by Prue Leith
They watched the elephants arriving with their shambling dignity and ponderous gait. Two cow elephants went first into the water, but didn’t like it. They wouldn’t drink the water stirred up by the Kudu, and reversed out of the pool with careful backward steps to try another spot. Carrie loved the delicate way they explored each other with their trunks, and the efficiency with which they swooshed water under their stomachs and over their backs. She’d always loved elephants, the way the mothers kept their babies between their legs, the indifference with which they felled young trees with a deliberate foot, the way they threshed a bunch of grass against their legs, winnowing out the straw and eating the green.
“Oh God, Karl, I’m so happy,” she said.
Karl pulled Jock of the Bushveld out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Don’t lose it. It belonged to your dad.”
Epilogue
Four years later
Poppy sat with the children sandwiched between her and Eduardo. Her eyes slid sideways along the pew and for a moment her sadness and exhaustion lifted. Angelina had her head against her father’s shoulder, her blond hair lying bright against his dark jacket as he looked down at her, doting. Poppy thought with gratitude that ’Lina was still kind and easy, no adolescent horrors yet. Lorato and Tom were craning round excitedly, hoping to see Carrie and Karl, who had not arrived.
His voice too loud, Tom asked,
“Where’s the fire, Mum? You said they were going to burn Granny up.”
Poppy bent her head and whispered, “Tom. Lorato. Face the front and keep still. We all have to be very quiet. I’ll explain anything later, but now you must sit still and you must not talk.”
The service was a nightmare. The priest provided by the crematorium was proud of his resonant voice, and put it through its paces, dipping and arcing with no connection to the words. He referred to Lucille as “Lucy” all through, and then gave a sermon about how much “Lucy” was beloved by her friends and family and how sorely she’d be missed by all who knew her. It was ludicrous. Lucille had no friends, only carers, and all who knew her—at least during the last few years—had found her exhausting, impossible, a continuous trial.
Poppy could not concentrate. She could not even think of her mother when that travesty of a cleric called for a minute’s silence in which everyone was to think of their own personal “most loved memories of our dear Lucy”. Anguish at such bland nonsense being spouted by a stranger about her mother, and misery that she had not had the foresight to prevent it, engulfed her.
And then when the moment came for the coffin to slide under the curtain, it started smoothly but then stopped halfway. The singing faltered (or so it seemed to Poppy) and then the coffin gave a jerk and proceeded in undignified haste, as if yanked by invisible arms beyond the curtain.
Poppy felt the anger rising. Anger with the pompous clergyman and the amateurish mechanics, but above all anger with Carrie. How could Carrie have missed their mother’s funeral?
The little clutch of mourners—a single representative nurse from the old-age home and half a dozen of the carers and neighbors who had known Lucille before Poppy had given up and put her in the Mornington—dispersed quickly with kind words and evident relief. Poppy looked round once more for Karl and Carrie, then got into the car with Eduardo and the children, and drove home.
*
Eduardo asked, handing her a whisky. “You OK?”
Poppy reached up for the drink, “Oh Eduardo, I wish I’d organized it better.”
“How could you darling? You were in Hollywood.”
“I know. But it’s as though I just heaved a sigh of relief and left the undertakers to do my job. Like turning my back on poor Mum.” She took a long gulp, then went on, “I could at least have directed the thing better. Had some decent music. Written the vicar’s sermon for him.”
“Mia cara, stop it. You’ve been a wonderful daughter to a very difficult mother, and now it’s over. There’s nothing to . . .”
The phone rang and Eduardo said,
“Let the machine . . .”
But Poppy jumped up,
“No, it might be Carrie.”
It was. Her voice came gabbling out of the telephone, words falling over themselves,
“Oh Poppy, is it over? Is she cremated? I can’t bear it . . .”
Poppy felt the old tug of sympathy. But she said, quite cool, “Where are you?”
“At Heathrow. We’ve just got in. We spent 19 hours at Nairobi airport. Oh God Poppy, that’s a hellhole. Did you get my messages?”
“No. Nothing.”
Carrie let out a wailing “Oh No oo” then said “Oh Poppy I am so so sorry. We had engine trouble and had to land, then . . .”
Eduardo took the handset from Poppy and interrupted his sister-in-law’s account of hours of waiting only to be transferred onto another plane which hit a flock of birds on take off and had to land again. He cut in, “Carrie. Hi. It’s Eduardo. Come straight here. Guillia’s making supper. We can talk then.”
*
Supper was delicious. Guillia’s version of macaroni cheese had pieces of garlicky aubergine in it and an unhealthy amount of butter and pecorino. Karl, starving after thirty hours of uneatable food, had two helpings.
Carrie wondered if it was Karl’s hunger, or sympathy at the loss of Lucille, that made Guillia smile at her. I wonder when she last did that? thought Carrie, smiling back, and saying, “Wonderful, Guillia, really delicious.”
It was just the sort of comforting food everyone needed, and it cheered them. Then Guillia took Tom and Lorato off to bed, and Angelina disappeared to do her homework.
Eduardo carried the wine into the sitting area, and Poppy flopped down on the sofa next to Carrie. Putting two glasses and the bottle down in front of Poppy, Eduardo said, “Karl, let’s go to the pub. Leave the women to catch up on sister talk.”
