Play Dead (2 page)

Poppy smiled—she had no wish to add family planning to her other unofficial duties. Capstone, she thought. The name rang a bell. Deborah Capstone—you'd have the makings of a formidable woman with a name like that. Deborahs ate Poppies for breakfast …

Deborah lacked the scientific bent. Toby would have spent a good ten minutes verifying the hands-down-funnel-and-up-firebox effect, but before she'd finished laughing she was on her feet and looking for other objects to insert. She scurried round snatching up toys regardless of size and shape and whether another child happened to be playing with them. Toby was looking with disbelief at Nelson's yellow polka-dot cuddle tortoise when Nell brought Nelson over to retrieve it.

The tortoise had come from Harrods, the gift of a great-aunt. Nell had removed the label, but even without that the toy was still curiously expressive of values antipathetic to her, lazy, complacent, bourgeois, frivolous. Maybe that was why Nelson had chosen it to be his sacred object—almost from the cradle children seem to be preparing the ground for later revenges. Deborah saw their approach and knew what it meant. The delayed scream erupted.

She stood stock still, firmly in the centre of the imaginary limelight, clinging to the tortoise like a soprano to her lover who has been called to distant wars, letting the sound come. Nell and Nelson halted, but Toby rose and gazed at her in wonder. Slowly he lifted his hand, extended his forefinger and inserted it into Deborah's mouth. The note modulated from C to D flat, then returned to C as he withdrew his finger. His movements were characteristically decisive but gentle and Deborah, rapt in the ecstasy of her scream, appeared not to notice. He repeated the experiment, this time as she drew breath. She found his finger in her mouth and pushed it away.

‘More,' he said.

Her mouth was still open but no sound came. She actually seemed unsure of herself. Perhaps it was beyond her experience that anyone should ask her to scream.

‘More,' he said again, but she seemed to have forgotten the cause of her outrage. To show her what he wanted he let out a hoot and varied it by putting his open palm over his mouth and moving it away, a trick Hugo had taught him some months ago. She copied him, no longer screaming, nor hooting like him, but singing a definite note, something Poppy hadn't heard other children at that age do. Nell took the chance to ease the tortoise from her grasp. Poppy made the introductions.

Poppy both admired and liked Nell. She admired her for the way she faced the world, her courage in her principles, her sureness of purpose. She lived in a squat. Greenham had been a second home to her. At some point she'd spent a month in Holloway following a destructive break-in at another American base. She joined protests, stood on picket lines, and so on. From chat among the other girls Poppy had gathered that Nell had deliberately decided she needed a child to fulfil her femininity, and had equally deliberately chosen a black friend to be the father. Nothing else was known about him. He clearly didn't live with her and she never mentioned him, or referred to Nelson even having a father. It all sounded egocentric, cold-blooded, almost ruthless, but despite those adverse aspects of the modern zodiac, the act of childbirth had triggered the primeval necessary responses. When she was with Nelson every line of her body expressed her love, her intelligent, aware absorption in her son and his needs and nature. That was why Poppy liked her.

Nelson crooned to the tortoise. The three adults watched Deborah and Toby's game.

‘Ah, isn't that lovely?' said Peony. ‘She doesn't get on with other children the way she should, always. Mrs Capstone said try here, 'stead of Holland Park where we used to go.'

‘Mrs Capstone?' said Nell, sharply.

‘'Sright,' said Peony, inexplicably defensive.

The social temperature had plummeted. This was clearly not the time to ask either of them about Deborah's mother. In a moment Nell would take Nelson back to the other side of the room, and Poppy couldn't decently abandon Peony and go with her.

‘How's things at the commune?' she said, trying to prolong the contact.

‘They're going to close it down.'

‘Who are?

‘The Council, looks like. You'll read about it in the papers when it happens.'

‘What'll you do? Have you got anywhere else to live?'

‘I'll find something. It's different from before I had Nelson. I lived under plastic bags sometimes then. Hi, Sue.'

‘About dinner tomorrow,' said Little Sue, who had appeared beside Poppy's shoulder. ‘I've got Mrs Ogham-Ferrars staying—she's Pete's gran—and she's having some friends in, so you best not come through the house. I'll see the door's open into the park.'

