Vacillations of Poppy Carew

by Mary Wesley

  11

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, deserted by fickle sleep, Poppy lay in the visitors’ bedroom thinking of her father. Although he had spoilt her as a child, never been angry, impatient or unkind, he had been much away leaving her with Esmé.

  There had been between Dad and Esmé, a handsome woman referred to behind her back as ‘The Spirit of Rectitude’ an uneasy truce. She insisted on brushed hair and washed hands, had been known to tell Dad to change his gardening clothes before sitting down to tea. Childhood had been punctuated by sharp commands: ‘wipe your feet’, ‘clean your teeth’, ‘go and have a bath’, ‘don’t bring that filthy thing into my kitchen, take it out at once’. ‘Your mother’ or ‘Mrs Carew’ (depending on which of them she was addressing) ‘would not like that’. When Esmé called on his wife’s name for support Dad would laugh and say, ‘She wouldn’t mind, Esmé. You are inventing her, building her in the image of past glories.’ (Esmé had once been Nanny to a diplomat’s children and was not averse to putting the Carews down a peg. Poppy had never been sure whether Esmé had actually known her mother, her own memories of her were hazy. There were the photographs in Dad’s room, the recollection, vague, of Mum leaving on a trip abroad, of time passing and the eventual realisation that she was not coming back. That somehow she had been negligent, had died. Life had carried on, orderly, rather dull, with Dad constantly away. ‘Another card for you.’ Esmé would sort the post, picking through it with suspicion, sniffing at bills and appeals. Where were those postcards now? Restless, Poppy got out of bed, crossed the landing to her old bedroom, crouched down by the chest-of-drawers and began to search. What a lot of rubbish, old letters, broken toys, odd socks, snapshots of cats and dogs, school groups, junk jewellery and snaps of Edmund. Oh Edmund, did you really have your hair cut like that? And oh, I’d forgotten you tried to grow a moustache (it had been unkind of Dad to laugh). And the postcards, bundles of them, the message always the same, ‘Love from Dad, see you soon.’ Poppy turned them over, looking at the postmarks. Cheltenham, Plumpton, Newcastle, York, Worcester, Wincanton, Newton Abbot, Chepstow, Brighton, Liverpool, Ascot. A litany of racetracks. He had been with those mystery ladies who dealt out Life’s Dividends. Poppy sniffed the cards. Were the ladies beautiful, witty, sexy? Had Esmé known as she sifted the post what he was up to? Where was Esmé now? Alive? Dead? Esmé had liked Edmund, unlike Dad who had taken his instant dislike. She had encouraged Edmund, making him welcome, laying another place at the table (no trouble at all). She never did that for anyone else (can’t have just anyone popping in without so much as a by your leave). Crouching by the drawer full of junk and memories, Poppy remembered Esmé’s expression. She had been defiant, annoying Dad on purpose, getting a kick out of it. ‘Edmund will do you good,’ she had said. What had she meant by that? Had she meant Edmund will hurt you which was Dad’s fear? I believe, thought Poppy, putting the postcards back in the drawer, I believe she fancied Edmund, how repulsive, eugh.

  Soon after Edmund had become established as a fact, welcome or not, Esmé had retired, gone to live with her sister, showing no emotion at parting. Poppy remembered Esmé’s voice, its rasping timbre. ‘My sister wants me. You are old enough to look after your father. I’ve arranged for Mrs Edwardes to come in and clean, she will do for you well enough.’ Esmé’s voice had been contemptuous. Had the contempt been for the Carews or Mrs Edwardes? For us, thought Poppy, shutting the drawer, nobody could despise Jane Edwardes. At the time she had been shocked, realising that Esmé did not mind leaving, she and Dad had been a job, no more, she had wasted no emotion on them.

  She didn’t love us, thought Poppy, and to be honest we did not love her. Dad had suggested lunching out on the day of Esmé’s departure. They had lunched in Newbury. Dad had raised his glass and said, ‘Let’s drink goodbye to Rectitude.’ After another drink or two he had said, ‘I hope Mrs Edwardes won’t moralise or encourage followers,’ a dig at poor Edmund. (Why do I pity him, the swine, tucked up with Venetia.) Briefly Poppy considered finding Esmé, asking her what she knew of Dad’s life. Impossible. As impossible as to ask Mr Poole or Anthony Green exactly when the various dollops of dividends had appeared and in what quantities. It was extraordinary to have lived in the same house as Dad and not know what he was really like, shameful to have shown so little interest and to let him die a stranger. Am I too late? Poppy asked herself. Perhaps he did not mind, she thought hopefully, but if Dad had not minded he would not have been so inimical towards Edmund filling her life for ten years.

  And now Venetia. ‘I hope she chokes him.’

  Poppy re-routed her search into Dad’s bedroom. It was rather eerie going through his drawers and cupboards. Orderly, neat, smelling faintly of Dad. Shoes, socks, underclothes, suits, shirts, photographs of Mum smiling and one very sad and beautiful by his bed. She searched the dressing-table drawers. Indigestion pills, heart tablets, cufflinks, nothing to introduce or betray. Downstairs she searched his desk, fingering receipts, bank statements, (might be a clue or two there, but the only ones kept were recent). A catalogue of a country house sale, writing paper, pens, paperclips, old indiarubbers, TV licence, dog licence (old Buster dead last year), racing calendars, snapshots of herself at school, on the lawn with her rabbit, in her bath (what a fat baby), none of herself with Edmund, Dad had not wanted any. (I don’t need reminding.) Several drawers were empty. He must have tidied up, known he might die. Of course he had known. At another lunch—when, a year, two years ago?—he had said, ‘I might go any time, not to worry, it’s the only certainty and I’ve enjoyed my life, I only grumble about one thing and that is beginning not to bother me.’ At the time she had thought he is coming round to Edmund, beginning to accept him. Now she realised, sitting back on her heels, feeling chilly in her nightdress, that what made Dad feel better were the first signs of Edmund’s impending desertion. Clever Dad, you noticed before I did. Was it then you wrote me your letter and put it in the bank to wait?

  And now for the locked drawer, the drawer Edmund had prized open with his neat bit of plastic, the drawer full of old letters.

  ‘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.

  12

  ALTHOUGH 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 re
sist 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.