My mum wasnt about to go away
Wed just suffered a huge loss my mums sister had died. Shed been a widow, leaving only her fouryearold daughter, Poppy, behind. My husband and I took on the caring duties. The moment the little girl learned her mother was gone, she shut herself in, never left the house and flatout refused to move anywhere. So we packed our things and moved into the flat where Mum and Poppy had been living. We assumed that after the funeral shed be happy to come stay with us, but the very idea of sharing that cramped flat became unbearable.
At night the water would flick on and off by itself, and the lights did the same. The doors and floorboards creaked as if someone were constantly dashing from room to room. I tried sprinkling holy water around, but it made no difference.
One sleepless night, while my husband was deep in dreamland, I heard a whisper coming from Poppys bedroom. A cold shiver ran down my spine, yet I didnt rouse my husband. I switched on the light quietly, padded to her door and listened. All I could hear was my little girls voice.
I dont want to go to sleep, I want to play with Kitty (thats my doll). Ill play a bit longer and then Ill lie down.
I opened the door. She was huddled in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and staring at me with a terrified look, as if I were the enemy.
Poppy, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mrs. Mum, she answered.
A flock of goosebumps rushed up my back. I tucked her into bed, then snuggled up to my husband and drifted off. For the next week Poppy kept on chatting to someone invisible; I chalked it up to stress after all, shed just lost her mother, and a child can talk to the walls when theyre upset. The flat continued to test my patience.
One afternoon I was making lunch and kept calling Poppy to eat, but she screamed that she wasnt hungry. Shed never been a fan of food, so coaxing her was a chore. Her mum had been, to put it mildly, impatient, and when Poppy refused a bite shed be hauled to the table by force. By the tenth time Id shouted Dinner! a deafening crash and a wail split the air. I bolted into the bedroom to find an absurd scene: a massive sliding wardrobe had toppled onto the child. Luckily it only brushed the side of the bed, leaving a narrow gap between it and the floor. Poppy shrieked, then spent the rest of the day in a fullblown tantrum.
That night, again, I heard her sobbing and begging for forgiveness. I went in to soothe her; she clambered onto my lap and hugged me tightly, eyes glued to a single corner of the room as if someone were standing there, looking back at her with terror.
Poppy, whos there? I asked.
Mum she whispered.
Sweetheart, tell Mum youre letting her go and that she should leave, alright?
Mum doesnt want to go! she replied.
When the fortieth day after the funeral arrived, we took Poppy to the churchyard, laid flowers on the gravestone and handed out biscuits to the other children so they could say a proper remembrance. The atmosphere finally settled. We sold the flat, moved back to our cosy terraced house in Manchester, and brought Poppy to live with us for good.
