Page 31 of Special Delivery
‘I don’t want your pity,’ Poppy muttered.
‘But who hates cricket? I can understand indifference, buthate?’
Poppy repressed a sardonic smile. Her dad used to say the same thing.
The distant purr of traffic hummed around them as the pale sun filtered through the clouds. They walked the rest of the loop in silence to the metronome swish of Eileen’s tail. For some reason, it felt less suffocating today.
Before they parted, James paused for a moment. ‘If it makes you feel better, my dad wasn’t around growing up and I turned out fine.’
Poppy stilled the pram and glanced at him. His eyes looked almost earnest but it was hard to tell when she’d become so used to his smirk. Maybe after prolonged exposure to him, she’d just recalibrated her sense of social propriety. She narrowed her gaze sceptically. ‘By whose definition of fine?’
James smiled. ‘Well, my siblings turned out fine. See you tomorrow.’
He raised his hand in a wave as Poppy pivoted back towards her cul-de-sac, a confusing mist suddenly clouding her brain. Thoughts were trying to form but were fading like holograms before she could grasp them. A faint uneasiness settled in her gut. She didn’t like talking about Patrick—that must be it. And then James had started saying things like ‘catch you Monday’ and ‘see you soon’. She couldn’t decide whether it gave her the ick.
The breeze whipped against her neck as she rounded the corner into their street. Her daughter’s arms were thick with woollen layers, giving her the appearance of a knitted teddy. Poppy wondered whether it would be overkill to buy a point-and-shoot thermometer to check whether Maeve was cold on these walks. Would that be helicopter parenting or good parenting? The line was so blurry.
‘Poppy, love!’ called a voice up ahead. ‘Want to pop in for a cuppa?’
Poppy could see Mary’s hand waving over the hedge.
‘Love to!’ she called back.
Even though the wind was getting icier, her neighbour still spent her days sitting on her verandah. According to Mary, there was no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing choices. Today, she wore thick stockings under her arrow-print shift dress, with a quilted flannelette jacket over the top.
‘Morning, Mary,’ Poppy said, pushing the pram through her neighbour’s gate and levering it up the verandah steps. ‘Thanks so much for the cardigan. Maeve is better dressed for this weather than me now.’
‘My pleasure, love.’ Mary glowed. ‘As I told you, my great-grandchildren are too old now for anything I knit. They’re addicted to rugby league–branded polyester.’
From her vantage point on the verandah, Mary had quickly worked out Poppy and Maeve’s daily routine and had taken to exploiting it for her own social enjoyment. She was constantly inviting them over for a cup of tea and a jam drop.
‘See anything interesting on your walk today?’ asked Mary. She always began with the same question, eager to fill any gaps in her neighbourhood knowledge.
‘Not today,’ replied Poppy. ‘Just the regulars out and about.’
‘No dog poo, then?’ asked her neighbour. Dog walkers who didn’t pick up after their pets were a particular bugbear for Mary, even though she rarely walked the footpath herself. It was the principle of the matter. She had written to council about it.
‘None today,’ said Poppy. James was always militant about picking up after Eileen.
‘That’s good, I suppose,’ Mary said, disappointed. ‘Well, I’d best put the kettle on.’
Poppy sat down on the wicker chair on the other side of the table as her neighbour heaved herself up and pushed through the squeaky door to her hallway. Despite Poppy’s offers to help prepare the tea, Mary always refused. Even now, with the weather cooling, Poppy was never invited inside.
Mary returned to the verandah a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers, a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and a plate of jam drops. The tray rattled onto the table and Mary eased herself back into her chair. ‘I’ve got a blanket down there if you need it,’ she said, pointing underneath the table.
Poppy pulled out a thick crochet blanket and spread it over her lap. ‘Thanks, Mary.’ She poured the tea then put two jam drops on her plate.
‘Have you had one of those mummy meetings yet?’ asked Mary.
‘I had the first mothers’ group yesterday actually,’ replied Poppy. ‘It was’—she swallowed a mouthful of biscuit—‘okay.’
Mary noticed her hesitation. ‘What was the problem?’
Poppy wasn’t sure how to answer this. There was no specific problem; she just didn’t see the point. After agonising over whether she should arrive slightly early or slightly late, she had arrived at the community health centre right on time—a feat in itself, considering the punctuality handbrake she’d given birth to.
It had been stupid, really, to care so much. It was just a bunch of women sitting in a circle on plastic chairs, like they were at Alcoholics Anonymous, but the only addiction they suffered was clicking ‘add to cart’ at 3 am. They were all just tired and tender and probably a bit hungry.
It was fine. So, so, so fine. But … it wasn’t. These women weren’t like her. If she was still with Patrick, she would have been exactly like them, but she definitely wasn’t now. They reeked of normality with their husbands and mortgages and Mazda CX-5s. They had shiny hair and wore fashionable activewear. Poppy picked up the milk jug and poured a generous slosh into her tea. ‘I think the other mums are a bit different from me, that’s all.’
