Daddy, dont come to us any more! Every time you leave Mum starts crying, and she sobs until the morning.
Ill drift off, wake up, drift off again, and she keeps weeping. I ask her, Mum, why are you crying? Because of Daddy?
She tells me she isnt crying at all; her nose is just running, a cold. Im old enough to know a cold never makes your voice sound like a river of tears.
Mr. Hughes sat at a tiny table in a little tearoom on the high street, stirring his coffee with a diminutive silver spoon in a porcelain cup that had already gone cold.
His daughter, Poppy, didnt even touch her icecream, though before her lay a porcelain bowl holding a miniature masterpiece: multicoloured spheres capped with a green leaf and a cherry, all drizzled in chocolate.
Any sixyearold girl would have swooned over such a treat, but not Poppy. Shed apparently decided the previous Friday to have a serious talk with her father.
He stayed silent for a long while, then finally asked:
So what shall we do, darling? Never see each other again? How could I live then?
Poppy crinkled her noseher nose as cute as Mums, a little potatoshapedthought a moment and said:
No, Daddy. I cant be without you either. Heres what well do: call Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday.
Well take a walk together, and if you fancy a coffee or a scoop of icecream we can sit in the tearoom. Ill tell you everything about how Mum and I live.
She paused, then after a minute added:
And if you ever want to see Mum, Ill record her on my phone each week and show you the pictures. Good?
Mr. Hughes looked at his clever girl, smiled faintly and nodded:
Alright, thatll be our new way, love
Poppy let out a relieved sigh and finally reached for her icecream. Yet she hadnt finished speaking; the colourful spheres had sprouted tiny whiskers on her nose, which she licked with her tongue and straightened up, suddenly serious, almost grownup.
Almost a woman, one who ought to look after her husband, even if that husband were already old: Mr. Hughes had just celebrated his birthday last week. Poppy had drawn him a card in the nursery, carefully colouring a massive 28.
Her face turned solemn again, eyebrows knitting as she declared:
I think you ought to get married
She embellished the thought with a generous lie:
Youre not that old yet
Dad assessed his daughters gesture of goodwill and chuckled:
Youll also say not that old
Poppy, enthusiastic, continued:
Not that old, not that old! Look, Uncle Sergey, whos visited Mum twice already, even a little bald. Here
She smoothed the soft curls on the top of her head with a hand, then realised, as her father tensed and stared sharply into her eyes, that she had uncovered Mums secret.
She pressed both hands to her lips, widened her eyesa gesture of horror and bewilderment.
Uncle Sergey? Which Uncle Sergey keeps popping round? The one whos Mums boss? he blurted, almost to the whole tearoom.
I dont know, Daddy Poppy stumbled, flustered by his sudden outburst. Maybe hes a boss. He brings me sweets. And a cake for everyone.
And also Poppy hesitated, wondering whether to share this hidden truth about Mums flowers with her father, who seemed a touch erratic.
Mr. Hughes, fingers interlaced on the table, stared at them for a long spell. Poppy sensed that at that very moment he was about to make a weighty decision in his life.
So the young woman waited, not hurrying him with conclusions. She already guessed, or rather suspected, that men are setintheirways and need a gentle push toward the right choices.
And who better to give that push than a woman, especially one of the most cherished in his life?
He lingered in silence, then finally exhaled loudly, lifted his head and said If Poppy were a little older, she would have understood the tone, reminiscent of Othellos tragic question to Desdemona.
But she didnt know Othello or Desdemona or any of those great lovers; she was simply gathering life experience, watching people rejoice and suffer over trivial matters.
Finally, Dad said:
Come on, love. Its late; Ill take you home and speak to Mum then.
What he intended to discuss with Mum, Poppy didnt ask, but she sensed its importance and hurried to finish her icecream.
She realised that what her father was about to decide outweighed even the tastiest scoop, so she jabbed her spoon onto the table, slid off the chair, wiped her stained lips with the back of her hand, sniffed, and, looking straight at Dad, declared:
Im ready. Lets go
They didnt walk home; they ran. More precisely, Dad ran, clutching Poppys hand, and she swayed like a flag in the wind.
When they burst into the hallway, the lift doors slowly closed, whisking a neighbour upwards. Father glanced bewildered at Poppy, who looked up from below and asked:
Well? What are we waiting for? Who are we expecting? After all were only on the seventh floor
Dad scooped his daughter into his arms and raced up the stairs.
When his longstrained nerves finally broke, Mum opened the door, and he launched into his monologue:
You cant do this! Whos Sergey? I love you, and we have Poppy
He held his daughter close, then embraced Mum. Poppy wrapped both of them around her neck, shut her eyes, because the adults were kissing.
And thats how a tiny girl, loving both of them, soothed two bewildered adults who loved her, each other, and their pride and grievances.
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