Vacillations of Poppy Carew (11 page)

‘I’ll see to that,’ said Jane busily. Poppy left the room to dry her hair and dress.

They can manage perfectly well without me, she thought, pulling off the turbanning towel, brushing her damp hair. They could manage Dad’s funeral without Dad. They have all the trappings, the food, the drink, the Thermoses, the horses. As she combed her hair she watched the stout Indian leave the house, get into his van and drive off. From the kitchen she heard voices, Jane and Victor.

I’m very quiet, she thought, brushing her hair, and Dad’s very quiet.

An Interflora van drove up, a man and a girl got out, opened the van doors and began to unload wreaths.

Oh God! Poppy stood watching. More trappings. I wish I could run away. Why did she have to ask after Edmund? I was all right until then, now I feel sick. Would they notice if I left them all to it? Brushing her damp hair, she wished she could jump into her car and drive away. They are all happier without me, I am
de trop
. She stood by the window looking out at the swallows on the telegraph lines. She felt isolated as one standing in a fog, the sounds from the outside world muffled and indistinct. They are arranging all this without me. They do not need me. They are carried away by their plans for the ritual, using me and Dad as a rehearsal for the burial of their own loved ones when their time comes. I wish it were over.

H
ALF AWAKE, EDMUND EXPERIENCED
a feeling of unease. He lay still, setting his sleepy brain to define the grounds for this sensation. His mind clocking into gear, recognised the cause. It was not Poppy who lay warmly asleep beside him but Venetia Colyer, a longer version of womanhood than Poppy, quite a lot older and, he faced it bravely, cooler.

One of Poppy’s assets had been her physical warmth. She had been lovely to cuddle on winter nights. It had been nice to feel her warm bottom in the small of his back as they lay back to back as he now did with Venetia.

Heigh-ho, thought Edmund, can’t have everything. He consoled himself for his loss by enumerating Venetia’s assets. She was beautiful, sophisticated, rich, well dressed. She had a marked talent for cooking, useful friends who were in touch with important people. Her flat was large, comfortable, finely furnished. For instance, the bed in which he now lay was perfectly sprung, something which could not be said of the bed he had shared with Poppy which, sagging in the middle, led to sexual encounters when he was too tired or felt he should have been too tired, having a fear of excess in these matters as do many keep-fit maniacs. Except that I am not a maniac, he told himself, I just mind my diet and exercise properly. Damn, thought Edmund, reminded of exercise. I must arise and jog in a few minutes and Venetia has now said that she will not jog with me. Only on occasion. Edmund recalled Venetia’s upper crust voice which he revered saying ‘only on occasion’ making the occasion sound like a rare benison, a medal for good conduct.

Beside him Venetia shifted slightly in her sleep, her feet brushing against his calves. Her feet were cool, even chilly, after hours in bed when they should have been warm and friendly like Poppy’s. Edmund resented in retrospect the last few nights when, getting into bed, Venetia had pressed her cold feet between his legs saying ‘warm me, warm me,’ as though it were something he would enjoy. He wondered, while resenting the temperature of his mistress’s feet, whether if he gave her bedsocks it would set off her other irritating trait, sudden gushing tears spurting unheralded by as much as a moan from her large blue eyes. Superstitiously Edmund wondered what the third irritation would be, simultaneously crushing the sense of loss he still felt for Poppy. One has not lost something, one has discarded, he told himself sarcastically as he prepared to slide out of bed. Venetia would sleep on for another hour while he jogged round the Park solo.

Outside it was raining. Poppy would have exclaimed ‘I feel chicken’, but the rain would not have stopped her. Plucky little thing, Poppy.

Setting his jaw, Edmund trotted along Venetia’s as yet unfamiliar street towards the Park, consoling his lonely state with the thought of Venetia’s breakfast. Orange juice, crisp bacon, excellent coffee (she made much better coffee than Poppy, who made it in a tin jug), brown toast, Devon butter and Cooper’s marmalade, which would be waiting on his return. ‘Have I time for a shower?’ he would say, as he had these last few mornings. ‘Yes, but don’t be too long,’ Venetia would reply, her gold hair brushed and shiny.

Forgetting the temperature of Venetia’s feet and her tendency to sudden tears, Edmund swung north towards Bayswater, taking care to leave the Park by Lancaster Gate and not by the old gate as he had yesterday, his feet from long habit leading him towards Poppy and the flat they had shared for so long.

