Vacillations of Poppy Carew (39 page)

All I want is to be safe in his arms for ever, oh dear God, I am so cold.

Shut up, you fool, stop whingeing and whining and pitying yourself. Listen, listen to hear if there is anyone there.

There may be some sound not drowned by the car’s horn. It will stop when the battery goes flat.

This lot may go up in a whoosh of flame before the horn stops.

Somebody must have been driving the lorry.

I am alone.

Somebody
must
have been driving it. There
must
be somebody there.

Nobody.

The car’s horn stopped abruptly.

Running footsteps circled the wrecked vehicles, men’s voices, lights.

‘The driver’s dead.’ ‘Have to cut him out.’ ‘Got a torch?’ ‘Bring it here.’ ‘Who was in the other car?’ ‘They dead too?’ ‘It’s empty, some damned fool left it parked.’ ‘There’s a body here. Run over, looks like. Must have been standing by the car when the lorry hit.’

A torch shone in her eyes.

Willy calling, ‘Poppy, Poppy. Where are you?
Answer me
.’ Running, running, frantic.

Poppy spat oil, then, keeping her mouth shut, managed a sort of mooing sound, ‘OOOO—’

A scrabbling behind her head, Willy’s voice hoarse with anxiety. ‘I’m here, darling, I’m on my way.’

‘Ooooo—’ She began to weep.

Willy’s face upside-down, his velvet eyes close to hers beady with anxiety, the oil from the crankshaft dropping on to his head now cloying in long trails down his cheeks, his hands reaching round her, exploring her plight, his mouth kissing hers briefly.

‘This is a novel sort of Soixante Neuf. Will you marry me?’

‘I can’t, I’m paralysed.’

‘Nonsense, don’t be imaginative, your hair and skirt are pinned by the wheel of the lorry.’ Turning his head to one side Willy yelled, ‘Someone bring me a knife.’

‘A what? We’re busy with the driver.’

‘A knife. A fucking knife, hurry up, or scissors.’

‘Okay, okay, keep your cool.’

‘Better hurry, the petrol isn’t safe. Here’s a knife, what d’you want it for?’ said a voice.

Then Willy speaking gently. ‘Sorry about this, darling, I’ll try not to hurt.’

Willy sawing at her hair, her head suddenly free.

‘That’s better, now let me get at your skirt. Keep still or I’ll cut your stomach open. Right. Can you move your legs?’

‘Yes.’ Amazed. ‘Yes, I can.’

‘How d’you feel?’ His voice quite wobbly.

‘The fear of death has sharpened my intellect.’

‘Great! Now keep still a moment then I’ll haul you out.’

Willy edged backwards.

‘I was so frightened I peed and worse, Willy. Ouch, what are you doing?’

‘Pulling you out from under, let me get hold of your arms.’ Willy heaved, Poppy kicked as she scraped along the tarmac.

‘Get a blanket from the ambulance,’ said a voice bossily.

‘Got the stretcher here,’ said another invitingly.

‘Easy does it,’ said a third. ‘That was just in time, I’d say.’

‘Where do they all come from?’ Poppy staggered to her feet. The fog was clearing.

‘Police and ambulances left over from the pile-up earlier tonight on the motorway.’ Willy wrapped her in a blanket, kept his arms round her.

‘Lie on the stretcher, love,’ invited a policeman.

‘No thanks, I’m perfectly—’ She put her hand to her head and felt her hair gone from one side. ‘Oh.’

‘You can race Mary growing it.’ Willy was laughing with relief, covered in oil, his shirt torn.

‘What is that?’ There was an inert body on a stretcher, they were pushing it up into the ambulance, it looked very dead.

‘The lorry driver,’ said Willy, ‘don’t look.’

‘Watch out!’ cried a man. ‘Up she goes!’

There was a thump and a whoosh of flame as the entangled machines finally caught. Willy, clutching Poppy, threw himself backwards. They toppled, staggering down a bank into a ditch. As they splashed down Poppy shouted ‘What did you do that for?’ indignantly.

‘I don’t want to marry a Roman candle.’ He pulled her along the ditch away from the blaze.

In the distance a fire engine raced, its siren blaring, spreading panic.

Presently, teeth chattering, wrapped in a dry blanket, she was in a police car with Willy. Somehow blessedly he had persuaded these authoritative people that there was no need for the hospital, they could skip it and after answering questions go home.

Aeons later, awash with sweet tea, still wrapped in a blanket, she was standing beside Willy watching the police car drive away.

Last night’s fog was reduced to swags of mist circling round the willows along the stream running through the meadow. A pair of mallard flew up and away with a quack. A rosy sun was swinging up the sky. A bantam cock crowed in the barn.

