Vacillations of Poppy Carew (35 page)

Victor, startled by the suggestion of an unpleasant death as presented by the juggernaut, drove with more circumspection. ‘I was not showing off.’ He squeezed Penelope’s hand in her lap. ‘A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have minded dying. Now it seems crazy.’

‘Sean Connor liked your book, that gave you hope.’

‘What’s the use of hope on your own?’

‘I bet you were thrilled. I bet you went to bed with Julia. Do you know she jokes about my name, calls me Antelope?’

‘Not exactly. I didn’t go to bed with her, she only rhymes it with—’

‘Only because she’s fixed up with Sean. You did at one time, at least once. Confess.’

‘What’s once? All that’s long ago. She gave me a cook book, that’s all. Pretty innocent, it wasn’t much.’

‘I noticed the cook book,’ said Penelope. ‘I rather wondered about that. Who else,’ she asked, her latent jealousy reviving, ‘who else has there been while we’ve been apart. What other girls? What about Mary, she’s bloody attractive, have you been making passes at her?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Victor laughed, relieved that Penelope was not aware of his fleeting interest in Poppy Carew now sitting neutrally on the back seat. ‘Mary was Fergus’s province, she’s never been known to look at anyone else. She doesn’t seem to be attracted to anyone or anything other than the job nowadays.’

‘What about the baby? What about that?’

‘I can’t say I’m much interested; it’s said she went off to Spain and had a child by a wog. I dare say there’s a story there if one grubbed about a bit.’

‘Your journalistic mind,’ she said. ‘One notices the lack of interest.’

Victor did not like the tone in which Penelope said this nor the way she went on laughing. Uneasily he was reminded of the laughter in the bathroom above the kitchen that he and Fergus had listened to on the day he had found his darling caked in mud, her ankle sprained, having failed to catch Bolivar. Penelope and Mary had found something very comical to laugh about while Mary strapped up Penelope’s injury.

‘I don’t ask who you have been having affairs with,’ he said (I could not bear to know, I could not bear it). ‘If we travel that road,’ he said, ‘we will only get hurt. Let’s leave it, shall we?’

‘Glad to.’ Penelope drew the line on post mortems, perilous quagmires.

‘That poor man.’ In his happiness Victor was charitable. ‘That poor Edmund of yours. He loves you still, Poppy,’ he called over his shoulder.

Poppy on the back seat said ‘Oh’ doubtfully.

‘He said Venetia’s got cold feet,’ said Victor, with Edmund’s grumblings and moanings during the trip to Venetia’s flat in mind.

‘What does she have to be afraid of? She’s got the bastard now and Poppy doesn’t want him.’ Penelope had little kindness to spare for Venetia.

‘Not that kind. Apparently her feet are froggy, physically so.’

‘Damp?’

‘He said that in bed her feet are cold. He compared their temperature unfavourably with Poppy’s. Her bottom too does not compare well.’

‘Do you hear that, Poppy?’ Penelope looked back, laughing.

‘It seems Venetia is not nearly as snug to cuddle as Poppy.’ Victor, disloyal to his own sex, elaborated. ‘And she cries.’

‘What has she to cry about?’ asked Penelope.

‘God knows, but it gets on his nerves. Sudden gushing tears. He says it’s unnerving.’

‘You got pretty pally in that short time.’

‘A form of research. He chucks Poppy, saying he still loves her, and moves over to Venetia. It’s of literary interest, but why?’

‘Money,’ Penelope suggested. ‘Good old LSD?’

‘Maybe. Useful for my novel anyway. I can give one of my less lovely characters chilled feet.’ Victor and Penelope giggled. They forgot Poppy on the back seat and discussed Victor’s book and their joint future for forty miles, arguing as to whether the character based on Penelope who was to get murdered should have cold feet or whether he might not create another girl altogether based on Venetia. ‘And then, of course,’ said Victor in full creative flow, ‘there’s the rabbit, I must not forget the rabbit.’

‘What rabbit?’

‘Don’t you remember? You wrung that poor little inoffensive animal’s neck.’

‘Oh God, I remember. We had just got engaged, begun our romance.’

‘I nearly broke it off. I was horrified.’

‘I was showing off. I thought you wanted me to be a tough, hunting, shooting, fishing girl. It wasn’t me—’

‘You certainly are a nicer girl since living with me.’

‘Idiot.’

‘Much nicer,’ insisted Victor.

‘I am the same old Penelope, it’s you who have improved. I love rabbits.’