Passing a paper shop Edmund stopped to buy a paper. He had been shocked to find Venetia’s daily paper was a rubbishy tabloid not
The Times
. ‘Buy your own,’ Venetia had said, ‘if you must have it.’ People like Venetia, he had often heard, were mean in small things, hopefully generous in large. Perhaps this was the third irritation he thought with relief, in which case it was a blessing in disguise. Had not Poppy often taken his
Times
just to pore over the reviews, messing up the paper?

It had stopped raining. Edmund opened
The Times
as he walked the last stretch of pavement, running his eye down the column of births and deaths before turning to the City page. ‘What’s this, what’s this,’ Edmund exclaimed aloud and again, ‘What’s this?’ He stood in the street re-reading the small announcement. ‘Robert Carew, loved father of Poppy—suddenly—funeral Saturday.’

‘Saturday—today is Saturday.’ Edmund used the key Venetia had given him and went up to the fourth floor in the lift, infinitely preferable to climbing four flights as he had all these years, though climbing stairs kept one fit.

‘I have to go to a funeral,’ he said, kissing Venetia absently as though they had been married for years. She had consented to marry him all right, no problem there, but stipulated she should keep her name. ‘I am fond of Colyer,’ she had said (her divorced husband was Michael Colyer). ‘Why don’t you change yours by Deed Poll? Edmund Colyer sounds terrific.’ Edmund had answered jokingly, ‘I might well at that. I’ll think it over.’ There was time to think, they were not married yet. Why not Edmund Colyer-Platt? That sounded good, making the deplorable Platt, so awful in its single state, positively Who’s Whoish.

‘I have to go to a funeral today,’ said Edmund.

‘Whose funeral?’ Venetia’s ready tears spurted. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said, ‘and spread the load.’

‘A
RE YOU WEARING THIS?
’

Poppy did not know how long she had stood looking out of the window, hairbrush in hand.

Cars and vans had come to the house, flowers had been delivered, large sprays and small, brought by people coming up the steps, ringing the bell, handing their offerings to Jane who, invisible beneath the window, thanked and chatted before calling goodbye and closing the door. The sun moved round to shine directly into Poppy’s eyes. Her hair was dry now. She had watched the young swallows make tentative flights, returning after each adventure to the communal safety of the telephone wire to twitter and preen, display flashes of white and chestnut against navy blue plumage. She had seen Victor leave the house to join Fergus, driving away in his old Ford, followed shortly after by Jane in her new Metro. Before leaving Jane shouted up the stairs: ‘I am going home to change into my black.’ Poppy had not answered. She remained by the window looking out at the swallows.

‘Are you wearing this?’

Reluctantly Poppy turned towards a woman who stood in the shadow, holding the dress Dad had bought for her birthday.

‘Yes.’ How had this woman got in?

‘Good,’ said the stranger. ‘Perhaps you’d let me help you dress?’ she suggested. ‘Your front door was open,’ she answered the unspoken question.

‘I’m all right.’ Poppy was defensive.

‘Of course.’ The woman was old but erect. Poppy saw that she had beautiful legs, narrow feet, she wore a heavy white silk dress and coat, black hat, bag and shoes, she gave the impression of confidence and authority, she smiled at Poppy, amused, she held the multicoloured dress so that it seemed to move towards her, anxious to be worn.

Poppy faced the stranger.

‘I am a friend of your father’s, used to meet him at the races.’

‘Oh.’ Poppy reached for her knickers, pulled them on, let the towelling robe drop, pulled a slip over her head. ‘Tights,’ she muttered.

‘Here.’ The tights were held out to her.

‘Thanks.’

‘Shoes?’ questioned the old woman.

‘Will black shoes do?’

‘Of course.’

Poppy adjusted the tights, put on the shoes. ‘Now the dress.’ The dress was slipped over her head. ‘Beautiful, just as we thought,’ murmured the old woman.

‘We?’ Poppy stared at her. ‘We?’ she questioned apprehensively.

‘I was with him when he bought it.’ This woman had once been lovely, was beautiful in age. She smiled at Poppy. ‘I helped him choose it, he asked my advice. We had met at the races. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘You are still alive.’ Poppy thought of the anonymous leavers of Life’s Dividends.

