Vacillations of Poppy Carew (33 page)

He had told her, turning towards her, his long legs cramped in the aircraft seat, his back half turned on a somnolent fellow traveller, that he had decided at her father’s funeral that he loved her, that he must marry her, that this was, for him, final.

She had said, ‘You did not tell me this in Algiers, it is ridiculous. When you saw me in the church you did not know me, we had not spoken, you could not know you loved me. It was pure imagination.’ She shied away.

‘It was and is love,’ he said. ‘A bolt.’

‘Just an idea,’ she scoffed.

‘A great idea. I would call it inspiration.’

‘Absurd,’ she mocked.

‘You have not found me absurd these last days and nights.’

‘You gave me great pleasure,’ she admitted stiffly.

‘So?’

‘Pleasure is not love.’

‘The two are knit.’

‘No.’ She had loved Edmund, hadn’t she? How to tell Willy about life with Edmund without giving herself and, incidentally, Edmund away. She had already said too much.

‘You thought you loved that bloody man who beat you. I bet you never shared delight. You just persuaded yourself you loved him.
That
was imaginary.’

‘It was not.’

‘You have been happier with me than ever with him.’

She would not admit this, she was handling this all wrong, planes brought out the worst in her, had she not been sulky with Edmund on the outward flight? ‘I have a lot to sort out, things to do. My father’s business,’ she had excused herself, trying to sound reasonable. ‘I left home in a rush. I need to be alone. Why are you looking at me like that? What’s so funny?’ She was puzzled and irritated that in the midst of a serious desperate discussion Willy should start laughing.

‘I may tell you some day. Not now. Okay, go ahead, be alone, sort yourself out, I’ll wait.’

They had not parted happily.

The taxi stopped outside the flat. Poppy paid the man, stood with her bags on the wet and greasy pavement, nerved herself to use the key, climb up the steps. Inserting the key in the lock she noticed that a shop on the corner had changed hands in the short time she had been away, changing from a small grocery into a rather brash branch of a well-known bookmaker. Would Dad have called in there, did he place his bets by telephone or did he only bet on the course? As she unlocked the street door she thought she knew Willy better than Dad and damn Willy for laughing, curse his private joke. Resentfully she let the street door slam, crossed the dark and shabby hall to climb the stairs carrying her bag up one flight, up another flight and another to the top. Had he guessed, she wondered as she toiled up out of breath, her arms aching from the heavy bags, had he guessed what a rotten selfish lover Edmund had been, had he guessed from her joyful reaction that she had never known any better?

There are other fish, Willy Guthrie, she thought, as she searched her bag for the flat key. Where the hell has it got to, not lost, surely? Other fish such as slender intellectual Victor or Fergus, travelled, debonair, kind, enterprising—ah, here’s the key—both of these had looked at her with interest, had shown their inclination and intention in their kiss. What had pig farmer Willy Guthrie got that they hadn’t got? What had he to laugh about? She unlocked the flat door, pushed it rustling across uncollected mail littering the floor, slammed the door shut.

A dying bluebottle struggled buzzing on its back.

She had not shut the refrigerator door properly, it hummed as it had all her absent days, ice frosting down on to the tiled floor, a freezing reminder of useless activity during her travels.

The flat smelled stale and dry. Worse, it was permeated by Edmund.

Quickly she switched off the refrigerator, ran to open the windows, began feverishly and at once searching the rooms for Edmund’s belongings, throwing books, tapes, clothes, shoes, sports equipment into a heap, rummaging systematically through drawers and cupboards for anything, everything that was his. It was amazing what a lot of unvalued dross he had left, not feeling it worthy of Venetia Colyer. Off the wall came his Hockney print and a picture of the Lakes he had given her. Out of the drawers came clothes, from the kitchen plates, cups, saucepans, dishes he had contributed to their joint living, his tape recorder and radio from the bedroom.

While she exhausted herself limping about in a frenzy the fridge began to drip. She heated a knife over the gas on the cooker and prized ice from the sides of the cabinet, throwing chunks into the sink. From inside the fridge she snatched a lump of Cheddar cheese Edmund had bought. When? Weeks and weeks ago to make Welsh Rarebit. Threw it among his possessions. Yuk!

She found suitcases that were Edmund’s, packed them with his things, crushed them shut, set them out on the landing. For the rest she heaped it on to his sheets, tying great bundles by the corners, heaving and dragging them out of the flat. Out, out, out.