‘You do not wring the neck of the thing you love,’ said Victor dryly.

‘You are murdering me in your novel.’

‘We seem to be getting into deep water.’

‘Right, let’s change the subject.’

Listening to them Poppy realised that their happiness was fragile, that both Victor and Penelope cared for it enough to defend it from themselves.

‘When we get to the turning to the village,’ she said, ‘drop me off. I’d like to walk.’

‘Sure?’ Victor slowed the car.

‘Absolutely. I’ll walk across the fields.’

‘Your bag?’

‘It’s light. I’ll carry it.’

‘Tell me when to stop.’

‘At the next turning.’

Victor stopped the car. Poppy got out. ‘Thank you for everything.’ She kissed Victor’s cheek. Penelope hugged her. ‘Take care of yourself.’

‘And you both.’

She watched them go for a moment then climbed a gate and started walking across a field full of cows.

It seemed an enormously long time since she had walked these fields as a child. It seemed an even longer time since her father’s funeral. The path she was following led across the fields to the church whose tower she could see in the distance and through the churchyard into the village street. She would pass the grave where Bob Carew had recently taken up his tenancy.

Strolling slowly Poppy enjoyed the silence of the country which is not silent. Her ears attuned to the roar of the motorway took slow minutes to hear the brushing of her feet through the grass, the munch of grazing cows, their heavy breathing, the caw of rooks in lazy flight, the autumn song of a robin in the hedge, the sound of a tractor ploughing over the hill. She stopped as she walked under a row of telephone wires, looked up and listened for the twitter of swallows but they had gone to winter in Africa, last seen flighting in across the sea from Europe on the days she had witnessed the mob, the hanging, had the drama with Edmund. She walked on.

The day which had begun cold held the warmth of the October sun in the churchyard and butterflies crowded a buddleia, flies and bees worked in the long grass. She left the path and approached her father’s grave.

He lay near the boundary wall. The flowers and wreaths had been removed, somebody had turfed it over, all that was left of the mound of flowers was the laurel wreath still fresh at the head of the grave.

Poppy squatted beside the grave, idly brushing grass pollen from her legs. It was peaceful. Jackdaws clacked about the church tower, she could hear the clock tocking. She stretched her legs and, sitting propped against the churchyard wall, tried to think of her father.

She was too young to know that memories do not come leaping to order, it would take her years to discover that they are evoked by a smell, a glimpse of colour, a tone of voice, a note of music. She fell asleep, her head against the wall, her feet towards the grave.

The clop of horses’ hooves woke her. She sat up. The horses stopped.

‘Hullo,’ said Mary, high on a Dow Jones. ‘I saw you from up here. How are you?’

‘I fell asleep.’

‘Why not? Nice day.’ Mary sat the horse easily, one hand round Barnaby who perched in front of her. The other held the reins and a leading rein attached to a second horse. ‘I was giving these two a little exercise, the others are away working. Coming up to the house?’

‘I was on my way. Just thought I’d—’

‘See your pa. Is he there?’

‘No, no he’s not—’ Perhaps that accounted for not being able to conjure him up.

‘He’s at some heavenly race track. Like to ride up to the house? Can you ride?’ asked Mary.

‘Yes. Thanks.’ Poppy climbed on to the low wall and dropped down bareback on to the spare horse and rode through the village to her father’s house, her house now. Barnaby, perched in front of Mary, kicked his legs out and chuckled as they went along.

Dismounted in the yard Poppy watched Mary put the horses away. Just as Victor had changed so indefinably had Mary. She was prettier, thinner, her hair was not dyed, she looked even more withdrawn. ‘How is Fergus?’ Poppy asked.

‘Just the same,’ said Mary. ‘Just the same,’ she repeated, shutting a horse-box door. ‘Come into the house.’ She led the way in through the kitchen. ‘I hope you won’t find we’ve changed your house too much, your room is untouched.’

‘It was never my room.’

‘Ah.’ Mary looked her up and down. ‘You have changed,’ she said, ‘you look different.’

‘I’m free. Perhaps that’s it. I’m free.’

‘Is that so?’ Mary smiled. ‘It must be nice.’

‘It’s
super
.’ Poppy watched Mary pull off Barnaby’s jersey, put him down on the floor, give him a raw carrot to gnaw.

‘He’s on solids now.’ Mary looked down at her child. ‘Got several teeth, haven’t you?’ She poked Barnaby’s stomach gently with her toe. Barnaby looked up smiling enormously, rolling his bull’s-eye eyes.

