by Mary Wesley
‘Would you rather she vomited?’ Willy shouted savagely. ‘That better?’ he asked, resuming his seat. ‘Let them get wet.’
She nodded slightly.
The drive was long, several times the road was blocked by floods and débris. The driver stopped, cursed, shouted, reversed. The policeman got out, got in again, directed a detour. Eventually the furious sounds of the gale altered their tone, they sloshed through partly built-up areas, then streets.
Willy said, ‘If you would like to give me your passport and so on I will see about rooms, then you can get to bed and rest.’
Poppy did not answer but opened her bag, found her passport and handed it to him. Her knuckles and the backs of her hands were blue, he had the impression that she was near the end of her resistance, could not hold out much longer. He said, ‘Soon be there.’ She huddled in her seat like an old woman.
The policeman shouted, the driver changed down, crashing the gears, and drove in a rush up a steep hill. It was like driving up a watercourse, and floodwater whooshed over the bonnet in a muddy wave, the policeman stood beside the driver shouting encouragement. They proceeded thus for half a mile, then the bus stopped, the policeman and the driver slapped one another’s backs, laughing. The bus had made it. Triumph. The fellow passengers, breaking out of their torpor, gave tongue, struggled with their luggage, urgent to get out.
‘Wait till the rush is over.’ He was afraid she might be knocked down. Poppy waited. Willy lifted down their bags. ‘Okay now, can you manage? Follow me.’ Between the bus and the hotel storm water rushed in a foot-deep torrent. ‘Wait.’ Willy splashed to the entrance, dropped the bags in the shelter of the portico, came back to where she stood on the step of the bus, held out his hands, led her through the water into the hotel lobby, noticed that she flinched, was lame.
Willy sat Poppy on a sofa beside their bags. ‘A little more waiting.’ Elbowed his way into the hubbub round the reception desk.
Twenty minutes later they were in a large room on the fourth floor with a panoramic view over the harbour where little boats tossed like corks and large vessels strained at their moorings.
Poppy’s face under the bruises was grey, her lips bloodless. Willy searched and found whisky in the hotel refrigerator, held a glass for her.
‘Sip it, try.’ She sipped, swallowed, coughed. ‘And again,’ he said, ‘good girl. Now I’m going to put you to bed, we’ll see about a doctor later.’
‘No,’ she refused violently.
‘Okay. We’ll see. Come on now, let’s get these wet things off.’ He eased off her shoes. ‘Some joker’s trodden on your heel.’ He helped her out of her clothes. ‘Afraid we have to share a room, lucky to get this one. The hotel is full of tours who thought they were going to trek across the Sahara, or go up into the mountains, and oil people diverted on their way to Libya, all stuck here until the weather clears, none of them meant to be here at all. There, let me ease this over your head, that’s better.’ Willy went on talking as he extricated Poppy from her clothes, fetched a towel from the bathroom, wrapped it round her. There was a dark bruise on her collarbone. ‘Is your bag locked?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll find a nightie.’ Willy unzipped her bag, put the multicoloured dress aside, found a nightdress. ‘Here we are.’ Helped her put it on. ‘It would be a good idea if I bathed that heel and your face could do with—’ Willy stopped, not trusting his voice.
Poppy stood up, holding on to the back of a chair. She was stiffening up. He helped her to the bathroom, sat her on the lavatory and bathed her face carefully. ‘Now your heel.’ She let him bathe it, winced with pain. ‘Fine. Strong enough to make the bed? No? Never mind.’ He picked her up carefully. ‘This is how I used to carry Mrs Future. Mrs Future is my prize sow, I brought her up on a bottle, I am a pig farmer. There you are.’ Willy pulled back the bedclothes, eased Poppy into the bed. He hoped that if he kept talking it would overcome some of the strangeness of the situation. ‘I’ll put your dress where you can see it when you wake up. I always put something she knows near Mrs Future if I change her sty—’
‘Oh,’ she was crying, ‘my—’
‘Hey, hey no need to cry, not now. You are safe, try another sip of whisky; that’s better, lie back now.’ He gentled her as he gentled his animals when they were afraid or disturbed, concentrating on her need for rest and quiet.