‘No problem,' said Nell, beginning to turn away.

‘Hang on,' said Poppy. ‘I'd have a bed for you for a few days, if you need it. There's only me and my cat.'

‘You mean that?'

Poppy didn't hesitate. In a sense she had made the offer only as a way of prolonging the contact, building an extra strand into the tenuous relation between them. Challenged, she found she had told the truth.

‘Yes, of course. Gladly.'

‘Thanks.'

A squabble had broken out by the paint-table, involving Sue's charge, Peter, so she darted away to help peace-make before Poppy could introduce her to Peony. Nell picked Nelson up and carried him back to where she'd been sitting before. Deborah and Toby were still rapt in their game—a duet now, and sometimes they were stopping each other's mouth to vary the notes, which were further modulated by their giggles. Poppy heard Peony sigh with simple pleasure as she watched them and realised that she had done the same. It was a parody picture of young love, of the exploration of delights and possibilities available to two human bodies. When you sigh like that, she thought, you sigh for yourself as well.

2

‘… I spy Mother Hubbard,' read Poppy. ‘Can you see her, darling? Where is she? Yes,
there
she is!'

She let Toby turn the page.

‘Mother Hubbard in the …'

‘Mummy,' he said and wriggled from her lap. She put the book down and thought, Perhaps I
am
getting a bit deaf. Please not. Don't let anyone say it runs in the family or it's only to be expected at my age.

Toby was already through the door. Now Poppy could hear the noises of Janet bringing her cycle into the hall and stripping off her oilskins, mixed with Toby's cries of welcome. She crossed the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Janet came in with Toby bouncing on her arm. Her face glowed with the lash of rain and her red-blonde hair exploded round it, with odd lank locks that had escaped her crash-hat straggling down. Exhilarated health streamed from her.

Poppy's main feeling for her daughter-in-law, apart from a mild unfocused resentment, was awe, awe for her beauty, intelligence, dynamism mental and physical—she stood six feet and at the cottage would split logs with a seven-pound axe. How Hugo could have dared involve himself with such a Valkyrie, how Janet could have been drawn to vague, cold Hugo, were mysteries—as all marriages are, in the end.

‘You must have had a wild ride, darling.'

‘One of those days when the wind is against you in all directions.'

‘I don't know how you dare.'

‘It's fun. Like white-water canoeing. The traffic's the current you learn to ride.'

‘But Hyde Park Corner, for instance.'

‘Just a big eddy. How's he been?'

‘An angel, as always. It's all in his book. He's fallen in love.'

‘Again? Who with?'

‘A terrifying little hussy with a scream like a steam-siren, called Deborah. Pushing two-and-a-half, I should think.'

‘The older woman.'

‘It's coming down. Sukie was four. And at least Deborah was just as smitten with him, so he's had a lovely time.'

‘They'll have forgotten about it by tomorrow.'

‘You can't tell with Toby, can you, darling?'

He had been nestling into Janet's shoulder, relaxing his body into the luxury of mother love, but looked up at the sound of his name.

‘Who did you meet today, darling?' said Poppy. ‘Deborah?'

‘Debba,' he said, putting his hand in front of his mouth for a snatch of the yodelling effect.

‘Where's Debba, then?' said Janet.

‘Watch it,' said Poppy. ‘We've got to call her by her full name. Mrs Capstone's orders.'

Janet was at the working surface making her tea with her free hand. The movement stopped with the kettle poised.

‘Capstone?' she said.

‘Why does everyone get the horrors when her name's mentioned? Ought I to know? It rings a bell, but there aren't any Capstones in the telephone book. I checked.'

‘She'll be ex-directory—she's that sort. Don't you read the papers, Poppy? Don't you watch the telly?'

‘Of course I know her name—it's just slipped. You aren't being fair. I listen to the radio all day long.'

Janet laughed. It was well known that Poppy listened to the radio all day long—Radio 3, switching off mentally for the news bulletins and on again when the music started. She watched the arts programmes and wildlife and travel on TV and read the review pages of the Guardian.

