Chapter 34
Rose
I honestly don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in my entire life. Apart from maybe that time in the tent at Glastonbury, when I was a Stoned Rose and every word out of Poppy’s mouth was absolutely hilarious.
This time, I’m not stoned – just a bit hungover. And this time, Poppy isn’t my best friend – she’s the person I’ve been holding responsible for ruining my life for all these years, even if part of me knows that’s not entirely fair.
And this time, we’re not joking about our mum sneaking into a festival as a blue-boobied yoga freak – we’re on some crazy beyond-the-grave odyssey that she’s sent us on; an insane journey of reconciliation.
None of this is funny at all – but God, it felt good to laugh again.
And it felt good to see Poppy relaxed again, even if it was for just a few moments; the way her face lit up at the thought of being Dumbledore’s long-lost daughter was absolutely priceless.
Well, she has been reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban this morning.
That look – that genuine glee – meant that for a little while there, she lost control. She stopped being the perfectly poised Poppy she is these days, and instead became the imaginative, excitable little girl she always used to be. The way I remember her, before everything turned to shit.
I suppose, no matter what comes next, no matter what the ultimate outcome of Mum’s bonkers spirit quest, we both needed that. We both needed to laugh, to let go, to relax.
Now, egged on by Mum’s insistence that E is just a bit of fun, I decide we should press ahead.
‘Okay,’ I say, pointing at the boxes on the living-room floor, ‘while I’m still half dead with this hangover, shall we see what E is? She said it was funny, but I’m not sure I trust her. This spirit quest business is a bit unpredictable.’
‘Spirit quest?’ Poppy echoes, unfolding the now slightly tattered printout of the A–Z index. I hope she has a copy, or we’ll be screwed.
‘You know. Like in films. This reminds me of one – like at some point, we’ll be asked to sit in a teepee and smoke a peyote bong?’
‘Like we’re Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves,’ she replies, obviously getting it. Of course. She looks up, frowning at me quizzically, still looking much younger and much more innocent.
‘What would your spirit animal be?’ Poppy asks, kneeling down and rummaging in the rose-painted box.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I reply, giving the issue some serious thought. This is, after all, a perfect hangover conversation, right up there with, ‘What’s your favourite superpower?’ and ‘If you were a colour, what would you be?’
‘Maybe,’ I say, after a few moments, ‘I’d be a Labrador. They’re big and cuddly and like to eat and sleep. I don’t think I’d mind being a Labrador.’
‘Well, I can see what you mean,’ Poppy says, producing a slim A4 envelope from the box and waving it triumphantly.
‘But that wouldn’t have made the cut in the movie, I don’t think.
Spirit animals are usually something clever, or magnificent, like a fox or a grizzly bear or a deer.
Not the pet equivalent of a foot warmer. ’
‘This isn’t the movie version, though. It’s our version. And I think you’d be a seal.’
‘A seal? Why a seal?’
‘Because you’re all … I don’t know, sleek, and streamlined, and shiny.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ Poppy answers, double-checking the envelope and seeing a giant black letter E scrawled on it. ‘Because I also happen to be an absolute genius at balancing a beach ball on my nose, and clapping my flippers.’
I laugh again. I can’t help it. She always could make me giggle – even when I didn’t want to.
It feels weird, though – fragile. Like we’ve both somehow decided to call a truce for the time being, pretend we’re not both so tense, allow ourselves a small break.
It’s only skin deep, and we both know that, but for now, it’ll do.
‘What’s in the envelope?’ I ask, pointing at it. ‘And do we need to be wearing face masks when we open it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says, sitting back on to her heels and looking at the index again.
‘It says here it’s a photo, with a note on the back.
I hope she’s right, and this one is fun – because I couldn’t help looking ahead at F while I was at it.
I know I’m not supposed to, but my eyes just kind of accidentally skimmed ahead, and it doesn’t look like a barrel-load of laughs. ’
‘F is for Fungus?’ I suggest, not quite wanting to let the easy mood die just yet. ‘F is for Fibre? Does she want us to eat a bowl of All-Bran mixed up with magic mushrooms? I wouldn’t put it past her …’
‘Well, that would definitely help with finding our spirit animals, even if we did have to hold the pipe-smoking ceremony on the loo … but no. It’s F is for Forgiveness.’
Poppy casts a nervous glance in my direction, and looks ridiculously vulnerable. She hasn’t put make-up on yet this morning, and her hair is tied back in a slightly messy pony, and if I squint my eyes up a bit, she could be ten years old.
Ten years old, and asking me to forgive her for losing the lids to my felt-tip pens, or eating the last Curly Wurly even though she knew I was saving it, or spilling orange cordial on my maths homework.
Asking forgiveness for any one of a thousand tiny childhood transgressions that are all part of growing up.
Except, of course, this time she’s asking me to forgive her for a whole lot more – and I am nowhere near ready to do that. My lack of forgiveness is so deeply ingrained in me, I don’t know if I ever will be.
Neither, though, do I quite have the will to look into that vulnerable face of hers, and say exactly that.
‘Well,’ I answer, ignoring her silent inquiry, ‘let’s worry about that one when it’s time.’
Poppy nods, uses her long, perfectly shaped fingernails to slit open the top of the envelope, and out falls a photo.
It’s old, an 8 × 10-inch shot that looks as though it could have been used for some kind of promo.
It’s a bit crinkled, and curled around the edges, but is vivid in that gloriously glossy way of the Seventies.
She holds it up and looks at it, and her eyes widen in disbelief.
She turns it to me, and I see why. There, dressed in some kind of hideous hot-pants outfit made entirely of gaudy greens and golds, is my mother. The Seventies incarnation of my mother – all wild hippy hair and huge eyes and boobs.
She appears to be dressed in some kind of sexy mock Irish get-up, several buttons on her green waistcoat open to show off her cleavage, her tight green sequinned shorts ending inches above her bright gold thigh-high boots.
She looks gorgeous, but ridiculous – like some kind of Playboy bunny version of a leprechaun.
That, however, isn’t what is leaving us both speechless. We’ve both seen more amusing pictures than that of our mum.
What is leaving us speechless is the man next to her, his beefy arm slung around her shoulder, bloated face and bleary eyes smiling into the camera in a way that suggests he wasn’t entirely feeling at his best.
The man she’d always claimed to have met, even though we were never quite sure we believed her. I turn the picture over, still shaking my head in amazement, and see that Mum has indeed left a handwritten note on the back.