Vacillations of Poppy Carew (9 page)

‘Other people’s letters are a laugh. Lush, slush, sentimentality, let’s see the sort of stuff they wrote to each other in their day.’ Edmund, giggling. Dad’s letters to Mum and Mum’s letters to Dad, tied in packets of ten or twelve with tape, the envelopes yellowed, the ink faded.

She had slammed the drawer shut, catching Edmund’s fingers. He had black fingernails for weeks, months. He had hit her dancing about the room in agony. It was the first time he had hit her and she forgave him, crying, ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.’

I’m not sorry now, she thought, pulling gently at the brass handles. She would find the key among Dad’s things. The drawer opened sweetly, lightly, showing emptiness. Empty of Dad and Mum, empty of written evidence of their love. Dad had not trusted her, had withdrawn himself and her mother too.

She stood up remembering Dad coming into the house when he had been away, holding out his arms to hug her, ‘How’s my Poppy love?’

Outside the hearse came to a discreet halt, the driver rang the bell, his mate stood by the hearse, waiting.

Poppy put one of her father’s old coats over her nightdress and opened the door.

‘Miss Carew?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve brought—’

‘Yes.’

‘Indoors, love?’

‘Yes.’

‘A couple of chairs perhaps?’

‘There are stools. Wait a moment.’ She must hurry to let Dad into the house. She ran to the sitting room where his small television perched on a stool. ‘Here,’ she called, ‘help me with this.’ One of the men moved the television to the top of the desk, carefully displacing the silver photograph frame which held her mother aged seventeen. ‘There’s another upstairs.’ The second man followed her, fetched down the stool.

As they carried Dad in Jane Edwardes drove up in her car. ‘Thought I’d come early, get you some breakfast.’ She put her arms round Poppy and hugged her. ‘Heard he was to come home. Still in your nightie, don’t catch your death.’

‘I’m all right.’

They watched the men settle the coffin on the stools. They were quick, expert, tactful, did their job and left.

‘Go and pick a few flowers from his garden while I make your coffee.’

Jane Edwardes handed Poppy secateurs. Poppy, walking in the dew listening to the birds in Dad’s garden, remembered his favourite flowers and cut their stalks snip, snip, as he had done. A robin sang furiously asserting territorial rights. Edmund knew a lot about birds. Damn Edmund, don’t come between me and my father, get stuck into Venetia.

Jane Edwardes had a bowl ready on the coffin. The house smelled of coffee. ‘That’s better.’ She steadied a rose into place. ‘Looks nice. My nephew works for Brightson’s—’

Oh, not that again.

‘Tells me you are having Furnival’s.’

‘Yes.’ (Must I be defensive?)

‘The old bastards had the monopoly far too long, my nephew says. He’s thinking, my nephew that is, of applying for a job with Furnival’s, says Furnival’s will soon be the “in thing”. That’s what the young ones are saying.’

‘Oh?’

‘He, my nephew that is, my brother’s son Bill, you know him?’

‘Yes.’

‘He rang up Mr Furnival and offered to give a hand Saturday at the funeral—’

‘How very—’

‘He thought, well we all thought, the village would like it, you know just to show—’

‘What?’

‘We loved him, always had a joke your father. He gave them many a good tip in the pub too.’

‘Dad did?’

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No, no I didn’t know.’ I didn’t know the village loved him, I didn’t know he went to the pub. ‘Thank you, Mrs Edwardes.’

‘Come and eat your breakfast, love.’

‘I’ll come in a minute.’ Poppy stood by the coffin. This oblong box held the man with the unmalicious laugh, now silent. The capable hands which would never again pick flowers. ‘Pick flowers with the dew on them, they last better.’ She touched the flowers in the bowl, the late roses, rosemary, pink daisies, a few late lilies. I am making myself think these morbid conventional thoughts. Those hands, those fingers used a biro to mark many a race card, how I wish I’d known his companions at the races. Those strong fingers tore up all your letters, destroyed your past, wrote me that last short note. An appeal? An order? A warning, a suggestion?

‘Fergus thought you would like these.’ She had not heard Mary come in. Did not recognise her at first. The black hair was washed clean and hung down as gold as Venetia’s and as smooth. Mary looked prim in clean jeans and grey cotton jersey. She carried what looked like a black rug over her arm and held a wreath in her hand. ‘If you lift the bowl of flowers I will spread it for you, unless you want to do it yourself.’

‘Oh no.’ She drew back from the coffin.

‘Hold this then a minute, it’s the laurel wreath—’

‘Oh.’