Karl said “sure”, and followed Eduardo out. His eyes met Carrie’s as he passed her. He narrowed them slightly, a private signal.
Poppy caught the look, and saw Carrie’s answering smile. She said, “You really love him, don’t you?”
“Yes.” There was a pause and then she said, “You were right. I hadn’t a clue what loving, or being in love, meant before.”
“I know.”
Carrie said, “Tell me about the funeral.”
“It was awful.” She smiled bleakly. “If it wasn’t so sad it would have made a good black comedy.”
She told Carrie about Tom wanting to see flames, about the ghastly cleric, about the coffin getting stuck. Then she said, “But the worst was, you weren’t there.”
“Typical of me, wasn’t it? Never around for Mum.” Carrie’s voice was bitter.
Poppy said, “I used to think that was true. But it isn’t really. Mum adored you. You made her laugh. Got drunk with her. I just bossed her about.” She sighed and put her head back on the sofa cushions, eyes closed.
Carrie looked at her sister’s face, drained but somehow beautiful. She wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek.
Carrie didn’t want Poppy to refer to the worst part of the past, her affair with Eduardo, but she knew one of them had to, sooner or later. It would be easier with Poppy’s eyes closed.
No one said anything for a while. It was peaceful and Carrie was tempted to let the chance go. To do what she’d done for four years, politely pretend it hadn’t happened. She said, “Poppy, it’s four years now. But hardly a day goes by that I’m not so, so sorry. If you seduced Karl, I’d kill you. Literally. I know I would.”
Poppy opened her eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t want to kill you,” she said. Her smile was half teasing, half sad.
“But you didn’t. You even let me back into your life. Until I nearly drowned Lorato. Even then, you invested in Kaia Moya. You’ve never done me anything but good, Poppy. Sometimes
I used to hate you for it, but now I just miss you. I really miss you, Poppy.”
Carrie felt her lip start to wobble, like a child’s, and like a child she bit it.
Poppy said, “I miss you too. Funny that. I even missed you when I hated you the most.”
They were silent for a minute, Carrie regaining composure, both women thinking of the other. Then Poppy said, “I did do you some harm. Or tried to. I tried to keep you and Karl apart. God knows why. He’s about the only man in the world who could cope with you.”
Carrie nodded. Maybe, after all, it would be all right. Maybe not at once, but one day. She touched her sister’s arm, a small hesitating gesture. Poppy put her hand over Carrie’s and pressed it.
Both women smiled, and optimism ran through Carrie like a charge. She stood up. She felt great. As if she could fly. She said, “You haven’t any oranges, have you? I’d really love an orange.”
Poppy, surprised, said, “Orange juice do?” She pulled herself out of the sofa and headed for the kitchen, relieved that they’d closed a gap without weeping or too much talk. I’m too tired, and too old, thought Poppy, for Sturm und Drang.
Carrie shook her head, “Not really.” She followed Poppy and they found two thick-skinned navel oranges.
Carrie took one and with a paring knife pulled off the skin in neat segments. Then she bent a piece of orange peel backward so she could nibble the pith with her teeth.
Poppy watched her idly. Then the penny dropped.
“You’re pregnant!”
Carrie’s eyes widened, “How on earth do you know?”
Poppy was laughing now.
“Because I did the same thing when I was pregnant. And so did Mum. She told me.”
“What? What thing?”
“Eating orange pith.” Poppy put her arms round Carrie and hugged her,
All at once it was as if there had never been dark days, as if Carrie hadn’t ruined everything. Carrie closed her eyes, deep in Poppy’s hug. She put her arms round her sister’s comfortable frame and her cheek against her sister’s.
They went back to the sitting room and talked. Poppy told Carrie about their mother’s death, how she’d heard about it in the rehearsal studio, 5,000 miles away. They reverted to the funeral. Carrie said, “I wanted so to be there. Not for Mum, who’s out of it, but for you. We should have seen her off together.”
“It’s OK. It’s OK,” said Poppy.
But Carrie wanted to tell Poppy everything, unleash the years of conversations she’d had with her in her head. She spoke at speed, articulate in her urgency.
“Poppy, since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve seen things so clearly. I need you so much. Not like I used to, like a limpet, expecting you to save me every minute, but just because I miss you. You’ve got to start coming to Kaia Moya again. Every time we change something or build something, I want you to see it. I need you to show off to.” Carrie shook her head, self-deprecating. “I suppose I want you to see what a grown-up I am now. Oh Poppy, women need other women. A best friend who knows everything . . .” She trailed off, looking into Poppy’s face. Poppy frowned.
“I’ve never been very good at that,” said Poppy. “Even with you confidences were pretty much one-way traffic.”
“Maybe we could change that. We could try.”
Poppy thought of the anguished year after Carrie left, when she watched Eduardo like a hawk, mistrustful of his every trip. When the children could not understand Carrie’s desertion, and when her only release was on stage, away from her life. It would have been good to have a friend then.
“Yes, we could try.”
Carrie tipped the last of the wine into Poppy’s glass, saying, “Besides, I want someone to bore to death about the baby, and ring up when she’s sick, and ask advice about teething and tantrums.”
“She! Is it a girl then?”
“Yes. It is. It’s a girl. She’s called Poppy.”
ends