She swept up their joint mail from the mat, sorted it, sat at the kitchen table, took pen, readdressed all Edmund’s letters, bills and circulars c/o Venetia Colyer, ran downstairs and along the street to the pillar box and posted it.

Back in the flat she finished defrosting the fridge, wiped and swept the floors, shut the windows, turned on the bath.

While the bath filled she undressed, scattered drops of pine essence on the kitchen and bathroom floors, dolloped a generous gush into the bath, stepped in shakily exhausted, lay back in the fragrant delicious water, closed her eyes to appreciate relief and freedom. Opening her eyes minutes later she saw on the shelf above the bath Edmund’s bottle of aftershave, leapt splashing out, snatched the bottle, threw open the window, cast the bottle out, heard it crash distantly in the street and a man shout, ‘Oi!’

Back in the bath she dipped back so that her head too went under the water and all of Edmund in the flesh in the flat was washed away. But she knew as she dried her body and rubbed her hair dry that it was not so easy. Her eyes were used to the sight of Edmund, her ears attuned to his voice, her body habituated to fit with his.

The episode, she told herself, the episode with Willy was an episode, no more. Clambering into her lonely bed she felt as miserable and bereft as she had on the night that she heard that her father was dying. Halfway through the night she woke thinking she heard Willy’s laughter and found some comfort in his amusement. Thinking of Willy she ached with desire. Unassuaged she lay awake until a blackbird sang in the dusty little square at the corner of the street.

A
CROSS THE ROOFS THE
harvest moon and Orion were bright, there was a touch of frost. Poppy leant out of the window while the kettle boiled for coffee, craning to catch the first hint of sunrise.

She had slept for two hours.

Drinking her coffee she was uneasily aware of Edmund’s possessions lurking on the landing as though threatening to re-enter the flat. She would not be truly rid of Edmund until she had removed his things.

Her car was in the country, parked where she had left it when Edmund had whisked her away from the wake. She must get down to Berkshire, retrieve the car, bring it to London, load it with Edmund’s leavings, deliver them
chez
Venetia—hand them to the hall porter. There would be no need to meet Edmund or Venetia—and that would be that.
Finis.

She shrank from the task.

Hungry, she searched the bread bin, finding half a loaf as hard as a brick, greening with mould. There was no butter, no milk, no sugar. She poured herself more coffee, drinking it bitter and black and thought what she must do. She needed a tonic.

In childhood should she sniff or grizzle or pretend illness when confronted by boredom, when she exaggerated the pains and inconveniences of her periods, Esmé would look at her with contempt and say, ‘You need a tonic.’

The tonic was never forthcoming but the word had evolved in her childish mind something other, indeed the opposite of Esmé who damped the spirit. Esmé was not capable of producing a tonic for a tonic meant pleasure.

Dad’s rare company exuded pleasure; it angered and frustrated Esmé. Since he was so rarely at home the benefit was presumably shared with his friends on the race course, with Life’s Dividends, after she had left home to live with Edmund, in that remarkably comfortable and luxurious bed in the visitors’ room. Poppy thought about the bed and smiled.

I need pleasure, she thought. A meal of pleasure, a creative bout, a crash course. There had been precious little pleasure of late with Edmund. If she admitted the truth it had always been a bit rare and if there was any going Edmund scoffed it.

The need was urgent. Drinking her bitter coffee, Poppy composed the prescription for the tonic. Agreeable company, laughter, frivolity, physical pleasure. A light diet and no commitment. A diet I can take for once without giving.

‘I am sick of this eternal giving,’ she said out loud, pushing the intrusive vision of Willy to the back of her mind. ‘I want some fun, I want to laugh, I’ve had enough of love.’

She smacked the coffee cup down on the table, the bitter coffee jumped and spilled. She picked up the coffee pot and, opening the flat door, poured the gritty grounds over Edmund’s things.

Inspiration brought her to the telephone. She looked Victor up in the book, discovering him among the many other Lucases hopefully awaiting her call. She dialled the number, promptly Victor answered. ‘Hullo?’

‘Victor? It’s Poppy Carew, d’you remember me?’

‘Of course.’ He sounded drowsy. ‘How are you?’ Less enthusiastic than she expected.