Calypso’s dog, loosed for his morning run, ran over the grass to greet them. A faint smell of pig, sounds of rustling straw, contented grunts and chomping jaws drifted across the yard.

‘We both need baths. I’ll put a match to the fires.’

‘Might I meet Mrs Future and her aunt first?’

‘Of course.’

Willy, watching her walk barefoot across the cobbles, almost choked with emotion. She was so filthy. She looked so comical. ‘Here they are.’

The giant sows were spotless, their flanks pink, their sparse hair crisp and bristly. The row of pearly piglets ranged sleepy, each snout aimed at a teat ready for the next meal.

The sow rustled the straw with her trotters as Poppy leaned over and whispered into an arum lily ear, ‘Hello, there.’

‘Ham for breakfast?’ suggested Willy lightly.

Poppy looked up. ‘I realise I should feel flattered at being compared to Mrs F’s aunt,’ she said. ‘I had not realised it was a compliment.’

Willy stared at her.

I must get this straight, he thought. She has taken my feeble joke as an insult. She’s had a knock on the head, she is probably concussed. She looks too silly for words, I’ve made a terrible mess of her hair. I shall cut the other side to even it up, give her breakfast and a bath, borrow some clothes from Calypso and take her home. I should never have rushed her in this way. I can’t even learn to behave from a pig. I have behaved exactly like that shit Edmund. I need my head examined. Well, there will be plenty of time for that in the years ahead, he thought bitterly. I’ve really loused this up.

‘When I saw you at your father’s funeral,’ he said carefully, ‘I fell in love with you. As far as I was concerned that was that. I realise I have behaved selfishly in trying to force you. Of course you have your own ideas about what you want to do with your life. I suggest you have a bath. I’ll borrow some of my aunt’s clothes for you and drive you home in her car as mine is wrecked. I hope you will perhaps remember you felt some of your time in Algiers was quite fun.’

‘What’s got into you?’ cried Poppy. ‘I don’t want to borrow your aunt’s clothes. I don’t want to be driven anywhere in her car. If you want to get shot of me I’ll hire a taxi.’ She raised her voice to a shout. ‘Any feelings I had in Algiers were mere hors d’oeuvres, but oh, Willy, could I have something real to eat before we get on with dinner?’

‘At once,’ said Willy, not trusting himself to say more.

As they crossed the yard to his cottage he looked at her sidelong. She looked so funny holding the blanket up to cover her breasts, nearly tripping as it trailed round her feet. She looked like some strange punk with hair topped from the left side of her head.

‘I trust you won’t be chopping and changing your mind,’ he said. ‘I don’t think my nerves could stand it.’

‘After this I shan’t be placing any more bets,’ she said. ‘I’m not very good at it.’

Willy bent to kiss her, pushing her hair aside, tracing the streaks of oil down her face to her neck.

‘One thing we don’t need is all this lubrication. Let’s get ourselves a bath, see whether we can manage without drowning, then breakfast, how’s that?’

Later, eating breakfast, Willy, watching Poppy dressed now in one of his sweaters, her hair still damp from the bath, was seized by a terrible twinge of fear.

‘If you
don’t
like it here,’ he said, ‘you may rather live in London, I have a small house there.’ He was prepared to give everything up, to sacrifice Mrs Future if Poppy would stay with him (he would of course never forgive her). Since lunching with his old cousin he had almost forgotten the house, his mind obsessed with Poppy; now he saw its value and offered it as a forlorn alternative.

Poppy flushed. ‘I don’t need bribing. When I changed my mind, wouldn’t come back here with you, I was under the delusion that what I wanted was a lover, a pleasure man. I thought I might try Victor or Fergus or both.’ She watched Willy (if I said anything like this to Edmund he would black my eye and be off to Venetia). ‘Stuck under that lorry I realised that it wasn’t just pleasure I wanted, I want the lot. Right?’ Have I said too much, been, as usual, a fool? She looked away, afraid of meeting Willy’s eyes.

But Willy was laughing, ebullient with relief. ‘I foresee lots of pleasure,’ he said, ‘as well as the rest. Besides,’ he went on, containing his mirth, able now to tease, ‘those two jokers are fully booked.’

Mary Wesley (1912–2002) was an English novelist. After she published her first novel at age seventy, her books sold more than three million copies, many of them becoming bestsellers. Her beloved books include
Jumping the Queue
,
The Camomile Lawn
,
Harnessing Peacocks
,
The Vacillations of Poppy Carew
,
Not That Sort of Girl
,
Second Fiddle
,
A Sensible Life
,
A Dubious Legacy
,
An Imaginative Experience
, and
Part of the Furniture
, as well as a memoir,
Part of the Scenery
.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1986 by Mary Wesley

Cover design by Linda McCarthy

978-1-4804-5060-8

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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