4

       Pink Fridge

      Mitchell eased himself into a taxi outside the hospital and asked the driver to take him across the city to Miss Bradfield’s house. Anita had always spoken of arranging for Poppy to take extra music lessons and the teacher came highly recommended by another parent. She gave independent lessons in the evening, as well as her daytime job teaching in several local schools, including Poppy’s school, Hinchward primary.

      As his damp trousers squeaked against the leather car seat, Mitchell watched the red illuminated digits of the taxi fare rolling higher and higher. The cost distressed him almost as much as his aching body.

      Budgeting for him and Poppy was always tight. Things like family days at theme parks, lunch without thinking about the bill and popcorn buckets at the cinema were resigned to the past. Now he scoured the internet for cheap things for them to do together. He had discovered that strolls in the countryside, making cheese sandwiches and attending free events in libraries were just as much fun, and provided the opportunity to chat with Poppy more. Or it meant he could try.

      Sometimes Poppy still swung his hand in hers, chitchatting away about school and new songs her friends had downloaded. Other times she wore a cloak of sadness that he couldn’t break through.

      ‘I want people to like me,’ she said when she moved to Hinchward after Anita died. ‘Not just be nice to me because Mum’s gone.’

      And her words had seared into him, making his guilt bloom like dye in water.

      When Mitchell slid out of the taxi, he clamped Barry’s shoes under one arm and looked up and down the road. There was a curve of pretty small white houses, many with hanging baskets bursting with colourful flowers. He felt a pang of envy that they had small front gardens, when his own apartment didn’t have any outside space.

      When Mitchell rang Miss Bradfield’s doorbell, he placed one foot on top of the other in an attempt to disguise the fact that he wasn’t wearing shoes.

      The woman who answered the door wore large red-and-white spotty earrings that reminded him of toadstools, and had rows of black dogs on her white shirt. Her brown hair had streaks that shone purple like a beetle shell when she moved her head.

      ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Poppy’s dad? I’m Liza Bradfield.’

      ‘Yes, I’m Mitchell Fisher. I’m so sorry I’m late.’

      ‘It happens, though maybe not this late.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Come inside.’

      He followed her into a glossy powder-pink kitchen that looked like something a child would design. Poppy sat at the dining table.

      ‘Are you okay?’ He rushed towards her.

      ‘You’re really late, Dad,’ she said, her bottom lip trembling. Her straw-blonde hair snaked into a waist-length plait, with wispy curls along her hairline. She was going through a blue clothes phase, not wanting to wear her more girlish pink things any longer. When she stood up, she launched into a ferocious hug, her fingers clutching his back. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’

      They held each other until she dipped her head and pulled away.

      Miss Bradfield smiled at them, as if watching a play.

      There were chunky fish fingers piled on Poppy’s plate like Jenga blocks with no vegetables to be seen, and her drink was a shade of chemically enhanced orange. A ginger wiry-haired terrier sat on the floor, wagging its tail at him.

      Mitchell was too tired to make small talk and wanted to go home. If he hadn’t had an accident, Poppy wouldn’t be eating and drinking this stuff.

      Poppy guzzled the orange liquid. ‘Hmm,’ she sighed, as if it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

      Miss Bradfield picked up her dog and held it, legs dangling, under one arm. ‘You finished it all, yay.’

      ‘It was so good. Thanks.’

      Miss Bradfield turned to Mitchell. ‘Poppy’s done great. She was a bit upset at first, but I played her some classical music. A sonata can soothe the soul.’ Her voice had a lyrical quality, as if she sang some of her words.

      ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Mitchell said.

      ‘We learned how to hold the guitar and practised a few notes. She’s a natural, I can tell.’

      He wondered if she said this to all her pupils. ‘We should go and leave you in peace.’

      The dog leaned forward and licked the back of his hand, its wide pink tongue leaving a shiny trail on his skin.

      ‘Ah, Sasha likes you,’ Miss Bradfield said in surprise. ‘That’s rare, you know, her taking to a man like that. She’s choosy – used to bite one of my exes. Drew blood sometimes, ha. A better judge of character than me.’

      When she lowered the dog to the floor, Mitchell wiped his hand on his trousers.

      He glanced at her fridge, covered in a scrapbook of photos. He spotted Miss Bradfield posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower and a purple VW campervan. She was accompanied by two other women, one who looked startlingly similar to the woman he helped from the water. He rubbed the space between his eyebrows and wondered if a bump to the head could bring on hallucinations.

      ‘So, you had an accident?’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘Are you okay?’

      ‘I’m in one piece.’

      ‘Didn’t you jump into the river to save someone?’

      ‘It was nothing,’ he said, wondering how much Barry had told her. ‘We mustn’t keep you any longer…’

      She picked up an apple and bit into it leisurely. ‘You’re an architect, right? Clever?’ she asked between crunches. ‘Poppy told me you designed the new white bridge, the one that looks like a yacht?’

      Poppy slid her eyes guiltily to the ceiling, and Mitchell felt his cheeks burn. He’d left his job in architecture when Anita died, and he hated to think about his involvement with the new bridge for many reasons.

      ‘I no longer practise,’ he said. ‘I changed jobs and work for the council now instead. No out-of-office meetings or travel.’

      Miss Bradfield’s eyes swept to the Maintenance Team logo on his chest. ‘Ah, okay,’ she said lightly.

      Poppy carried her plate and glass over to the sink.

      Miss Bradfield sped over to her. ‘Now, you leave those for me to wash. Have you got room for ice cream? I have vanilla, strawberry or both.’

      ‘I love strawberry!’

      ‘Great choice.’

      ‘We have bananas and apples at home,’ Mitchell said. He picked up Poppy’s blue Word Up schoolbag.

      ‘I have sugar sprinkles,’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘And caramel sauce.’

      Poppy