‘I’m fine. Sorry if it’s too early, I’ve no idea of the time, I should have—’ Disappointment in her voice.

‘What is it? What can I—of course it’s not too early, tell me—’ He sounded now as she remembered him, kind, intelligent, caring.

‘I’m interrupting your work.’ (All writers work in the early morning, I’ve put my foot in it.)

‘No, no, no I wasn’t working.’ He laughed. ‘What’s up? What can I do for you?’

She explained her predicament, wondered whether he was free, was doing nothing else, would he drive her to Berkshire to retrieve her car. She had this load of a ‘friend’s’ things cluttering up the landing—actually blocking—she needed the car to transport them, move them away. In spite of herself urgency crept into her voice, in a minute she would be whining.

‘Why don’t we load them into
my
car, drop them round at whoever’s, then we’ll go down and fetch
yours
. How would that be?’ Victor suggested. ‘Make a day of it, lunch in the country?’

‘It’s such a bore for you—’ she demurred.

‘Not at all, be round in a flash, ’bye.’ He rang off, cutting short her thanks.

Poppy’s stomach rumbled with hunger, her insides felt full of gas. She pulled on a sweater, took the few pounds she had left from her bag and ran downstairs. If quick she could run to the corner shop which would be opening at this hour to cherish local Indian and Pakistani neighbours on their way to work or coming off the night shifts, buy milk, bread, fresh coffee, sugar and butter and thus be able, when he arrived, to offer Victor breakfast, repay a little of his kindness in advance, staunch the aching void in her gut. It seemed a good idea. Who knows, she thought as she hurried along, it might be fun to have a whirl with Victor, see whether he lived up to the kiss he had planted at the wake. He might, she thought cheerfully, be even more skilled, more wonderful than Willy. She whistled as she walked in anticipation of Victor. Nice girls don’t think these thoughts. She remembered the days of Esmé, mentally mimicked her. If so what else do they think about?

She was greeted by the shopkeepers, a Bengali family. Where had she been? Away on holiday? Ill?

‘A Moslem country.’

‘They did not treat you well.’ Tender glances from under long lashes.

She made her purchases, paid Mr Bengali while Mrs Bengali packed them with delicate fingers into a carrier bag. Mr Bengali bewailed the passing of the rival shop into the hands of a chain of bookmakers. ‘Temptation, temptation.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Our savings will be tempted.’ Poppy loved to hear about the savings which mounted with steady persistence, an example to all frugal, hardworking families.

‘My father made his fortune on the horses. Don’t worry, Mr Bengali, you will not be tempted.’ She counted her change. Mr Bengali liked his customers to count their change. ‘I must fly, see you tomorrow.’ She set off, hurrying up the street. Often and often in the years of jogging with Edmund they had stopped at the shop to buy little cartons of orange juice to sip through straws as they walked the last hundred yards home.

Oh, Edmund!

She waited for the familiar pang, took note that it was faint and frail.

Getting better, nearly well.

As she reached her door Victor arrived in a smart car, stepped out smiling.

‘You have a new car. Your literary success! Congratulations.’ Poppy was delighted to see Victor, it had been an inspiration to phone him.

‘It’s mine. He’s still got his old banger, we are going to sell it.’ Penelope eased herself on to the pavement, careful still of her strapped ankle.

Poppy tried not to gape. What a turn up for the book.

‘You haven’t met my wife Penelope.’ Victor happy, smiling.

‘His ex-wife. He’s writing a novel about how he murdered me.’ Penelope beaming.

‘What have you done to your foot?’ I must say something. Poppy eased her Achilles tendon, still, now she thought of it, rather sore where the man at the hanging had trodden on it. Mercifully the black eye had quite faded.

‘Sprained it. This the way up?’ Penelope, using a stick, started up the steps. Even limping she was graceful, no wonder Victor—

‘Where’s all the stuff you have to move then?’ Victor, proud of Penelope, bright eyes looking down at Poppy, friendly, brotherly, taking her parcels from her.

‘The top floor, I’m afraid. Can you manage or would you like to wait here? I was going to offer you breakfast.’

‘We’ve had ours, thanks. I can manage, it’s nothing. Hurt like hell at the time but Victor rescued me, didn’t you, darling?’

Penelope and Victor climbed the stairs following Poppy. She’s got a neat little bum, thought Victor, but Penelope’s has got more swing to it.