Vacillations of Poppy Carew (22 page)

So, he remembered their arrival, then something about a dog. Oh God yes, poor dog.

Meeting the Minister with Mustafa in the Office of Tourism, yes.

A picnic somewhere near the sea, a goat, a kid. Oh Lord, yes.

The swim, the Roman ruins, the meal, the wine, rather good claret. Why had Poppy not been there?

After the picnic the drive back to the town in the Mercedes with Mustafa. Quite a long drive through stony desert. Then what happened? It had been evening by that time, almost night, the sea had been phosphorescent along the harbour wall. Edmund lay on his back breathing deeply, filling his lungs; if his lungs cleared his head would clear. He cajoled his memory, come on I must remember, something must have happened.

A bar. Mustafa had persuaded him to try the local pastis, they called it something else here, right, he’d got that, he’d tried the pastis, well several, pretty potent, what then? (Arak, it’s called Arak.) A memory floated back. It
can’t
have happened, he told himself, as the blood flooded his face, his heart thumped, his neck grew hot, his ears roared.

Jesus, it had happened, he knew it, Christ!

He remembered leaving the bar, getting into a car, not the Mercedes they had used all day, another older car which smelt of what? Got it, cannabis. There had been two youths, had they been in the bar? No matter, come back to that later, no don’t, it’s not important. He remembered them all in the car, the two youths not much more than boys, Mustafa and himself driving to a house somewhere outside the town and then all too clearly it came back, that room with the divan, the boys, Mustafa in a corner smoking a cigarette, watching.

And I enjoyed it.

Edmund lay with his eyes shut, trying to close his mind also.

At first in the car driving out of town he had thought that they must be kidnapping him, one of the boys was armed, the driver had a weapon beside him on the seat, had Mustafa by then been armed too?

The youths were beautiful, olive skin, softly curling black hair, sensual mouths.

Edmund was drenched with sweat as he lay thinking. He had his job to finish, the survey of tourist possibilities for his firm. There was the stadium to visit, the details of the hotels to note. The ultimate cost of tours to discuss with the Tourist Board, spy out what goes on with such tours from other countries already ongoing, loose ends to tie up, finish the job, write the report.

A sharp rap on the door made him jump, chilled the sweat on his body.

Poppy called from the balcony: ‘Come in—
entrez
—
avanti
—
herein
.’ As she came through the curtains from the balcony she laughed, ‘I don’t know what language they use so I use all the ones I know.’

The sun illuminating her mousy hair from behind made a curious halo effect. She opened the bedroom door to let in a waiter carrying a tray. He took it through to the balcony, put it down on an iron table with a clatter. Poppy thanked him. ‘Thank you—
merci—grazie—Danke
.’ There was the welcome smell of coffee.

‘I left you to sleep,’ she said, ‘you came in late.’

The servant went away closing the door behind him.

‘Thanks,’ said Edmund, sitting up in the bed, pushing the hair out of his eyes, ignoring the pain stabbing his temples.

‘Why don’t you have a shower? I’m starving so I shall start breakfast,’ she said.

Edmund dragged himself out of bed, went into the bathroom, stood under the shower, let the water wash, wash, wash it all away.

She had been very quiet out there on the balcony, leaving him to sleep. What state had he been in when he came in during the night? What had he said? Had he said anything? Would she tell him what he had said supposing he had said it? If he had been legless he would hopefully though not necessarily have been speechless too. Venetia would tell him at once without hesitation. Poppy was quite another kettle of fish, close.

Listening to the swish of water in the shower Poppy poured herself coffee, hot, fragrant, civilised. Her hand shook as she poured. She added milk and sugar, lifted the cup with both hands, drank.

‘Ah,’ she sighed, ‘that’s better.’

She buttered a roll, ate ravenously, wondered when she had last eaten. I shall not tell him what happened yesterday, he would probably not believe me, it would do no good, she shuddered, drank more coffee.

‘Let’s have a nice day,’ she said as Edmund joined her, wrapped about the waist by a towel; he was really a beautiful man to look at, even his feet were elegant. ‘Have you got to work or could we go somewhere together, swim perhaps, enjoy ourselves?’

