Vacillations of Poppy Carew (5 page)

‘Sod Edmund,’ she said aloud, staring back at the cat, ‘sod him, sod him, sod him.’ At her feet, the old dog wagged his tail. ‘And sod you too, Dad,’ she murmured with amused affection, ‘landing me up in this place, miles from anywhere, to fix you up with a rococo funeral.’ I will miss him, she thought, miss the occasional lunches in London restaurants, when we chit-chatted of nothing and he pointedly refrained from mention of Edmund. Curse Edmund, she thought. If it had not been for Edmund she might have known her father, that small man with dun-coloured hair, bright brown eyes and engaging laugh. She remembered the laugh, totally without malice. Perhaps that was his charm. He had charm, she thought, and loved her father as she sat in the sun on the edge of the water trough. ‘Shoo,’ she said to the staring cat, who lifted a leg and began to wash its parts.

Her reverie was interrupted by voices. Several rather wet dogs ran into the yard, followed by two men. One man was mocking the other.

‘You were never so tender-hearted when Penelope nearly drowned that time,’ he said, laughing.

‘She could swim; besides, I wanted shot of her,’ said the other.

‘So you did, and did get shot. What a pain she was. Aha, here’s my client, Miss Carew. I expected you to be much older.’ He made a rapid inventory of Poppy’s finer points. ‘Down,’ he said to a labrador who was preparing a boisterous greeting.

‘Sorry we weren’t here to greet you. Victor—this is Victor, Victor Lucas—had a—’

‘There was a baby …’ stuttered Poppy.

‘The infant Jesus, I’d forgotten. I put him down while we went to the stream.’

‘A girl, your …’ Poppy hesitated to say ‘wife’, though this man had eyes not unlike the baby.

‘That’s Mary, its mother, one of my grooms. Found it, did she? Keeps house too after a fashion.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s okay then.’

‘But the horse might have—’

‘No, no, best baby-sitter on the place. Did Mary create? She shouldn’t have left it with me. I told her I couldn’t be bothered. My name is Fergus,’ he held out his hand, he wanted to touch this girl, ‘and this is Victor as I said.’ He clasped Poppy’s narrow hand and held it a moment. ‘You’ve come about your father’s do. Furnival’s Fine Funerals, that’s me, Fergus to you.’

‘Yes,’ Poppy did not dislike the handshake, but was shocked by the cavalier attitude to the baby. In her turn, she had visualised an older man, grey-haired, dignified. This man couldn’t be much more than thirty and struck her as altogether too lighthearted to run a funeral establishment, almost jokey. On the other hand, she knew instinctively Dad would have warmed to him.

‘Let me show you round,’ said Fergus. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Victor had a fishy friend who had to be rehoused. You’ve met the horses, I take it. Come and see the tack room and the hearse, then we can discuss the rest in the house over tea. Be a good friend, Cousin Victor, tell Mary to put the kettle on and, if she won’t, tell one of the others.’

‘They’re out,’ said Victor, who had not taken his eyes off Poppy since their meeting. He made no move to carry out Fergus’s request.

‘Well then, you do it,’ said Fergus impatiently. ‘This way, Miss Carew.’

He led the way to the barn. Poppy followed, taking stock of the tall dark young man not much older than Edmund but, unlike Edmund, magnificently fit.

‘Do you jog?’ she asked.

‘Jog?’ Fergus grinned. ‘No need to jog if you have six horses and are humping bales of hay and mucking out all day.’

‘I thought the girls did most of that,’ said Victor dryly.

‘Do you jog, Miss Carew?’ Fergus ignored Victor, his dark eyes met Poppy’s, his grin showed teeth Edmund would have envied, he being sensitive about his one gold-capped eye tooth.

‘No,’ lied Poppy, ‘of course not.’ (Why must I keep thinking so nastily of Edmund?)

‘Do you jog, Victor?’ Fergus decided, since he would not go and tend the kettle, to include Victor. ‘You didn’t jog from the fishmonger’s, you ran like the clappers.’

Victor laughed, catching Poppy’s eye.

‘Victor lives in London. You must get him to tell—’

The roar of a motorcycle drowned Fergus’s voice, as a heavy Yamaha bounced through the door into the yard, coming to rest by the drinking trough. Two figures, wearing heavy boots, studded leather jackets, jeans and crash helmets, got off the machine.

‘You are late, girls,’ shouted Fergus above the noise of the engine, as the rider revved it for the last time before stilling it. The riders took off their helmets and shook free a quantity of hair. ‘Annie and Frances,’ said Fergus. ‘My stable girls.’

‘Hi,’ said the girls, quite friendly. ‘Hi.’

‘Put the kettle on, one of you.’

‘Why can’t Mary? It’s still our time off.’

‘She’s feeding infant Jesu, found him in the stable.’

