Poppy flew round the flat. She picked up Sunny and clasped him to her chest, till the old cat reached out and batted her; then her mouth opened in a square of wounded distress and she dropped him and howled.
She hit out when I insisted on washing her hair that was clotted with something like marmalade. Her naked, soapy, angry body was slippery as an eel’s.
She lay on her tummy in the downstairs room, dreamily arranging her collection of toys in a circle and talking to them, while I cooked a meal.
Lying in bed, clean and sleepy, she said, ‘When did you die?’
‘I won’t die for a very long time.’
‘But who will look after me then?’
‘You will be all grown up,’ I said. ‘Maybe with children of your own, maybe with grandchildren.’
‘With Milly?’
‘Milly’s gone, darling.’
‘She did die.’
‘She was just a doll; she didn’t die.’
I stroked Poppy’s hair. Her forehead was slightly damp. On the edge of her hairline, a faint stork mark was still visible. She was still so little; the residue of babyhood clung to her.
‘Story,’ demanded Poppy.
I picked up a book.
‘No. My story.’
‘Once upon a time,’ I began. ‘There was a little girl called Poppy. She had a mother called Tess and a father called Jason.’
‘And a cat.’
‘Yes. A cat called Sunny.’
‘And Sam the gonkey.’
‘And Sam.’
‘And a fant.’
‘All right. An elephant too. And her family and her friends loved her and she was kept safe.’
‘But she was a bad girl.’
‘No! She was a good, lovely, kind and clever girl.’
Poppy gazed up at me. She put a finger on my top lip and traced its shape; she traced the faint smile lines at the corner of my eyes.
‘Are you very old?’ she said.
‘I’m not young like you, but I’m not old.’
‘When I was old, I did die.’