Vacillations of Poppy Carew (7 page)

‘Parking?’ Poppy was amused by Victor’s ploy (does he think I don’t notice?), watching her with his small pale eyes with dark pupils like a jackdaw’s. ‘Parking?’ she questioned.

‘Yes. All the cars and for that matter Fergus.’ Grudgingly Victor mentioned Fergus.

‘There’s the road, the village green, there’s the stable yard.’

‘Stable yard, could one see it?’

‘Sure. Have another drink,’ she relented. ‘I will show you the stables.’ She watched Victor gulp the remains of the vodka, poured him another. ‘Across here.’ She led him through the garden. Victor, carrying his fresh drink, followed her.

‘These are the stables, rather dusty and unused. The er—hearse horses could rest in them if—’

‘Fergus has his horse-boxes, he can load up and go home after the ceremony. Get the horses home quickly after the job is what he’ll want.’

What makes him think that? He looked the sort to want to join in the champagne drinking, eat the eats. The girls too looked as though they would appreciate a party.

‘I have to talk to the vicar,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a date.’ A grey lie, never mind.

‘Right.’ Victor gave up, downed his drink. ‘I will ring you from London to confirm the logistics.’ Victor was fond of the word ‘logistics’, brought to his attention during the Falklands War. He hoped one day to find a place for it in a novel.

‘It’s very kind of you.’ Poppy walked with him to his car. ‘It’s extremely kind of you to be so helpful.’ Without this man could she have forced Edmund to help, appealed to his better nature? If he has one, she thought, sourly remembering the entwined figures by the Serpentine and other occasions when Edmund had not been altogether perfect. ‘Well,’ she said as they reached the car, ‘goodbye and thanks again.’

‘I’ll be in touch. See you Saturday, ’bye.’ Victor waved as he drove off. She saw through me like a sieve, he thought with amusement. Glad she lives in London, it will be easier to get to know her there. ‘I won’t live here,’ she had said in her father’s house. ‘There may be a use for it, weekends perhaps.’ I wonder how I can stop Fergus seeing those stables, mused Victor as he drove towards London, unaware that Poppy, looking at the dusty buildings, had decided to ask Fergus for his advice about them, perhaps rent them to him if he expanded his business.

Fergus was the sort of man Edmund detested and another type he loathed would be Victor with his thin intelligent face. Edmund had no time for intellectuals. I wish I had stopped by the Serpentine and spat in his eye, she thought, and went to answer the telephone which was ringing.

‘Hullo, Vicar.’ She recognised the hesitant insecure voice, not the sort to inspire confidence or lead one to higher things. Dad had once unkindly said ‘not enough spunk’. ‘Hullo, Vicar. Yes please, it would be very kind if you would come round or we can discuss it now.’ She listened to the vicar, giving him half her attention while the picture of the girl with the spiky hair flitted across the other half. She supposed the baby’s father was a Spaniard; if one went by the baby’s face he must be a knock-out. The girl had been jolly rude. She must be unhappy to be so antagonistic. The vicar was talking about the grave.

‘—the Sexton says he can just fit it in the old graveyard with your mother.’

‘Dad will be pleased.’

‘—and the service? Have you any particular—’

‘As simple as possible, he would, I would like, jolly hymns, sort of rejoicing.’

‘—?’ The vicar mumbled a doubtful query.

‘Yes, Vicar, I do mean rejoice. He’s had coronary after coronary,
he
will be rejoicing all that’s over.’

‘If that’s your—attitude.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Is he going to make difficulties?’

‘Most laudable. I—er—’

‘It’s not laudable, it’s what Dad would feel so I must too. Surely you who believe in the after-life agree.’

‘I never knew your father well, ah—er—he never discussed his beliefs with me.’

‘I think he hedged his bets,’ said Poppy.

He would, wouldn’t he, thought the vicar who, though he barely knew Bob Carew, had heard much said in the parish about Bob Carew’s interests.

‘To come back to the hymns,’ said the vicar, retreating to safer ground, ‘it’s a bit difficult, it’s—’

‘No jolly hymns? Nothing suitable?’ This vicar was eminently teasable.

‘Suppose our organist, if I can get Mr Ottway to play—he’s really very good—suppose we do away with hymns and ask Mr Ottway to play a lot of Bach.’

‘Brilliant idea.’

‘Oh good, then suppose, Miss Carew—’

‘Poppy, please.’

‘Thank you. Suppose I come round tomorrow and we make the final arrangements. I can get details and fix times with Brightson’s.’

‘Not Brightson’s.’

‘What?’

‘My father wished to have a firm called Furnival’s.’

‘Oh.’ The vicar’s voice dipped. ‘I see.’

‘I saw them this afternoon. They will be in touch with you, Vicar.’

‘Oh.’ The vicar sounded alarmed. ‘I see—’

‘And I hope you will come back to the house afterwards.’

‘Thank you.’ On the other end of the line the vicar gathered strength. ‘Do I really understand that—’

‘Yes, not Brightson’s, Furnival’s, it’s perfectly legit, Vicar.’

‘Yes, yes of course. I’ll telephone tomorrow.’ He sounded apprehensive on the verge of protest.

‘Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ Poppy waited for the vicar to ring off and presently telephoned
The Times
, the
Daily Telegraph
, and the local paper asking them to put in a notice of her father’s funeral, spelling the name Furnival, making sure they got it right.