‘Don’t—’
‘I won’t leave you. You go to sleep. I’m going to get out of my wet things, might even have a bath. If you wake up and I’m not here I shan’t be far off, you will be perfectly safe.’ Willy went on talking in the reassuring voice he used for Mrs Future as he drew the curtains, blotting out the gale and the ugly churned-up sea. Then he moved a chair within Poppy’s vision and laid the multicoloured dress across it. In the dim light he peered anxiously down at Poppy’s bruised face on the pillow. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘my name is Willy Guthrie.’
Poppy giggled.
‘I thought you were in shock.’ Willy bent closer.
Poppy’s bloodshot eye met Willy’s. ‘Just knackered,’ she said.
34
ROS LAWRENCE STOOD LISTENING. The October sun warmed her back. She hesitated to ring the bell, the house was so quiet, but since the front door was open she supposed there must be someone about. With her finger by the bell she looked into the hall watching the dust dance in a shaft of sun. She felt an intruder.
Finding herself five miles from the village she had given in to an impulse she was now inclined to regret. It would have been politic to ring up, say she was coming, better perhaps to leave now, drive away, telephone, fix a date and visit later when expected. Having decided on this course a shuffling noise attracted her attention.
From the darkness at the back of the hall a baby crawled. Ros watched the effortful progress.
The child wore a loose T-shirt which inched itself up round his neck as he shuffled down the hall pushing himself backwards into the sun which lit a sunburned bottom, a roll of dimpled flesh at the waist, heavy head covered with dark curls. The baby pushed with determined hands; thrusting with plump legs, gasping and grunting with concentrated effort. As he came to Ros’s feet he collapsed on to the floor, laid his head down, slid into sleep.
Ros watched the child, wondered whether she dared touch him, pull the T-shirt into a position less likely to throttle or whether to creep away without waking him. But if he woke he might continue his progress, crawl into the road, get himself run over.
Entranced, Ros watched the child, leaning against the lintel, her hand by the bell, counting the baby’s soft breathing in the still October afternoon.
Down the road the church clock struck the hour. There was a clatter of jackdaws. The baby slept far away at her feet.
Ros bent down, carefully touched the baby’s nape, he sank closer to the ground, splaying out tiny feet, lying like a frog. Ros was absorbed.
Then she noticed bare feet by the child’s head, narrow ankles, brown legs disappearing into an indigo skirt. She looked up, smiling. ‘Yours?’
‘Yes.’ Mary watched Ros warily squinting into the sun.
‘He crawled down the hall backwards, he tired and fell asleep.’ Ros smiled at the dark baby’s mother, admiring her hair bleached almost white by the sun, blue eyes startling, dark.
‘He is learning, some days he can only manage backwards.’
‘Quite a long crawl.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Barnaby.’
‘What a good name. I am Ros Lawrence.’
‘Fergus’s mother?’
‘Yes. Is he in?’
‘Out. He’s doing a funeral near Wallop. He won’t be long if you’d like to come in and wait.’
‘I should have telephoned.’ Ros excused herself. ‘I found myself only a few miles away. I should have warned him.’
‘Should you?’ Mary looked amused.
‘I dare say he would rather I did. I don’t like peo
ple dropping in on me unexpectedly.’
‘It depends who. Like some tea? Why don’t you come in.’ Mary bent to pick Barnaby off the floor. He woke, stared at Ros with enormous black eyes, smiled.
‘Oh.’ Ros stared back. ‘Oh, he’s—’
‘I expect,’ said Mary turning to lead the way to the kitchen, ‘that you need to see what your husband has given Fergus a reference for.’
‘It seems rather nosey,’ Ros apologised. Barnaby kept his eyes on her, staring over his mother’s shoulder.
‘No, it doesn’t. Come in. I’ll show you round. Like to hold Barnaby while I make us some tea?’
‘May I—’
‘Of course.’ Mary handed Barnaby over. ‘Half a tic, I’ll give you a towel in case he pees on you.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’ Ros sat, made a lap, felt the round little bum settle against her thighs. ‘How old is he?’
‘Eight months, nearly nine.’ Mary reached up to a shelf for the teapot. ‘I brought him back from Spain.’ Putting cups and saucers on the table, reaching for the milk, Mary continued casually, ‘The father’s called Joseph.’ Ros watched her. ‘It was one of those accidents.’ Mary stood waiting for the kettle to boil. Barnaby chucked his head back hitting Ros’s solar plexus with a thump. ‘The other girls, Annie and Frances, who work for Fergus too, found boys to go around with, I found this Joseph type.’ Ros said nothing. ‘He writes a lot, telephones, he’s a lonely sort. Fergus thinks he’s a waiter or a fisherman or something.’