‘Why not,’ said Edmund accepting a cup of coffee. (I can’t possibly tell her, never, never, never.) ‘I can take the day off, finish the job tomorrow,’ he said. ‘This is good, just what I need.’ He gulped the restorative liquid. ‘That fellow Mustafa is a bit of a bore in large doses, we can dispense with his services today.’

‘Lovely,’ said Poppy, looking across the palm tops towards the sea. I had better not suggest aspirin, she thought, it only irritates him.

‘It’s a long time since we spent the day together,’ said Edmund, who had lately spent his free days with Venetia.

‘Ages,’ said Poppy thinking of Venetia, had she posted that card, did Venetia know what
chameau
meant? ‘Did you have a successful day?’ she asked in the tone of voice which expects no answer.

‘You could say that.’ Edmund chose a roll, buttered it. ‘How was yours?’

‘So, so,’ said Poppy, ‘so, so.’ She put on her sunglasses, handed Edmund his, wondered whether anyone had yet trod on them. ‘Sun’s very bright,’ she said. If we can keep this up nothing need have happened, nothing will have happened.

There was an English language paper by the breakfast tray. Edmund picked it up, glanced at it. ‘There seems to have been some political trouble just before we arrived. All quiet now it seems.’

‘Oh really?’ said Poppy.

Edmund put the paper down, helped himself to more coffee, looked out across the palms towards the sea, burst out laughing. How could Venetia’s feet be so permanently chilly, she must have a funny sort of metabolism.

‘The cupboard in the first room they put us in was full of cockroaches,’ said Poppy.

‘Oh darling,’ said Edmund, still laughing, thinking of Venetia’s feet. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You weren’t there to tell,’ said Poppy lightly. And you weren’t there when they hanged those men either. She clipped up her secret thoughts.

W
ILLY GUTHRIE’S INTENTION OF
flying in search of Poppy on the first available plane got a setback when he found no airline called at the desired destination for two days. With mounting impatience he prowled his farm, trying not to drive his stockman mad with repetitious instructions for the duration of his absence. He sought solace watching the young porkers hop, skip, chase each other in short grunting rushes, root thoughtfully along the hedges, gobble their balanced diet from their speckless troughs. He found no solace. Communing with Mrs Future, admiring her aerodynamic Zeppelin shape, catching the beady intelligent eyes peeping at him from the shade of ears shaped like arum lilies, he sought comfort. It was some years since, tiny, pushed aside by her siblings, squashed almost to death by her mother, she had lain in Willy’s arms feeding from a bottle. She had rewarded him with almost as much companionship as a dog, he had derived a lot of pleasure driving to market with a pig beside him. Walking the fields with Mrs Future was something he missed now that, full grown, she regularly brought litters of little Futures into the hard world of hams.

There was no trace of sentiment in Mrs Future’s eye as she twitched her mobile snout, took from his hand a proffered carrot. Willy felt that Mrs Future would consider, were she human, his emotions
vis à vis
Poppy rather ludicrous, without place in the real world.

Scratching Mrs Future’s flank with a stick kept specially for the purpose, Willy dreamed of Poppy as he had seen her standing alone in the front pew at her father’s funeral. ‘You don’t know what it is to be lonely,’ he said to the pig, lifting her large ear to peer into her little eye. The sow’s eye gleamed red in the evening light. ‘When your litter have grown a bit we will take them for a walk under the oak trees,’ said Willy. ‘You love acorns.’

Mrs Future turned away sashaying back to the litter in her byre. It was sentimental to think of her as any different from the other breeding sows lolling in their comfortable quarters, rows of piglets laid along their flanks in pale pink harmony.

To the uninitiated each sow identically resembled the next. Except for their past relationship Mrs Future might just be one of the many, indeed the pig’s rather nonchalant attitude inclined to hint that now that she had better things to do their special relationship was at an end. Rebuffed, Willy experienced a fresh pang of loneliness, his mind veered away from the pig to speculate on his aunt in her house on the other side of the wood and her uncharacteristically helpful attitude towards his love for Poppy. Had she murmured something about risk? He searched his memory. Did she suggest love was a
risk
? Was that her opinion? Surely a risk worth taking? Uneasily Willy set out to walk off his fretful anxiety, tire himself so that he would not lie sleepless before his journey. As he walked he remembered Calypso visiting his smoke-house, inspecting the cadaver of a pig split neatly in half ready for smoking. ‘That is what I feel like,’ she had said, turning away. Willy had wondered what the hell she meant. As he walked along the wood path Willy discovered what she had meant for he felt he would never be whole without Poppy just as Calypso could never be whole without Hector. Here was the endemic risk in loving. There is no knowing, thought Willy grimly, whether I shall ever experience that wholeness. Pig farmers cannot afford to be morbid, he told himself.

