When I woke the next morning, Poppy was beside me. She had padded across from her room and got into the bed without waking me. I’d always been a good sleeper. Until she was born, I used to sleep ten hours or more at the weekends, lying in bed until mid-morning while Jason went out to buy the paper and pastries. That felt a long time in the past. Now I felt dazed by the emotions of the previous day and by the crowded dreams I’d had in the night, although I couldn’t remember any of them, just a sense of anxious chaos. I had to gather my thoughts, remember I had a day off. Good. I snuggled down and closed my eyes for a few blissful seconds, then slid out of bed and went into the bathroom where I showered and got ready quickly. I woke Poppy and dressed her in jeans and a bright red tee shirt, which was a complicated business, since she stubbornly refused to cooperate.
I put on the kettle for coffee. I poured milk and oats into a saucepan and stirred them, hearing the familiar sound of Poppy talking to herself in her room above – Poppy always talked to herself – and then a banging sound. She was jumping on her bed. It stopped and there was a noise I didn’t recognise and again, louder, and then really loud, as if something was breaking. I ran up the stairs and into the bedroom and saw Poppy in the act of violently hurling something at the wall. It was a small wooden cow and it hit the wall hard, leaving a mark.
‘Poppy, stop!’
Poppy looked round, her eyes fiery bright.
‘Kingcunt,’ she shouted. ‘Kingcunt.’
I fell to my knees and grabbed her and held her close, partly to reassure her but also to restrain her and shut her up.
‘What are you saying, Poppy? Where did you hear that?’
I held her away from me so that she could speak. Her face bore an expression I didn’t recognise. Her mouth twisted. It frightened me.
‘Poppy, what is it?’
‘He did kill her.’
‘Poppy, Poppy stop!’
‘Kingcunt, kingcunt, kingcunt!’
‘Poppy, no.’
I smelled burning.
‘Wait one moment.’
I let Poppy go and ran down to the kitchen to find the saucepan in an eruption of foaming, spewing porridge. I switched the gas off and took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. It felt like a bomb had gone off, two bombs: one in Poppy’s bedroom and one in the kitchen.
As calmly as I could, I poured what remained of the porridge into two bowls and put them on the table, adding milk to cool the porridge and a teaspoon of honey to sweeten it. I fetched Poppy down and we both ate while I tried to think what to do. I couldn’t get it straight. But first things first: I spoke in the most soothing tone I could manage.
‘Darling Poppy, you know those things you said, just now? You mustn’t say them to other people. You mustn’t say them in nursery. Do you hear?’
‘Why?’
‘People will be sad. You can say anything to me. But you mustn’t say them to anyone else.’
‘Are you sad?’ She leaned towards me and squinted her eyes. ‘Did you cry?’
‘No, Poppy. I’m not sad. But you mustn’t say it at nursery.’
‘People will be sad.’
‘That’s very good, yes.’ I waited a few seconds. ‘Who told you that word?’
‘What word?’
I gave up and poured a glass of juice for her. While she was half-drinking it and half-playing with it, I found my phone and stepped out of the room, but only just outside. I dialled the number. There was a click and I heard a voice.
‘Hi, Alex, this is Tess. Nadine said I could call. I’ve got an enormous favour to ask.’