‘His name’s Barnaby,’ said the girl, Frances, wheeling the Yamaha towards a shed. In spite of her tough appearance, she sounded maternal.

‘Poor little bugger,’ said the girl called Annie. ‘He’d be much better off living with the family. I can’t see the grandmother leaving him in a manger.’

Poppy made a lightning readjustment of the baby’s parenthood. Fergus, noting this, said, ‘The father’s called Joseph. The girls met on holiday on the Costa.’

Annie and Frances laughed, exchanging sly looks. Then, returning to the point where he had been interrupted by the Yamaha, Fergus drew Poppy across the yard towards the barn. ‘As I was saying. Victor had this trout he brought from London. He knew it wouldn’t last long in his bath; London water’s passed through twelve pairs of kidneys before you drink it. Did you know that?’

‘No,’ said Poppy bemused.

‘No trout, Victor thought, could stand that. Wouldn’t survive like you or me, so he SOS-ed me and brought it here.’

‘What was it doing in the bath?’ Is this supposed to be a joke, Poppy wondered: perhaps Dad would find it funny.

Fergus explained the trout’s career, Victor’s dilemma, the mercy drive down the motorway. ‘We were seeing it settled in the stream in the orchard. Victor’s tenderhearted.’

‘I am,’ said Victor, still studying Poppy (what a super girl). ‘Couldn’t let it drown, could I?’ he said, contriving to catch her attention, pleased that she seemed impressed by the saga, hoping to tell her more.

‘He was quite different with his wife,’ said Fergus, noticing Victor’s attempt. ‘She divorced him.’

‘The trout was helpless,’ exclaimed Victor, ‘drowning, gasping.’ He gaped at Poppy as the fish had gaped on the fishmonger’s slab, trying, at the same time, to indicate that his ex-wife Penelope was not the helpless sort.

‘Well it’s okay now,’ said Fergus, who had had enough of the trout. He took Poppy’s elbow. ‘Come and see the hearse.’ He propelled her towards the barn. ‘Be a kind friend and pull the sheet off, Victor.’

Victor gave a tweak to the plastic sheeting Poppy had observed earlier.

‘That suit your father?’ asked Fergus.

‘Oh!’ cried Poppy, overwhelmed. ‘Yes.’ Then, ‘Where did you find it?’

‘In France,’ said Fergus, proudly. ‘Restored it, then I found the tack, the fittings, bought the horses, broke them in for driving, got them used to wearing the harness, plumes and so on. Come and see.’ Still holding her elbow, he led her to the tack room.

‘Oh,’ said Poppy, gazing at the ornamented harness, black ostrich plumes, the richly caparisoned rugs. ‘Dad will love it … would.’ She was moved almost to tears. ‘It’s exactly what he would want.’

Victor, who had followed behind Poppy and Fergus, thinking it was time Fergus let go the girl’s arm, that her hair was rather nice even if it was mousy, and those were very nice shoulderblades, said, ‘What about that tea?’

‘Ah yes,’ said Fergus, looking at his watch. ‘Tea, and of course … er … um … business.’

‘Business,’ agreed Poppy, pulling herself together, ‘of course.’

‘Come to the house, we’ll have tea in my office,’ said Fergus, leading the way. ‘I take it your father’s in cold storage?’

Poppy did not answer.

‘You want the funeral on Saturday, don’t you? That’s what you said. Today’s Tuesday.’

‘Oh,’ Poppy began to cry. ‘God.’

‘Oaf!’ said Victor to Fergus. ‘Tactless oaf. Cold storage …’ He stepped towards Poppy who, through her tears, noticed him properly for the first time. Long, thin, sinuous, so slender he could be drawn through a napkin ring; the shape of man poor Edmund would have liked to be.

Oh fuck Edmund, she thought, laying her tearful face against Victor’s chest. Victor gave her a brief hug with thin but muscular arms. (This is not the time, not in front of Fergus.)

‘Tea first, and then business.’ He quickly wiped Poppy’s eyes. ‘There.’ Perhaps she’s one of those girls who are in love with their father, he thought. No, she can’t be. ‘Tea,’ he said, repeating the formula.

‘Actually,’ said Poppy, ‘I’m pining for a drink. Is there any whisky?’

T
HE OFFICE, WHICH WAS
also the cottage kitchen and living room, was crowded, having to fulfil more roles than there was room for. Kitchen equipment overlapped with typewriter, account books and stationery. A pile of freshly washed baby clothes took up room on the kitchen table. The dogs pressed up to the stove, edging away from the cat. A gun was propped in a corner, a game bag in another. There were two top hats occupying one of the chairs: a heap of horse rugs in another corner and pieces of harness in the process of being mended or cleaned occupied more room. There was a long row of rubber boots by the door and the door itself groaned under the weight of coats and waterproofs hanging from hooks.