The other woman laughed. ‘I was never in
that
category.’ She read Poppy’s thoughts.

‘I just wondered.’

‘Yes?’

‘Are they all dead?’ Here perhaps was someone who could enlighten, who had known Dad’s companions, mistresses perhaps.

‘I wouldn’t know. Your father had lots of friends; some were lonely people afraid of going to the races on their own. Your father was kind to them.’

‘Did he, were they—’ Poppy bit off the rest of the sentence.

‘He didn’t necessarily sleep with them.’ Life’s Dividends were dismissed.

‘There now, you look lovely, look at yourself.’ She indicated the mirror. ‘He would be very pleased, your pa,’ she said, smiling at Poppy’s reflection.

Poppy envied the stranger’s assurance, her elegant clothes, the jewellery she was wearing, the waft of unusual scent. She had not known that her father had friends like this. She had not known her father.

‘Here they come.’ The old woman moved to the window. Poppy joined her.

Round the bend in the road into the village clip-clopped hooves, into view came the Dow Jones, rich harness gleaming, bits jingling, ostrich plumes waving. They drew the hearse, shining black and gold, its glass sides polished, its springs creaking, its wheels rumbling and crunching on the road. On the box Fergus, in black, tail-coated, top-hatted, rug wrapped tightly across his knees, held reins and whip, beside him Victor similarly dressed. Behind the hearse Annie and Frances in black also but hatless, while in front at the horses’ heads Mary strode gravely.

‘Beautiful!’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘I shall certainly book him for myself. I must make a note for my executor. Where did your father find them?’

‘An advertisement in the
Field
.’

‘Never missed a trick, your pa.’

The hearse came to a halt. Mary stood by the horses’ heads as they stretched their necks and blew down their noses. Annie and Frances went into the house. Fergus and Victor jumped down from the box.

‘Time you went down,’ said the old woman.

‘Oh my God!’ Poppy shrank from what lay ahead, she shivered.

‘Oh my nothing,’ said her visitor briskly. ‘You have to see him out of the house and follow behind him to the church. Brace up, don’t be a ninny. Here, wear this.’ She took off her white silk coat and put it on Poppy. ‘I felt cold at my husband Hector’s funeral. Look sharp,’ she said. ‘Play your part. Think how he’s enjoying this.’ She pushed Poppy towards the door. ‘A bit of pageantry in this dark age, be proud. I can imagine him watching, can’t you?’

Poppy walked down the stairs. She did not feel her father was there to watch.

Jane Edwardes had appeared wearing unmitigated black. Her husband John and her nephew Bill were with Fergus and Victor hoisting the coffin on to their shoulders. They carried it to the hearse. Frances replaced the laurel wreath on the coffin and helped Annie arrange other wreaths round the coffin and on the roof.

When the cortège started Poppy looked round for the old woman to thank her but she was gone. Obediently she paced behind the hearse carrying Dad’s body through the village to the church. In later years when she smelled the smell of horses in harness she would sniff, reminded of that day but missing the illusive scent which impregnated the borrowed coat. She followed the hearse, her head up, glad now that Dad was having the funeral he wished. The half mile to the church was the proper distance to walk in the September sun with the swallows twittering from the telegraph wires and rooks cawing as they flew up the valley.

While the hearse drew Bob Carew at a walking pace and Poppy followed, lonely behind, the church filled with people.

They paused in the porch to give their names to the reporters, blinked as they adjusted to the dimness, muted their voices as taught by their forebears, shuffled their feet, found seats, greeted friends discreetly, looked around, remembered to kneel, pray or appear to pray before sitting back to wait for the service to begin.

Calypso Grant observed the congregation, sifting the locals from those from further afield, recognising people who had once gatecrashed parties now become almost professional funeral-goers who, in youth, had known or pretended to know all the party givers. They now come she thought, to watch their former hosts departing who knows where.

But, she thought, there are lots like me who really cared for Bob Carew, as his daughter does too late, while those who cared most for the dear man have preceded him. I wonder, mused Calypso, whether there is some splendid race meeting in the sky and they wait for him by the paddock rail to advise them which horse to back.

Beside her, her nephew Willy who had driven her to the funeral sat quietly, knowing no one, looking ahead at the pale stained-glass window behind the altar. He is thinking of his farm, the dear fellow, and is too nice to feel resentful of this boring afternoon I have let him in for.