As Poppy did not move Mary picked up the bowl of flowers herself. ‘These are nice. From his garden?’

‘Yes.’ She watched Mary spread the pall over the coffin so that its edge, braided in gold, trailed down to the floor, replace the flowers ‘Over his heart. Poor old boy, was it one of his coronaries?’

‘Did you know him?’ She was surprised.

‘We used to meet at the races. I’d get him to mark my card. He had a nose for winners. Didn’t know him well, people said he talked to the horses. There, that’s better.’ She put the bowl exactly in the centre. ‘Of course he talked to the trainers too, and the wreath, how about that?’ She propped the wreath at the head of the coffin. ‘Made it myself, worked for a short time at a florists when I left school. It will smell nice when the room warms up.’ She looked sharply at Poppy. ‘It’s bay, you know, not laurel. I pinched this lot from a garden I know. They won’t miss it.’

‘I—’ She longed to ask Mary who had been at the races with Dad.

‘There we are.’ Mary brushed her hands together. ‘Do I smell coffee?’

‘Come and have some.’

‘You been up all night?’ Mary walked with Poppy towards the kitchen.

‘Most of it.’ She could not question this stranger.

‘Fergus sent me to take a look round the church, get the lay of the land, where to unload and hitch up the horses, that sort of thing.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve done that. Nice church, nice village. Oh great, coffee.’ She took a cup handed to her by Mrs Edwardes and gulped it hurriedly. ‘Thanks a lot. Got to rush or Barnaby will be yelling for his feed. Many thanks.’ She put down the empty cup, ‘See you Saturday,’ and was gone.

‘What a nice girl,’ said Mrs Edwardes, watching her go with an approving eye.

Poppy stood watching Mary walk to her car, get in and drive slowly past. As she drew level, Mary wound down the window and leaned out.

‘Did you love your father?’ Her eyes were questing.

‘I hardly knew him.’ Why do I say that? It’s the truth. Poppy met Mary’s eyes.

Mary nodded. ‘It happens.’ She went on looking at Poppy, taking her in. ‘I can’t stand mine.’ She smiled connivingly, slipped the car into gear, wound up the window and drove away.

A
LTHOUGH HE KNEW PERFECTLY
well that the trout was in Fergus’s stream, on his return to London Victor looked in his bath to make quite sure it was gone.

The whole episode seemed out of context with his ordinary life. He screwed the bath tap, which was dripping, tighter. As he thought of the fish, his sympathy for its plight on the fishmonger’s slab he relived the comprehension in Poppy’s eyes when she heard the story from Fergus. She had appeared to think his action natural, even reasonable, she had given Fergus an appraising look when he joked about it.

A girl like that, thought Victor, putting a clean sheet of paper into his typewriter, was not in the same league as his ex-wife Penelope who would have snatched the fish, gutted, filleted and grilled it for supper.

An occasion, buried in his memory, came hauntingly back. Staying with Penelope’s parents—they had lately become engaged—he had been strongly tempted to backtrack, call the engagement off. Across the lawn a rabbit had struggled, pursued by a weasel. Fear paralysed the rabbit so that its limbs jerked, its eyes rolled, it could hardly move its legs. Penelope, leaping out of the window, had snatched the rabbit and wrung its neck. (Sitting at his typewriter Victor winced, remembering the crack of bone.) As Penelope leapt and ran towards the rabbit Victor had assumed she was racing to the rescue. He had been shocked when she wrung the rabbit’s neck, had been too much in love to protest.

I suppose I was in love, thought Victor, setting the paper in position, testing the new ribbon. Good job all that’s over, he told himself stoutly.

The ex-wife Penelope jumped nimbly out of the window and wrung the rabbit’s neck, he typed.

I am a moral coward. If I had trusted my instinct I would have saved a lot of time, emotion, money. I didn’t mind when she nearly drowned that time, I didn’t mind when she slept around with a whole lot of people, Fergus included. I am damn glad to be shot of her, it wasn’t love, it was lust, he assured himself.

Yup, this ribbon is okay, just lust. Victor tore the paper out of the typewriter, crushed it into a ball, threw it towards the grate, inserted a fresh sheet, started typing his article for Julia.

Two hours later he’d got it right, Julia would publish the article in her glossy mag, Julia’s mag would pay. In no way could this interesting original piece hurt Poppy’s tender susceptibilities. Victor experienced the euphoria of a man who has written consecutive paragraphs of decent prose. He looked up Julia’s office number and dialled it.

‘Oh, hullo Victor, I’ve—’

‘I’ve got the article for you, Julia, you won’t be able to resist it.’

