Page 99 of Special Delivery
‘No, thanks, Mary.’ Poppy wondered whether she’d ever feel so anxious about magpies that she’d resort to wearing a hat with cable tie spears attached to it. Her initial feelings were: no.
She set off down the road, basking in the weightlessness of her long-sleeved t-shirt. Mentally, she was already boxing up the North Face to stow at the back of her wardrobe until next year. Everyone else walking around the golf course was obviously feeling the same. Middle-aged women had forgone the puffer vests and Gen Z-ers were wearing crop tops and bike shorts. The spring-fuelled exuberance was contagious.
The oak tree was covered in tiny green buds. In a few weeks it would cast a luscious shade. Poppy automatically glanced to her left but she was alone. She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows as her newly repaired phone began to ring in the cup holder. Pulling it out she saw it was an unknown number, but the dial code was local. Curious, she tapped the green button. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, do I have Poppy McKellar?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Great. Hi, Poppy. This is Sarah Jones from Region Building Australia. We had a chat last month.’
Comms Manager Sarah Jones?!What on earth did she want?
‘Is now a good time to talk?’ asked Sarah.
Poppy looked at Maeve, who was flexing her fingers in the sun. ‘Sure,’ she replied.
‘I’m calling because we’re starting a new brand-awareness project focused on cross-channel content and targeted outreach.’
‘Okay …’
‘I’ll cut to the chase. I’m looking to recruit a digital platforms lead and I thought you might be a good fit. I’ve got to lock in my headcount asap for our end-of-year budgeting, so I need to fill roles fast with a view to sorting out specific working arrangements down the track. If you’re interested, I can get this moving fairly quickly. Our conversation last month could be considered your first interview, and I’ve got your CV already, so with your permission we could go straight to reference checks. Of course, we could also negotiate a part-time arrangement or a job share—the main thing I need at this stage is confirmation you’re interested so I can get the ball rolling on the rest. Does it sound like something you’d be interested in?’
‘Uhhhh … uhhhh.’ The words wouldn’t form in her mouth; her brain was mush. ‘Yes!’ Poppy gasped, brain connecting to voice box finally. ‘I am definitely interested.’
‘Fantastic,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ll send over the contract and job description now for you to review, but essentially the job is yours if you want it. If you could confirm your interest via email, I’ll get you set up in our system. If you have any questions, you can call me on this number. Otherwise, I’ll wait to receive your reply.’
In Poppy’s imagination, cannons sent glitter and confetti rocketing into the sky, a chorus of dancing girls high-kicked from stage left, the guy from the Old Spice ad rode in on a horse. ‘Thank you so much, Sarah,’ she said, beaming. ‘I’ll look forward to the email.’
The call ended and Poppy stared at her phone in disbelief.Yes!She punched the air. This was living! Getting a job,making money, providing for her daughter—this was what life was all about. This was taking control!
She rounded the corner back into the cul-de-sac, energised. The blossoms were bursting! It was spring—and soon it would be summer! She was going back to work! She’d need to have her suit pants dry-cleaned and sort out day care and buy Maeve a lunch box and prune the hydrangeas and buy mozzie coils from Bunnings. She’d buy her mum a new Rockmans dress just because she could. There was so much life to get done!
She needed to call James. It was so obvious now. She needed to apologise and things could go back to the way they were. She could see it now: they matched. It wasn’t the hormones or the heat or the fact his lips would curve slightly upwards in that almost-smile which could make her blaze with irritation because she was desperate to share every joke. It was just her, and him, and together they existed in some unfiltered, messy continuum where you could yell and cry and laugh and somehow none of it mattered, because what mattered was that they were real together.
With Patrick, she’d endured the boozy adventures, trying to convince herself it was fun. She’d posed at awkward, arm-flattering angles for his Instagram stories when all she wanted was a night on the couch. With Henry, she’d spent months pretending half his life—the Willa part—didn’t exist. She’d warped her reality to make space for both of them, even if it meant ignoring parts of herself.
With James, she’d never hidden anything and gosh, it had been liberating. Imagine feeling like that forever. To feel like that even for a few more weeks would be a gift. There was nopoint worrying about Melbourne. She had so much to tell him. She was going to buy a leaf blower, Maeve was trying new food groups, her mum had plans to storm the council DA meeting. He’d listen to it all and know the perfect thing to say. He’d tell her she was stupid or amazing or that he didn’t care about Maeve’s foray into beetroot (but she knew he would). She missed his no-bullshit view of the world and she missed how his smile made warmth radiate through every cell of her body.
Her smile was irrepressible as she eased the pram up Mary’s garden path and registered the table that was already laden with their morning tea. ‘We’re back, Mary,’ she called. The plate of jam drops was there but the teapot was missing. Mary must be fetching it from inside. Poppy pulled Maeve out of the pram and sat down in her usual chair. When Mary didn’t appear after a couple of minutes she rose again and knocked on the screen door. ‘Mary, can I help you carry anything out?’
The sound of a buzzing dragonfly filled the silence.
‘Mary?’
Poppy shifted Maeve to her other hip and eased the door open. ‘Mary?’
She walked down the hall to the kitchen. It was like she knew what she was going to find, the pressure building in her brain, her pulse hammering in her ears.
‘Mary!’ she shouted and dropped to the ground.
Her neighbour was lying on the floor, her left leg bent at an odd angle, a trickle of blood at her temple. Her eyes were ghostly still.
‘Mary!’ she shouted again. A pulse—she needed to check for a pulse. She put her fingers to the old woman’s wrist.Yes.It was as faint as a butterfly’s touch, but her pulse was there. Mary was still alive.
Poppy grabbed frantically at her pockets for her phone, but they were empty. She sprang up, still holding Maeve tight to her side, and ran back to the pram. Jolted by the whiplash, Maeve began to wail.
Where was her bloody phone? She found it in the cup holder, yanked it out and ran back to Mary.Please be okay, she prayed as she dialled triple zero. Maeve was still screaming.