In spite of her brave words Poppy, watching Mary, suspected that the state of not being in love might wear thin when the novelty wore off. How did Mary manage? She found herself looking forward to the return of Fergus.

‘Shall we see whether your room’s all right?’ Mary led the way upstairs. ‘How is your Lochinvar?’ she asked, pausing on the stair where she had sat nursing Barnaby at the funeral party. ‘It caused quite a commotion when he swept you off in Venetia’s car.’

‘I have disposed of him,’ said Poppy coolly, resenting Mary’s mocking tone.

‘Aha! Thinking for ourselves now, are we?’ Mary laughed outright. ‘Well, here’s your room, nothing’s changed.’

But everything’s changed, thought Poppy. The room, the house may look the same, but Dad’s gone. Mary, for she blamed Mary, has altered the atmosphere. There’s a dangerous sparkle about her, she’s some sort of volcano.

When Mary left she paced the room, went into the bathroom, touched the bath towels, the soaps and bath essence, ventured across the landing to her father’s room. Mrs Edwardes had tidied and cleaned it, the bed was unmade, the furniture covered in dust sheets, no trace of Dad remained. Poppy closed the door, went back to the visitors’ room where Life’s Dividends had reposed in the ample bed. She unpacked her overnight bag, put her sponge and toothbrush in the bathroom, opened the windows.

It will be much better when Fergus comes in, she thought, remembering his kiss, his tongue thrust urgently into her mouth. A whirl with Fergus would do no harm. Dad would have liked Fergus, she thought, more perhaps than Victor, been delighted at the disposal of Edmund, approved of the final parting. She stood at the window looking out at the road, trying to come to terms with Dad’s absence, the change in the house’s atmosphere.

After a while she left the room and explored, peeping in at bedroom doors. Girls’ clothes, shoes, tights in the room that had been hers, posters of pop stars bluetacked to the wall, alien paperbacks on the floor. In the bathroom strange toothbrushes, shampoos, coloured towels. In another room a child’s cot, a potty. No trace in any of these rooms of Fergus. Where did Fergus sleep?

‘Fergus has taken over the top floor.’ Mary had come up, silent, barefoot, carrying Barnaby. ‘He’s due for his afternoon sleep,’ she said, laying the child in his cot.

Poppy, caught snooping, flushed. ‘Are you all quite comfortable?’ she asked, to fill an awkward gap.

‘Sure,’ said Mary. She drew the curtains, darkening the room. ‘Go to sleep,’ she said to the child, ‘close your eyes.’

Barnaby closed his eyes and opened them again immediately.

Poppy moved back on to the landing.

‘There’s Bolivar,’ said Mary, looking out of the landing window. ‘See? There he is sitting in the road. He knows Fergus is on his way home. Hey, Bolivar,’ she shouted. The cat neither twitched nor looked up. ‘Fergus will be back soon. I take it you’ve come to see him,’ said Mary obliquely.

Poppy did not answer. She looked forward to Fergus’s return, he would lighten the atmosphere, put a stop to this lonely feeling, the sense of something lying in wait. She remembered him large, capable, kindly, above all, cheerful. Feeling curiously endangered by Mary she decided to rest on the Life’s Dividends bed until Fergus’s return.

‘I think I’ll have a nap like Barnaby,’ she said.

Mary went away.

P
OPPY RESTED ON THE
visitors’ bed, she listened to the house, her childhood home, her father’s house. Below the visitors’ room where she lay on the bed was the room that had been Dad’s study. It was silent. No occasional cough, no scrape of chair pushed back from the desk, no sound of his voice telephoning, no voice calling out as it had in her childhood to Esmé and latterly to Jane Edwardes, ‘Is my tea ready?’ What silly little things she remembered.

How had he appeared to the ladies who had lain in this bed? As friend? Lover? Companion? What were they like? Were they old? Arthritic? Horsey women with tinted hair and windblown complexions? Had they and Dad lain here? There was no echo of their voices, she would never know them.

She got off the bed and prowled the room. The cupboards were empty, the chest of drawers also. Life’s Dividends had left no trace.

Her overnight bag looked out of place, ready to take off elsewhere.

If Life’s Dividends were not here, nor was Dad, it was too late now to give him joy, she must get used to permanent regret.

Another regret, not, she told herself, of much importance, was Victor—re-absorbed by Penelope—who might, if she had handled their first meeting differently, have been more than a friend. He had certainly given that impression. But that opportunity, if opportunity it was, was past. Penelope had him back, would keep him.