‘Really?’ She sounded quite friendly, the telephone suiting her contralto voice.

‘Shall I come round with it and take you out for a drink? You’re just leaving your office?’

‘Yes, if you like. I’ve got a bit of—’

‘We could go to that bar you like and if you like my article I’ll stand you dinner afterwards.’

‘I’m trying to—’

‘And then we could—’

‘Victor,’ Julia shouted, ‘listen, I have some news for you.’

‘Oh Lord.’

‘It’s good news, no Oh Lord about it.’

‘How’s that?’ Victor was suspicious.

‘You know a year or so ago I said I’d show your manuscript to my publisher friend Sean?’

‘Oh God. I’d forgotten. I’d rather forget.’

‘No you wouldn’t Victor. He got around to reading it. He likes it.’

‘What?’

‘Likes it. Wants to publish it. He’ll pay you an advance, Victor.’

Victor was silent.

‘Victor, are you listening? This means money.’

‘Julia.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this novel about you know—’

‘Your marriage to Penelope thinly disguised? Yes, it is.’

‘I thought I’d thrown away all the copies.’

‘You told me to throw it away when I’d read it.’

‘And you didn’t?’ Who can you trust, thought Victor with glee.

‘I thought it was such a marvellous portrait of old Penelope’ (Julia pronounced the name to rhyme with antelope) ‘that I kept it. She did give you a rough time, Victor.’

‘Well.’ Victor remembered the rabbit and the time Penelope nearly drowned. I could easily have helped her, he thought, but I didn’t want to.

Julia was still talking. ‘Then the other day I showed it to Sean and he loves it, it’s as simple as that. Screams with laughter.’

‘Laughter?’ It’s a tragic book, thought Victor, nothing funny about it. ‘Oh Julia—’

‘So bring your article and give me dinner.’

‘What about libel?’ Adjusting to having written a comedy (what’s the difference, all great tragedies have a comic element) Victor remembered his novel. ‘I wrote that book with my pen dipped in cyanide.’

‘That’s what Sean likes. He calls it stark. Penelope’s far too vain to recognise herself, don’t worry.’

‘Julia, I love you, I’m on my way.’

As Victor walked jubilantly along the dusty late September pavement to the bus stop he thought about Julia. She will expect me to sleep with her after dinner, she will forget the brush-off she gave me, she’ll forget she switched to Fergus. I shall tell her about my trout, Fergus’s enterprise, well, the article is about that but I can tell her a few more details, Mary and her baby for instance. I am grateful for the introduction to Sean, he’s a good publisher, well in a good publishing house, not afraid to take risks whatever that means, not that my novel’s a risk. I could write a children’s book about my trout or we could get it on television, a cartoon perhaps, bring in that fearful cat of Fergus’s, Bolivar, no all that’s been done. My luck has turned. Superstitiously Victor bowed to the new moon as he waited at the bus stop, turning round three times, jingling the silver in his pocket, wondering what to wish for.

He had a vision of Poppy’s shoulderblades, mousy hair, long legs, funny teeth and tip-top tits.

But I call them breasts, he thought, climbing into the bus which had roared to an impatient stop. I shall take Julia to Shepherd’s Bush and she shall help me choose the nosh, that will teach her to send me cookbooks. What a fool I am, thought Victor, as the bus jerked forward, how vain I am. Sean is Julia’s current lover, I heard someone say so, sex with me doesn’t come into it, we are platonic, have been for ages, I am just a writer with a novel she can lay at his feet, it costs her nothing. Better not wish too hard for Poppy, it might be unlucky. Victor glimpsed the crescent moon through a gap between high rise flats. I shall wish, he thought with a burst of generosity, I shall wish that Fergus makes a success of his enterprise, that my article brings me recognition and Fergus customers, that my book gets rave reviews.

Sitting in the bus on his way to meet Julia, Victor tried to adjust his mind to being a comic writer and mulled over some particularly felicitous turns of phrase which had tapped from his fingers. Rereading his article as he rode along, Victor was pleased with his afternoon’s work.

As he got off the bus Victor felt a pang of conscience. Poppy didn’t want publicity, might not be pleased with his article. Julia might be inspired to come to the funeral, she was incurably inquisitive, might even bring Sean. I shall discourage her, Victor told himself, it’s a solemn occasion, not a raree show. Then thinking yet again of his article he decided Poppy couldn’t possibly take exception; it was faultlessly written, in excellent taste, restrained prose. The sort of taste Penelope made fun of. There’s a fine line between love and lust when one is very young, thought Victor, wishing now that when he’d wished on the new moon he had wished never to think of Penelope again. It still hurt.