Vacillations of Poppy Carew (38 page)

‘Do you think it possible,’ she asked presently, ‘that Fergus really did not know Mary’s baby was his?’

‘Perfectly possible,’ said Willy. ‘I know other people who can’t recognise what’s going on under their noses.’

‘Such as?’ Poppy resented Willy’s tone which was sarcastic.

‘Such as you,’ said Willy on the same note.

‘In what context?’ she asked sharply.

‘In the context of love,’ said Willy. ‘You busily pretend that you do not know that I love you. I should have thought by now you would be fully aware of it. Cognisant, if we are being pompous.’

‘I resent—busily.’

‘Hah!’

‘I haven’t had time to think about it. I am still bruised and battered by Edmund—’ (This whining is ridiculous and also false.)

‘Come off it.’

‘I want time to think,’ she complained.

‘You are not slow witted. You’ve had time.’

‘No, I haven’t. When Edmund and I parted—’

‘He left you.’

‘Agreed. But he came back—’

‘You wanted to annoy Venetia. You told me.’

‘So I did—and I did.’ Poppy relished the memory of an unsurpassed act of annoyance.

‘Well then,’ said Willy, his eyes on the road.

‘Well then, when we’d parted, split up, finished, when Dad had died, I was deciding what to do with myself, sorting myself out, taking my time.’

‘I came along,’ said Willy cheerfully.

‘That didn’t settle anything, Willy.’

‘It did for me.’

‘But not me. I was thinking of selling my flat and buying a little house in London, starting all over—’

‘That’s what you are doing now, starting afresh with me.’

‘No.’

‘I am taking you home.’

Home, thought Poppy, what is home? My flat, with its connotations of Edmund, is impossible, even though I have thrown out all his things, he will still be in the air I breathe. Dad’s house, my early home, it’s now, thanks to my own bright idea, Mary and Fergus’s. Would a little house in London, always supposing I found one, be a better deal? To be honest, until a moment ago, when Willy acted so sure of himself, I had forgotten that slight conversation with boring Les Poole at the bank. I am not being honest with Willy but no need to let on just yet.

There is always the possibility of nothing, doing nothing, nothing happening. One night or three in the Dividend bed is fine, but what about longer? What about it?

There is no way I can start afresh, thought Willy. I have been clumsy. I was so sure of my own love I didn’t take hers into account. Does it exist? Am I rushing her too fast? With other girls I have sailed ahead not really caring, felt so confident, so carefree. This is absolutely bloody. Surely that was love as well as enjoyment we had in Algiers? Is it possible she was fucking for fucking’s sake when she laughed and cried out for more? Is it possible it all means nothing to her? Am I making the most awful fool of myself? What does she think I mean when I say I am taking her home. If I told her her home is my heart she would call me a sloppy romantic and I am one, unashamedly, hopelessly so where she is concerned.

Willy began to sweat. He had wanted to surprise and delight her with the charms of his farm, see her fall in love with it, fit into it, love it as he did.

‘Perhaps I had better tell you where I am taking you,’ he said tentatively. ‘My farm.’

‘You were keeping it as a surprise.’

‘I was.’

‘Tell me now then.’

She had seen a pig farm once. Long concrete buildings with hard concrete floors crowded with pigs penned in cramped partitions, fed in long communal troughs, no peace, no room to move, no privacy, no dignity. She had been aghast, repelled by the questing snouts, the hot atmosphere, the squeals and grunts, the slopping sound as they souped up their food, hastening to grow to the correct weight for the bacon factory.

Edmund, having taken her (it was in his house agent days) to view a house near the farm, had reacted quite otherwise, approving of the use of minimal space, the speed of growth, the financial turnover achieved by modern farming techniques. For her part she had been so shocked by the sight of the degraded pigs that she gave up eating bacon for at least a month. (If I were honest I would remember it was only a week.) I must be deranged, thought Poppy, sitting here letting Willy take me to a place like that, out of my tiny mind.

But Willy was talking.

