We hated her the moment she crossed the threshold of our little terraced house in Manchester. Her sweater was nothing special, but her hands looked different from Mums the fingers were shorter and a bit stubby, and she kept them clenched in a fist. Her legs were slimmer than Mums and her feet seemed oddly long.
Charlie, my brother, was seven and I was nine, and we kept flicking bolts of lightning at her, teasing her nonstop. Shes a mile long, not a proper Poppy at all! Id shout. Dad saw how badly we were treating her and snapped, Behave yourselves! Youre acting like uncouth brats.
Charlie, being the cheeky little lad he is, asked, Is she staying with us for long? Hes allowed to say things like that hes just a kid. Forever, Dad replied, trying to keep his tone calm.
I could tell he was getting irritated. If he lost his temper, things could get ugly, so we decided it was best not to push him further.
An hour later Poppy got ready to leave. She slipped on her shoes, and as she was heading out Charlie tried to trip her. She almost tumbled straight into the hallway. Dad rushed over, Whats happened?
I just stumbled on my other shoe, she said, not even looking at Charlie. Everythings a mess, Ill tidy it up, he promised eagerly.
Thats when we all realised he cared for her. We never managed to push her out of our lives, no matter how hard we tried.
One afternoon, when Poppy was alone with us and Dad was out, she dropped a cold bomb in a perfectly flat voice: Your mums died. It happens, you know. Shes up there on a cloud watching everything. I bet she doesnt like how youre behaving. She knows youre being nasty just for the sake of it. Youre guarding her memory like its a treasure.
We froze.
Charlie, Lucy, youre decent kids! Do you really need to guard Mums memory that way? A good person shows themselves through actions, not by being prickly as hedgehogs! she chided. Slowly, her words dulled our urge to be mean.
One time I helped her put away the groceries shed bought. She praised me, gave my back a gentle pat. Your fingers arent Mums, but that felt nice, she said. Charlie got a twinge of jealousy.
She praised us for washing the mugs and putting them neatly on the shelf. Later that evening she bragged loudly to Dad about how helpful we were, and he beamed with pride. Her oddness kept us on edge for ages we wanted to let her in, but it just never clicked. Shes not Mum, after all, wed mutter.
A year later wed forgotten what life was like without her. Then, after a particular incident, we fell for Poppy completely, just like Dad had.
When Charlie hit Year Seven, things got rough for him. A bully named Victor Hargreaves, same height but far more cocky, kept picking on the quiet, withdrawn Charlie. Victors family was solid, his dad openly told him, Youre a bloke, give em a good wallop. Dont wait for them to push you around. So Victor chose Charlie as his favourite target.
Victor started slamming Charlies shoulder whenever he passed by. I managed to pull the details out of Charlie after seeing bruises forming. He believed men shouldnt dump their problems on sisters, even older ones. What we didnt know was that Poppy was perched behind the kitchen door, listening to everything.
Charlie begged me not to tell Dad, saying itd only make things worse. He also begged me not to go after Victor right then I was furious, ready to fight for my brother. Involving Dad would only pit him against Victors dad, and prison wasnt far off.
The next day was Friday. Poppy, pretending she was heading to the shop, actually led us to school and slipped us a note to keep an eye on Victor. I showed her the note. Let him know hes a tosser! I whispered.
What followed was pure chaos. During a English lesson, Poppy popped into the classroom, hair neatly done, nails painted, voice sweet as honey, and asked Victor to step out because she had a matter with him. The teacher, none the wiser, let him go. Victor, thinking Poppy was some new organiser, obliged.
Poppy grabbed Victor by the collar, lifted him off his feet and hissed, What do you want from my brother?
What brother? he stammered, confused.
My brother, Charlie! she snapped. If you lay a finger on him again, Ill make you wish youd never been born. Victor tried to plead, Please, I wont do it again!
She shoved him out of the room, threatening to have his father thrown in jail for grooming a youngster. She even warned the teacher, Im his neighbour, Ill make sure he apologises to Charlie after school!
Victor scurried back to his desk, never gave Charlie another hard look. He apologized that very afternoon, all shaky and rushed. Dont tell Dad, Poppy begged us, but we couldnt hold it in we spilled everything.
He was stunned. At some point Poppy steered both of us onto the right path. I fell for a reckless, hormonefueled crush at sixteen the sort where everything feels forbidden. I got involved with a downandout, perpetually drunk pianist, completely oblivious to how obvious it was. He whispered that I was his muse, and I melted in his arms like wax. It was my first real encounter with a man.
My mum once asked the pianist two questions: Do you ever sober up and what are we going to live on? When he gave a vague answer, she said shed consider a future together only if he could actually support us a single smoky flat wasnt enough for serious plans.
He was five years younger than Poppy, while I was twentyfive years older than him. Poppy didnt bother with any niceties. I wont repeat the pianists replies here, but I was mortified when mum said, I thought you were smarter than this.
That love story ended badly and messily, but neither the pianist nor Dad ended up behind bars Poppy stepped in just in time.
Years have passed. Charlie and I now have families of our own, built on love, respect and looking out for each other when someone goes astray values Poppy instilled in us. No woman could ever do more for us than she did. Dads happy, wellkept and loved.
Once, Poppy suffered a family tragedy we never knew about. Dad never mentioned it. Shed loved our Dad, left her husband, and had a son who died because of her husbands actions a loss she could never forgive.
We like to think we eased some of Poppys pain. Her massive role in our upbringing was never, and will never be, downplayed. The whole family gathers around her. We never quite figure out the perfect slippers for her feet, but we cherish and protect her.
Because real mums, even when a cruel foot steps in their way, never truly stumble.
