trying to turn our water off, the bastard!’
Poppy tried to hide her disbelief. ‘Who, Nan, Mr Bennett? The eighty-four-year-old with the double hip replacement and the Zimmer frame?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Let me get this straight. He’s been crawling through a hole in the ceiling and scurrying around the flat while we sleep, trying to turn our water off?’ she needed clarification.
‘Yes, Poppy Day, did you not hear me the first time, girl?’
‘I heard you, Nan, and I understood, but what I don’t get is why are you sat in the loo wearing all your clothes?’
Dorothea looked at Poppy, shaking her head slightly as if it was her granddaughter without full understanding. She bent forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m guarding the stopcock.’ She winked at Poppy, who smiled in response.
Her nan quickly went from being slightly unsettled to quite frightened; at this point, Poppy found it hard to cope. As her nan’s primary carer, it was tough. If Poppy was on top of things, she would find her nan’s little adventures or wanderings funny; but when tired, finding Dorothea at three in the morning sitting in the kitchen, with a full packet of flour, a jar of coffee and three pints of milk tipped into a slippery heap on the floor as she ‘made the Christmas cake’ was very wearing. Especially when it was June, far too early to be thinking about bloody Christmas.
Poppy could have managed her nan’s decline were it just about her own ability to cope, but it wasn’t, it was about what was best for Dorothea as well. She needed to be somewhere that she could be watched and supported twenty-four hours a day.
Poppy came home from work one wintery evening to find her sitting in the dark crying and bewildered. She had no way of knowing if Dorothea had been in this state of distress for ten hours or ten minutes; it was a moment of realisation. Not that it made what came next any easier; it was the toughest decision of Poppy’s life, at that point.
She and Martin found the home after weeks of trawling through brochures and trudging the streets. Some were rejected on price, others on location and one before the front door had even been opened, after hearing expletives bellowed from within.
Poppy considered the major’s words and thought that she should cry. She tried pushing some tears out, but none came. For some reason this made her giggle; she pictured someone watching her and saying, ‘What are you doing, Poppy? Why are you sat there with your eyes screwed shut, digging your nails into your palms?’
‘I’m trying to push some tears out. I thought it might make me feel better because I feel a little bit guilty that I haven’t cried yet, despite those two soldiers watching and expecting me to whilst secretly hoping that I wouldn’t, especially Major Tony Thingy. It’s as if I have read about this story in the paper or seen it on the news. It feels like someone else’s life, not mine, not real. Where are those darn tears when you need ’em?’
She was sure that whoever she delivered this monologue to would probably shake their head in a kind of ‘she has finally lost the plot, just like her grandma’ way.
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About this Book
Could you destroy your family to save your children?
Kathyrn Brooker seems the very picture of a fulfilled wife and mother. Anyone who peered through the downstairs window at the four figures sitting around her kitchen table would see a happy fa mily without a care in the world. They would envy Kathyrn her perfect life.
But they would be wrong. Kathryn is trapped in