‘Sorry about this,’ said Fergus, ‘space is at a premium. We really need a much bigger house, but do come in and find somewhere to sit.’

The girl with spiky black hair now shared the chair with the cat. She had hitched up her T-shirt and was suckling the infant Barnaby, who rolled lollipop eyes at Poppy without interrupting the business in hand. His mother stared stonily at Poppy. Victor, averting his eyes, muttered greetings which the girl, Mary, ignored.

‘Hi, Jesu,’ said Fergus, moving towards a walk-in larder. Mary stuck out a foot, he tripped and nearly fell. ‘Ouch!’ he said, regaining his balance. ‘Damn you.’

Mary said, ‘Barnaby,’ with soft menace, ‘his name is Barnaby.’

‘All right, Barnaby.’ Fergus reached for a bottle of whisky. ‘Miss Coquelicot needs a drink. Miss Coquelicot Carew, esteemed client of Furnival’s Fine Funerals.’ He poured a stiff tot into a tumbler and handed it to Poppy. ‘Sit down, sit down; please sit down.’ He smothered embarrassment with jocosity.

Poppy sat on a chair pushed forward by Victor and gulped the whisky which, travelling at speed into her system, began its revivifying effect. From a room above she could hear girls’ voices and laughter, there was a sudden rush of water down a pipe by the cottage door, the scent of shampoo drifted into the kitchen.

‘Out of interest,’ said Fergus, filling a kettle and setting it to boil on the stove, ‘why are you called Poppy?’

‘Poppaea,’ said Poppy, aglow with whisky. ‘Dad was interested in the Romans.’ No need to tell them he was a milkman.

‘Didn’t she get hitched to Nero?’ Victor had no intention of being excluded from the conversation, and considered his erudition more shapely than Fergus’s.

‘He treated her bad, kicked her when she was in foal,’ said Fergus, deliberately horsey to irritate Victor.

‘Sod.’ Mary switched the baby to her other breast and resumed her silence, ignoring Poppy. Her anger double-wrapped about her.

‘Did you ever kick Penelope?’ Fergus asked Victor. ‘His ex-wife,’ he informed Poppy. ‘Very pretty girl.’

‘Would have liked to but didn’t.’ Victor helped himself to whisky and watched Poppy.

‘Soft-hearted,’ said Fergus jeering. He collected cups and saucers from a varnished dresser which had one worm-eaten foot supported by a brick. ‘Hence the trout,’ he laughed as he rattled the china. ‘Perhaps you are only a softie to cold fish: there must be a moral of some sort there. Don’t you think so, Miss Carew?’ He spooned the tea into a brown teapot.

‘Do call me Poppy,’ she used the whisky’s false courage, ‘silly name though it is.’

‘I like it,’ said Fergus and Victor in unison. Mary sniffed, narrowing fine nostrils, rolling supplicatory eyes at the ceiling.

Fergus found plates and knives. ‘Any scones?’ he asked. ‘Or cake?’

‘In the larder,’ said Mary, not looking up, devoting herself to the baby.

‘You realise,’ said Fergus maliciously to Victor, ‘that on that fishmonger’s slab were oysters equally alive and lobsters, alive too; I know the shop.’

‘They did not gape.’ Victor put an end to the subject.

Poppy remembered her father in death. If this goes on, she thought, I shall never get anywhere. I came here for Dad, not to listen to these men girding at one another. She cleared her throat. ‘Furnival’s Fun Funerals—’ she began.

‘Aah!’ cried Fergus. ‘It was a wicked misprint. I shall sue the editor.’ He put a plate of scones in front of Poppy. ‘It’s Furnival’s Fine Funerals,’ he emphasised the word ‘fine’, thumping his fist on the table.

‘Dad seemed to have taken to the fun part.’ Poppy felt embarrassed.

‘Your dad must have been quite a character. Come on, eat your tea. Butter, jam,’ he produced these from the larder, ‘then we shall plot him a slap-up do, and Victor shall write an article which will be syndicated all over the country. You did not know Victor was a writer, did you?’

‘Manqué,’ said Victor, deprecatory, modest. ‘Extremely minor.’

‘Only up to now. We’ll get him launched, won’t we, Poppy?’

Poppy said nothing, not having previously met anyone with literary pretentions.

‘Just a humble journalist,’ explained Victor. ‘Freelance.’

‘Dad wouldn’t want, I don’t want, publicity,’ Poppy took fright. ‘I don’t think …’ but perhaps Dad would enjoy publicity; how was she to know.

‘Of course not, of course not,’ cried Fergus. ‘Now then, to business. Time to stop fooling.’

Mary put the baby against her shoulder and patted its back. It gave a prolonged burp.

Fergus said, ‘Oh God! Sick next.’

Mary left the room, carrying the baby. Frances, her head wrapped in a towel, pushed past her into the room. ‘I must use the telephone—’