I can perfectly well live without Poppy, I have up to now, he persuaded himself.

The word mawkish occurred to him. He had survived other loves, he thought robustly, there was no need to be mawkish.

In the fading light the wood grew dark, occasional yellow fern, precursors of winter, lightened the way. In the still hour when the night’s inhabitants roused themselves, Willy waited under a giant oak, survivor of a long gone forest towering among the young trees planted by Hector. He promised himself to do some coppicing for Calypso during the winter. On the edge of the wood a cock pheasant cried, was still. From the oak a tawny owl flew out silent about its hunting. Willy sighed with satisfaction, walked back over the hill, came finally to his farm, turned on the harsh electric light, cut himself a sandwich, poured himself a beer, switched on the radio for the late news. ‘Terrorists, attempted plot uncovered, attempt on ruler’s life, shots fired in the streets, three men arrested, executed, calm restored.’ He waited for the weather report, went up to bed, slept. The distant sound of a train rushing through the night blew in on the night air.

At cockcrow Willy woke, shaved, bathed, dressed, checked his bag, put passport and tickets in his breast pockets, ate a hurried breakfast, carried his bag to the car and drove across country to Gatwick.

Arriving early, he wandered round the departure lounge, drifted through the duty free shop, read the titles of the books on the bookstall, bought a newspaper and a couple of weeklies, impatiently waited for time to pass. Ruefully he envied the sangfroid and ease with which habitual travellers drifted along just in time to board their planes. In the past he too had been a carefree traveller. At last, time relented, he boarded the plane. Once airborne he felt elation; in a matter of hours he would find Poppy, what happened after that was up to the Almighty. In an attempt to keep calm he opened his
Spectator
, tried to read.

Halfway through the third article he realised with a jolt that he was reading about the country of his destination, went back to the beginning of the article. ‘The country’s past record is by no means peaceful, the present troubles are due—’ Frowning, Willy read on. Plot, counterplot, suppression, terrorists, kidnappings, bombs had a familiar ring, he was not unduly disturbed. Reading about trouble abroad, he had always understood, was quite different to being actually present where it took place. The odds were, if you were on the spot you would notice nothing. Uneasily Willy cast his mind back to the previous evening’s news. Where and in what country had the reported trouble been. If it was in Poppy’s country her man (even to himself Willy refused to think of him as her lover) would take care of her and all governments took care of tourists. Willy put down the
Spectator
, searched his newspaper, found nothing, no mention even in the stop press. Reassured, he dozed.

Roused by the steward for the midflight meal, he was picking at the packets on his tray when the intercom crackled and the captain made an announcement. The weather along the North African coast was of such turbulence that the plane must alter course and land in Algiers. The airport at their proper destination was temporarily under water.

Willy could not believe his ears. He checked with his neighbour who agreed; he too had heard the announcement. It was confirmed by the stewardess.

Willy shouted, ‘God damn the bloody plane I want to get off.’ His neighbour, much amused, ordered a large whisky and offered one to Willy who fretfully refused.

The plane altered course in the direction of Algiers. Philosophically the passengers ate their meal.

The captain apologised for any delay and inconvenience caused, promised that the passengers would be accommodated at the airline’s expense in the best hotels. The plane would land in forty minutes. Presently the plane lost height in a series of stomach-jolting jerks, groaning down through dark rain clouds. Willy watched the ground rush up, saw lashing rain, palm trees waving like dishmops.

‘Much worse along the coast,’ shouted Willy’s neighbour. How did he know? ‘Often happens in autumn, equinoctial gales—’ What a know-all.

The plane landed, splashing on to puddled tarmac, taxiing through sheeting rain to the terminal, stopped. The aircraft doors open a voice hailed, ‘
Que messieurs les passagers descendent
—’