Dont come round anymore, dad, she told me sharply, eyes glinting with the kind of hurt that only a little girl can muster. Every time you leave, Mum starts crying, and shell weep right through the night. Ill drift off, wake up, drift off again, and shell still be sobbing. I watched her ask, Mum, are you crying because of you? and the answer was a sniffle, a claim that it was just a cold. I knew better no cold makes a voice sound like a waterfall of tears.
It was a drizzly Tuesday in a little teashop on the high street of Bath. I sat opposite my daughter, Poppy, stirring the halfcooled tea with a tiny silver spoon. In front of her sat a glass bowl, a miniature masterpiece: glistening candy spheres of every colour, each capped with a tiny mint leaf and a bright cherry, all drenched in glossy chocolate. Any sixyearold would have plunged in, but Poppy didnt touch it. Shed decided, last Friday, that she needed a serious chat with me.
I kept quiet for a long while, the steam from my mug curling up like unspoken words, then finally I asked, What are we going to do, love? Stop seeing each other completely? How am I supposed to live then?
Poppy wrinkled her cute little nosejust like Mums, a soft little buttonand after a moment said, No, Dad. I cant be without you either. Lets make a plan. Call Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Then we can wander about, have a coffee or an icecream if you like. Ill keep you posted on how Mum and I are getting on. She paused, then added, And if you ever want to check on Mum, Ill videocall her every week and send you pictures. Sound good?
I glanced at her, a smile tugging at my mouth, and nodded. Alright, thats how well do it, then.
With a sigh of relief, Poppy finally reached for the chocolatecoated treat. Yet she wasnt finished. She lifted the spoon, licked the multicoloured moustache that had formed on the rim of the bowl, and her expression shifted to something almost adultalmost a woman who would one day look after a man, even an old one. You see, last week had been my birthday. Poppy had drawn a huge 28 on a card in her nursery and coloured it with great care.
Her face grew solemn, eyebrows knitting, and she said, I think you ought to get married. Then, with a generous lie, she added, Youre not that old yet, are you? I chuckled at her wellmeaning bravado. Youd say not very old too, wouldnt you?
She went on, Not very, not very! Look, Uncle Sergeyhes been coming round to Mum twice already, a bit balding nowsee? She gestured to her own forehead, smoothing back her soft curls. Then, as I stared at her, I felt a sudden pang, as if shed let slip a secret Mum had kept from me. Both her hands came up to her lips, eyes widening in a picture of horror and confusion.
Uncle Sergey? Whats this Uncle Sergey you speak of? I asked, voice rising just enough to carry across the teashop. Is he Mums boss?
Poppys cheeks flushed. I dont know maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets, a cake for everyone. And She hesitated, weighing whether to reveal the whole truth, especially to a father she imagined as a bit unpredictable.
I folded my hands on the table, fingers interlaced, and stared at them. Something in me shifted; I knew I was at a crossroads. I realised that a young womanno, a girldoesnt rush a man to conclusions. She knows, perhaps intuitively, that men can be slow to act, and it falls to the women we love most to give them a gentle nudge.
Silence stretched, then I finally broke it, letting out a noisy sigh, unclenching my hands, lifting my head. If Poppy were a little older, she might have recognised the gravity of my tone, the way Shakespeares Othello once asked Desdemona a fateful question. But she was still too young for such literary references; she was simply gathering life experience, watching people laugh and fret over petty things.
So I said, Come on, love. Its getting late. Ill take you home and have a word with Mum. Poppy didnt ask what I intended to discuss; she just knew it mattered. She hurriedly finished her icecream, then, as if the decision Id just made weighed more than any confection, flung her spoon onto the table, slid off her chair, wiped the chocolate from her lips with the back of her hand, and, looking straight at me, declared, Im ready. Lets go.
We didnt walk home; we practically ran. I held her hand tightly, and she swayed a little, like a banner caught in a wind that a nobleman might have waved at the Battle of Waterloo. When we burst into the lift lobby, the doors groaned shut, taking a neighbour up a floor. I glanced at Poppy, slightly bewildered, and she stared back, eyes bright, and asked, So? What now? Who are we waiting for? This is only the seventh floor.
I scooped her up and scrambled up the stairs. By the time I reached the landing, HelenMumflung the front door open. I stepped forward, heart thudding, and blurted, You cant be seeing that Sergey fellow! I love you, Helen. We have Poppy I wrapped my arms around both of them, pulling them close. Poppy clutched them both by the neck, eyes squeezed shut, as if sealing the moment with a kiss.
And thats how it went, a sudden, chaotic evening that turned a simple teashop visit into a turning point for all three of us.