‘There was this group of farm buildings, my uncle restored them in his day. When I took over I did a lot more. The buildings are rather lovely pink brick barns with tiled roofs. The principal ones are squared round a cobbled courtyard with a well in the middle. I keep a few bantams and ducks because I like the noise they make and they look pretty. I live in one wing I converted into a cottage. I have a very large flagged living room with an Aga at one end, an open fire at the other. I can walk out either into the yard or into a walled garden. I made the garden but it still needs a lot doing to it. There’s a dovecot, one of those conical jobs with a tiled roof. No doves at present, though.’ (Doves, white fantails, would be lovely, thought Poppy.) ‘Above the living room I have a large bedroom with an open fire and bathroom and you can see across the fields to the wood. I use a second barn as my office and store.’ (Is she listening? I am being very boring, wouldn’t it have been better to wait and let her see it, judge for herself?) ‘The pigs, the principal sows have the other two sides of the square, each has her own space; pigs need lots of space.’

‘What?’ Poppy, adjusting her thoughts, felt as though they were in a tumble-dryer.

‘I said pigs need lots of space. You see them lolling together in groups of course when they are feeling sociable.’

‘Go on.’

‘My sows all have their separate styes. Terribly clean animals, pigs, did you know?’ (What does she know? She must have some clue, she’s lived in the country.)

‘Not enough.’

‘My breeding sows, most of them, well, all of them now, I bred myself. The principal, most important to me, are Mrs Future and her aunt. I admit that to the uninitiated they all look alike. The little pigs, when they are old enough, live in groups in deep litter.’

‘Not on concrete?’

‘Good God, no!’ Willy exploded.

‘Oh.’

‘I believe you thought I was a factory farmer,’ Willy accused, furious.

‘No, no, of course not.’ (That was it, that was what Edmund admired, a factory farm. Oh Edmund, what a lamentable mistake you have been.) ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘please go on.’

‘All the pigs are out in the fields when it’s not raining, rooting about playing.’

‘Playing? What?’

‘Pigs are humorous animals.’ Willy was quite huffy now.

‘I had not realised.’

‘I believe in my animals having happy lives.’

‘And after? What about after?’

‘After life is ham. I specialise in smoked ham, the trade name is Guthrie.’

‘I’ve seen it in Fortnum’s catalogue.’ Poppy steadied the tumble-dryer.

‘I have my own smokery.’

‘Goodness.’

‘They live cheerfully, die quickly without prior knowledge. They reward me with a fat profit. It’s a lot neater than what happens to humans.’

‘We are not eaten for breakfast.’

‘You split hairs. Your father—’

Poppy remembered Dad in the hospital bed surrounded by those sad grey old men. He had not been cheerful there. True, his life had been pretty comfortable—very comfortable, if one remembered the Dividend bed—he’d obviously enjoyed himself at the races but what about all those coronaries and although laughter had killed him—

‘Do they smell?’ she asked, seeking something derogatory to say, trying not to surrender to the description of the farm which sounded bliss. She had always longed for a large bedroom with an open fire. ‘Do they smell?’ she repeated as Willy did not answer.

‘About as much as Venice and not all the time. A good pig farm should not smell.’ (One must be truthful, there were times the pigs smelled, times they did not.)

‘Do you grow fond of them?’ (Keep on doubting, do not yield to this insidious propaganda.)

‘Of course I do. I am particularly partial to Mrs Future and her aunt. I love them.’ Willy laughed.

‘What’s funny?’ There was something suspicious in Willy’s laughter.

‘They are pigs of character.’

‘Tell me about them.’

‘I brought Mrs Future up on a bottle, she was a runt, she used to follow me about like a dog.’

‘And her aunt?’

‘She’s something quite else. Once, to make it easier to care for her I moved her and her litter. She ate the lot. You remind me of her.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ exclaimed Poppy.

‘Oh
shit
.’ Willy trod hard on the brakes as the car was engulfed in sudden dense deafening fog. ‘Curse it. Can you see out your side? We seem to have hit a bit of road without markings or cats’ eyes. Oh bloody hell, I hate fog.’

‘It’s beautiful new macadam.’ Poppy peered down at the road. ‘So fresh I can smell it. Delicious.’

‘Fuck the new macadam.’ Willy reduced the car to a crawl. The car lights, drowned in the fog, came bouncing back. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

The fog was dense and eerie. Trying to see, seeing nothing, they were quiet for a while, crawling in low gear.

‘Can you see the verge?’

‘Just. I’ll keep my window open.’ Poppy leaned sideways, watching the verge. ‘It may only be a patch.’

‘And it may go on for miles; this road runs along a river.’

