Giving herself a last minute once over in the full length mirror which was hanging in the rustic hallway of her Chelsea apartment, Poppy Carter smoothed down the bold beige linen suit with her freshly manicured hands, and bunched her natural blonde curls neatly into a band at the nape of her neck. Adding a final touch of gloss to her top lip which was marginally fuller than the lower one; she took a step back, admiring the no nonsense business style which complimented her supple and toned frame to a tee, the trophy body awarded to her from the year of her Iyengar Yoga discipline.
Poppy’s gaze drifted to the right of the mirror and hovered upon the photograph of her parents, Edward and MelodyCarter. Affectionately positioned by the front door, their faces were the very first and last image to greet her when leaving or arriving home.
A tinge of sadness tugged at her heart as Poppy momentarily granted herself permission to reminisce her childhood days, growing up in The Manor Cottage (which by all accounts was a 10 bedroom mansion, handed down several generations on her father’s side of bankers).
To outsider’s the grand architecture dating back to the 1800’s gave the impression of a palace, yet some of the inner goingson had seared her to the core. Momentarily, an unquenchable loathing caused Poppy to freeze as if dead in her tracks. The emerald green eyes belonging to Surriah their house-keeper flashed through her mind’s eye, as if a bolt of lightning had struck. Edward Carter had brought this dark skinned beauty into their family home convincing her mother the voluptuousyoung woman would cover a range of duties from cooking to cleaning. This employment, as Poppy would soon discover, was nothing more than a cruel charade.
It was St Valentine’s Day, and the excessive amount of snow that year had kept the 12 years old Poppy captive in that grand fortress she called home for weeks now. However, it was her love of books that frosty morning that navigated her steps down to one of her favourite rooms, in search of ‘Alice Through The Looking Glass’, a child hood story she adored from the first moment her mother had read it to her. It was this story that from her earliest years had stimulated herfascination with reflective surfaces of all types.
On most of her visits to this favourite room, it seemed to perspire - an aromatic, musky odour, which Poppy found to bepleasant and gratifying. However, this mid-week morning, there was a more pungent, sour pong invading her nostrils. The smell seemed to incite a salty taste on her tongue too. A sense on knowing warned Poppy that she had wandered into a foreboding secret that she was not privy to. Holding her breath, and as a mouse she scurried on tip toes through the corridor, hoping her presence would remain undetected.
Oh no!
That house keeper was pressing her bare flesh against the nakedness of her father. The two of them cajoling behind one of the free standing mahogany bookshelves situated in the corner of the grand basement library. The large mirror, which ran across the entire back wall of the library, was the obnoxious bearer of the adulterous tidings that would shatter her heart into tiny pieces, from which she would never fully heal.
Later that same evening, around midnight, Poppy’s racing mind kept her from sleeping. The taunting images of thatwoman with her father deeply etched into her thoughts. Wrapped in her dressing gown, Poppy quietly meandered down the wooden stairs to the kitchen. It was dimly lit by the orange of the fire, which was still burning and a church candle in the centre of the circular oak table. Poppy sat by the fire in one of two cosy armchairs. She basked in the shadows created by the fire allowing them to embrace and comfort her heavy heart.
“What’s that?” she thought. It was not a noise but a presence.Sensing she was not alone. Allowing her eyes to wander upwards towards the rectangular mirror adorning the mantelpiece. Poppy almost jumped out of her skin at the dark shadow standing behind her chair!
“Surriah?”
“Hungry, child?” asked Surriah stepping forwards from behind the chair, a bowl of homemade soup in her hands. “I noticed you didn’t have much of an appetite at supper”.
The pangs of hunger and rumbling noises from her tummy led Poppy to accept the large drinking bowl from Surriah. Although, inwardly she wanted to refuse. Preferring instead to see Surriah wear the hot soup on her head – bowl included!
For a few moments Poppy allowed herself to savour the aroma of the tender beef and vegetable goodness, clasped between her palms. She lifted the bowl to her lips, “traitor”, boomed her inner voice.
As if hearing her silent words, Surriah settled herself into the other armchair, “Did you have something on your mind?” she quizzed.
With a sense of dread stirring up on the inside of her, Poppy held her tongue, fearful of the repercussions if she allowed this filthy secret she had uncovered spill from her lips. “There is a time to speak and a time to be silent”; a tactful and wise practise Poppy had learnt to cultivate from her earliest years, a trait inherited from her mother.
Satisfied that her clandestine affair with Mr Carter was still awell-kept secret, Surriah studied the 12 year old with her cat shaped emerald eyes, and as the old grandfather clock in the corner of the kitchen struck 1am her husky tones quietly whispered, “It’s well past your bedtime now child”.