‘Spanish?’ asked Ros casually.
‘No.’ Mary warmed the pot. ‘His family’s Swedish, they run one of the hotels. Fergus calls Barnaby the infant Jesus, it’s his sort of joke. My name’s Mary.’ Mary made the tea, her back to Ros.
‘Ah.’ Ros flushed with shame for Fergus.
‘It’s supposed to be witty.’ Mary set the pot down.
‘I hope you clout him.’ Ros held the naked baby between her hands.
‘I don’t bother.’ Mary poured tea. Ros raised her eyebrows.
‘Milk? Sugar?’ asked Mary.
‘Just as it is please.’ Ros bent to kiss the child’s head, breathing the indescribable smell of the very young. ‘He’s—er—’
‘Yes?’ said Mary on the defensive.
‘Absolutely gorgeous.’ Ros let out her breath.
‘Oh—well—when we’ve had tea shall I show you round? Two of the horses are here, the other four are out with Fergus. You would like to see it all, wouldn’t you? The whole set-up?’
‘Well—Fergus might prefer me—’
‘He won’t mind. I’ll show you the house as well. Bit of luck Poppy letting it to Fergus, wasn’t it? She’s away somewhere, Fergus can’t wait for her to come back.’
Ros was silent. Then, filling in a pause, said, ‘I knew her father.’
‘So did I. A nice bloke, a genius for picking winners. They say he won a fortune.’ Mary laughed. ‘Others say that he was left money by women.’
‘He was kind,’ said Ros, ‘to lonely people.’
‘Yes. More tea?’ Mary was suddenly wary.
‘No thanks.’ Ros, sensing Mary’s change of mood, kept silent, her hands stroking Barnaby’s plump legs, tickling his toes. His nails were like pink pearls.
‘Fergus is greatly taken with Poppy,’ Mary said flatly.
‘And she with Fergus?’
‘I wouldn’t know. She has another sort of entanglement. Shall I take him?’ Mary held out her arms as Barnaby began to whimper. ‘I’m still breast feeding.’ She unbuttoned her shirt.
‘I nursed Fergus.’ Ros surrendered the child reluctantly.
‘That was nice for you.’ Mary was distancing herself. ‘And for him,’ she said dryly.
Ros stood up. ‘I think I won’t wait for Fergus. Will you tell him I came? I’ll telephone, let him ask me over.’ Ros bent to kiss the baby’s head. ‘Goodbye Barnaby. Don’t bother to see me out, don’t disturb him. He looks so happy.’
‘Thanks, goodbye then, it’s been nice—’
‘I’ll see you again now I know the way. Goodbye.’
Ros went out to her car. ‘What do they think they are playing at,’ she muttered. ‘What a fraud.’ She accelerated, driving away from the house in a mood of dangerous exhilaration. The smell of the child was in her mind, she felt a fierce longing to bath him, wrap him in a towel, stay with him, rolling him on a rug in front of an open fire on a winter’s night, feel again the fierce joy of motherhood, hear the delighted chuckle and shriek of a happy baby. I shall box his ears, she promised herself, puzzling over the mixture of sensations, the turmoil which assailed her.
‘I have not felt like this since first love at sixteen,’ she told her husband that night. He, being an understanding man, took off his reading glasses, turned out the bedside lamp and took his wife in his arms.
‘It’s all very well for you,’ she cried, bursting into tears, ‘to be so detached. You are only his stepfather.’
‘Amen to that,’ said her husband.
35
CURLED IN A FOETAL position Poppy lay in the bed where Willy had put her. Demented rain slapped and smashed against the windows, gusts of wind whistled and howled, draught seeping in from the storm rattled the shutters which kept it at bay.
Her eyes hurt, her head throbbed, her hands ached. If she moved her arms the bruise on her collarbone was exquisitely painful. The pains of her body counterpointed the savagery of the weather.
Nothing broken, she reassured herself, just lie still, wait, and it will go away. This is nothing to the storm I left behind in cockroach country. Poppy groped for consolation, distancing herself from the last few days, from the unfinished hotel, the smell of wet cement, the insect infestation, the violence, the squashed dog, the hanging men—
With a glint of satisfaction she thought, The epilogue with Edmund is over.
