Through the sadness that clouds her gaze,
Her drawings weave through the darkest maze.’
Wait… Was the song about Norah? It couldn’t be, could it? No. That would be silly.
‘In the silence of her room, where shadows play,
Norah's drawings come alive, in their own way.
With tears like ink, she paints the night,
Sketching her sorrows in the fading light.’
OK, she definitely heard her name there. Poppy had written a song about her? Norah didn’t know how to process that. But she didn’t get the chance to figure out her feelings because there was one last surprise to come.
‘In shadows cast by flickering light,
I watch you draw, lost in the night.
Each line you trace, my heart does ache,
For love I hide, for your sweet sake.’
Norah took one step back and another and then turned and ran back down the stairs.
‘Did you get your pencils?’ Mrs Jennings called after her.
‘Yep! Bye!’ Norah said, flying out the door and slamming it behind her.
She ran down the street and into her own house, running into her bedroom and flopping onto her bed. Her heart was pounding, but not just from the run. She was scared.
Poppy had written a love song about her.
Eight
Now
Poppy was looking at her bank balance. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.
She was running out of money, fast. The house was paid off, thank god. Her mother had paid the mortgage off a few years before she died. But there were still bills, and Luna wasn’t cheap to raise, even at this age. Just keeping her fast-growing feet shod seemed to take the GPA of a developing nation.
Poppy looked at little Luna, sitting at her plastic craft table, working on a picture. The kid had no idea of her money worries, barely understanding the concept of money at all. Poppy liked it that way. That’s what childhood was for. Blissful ignorance.
Many times in Poppy’s young life, one or both of her parents would say the phrase, ‘We can’t afford it.’ And Poppy knew to shut her trap. But Luna had never heard that expression. Not that she got everything she ever asked for. Poppy didn’t want to raise her like that, even when she had more to give.
It was no good for kids to get everything. Not just because it spoiled them but because it wasn’t that fun to get everything you wanted. It was good to want things. It was part of what made life worth living. It would have done Luna a disservice to give her nothing to desire.
Unfortunately, Luna didn’t understand that yet. She would throw some pretty intense strops or, if she was feeling in more of a bartering mood, could beg with the best of them. There was going to be a lot more of that in her future because Poppy was almost broke now. The royalties from her songs were drying up. In fairness, it had taken longer than Poppy would have expected. She’d let it happen, though she knew there was more she could do.
Even as funds dwindled, she could not bring herself to go on the nostalgia tours she was occasionally offered. She wanted that time in her life to die. She hated her music now. It embarrassed her to hear the recordings. It was such a horrible dilution of what she’d set out to do, which was simply to make something worth hearing.
If she’d been good at it once, the joy of doing it was beaten out of her now. Despite what she’d achieved with it once upon a time. Getting the attention of someone she was in love with, albeit accidentally.
Twenty Years Ago
Poppy’s voice died in her throat as she heard the front door slam. It was probably just her mum, right? Nipping out for milk?
That was when Poppy saw the pencils lying on her desk. Norah was never without them. If she realised she’d left them behind, wouldn’t she...
Poppy ran downstairs to find her mother folding laundry. ‘Did Norah just come in?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.
‘I sent her up to you. Didn’t you see her? She was coming to your bedroom for her art stuff.’
The colour drained from Poppy’s face.
Norah had heard the song and legged it. She was probably completely freaked out, maybe even revolted. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. It wasn’t supposed to be now, and it might not have been ever. Poppy had no real plans to tell her. And certainly not via song.
‘What’s up?’ her mother asked.
‘Nothing.’
Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, yes, because your face always looks green. What’s wrong?’ she demanded, putting down a jumper on the pile.
It had never crossed Poppy’s mind to discuss this with her mother, but apparently, her face was an open book. And her brain wasn’t functioning enough to make something up. So she told half the truth.
‘I think she heard something.’
‘Who, Norah? Heard what? What are you talking about?’ her mum asked, baffled.