They crawled on, nosing into the fog which fingered cold and wetly into the car. Willy switched on the wipers.

‘There’s a foghorn,’ said Poppy.

‘It’s a cow, stupid. In a field somewhere near.’

‘Oh.’

A motorbicycle came suddenly out of the fog, swerved to avoid them, the rider shouted something antagonistic before disappearing, its noisy engine silenced in the vaporous air.

Suddenly all around them loomed enormous shapes. Dazzled by the headlights a vast Friesian bumped into the car, lurching against it so that the chassis rocked.

Poppy gave a surprised shriek as another cow blew sweet breath in her face through the window, starting back, slipping awkwardly on the road as her nose touched Poppy’s cheek, her bland eye rolling in terror.

‘I can’t see the verge any more,’ she exclaimed.

Willy edged the car back to the side. ‘See it now?’

‘Yes.’

Willy switched off the engine. ‘Some clot has let these cows out.’ He got out of the car, cupped his hands round his mouth, shouted, ‘Anybody with this lot?’

His voice echoed back, ‘Islot—islot—’ ‘You stay there, I must get them back, find their field, otherwise there will be a smash. There will be a gate open. Sit tight.’

Willy disappeared along the road they had come, following the cows. She heard his voice ‘How-how-how’ and soon the cows lumbered past the car at a trot in the reverse direction. For a second she saw Willy following them. ‘Whoa there, steady there, no need to rush. Stay where you are, I won’t be long,’ he called to her as he and the cows were swallowed into the fog.

For a few minutes the steam rising from the cows’ bodies sweetened the fog, then it was back swirling cold and inimical. There was a strong smell of cowpat and silence.

Curiously afraid, Poppy undid her safety belt and scrambled out of the car. She called, ‘Willy, Willy.’

The fog replied, ‘Silly—silly’, remote, impersonal. She strained her ears, heard nothing. It may be miles before he finds the open gate, hours before he comes back. Supposing this is it, suppose this is the nothing, supposing he is gone?

‘Willy.’ Poppy shouted louder now, urgently, experiencing the acute terror Nature’s vagaries can engender. ‘Why was I so detestable?’ she cried aloud and then again, ‘Willy, come back.’

‘Ack,’ rejoined the fog laconically. She stood straining her ears, her hand on the cold metal of the car, beaded with droplets from the fog. Should she switch off the headlights to save the battery? No, they must serve to guide Willy back.

He must come back.

She felt as though she was alone on top of a high mountain in her fear, she felt exalted. She listened so hard she was deafened by the fearful blood thumping in her ears.

The transport lorry hit the car so suddenly there was no time to jump clear. It crunched over the bonnet and straddled the chassis with its giant wheels as it shuddered, clanked, crackled to a stop. Breaking glass tinkled and chinked, there was the smell of hot oil, mingling with cowpat and spilling petrol and the blare of the car horn jammed on by the accident.

Oh God, I’ve peed all over myself, I am lying in a cowpat. She was flat on her back pinned down.

Slightly concussed, too frightened to lose consciousness, Poppy expected her past life to flash by. At top level her mind rummaged around to locate broken bones and torn sinews, at a deeper level it seemed imperative to recall Dad’s message about, what was it, money lenders, racing tips?

She tried to move her head and yelped with pain as the hair was wrenched from her scalp (I am trepanned).

She tried moving her legs but somebody had put them in a bag and bound them tightly.

Warm oil dripped on her face but she could not turn her head to escape it.

I shall drown in a sack she thought, my legs are paralysed, if I survive I shall be a paraplegic. She tried to call out ‘Get me out of here’ but her mouth filled with oil. She choked and gagged.

She remembered the terror and anguish of falling out of bed during nightmares as a child, all wound up in the bedclothes, and her father coming from his room across the passage to unravel her. She spat out the foul oil.

I have been run over by a lorry and am pinned underneath it.

I am soaked in oil and petrol and when it catches fire I shall fry.

I am paralysed.

I have something to say to Willy, it’s important. I was forming a witty phrase when this thing hit me.

I wish someone would turn off the car horn, it is getting on my nerves.

I am too badly hurt to feel anything.

My central nervous system is gone.

I wish I could lose consciousness. I need to tell Willy I love him.

This will teach me to prevaricate and play hard to get (not that he was taking a blind bit of notice).