Since she felt in no fit state to review the past week she dropped a closed portcullis over her mind. Start again at the moment where Willy Guthrie had materialised in the Customs. Last seen reclaiming the coat lent her by that friend of Dad’s. What was he doing here, apart from being fantastically kind?
Arriving in this God-awful storm, Poppy thought, I’d just about run out of puff.
Was this man, she puzzled, part of Furnival’s Funerals or a friend of Dad’s? She did not remember him with Fergus and Victor. Would Fergus or Victor have gathered her up, brought her here, put her to bed without one question asked?
Putting aside the enigma of Willy, she considered Fergus and Victor, being kissed by Fergus and kissed by Victor. It had been agreeable, exploratory, loving; remembering the two men she was surprised by a twinge of desire (not done for yet) but curiously the desire was in essence equal for both. Poppy let her mind dwell on Fergus and Victor as potential lovers. It was so long since she had considered any man other than Edmund in such a role (never for more than a minute, never seriously). Fergus, she thought, would be a taker afraid to give, but an experience not to be ignored. And Victor? She thought of Victor’s extreme slenderness. The fit of bodies would be a fresh experience. Edmund’s hips were wide and muscular (banish Edmund). She thought with tender curiosity of Victor. Sleepily, for she was growing sleepy, she cast her mind back to the afternoon that she had met the two men, remembering the old dog in the stable yard, the younger dogs, the offensive insolence of the cat, the girls who shampooed their hair in the room above the kitchen while Fergus worked out the cost of the funeral. And Mary, brooding, sulky and enigmatic, holding that lovely baby. Sitting there as aloof as the cat she did not fit with the girls who harassed their boys on the telephone. Then, sliding into sleep, Poppy remembered Mary sitting on the stairs in her father’s house during the wake and the smile she had given her as she ran up to the lavatory before leaving with Edmund. ‘Watch your step,’ Mary had said, her tone conveying female solidarity at variance with her words. Had she or had she not called after her when she passed her going down, ‘Give the bugger hell’?
; From a chair by the window, his back to the storm, Willy watched Poppy relax her foetal position, lay back her head in sleep, let her limbs lie free. He tiptoed across to look down on the sleeping girl before leaving her to go in search of arnica for her bruises. Even if he could find it she did not look the type to welcome raw steak on her eye. We are imprisoned here by the gale, he thought, she can spend its term resting while those bruises fade.
On his way down in the lift Willy considered ways and means of wreaking revenge on whoever had beaten Poppy up. Garroting done slowly might be good for starters.
An American lady, also stranded by the weather, observing Willy’s expression, pressed herself against the side of the lift and scuttled out to join her husband when they reached the lobby.
Returning presently with supplies Willy let himself quietly into the room, disposed of his parcels and stood looking down on Poppy sleeping now on her back, head thrown back, arms flung out, legs apart, snoring.
Willy bent to look at her. She reminded him in this abandoned attitude of Mrs Future as a piglet. The only human characteristic Mrs Future had acquired was the knack of sleeping on her back, trotters in the air. This in her now mature years she no longer did nor, Willy thought, his lips twitching, had Mrs Future ever snored.
Poppy opened her good eye: ‘Was I snoring?’
‘Yes.’ Willy straightened his back. Poppy drew her legs together, folded her hands protectively across her chest.
‘I got some arnica, there’s a chemist counter in the hotel shop. I thought it might help your bruises.’
‘Thanks.’ She drew her hands under the coverlet.
‘And he also—that’s the chap in the shop—suggested some stuff to put in your bath, have a good soak he said, or I think he said, my Arabic’s lousy, non-existent actually.’
‘Mine too.’
‘That makes two of us. Anyway, I bought some. It smells nice, sort of aromatic, it might be worth a try.’
‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘I’m sure it’s marvellous.’
Why must she be so bloody polite? ‘Oh well.’ Willy looked away. (That is the most awful shiner I have ever—) ‘Actually what I thought would be of immediate help is some booze. I nobbled a couple of bottles of champagne, it’s in the fridge, and the barman’s promised to keep us some more in case we are stuck here long. He’ll defend it from our American cousins. There’s a large party of them stranded en route from Morocco; it’s okay. They really prefer Scotch.’