‘Mrs Capstone proposes to become our second woman Prime Minister. At the moment her Thatchering is confined to Ethelden.'

‘Oh, yes, of course! But she isn't really a Maggie clone, is she? There can't be two of them. And she'll have to win this constituency first, won't she? D'you think she can?'

‘It's up to you.'

‘Me?'

‘Did you remember to renew your Labour Party membership?'

‘Of course I did, darling. Well, the moment you told me.'

Poppy didn't feel she'd got the sturdy indignation right. It was often like that, talking to Janet, as if the conversation were being conducted on a slightly ill-tuned radio, the words clear enough, but the tones unreliable. All her life Poppy had voted Liberal but about fifteen months ago she'd happened to say she was thinking of going Labour because of the intransigent, self-savaging stupidities of the centre parties, and next morning Janet had pushed the membership form in front of her nose and demanded a cheque. Now Janet looked at her over the rim of her mug, her eyes mocking.

‘There's every chance I and Mrs Capstone will be standing against each other at the next election.'

‘Oh. I mean Oh?'

Janet ignored the note of doubt. She lowered Toby to the floor and gave him the egg-whisk and a bowl of water.

‘At least you've heard that Tom Charleswick has decided not to stand next time.'

‘Something to do with loans?'

‘Officially it's health. In fact he used his contacts in Town Hall to get them to use a company which pays his brother a retainer to do some so-called creative accounting for them, which turned out not to be legal. The brother's an alcoholic wreck. Anyway, the Tories are going to make hay with it, and that gives Capstone a chance, and that gives me more than a chance. They haven't announced the short list yet, but I've been told. It's me and Bob Stavoli and Trevor Evans. Bob's a good bloke, but a useless speaker as well as being gay—you can imagine what Capstone could make of that. Trevor's not a bad speaker in a ranting kind of way, but he's such a shit, he's let so many people down over the years, and I bet he's got just as many skeletons in his cupboard as Tom Charleswick—anyway, Trish Edwards who's running my campaign says that Walworth Road want me.'

‘Walworth Road?'

‘Oh, Poppy! Labour Party HQ. In a few weeks' time there'll be a meeting of our constituency General Management Committee to select a candidate from the short list, so you've got to come along and vote for me.'

‘I'm not even on …'

‘Anyone who's been a paid-up member of the party for a full twelve months is entitled to vote. That's why I wanted to be sure you'd renewed your subscription.'

‘I see. Well, that's very exciting, darling. What does Hugo …'

‘Hugo knew what I wanted when he married me.'

‘Yes, of course,' said Poppy, hearing beneath the words the tone she had known so well a few years back, like the creak of ice-floes in the spring, the quiet groan of a relationship beginning to tear itself apart. She looked at Toby, happily whisking sprays of water over his green dungarees and the blue lino. Hugo had been an easy baby to love, too, not as bright, but just as cuddly and forthcoming. The change had begun … when? He'd been nine when she'd first really noticed. You can never tell what they'll become.

‘It affects you in another way too,' said Janet. ‘Only if you want it to, of course. If I actually get in I shall give up NACRO, but till then I'm going to have to get my constituency work done in the evenings and weekends.'

‘I see.'

‘I'm not asking for your bridge nights, of course.'

‘When's the election?'

‘Depends when Thatcher can dig herself out of the mess she's in. It's got to be by the summer of 1992, so it'll be spring that year, most likely. Possibly the autumn before. You don't sound too keen. I don't want to ask Hugo.'

‘No.'

Poppy knew the feeling well. So it had got that far, when even the most reasonable request becomes something you are going to be made beholden for, things you'd have taken for granted a few weeks back.

‘And I'll have to find somebody for Saturdays—Hugo will want to go down to the cottage, of course.'

‘Why Saturdays?'

‘Because there are people around you can't catch other times. It wouldn't be every Saturday, Poppy.'

‘No, I definitely don't want to commit weekends, I'm afraid.'

Poppy felt quite firm about this, though it was months since she'd had much by way of weekends away, apart from visits to the cottage. But to close the possibility off would be another bar in the cell window.