I tried not to think about what had happened, and my wife, Lucy, didnt bring it up either. You know I know you know, shed say, and that was enough. She saw my bewildered face and used it to her advantage; a man weighed down by guilt is easy to steer.
Lucy was the clever one in the pair. Her eyes were a deep, endless green Id never seen anything like them before, and I never will again. One look and I fell straight into that abyss.
I fell for Poppy the moment I saw her love at first sight, plain and final. She walked into the lecture hall a few minutes late, just as the professor was starting, and it turned out we were in the same tutorial group. Nothing Id ever experienced felt like that; the world seemed to slip into the background while Poppy paid me no mind at all.
If only shed thrown me a fleeting, curious glance a question, a joke, anything. But there was nothing. Poppy simply wasnt interested in Nathan Thompson, and she didnt have to be. I was decent looking by todays standards, but that was my first real letdown. In school Id been the top lad in the village, never short of girls, yet this felt different. It was a strange, fresh, powerful feeling perhaps what they call true love.
A slight consolation was that she wasnt flirting with any of the lads in our group. If this ever happens, I often thought, I have no idea what Id do. Poppy started to warm up in our third year, but my feelings for her stayed exactly the same I kept loving her.
Then, as if spring had melted the ice, she began to laugh at a classmates jokes, and my heart lifted. When we rode the tube home together, I imagined a whole life for us, sweet and ordinary. I asked her out and, to my surprise, she said yes. She realised she liked the tidyhaired, cheeky Nathan too, the sort of bloke who reminds you of a cartoon character with his spiky haircut.
I took her for a cup of strong coffee that was the hit song on every radio at the time and we had a brilliant afternoon. We kissed, and my dream finally started to feel real.
By the end of third year we were a couple, and at the start of the next academic year Poppy was pregnant. It happens. She found out she was expecting on her birthday. I turned up at her flat on 9 June while her parents were away at the cottage, and in the heat of the moment we didnt use protection, thinking itll be fine. It wasnt.
Soon enough Poppy realised shed received a truly royal gift. We spent the holidays with our respective families; not everyone owned a mobile then, so the young father only learned the news after his dad came back from the south in late August. Poppy was a nervous wreck two and a half months pregnant, decisions looming.
I was just as puzzled. Neither of us knew what to do. Lying in bed felt romantic, but the harsh reality crept in: my eyes went green with worry.
Marriage seemed too early I was still a lad, and my parents would not have been thrilled. An abortion? I wasnt ready for a child without a husband, and she wasnt ready either. Money was needed for an abortion, and, of course, her consent.
Poppy seemed ready to accept any outcome, like a heroine from an old film: Do something, Nathan! She begged, and I promised Id act. I did, but the thing that stunned everyone including myself was that I didnt turn up for university on the first day of term. Id simply chickened out.
If anyone had told me such a thing could happen, Id never have believed them. I had taken my documents and vanished to another university, somewhere up north. Poppy was left to face her dilemma alone.
My classmates were baffled. Wheres Nathan? they asked. No one heard from me, and my parents said Id moved into a rented flat with no phone line. In short, Poppy was erased from my life; the fear of losing freedom outweighed even the purest love.
Years passed. I, now Nathan Timpson, settled down, married Lucy, and our son turned twentytwo last spring. I never bothered with my former lover; she died, and I never learned how her story ended. With time, my conscience gnawed at me. Perhaps Id been too harsh. I had loved Poppy, and I would have loved the child she carried.
Lucy, my wife, was a wise woman. She never said, I know everything, you scoundrel! She understood that a man sometimes needs secrets, especially when they involve something ugly hed rather not recall. She hinted she was aware, but keeping that knowledge hidden protected the respectable image Id cultivated for years.
On a Saturday, Simon told me hed introduced a girl for his son to meet: Were getting married! Though his son was still young, his parents didnt object; he lived independently in a flat his grandmother had gifted him. When I opened the door for my son that Saturday, there she was Poppy, exactly as shed been, or rather a perfect copy of her, as if she were a clone.
It turned out she was his daughter, the one hed never known existed. That revelation hit me harder than any past panic. My throat dried, my heart pounded over a hundred beats a minute, and cold sweat ran down my spine divine retribution, perhaps.
I tried to act normal, smile, keep the conversation going. I avoided looking at her, fearing a silent accusation in her eyes, wondering if shed come to stir trouble in our happy family. Maybe her mothers story of a deserting father had driven her to vengeance. Shes my sister? I thought. Can I marry my own sister?
Panic rose; my blood pressure spiked. My wife asked, Do you want to lie down? Ill check your pressure. I agreed, using it as an excuse to retreat.
My son, did you not like Sophie? my son asked, returning from the wedding party. I noticed you didnt even glance at her. Is it the pressure? The doctors pill helped, but my father shouted, You wont marry her! Why not? Simon demanded. Shes your sister! I left her mother pregnant twentysomething years ago! I couldnt bring myself to confess; the words were too heavy.
Ill marry her anyway, Simon said and walked away.
Lucy, ever sharp, asked, What on earth happened? Shes a good girl, you can see it. She loves Simon. Why are you acting like this, love?
I muttered, What would you do if it were you? She replied, Its not her, Nathan. She just looks like the other girl. Same type.
Lucy reminded me of a photo the goodnatured friends had shown a careless snap of me with Poppy during my infatuation. Could that be?
Its not impossible, I said. There are contests for lookalikes, after all. Her mothers name is also Lucy, just like mine. Were visiting them on Saturday. Does that mean my son can marry?
Lucy? Really? I laughed weakly. So Sophie isnt his daughter?
Relief washed over me now he could marry. I wondered how Lucy had learned everything. The resemblance was uncanny, a single face.
Later, I looked closer and realised Id been wrong. Their hair colour, their eyes they werent the same. It was a miracle, or perhaps my guilty conscience finally waking up again.
I still try not to think about it. Lucy never mentions it either. You know I know you know, she says. She sees my bewildered stare and uses it a man haunted by guilt is easy to steer.
In the end, Ive changed. My swagger and bravado have faded. Im no longer the brash lad I once was. And perhaps, just perhaps, the truth about that old affair will stay buried, while my life with Lucy carries on, steady and ordinary, as any respectable Englishman would hope.
