There was a pause and I said, ‘That’s wonderful.’
Poppy weighed my sincerity, evidently found it acceptable, and rattled on: ‘Lunch, then. It’s our anniversary so we thought… It’s great being married, isn’t it?’ Having fallen into the verbal equivalent of a quicksand, she had changed the subject and inquired about Felix’s recent stomach upset. She ended the conversation by saying, ‘One o’clock. But, Minty, if you feel you want some time to yourself, which I’m sure you do, just send Dad and the twins over.’
I hadn’t intended to watch Rose’s programme. No, really. But here I was, eyeing the opening credits over a plate of grated carrot, sliced tomato and ultra low-fat salad-dressing.
How long was it since I had seen Rose? Two, three years? No matter, for in my case, seeing was irrelevant. You don’t have to see someone to know they’re there, and Rose and her shadow were sewn to me as securely as Peter Pan’s had been to him.
Unable to make up my mind if I wished her withered and bony, which would have added to my guilt, or flourishing, as she appeared now, I scrutinized every inch of her. Rose looked wonderful, like a woman in charge of her life and unencumbered, which, if irritating to anyone struggling with encumbrances, let me off the hook. If Rose could look that good, she wasn’t suffering and – perhaps – the balance had evened out a little. On the other hand, I reminded myself, this was the woman who had been discussing garden plans with her ex-husband, who happened to be married to me.
Rose’s first wonder turned out to be hidden in a Polish salt mine. In combat trousers and a thick jacket, she led the viewer down a tunnel and, every so often, the camera panned over the figures and animals carved by the miners into the walls. ‘This unicorn is fourteenth century,’ she said, in voiceover. ‘And this is a bas-relief of a church, and was probably done as a record during a period when churches were being destroyed. In making these carvings, the miners found relief from boredom and fear. They also gave themselves something beautiful to look at.’ She went on to describe that they had worked by lamplight with the crudest of tools. Apparently, the rock crystal possessed special molecular qualities that helped to preserve the carvings, and each had accrued its own set of stories and myths. The camera settled on a figure in a long coat and hood. ‘This is the butcher of Kransk who lured maidens into his shop.’ The focus switched to a man on a horse. ‘This is the knight who reputedly haunts the local forest and whose horn is heard on summer evenings.’
Rose had always preferred fiction to non-fiction. ‘Novels contain the real truths,’ she had once argued, in the calm way that had annoyed me because it was so settled. I could never budge her from that position – and now? Now I never will. For myself, I stick to the self-help and makeover manuals – which, when I first met him, Nathan said was so touching. He couldn’t be doing with fiction either. I don’t think he has read a novel for, oh, at least fifteen years.
I pushed aside the tray, took off my shoes and tucked my feet under me.
The camera focused on Rose’s face, now fretworked by shadows. But she still looked wonderful. ‘The real treasure of the salt mine, the one I have come for, lies further down this corridor… I followed her progress along the passage and into a vault whose walls blazed with pinpricks of light. ‘Here,’ her excitement infected even me, ‘is the Madonna of the Salt. Work began on her in the fifteenth century, and legend has it that she was based on a nun from the convent of St Caterina who died after experiencing visions of Mary, the Mother of Christ. Each year, the community celebrates the statue’s reputation for protecting mothers with an underground candlelit procession and women, who are not normally allowed inside the mine, come with their babies to be blessed…’ She gestured with her right hand, and the large gold ring she wore slipped down her finger. ‘The Madonna of the Salt may be out of sight but she is very much a presence in the town. She is referred to as the “hidden mother”. Incidentally, the phrase “hidden mother” is also used for brides. For obvious reasons, no one may touch the Madonna but, as I stand here in front of her, I’m finding it difficult not to reach out as she’s so lifelike…’
That was enough. More than enough. I reached for the remote and switched Rose off.
That Poppy had never accepted me, and doubtless never would, bothered me not a jot. Well, not much. That she had only to pout her red lips and Nathan went running did. ‘She’s a good girl,’ he had told me, more than once. ‘Her heart is absolutely right.’
Nathan did not tolerate criticism of his children. Not one word – however tactfully I went about it – which I considered misguided. We could all do with a little, especially children, but when it came to Poppy and Sam, Nathan retreated to a locked, soundproof chamber and no amount of knocking would make him open the door.
Poppy’s heart might have been made of the best-tempered Toledo steel, but she was often wrong. For instance, it had been unkind to wear black at our wedding, and to persist in making her feelings about me so clear even now was divisive. When Nathan left Rose for me, Poppy spat defiance at her father: ‘I never want to see you – or that woman – again. Ever.’ Floating on a tide of moral certainty, she had reduced him to shivering and weeping. ‘She called me an old goat,’ he confessed to me. ‘An old goat.’
Poppy and Richard had made the transition from flat to large house in a disgustingly short period of time. Richard had made a lot of money in ‘strategy’ and Poppy spent it. The house was Edwardian, spacious and newly refurbished. The windows and paintwork were pristine. The front garden had been designed by a professional. It featured box and carefully graded grey stone. An olive tree in a blue ceramic pot stood in the centre.
The door was flung open and there was Poppy. ‘Dad!’ she cried, interposing herself between Nathan and me. ‘How lovely.’
Father and daughter were very alike. They had the same colouring, and facial structure. Naturally Poppy was modelled more delicately – her waist was tiny, and I found myself pulling my pink cardigan edged with ribbon down over my hips. Underneath I wore a lacy half-cup bra that was digging into my flesh. Before the twins, a half-cup bra fitted like a second skin but, these days, I was bothered by its secret chafe. No longer the student, Poppy was groomed, highlighted and wore contact lenses, never glasses. Yet she had never lost her short-sighted habit of peering at you, or her quickness, or her tendency to outbursts. She grabbed her father’s hand and carried it to her cheek. ‘It’s been ages. I’ve missed you, Dad.’
Nathan put his arm round his daughter and glowed.
‘Hallo, Minty,’ Poppy said, at last. Her gaze veered past my shoulder. She broke into a huge smile and opened her arms. ‘Twins! I’ve been counting the minutes.’ She swooped down and drew them close to her.
‘I’ve got red socks on,’ Lucas informed his half-sister.
‘And I’ve got blue ones.’ Felix brought up the rear.
‘I’m wearing socks too,’ Poppy hoicked up her trouser leg, ‘with spots on. Now, boys, I have an important question to ask you.’
Felix knew exactly what was coming. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t.’
Poppy held them tight and pushed her head between theirs. ‘How naughty have you been? Tell me everything.’
There was much whispering and muttering, and Poppy giggled and said, ‘Felix, you’re tickling my ear.’ Eventually she pronounced, ‘Is that all?’ Then she said gravely, ‘I can be much naughtier than that.’