Dont come back, Father, the little voice begged, echoing through the hallway of the old terraced house. Every time you leave, Mother starts weeping, and the tears last until dawn. I fall asleep, wake, fall asleep again, and she keeps crying. I ask her, Mum, are you crying because of Father? and she sniffs, saying its just a cold. Im old enough to know a cold never sounds like sobbing.
In a cramped café on a rainslicked Camden street, George Whitaker sat opposite his sixyearold daughter, Poppy, stirring a halfcooled latte with a tiny silver spoon. In front of her, a glass dome held a miniature sculpture: bright marbles cloaked in a green leaf and a cherry, all drizzled with chocolate. Any child would have lunged for it, but Poppy stared at her spoon, remembering the serious conversation shed resolved to have the previous Friday.
George stared into his cup, the silence stretching, then finally asked, What shall we do, my child? Cut off all contact? How shall I live then?
Poppy wrinkled her buttonnosejust like her mothers, slightly potatoshapedand answered after a thoughtful pause, No, Father. I cant live without you either. Lets make a pact. Call Mother and tell her youll fetch me from nursery every Friday. If you fancy a coffee or an icecream, well sit here together. Ill tell you everything about how Mother and I get along.
She hesitated, then added, And if you want to see Mother, Ill record her on my phone each week and show you the pictures. Does that sound right?
George gave a small smile, nodded, and said, Very well, that shall be our new way, my dear.
Poppy exhaled a sigh of relief and turned back to her chocolatecoated treat. Yet she wasnt finished. As the rainbowcoloured sprinkles formed tiny moustaches on her upper lip, she licked them off, her face turning solemn, almost adultlike. She thought of the man in her lifethough he was older now. Just the week before, Georges birthday had passed, and Poppy had drawn a huge 28 on a card in the nursery, colouring it with great care.
Her brow furrowed, she said, I think you should marry
She added, with a generous stretch of imagination, Youre not that old yet, are you?
George chuckled, Youd say not very old yourself, wouldnt you?
Poppy, eyes bright, continued, Not very, not very! Look, Uncle Frank, whos visited Mum twice already, is a bit balding. See? She pressed her palm to her forehead, smoothing her soft curls. The air seemed to thicken as George stared back, his eyes sharpening, as if shed just betrayed Mothers secret. Poppy pressed both hands to her mouth, widened her eyes, mimicking shock and confusion.
Uncle Frank? Which Frank has been dropping by so often? George shouted, voice echoing through the café. Is he Mothers boss?
Poppy, taken aback by the sudden volume, stammered, I dont know maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets, a cake for everyone, and
She hesitated, wondering whether to reveal Mothers fresh bouquet of roses to a father who seemed, in her mind, a little unbalanced.
George intertwined his fingers on the table, watching them for a long beat. In that pause, Poppy sensed him weighing a decision of great weight. She knew, or at least guessed, that men often needed a gentle nudge toward the right path, and who better to provide that than a daughter, perhaps the most cherished woman in his life?
Silence stretched, then George exhaled dramatically, unfurled his fingers, lifted his head, and spoke. If Poppy were older, she might have recognised the cadence of a tragic Shakespearean monologue; but she knew nothing of Othello or Desdemona yet. She was merely gathering lifes lessons, watching people rejoice and suffer over petty things.
Come, my girl, he said. Its late; Ill take you home and speak with your mother then.
Poppy didnt ask what he would say, only felt the importance of his words. She hurriedly ate the rest of her icecream, then, as the weight of his unseen resolve settled, she flung her spoon onto the table, slid off her chair, wiped the crumbs from her lips with the back of her hand, sniffed, and looked straight at George.
Im ready. Lets go.
They didnt walk; they almost ran. George led, his hand clasped around Poppys small wrist, making her sway like a banner in a gust, reminiscent of a knights standard held aloft before a charge.
When they burst into the lift shaft, the doors sluggishly shut, carrying a neighbours muffled sigh upward. George glanced, bewildered, at Poppy. She stared back from the bottom to the top, decisive, and asked, Well? What are we waiting for? Which floor? This is only the seventh, you know.
He hoisted her onto his shoulders and raced up the stairs.
When the heavy wooden door finally swung open, MotherSusanstood there, eyes wide. George launched into his plea, You cant do this! Whos this Frank? I love you, and we have
He wrapped both Poppy and Susan in a tight embrace. Poppy, feeling the adult world collapse into a single, bewildered hug, clutched their necks and shut her eyes, because in the dreamlike haze, the only truth was that grownups were kissing each other, and she was a small witness to the tangled, surreal ballet of love, grief, and hopeful bargains.