Left alone, Poppy walked about her father’s garden, trying to visualise him as he used to be when she was a child. Mowing the lawn, sweeping up leaves, weeding. But she could not see him. Here behind the lilacs she and Edmund had kissed. Here, out of sight of the house, they had lain on the grass on hot summer evenings, their bodies touching. Dad, where are you Dad? The leaves on the lilacs were now turned yellow, a hesitant breeze testing the quiet autumn air rustled the bushes, bringing back that moment when, sheltered from observant eyes by scented lilac and philadelphus, Edmund had pulled her down on to the grass, kissing her mouth, holding her body against his, hard, heavy urgent; had penetrated so that astonished she had whispered, ‘Go on, do that, don’t stop,’ in her first exultant sexual success, ‘go on, don’t stop, don’t stop,’ with the selfishness of satisfied joy, and as it waned leaving her gloriously spent her father had called from the house and Edmund had frustratedly called her ‘you fool, you fool, you put me off’ and then ‘damn your fucking father’.

The breeze dropped as quickly as it had risen, a leaf from the lilac drifted crisply to the ground. Dryly Poppy thought that never again had Edmund admitted her need before his own.

She bent down brushing the grass with her palm where this, her first sexual experience, had happened. Then the grass had been short dense deep green, springing, today it felt dry, brittle, rather dusty.

Poppy went back to the house. She would leave Edmund in the garden; the scenes she remembered were old anyway, seven, eight years old, an age of ignorance. She wandered through the empty rooms seeking her father, thinking now of the unhappy girl Mary, with spiky hair and the beautiful baby.

When the telephone rang it was Fergus.

‘They will bring your father early,’ his voice was kind reassuring, ‘tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. What time?’

‘Nineish or even before.’

Perhaps with Dad actually in the house it would be easier to find him. She felt very tired. Climbing the stairs to bed, she decided she would sleep in the visitors’ room. Edmund, so disliked by Dad, haunted her room. Poppy dismissed her fanciful thoughts. Dad was in his coffin and would be brought here tomorrow. Edmund would now be tucked up snug with Venetia in Venetia’s flat after eating one of her delicious dinners. She was an impossibly good cook, spent lavishly on food.

As she was getting into bed the telephone rang in Dad’s room across the landing.

‘Hullo.’ She stood in her nightdress and bare feet.

‘It’s me again I’m afraid.’ It was the vicar. ‘Sorry to bother you.’

‘Yes?’

‘I just wondered thinking about the service on Saturday and your wish for a cheerful hymn whether you had thought of any particular one so that I can apprise the organist. It is usual to have at least one hymn.’ The voice was gently insistent.

‘Oh, I—’ Poppy stood barefoot holding the receiver ‘Um—I—’ she searched her mind: ‘The race that long in darkness—?’ ‘How dark was the stable?’ ‘There’s a home for little children—’ Dad was no child for Christ’s sake! ‘Colours of day’? ‘The King of Love—’? ‘Oh Vicar, I can’t.’

‘Perhaps,’ the vicar’s voice was mild, ‘perhaps you could leave it to me?’

‘Please. If that’s—’

‘Nothing lugubrious, nothing mundane, nothing the Bishop would take exception to.’

‘The Bishop? What’s he got to do with—’

The laugh was both deprecating and dismissive. ‘His job to criticise, Poppy.’

‘I see.’ I don’t see, all I see is Edmund in Venetia’s arms. Does he explore her teeth for stoppings with his tongue as he did mine? The vicar was still talking.

‘—so if you leave it to me I will make sure you have something your father would like.’

‘Leave it to you?’ First Fergus, then Victor, now the vicar. There is nothing left for me to do. ‘Do you know what Dad would like?’ She felt doubtful.

‘Certainly I do,’ said the vicar.

‘All right, Vicar. If you are sure I will.’

‘Good.’ He did not ring off, waited for her to thank him, end the conversation.

‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

‘No, no, nothing else. Thank you. I am sure you will make a suitable choice.’ The vicar laughed again in an affectionate way. ‘You have been so kind.’

‘—my job.’

‘Well good night, and thank you again.’

Has Venetia found out yet how he picks his teeth?

L
ATE IN THE AFTERNOON
, Mary, baby on hip, came up to Fergus. ‘Now you can pay the rent. And the feed bill.’ Her tone was sarcastic.

‘In part perhaps—’

‘Father didn’t rent you this place for free.’

‘I wish your father would take a—’

‘Running jump,’ said Mary. ‘I’m with you there.’ Her tone was quite hearty.

‘Really?’ Fergus was surprised.

She watched Fergus. ‘Have you thought about this place in winter?’

‘Winter?’ Her voice implied a catch.

‘It gets snowed in. You won’t find your business possible without a snow plough. Father’s known it cut off for weeks, months, in some winters.’ She waited for Fergus’s reaction with relish.

‘So that’s why he rented it so cheap, the crafty bastard.’ Fergus thought of Nicholas Mowbray’s weather-beaten face, expansive gestures, fruity voice.

‘He thinks I’ll get over my horsey phase if I am frozen and uncomfortable.’

‘You can nip back to Spain to warm up in Joseph’s arms,’ Fergus suggested.

Mary ignored this gibe. ‘He thinks you’re a sucker. He doesn’t mind if you go bankrupt; all he thinks is that I might decide to try a job he would consider sensible if this one packs up.’

‘Like secretary to an oil mogul?’

‘I wouldn’t last long.’ Mary let off a peal of laughter. ‘You should have checked the advertisement before posting it,’ she jeered. ‘You are not competent. You know I can hardly type.’

Fergus eyed her without animosity: her typing error had brought him Poppy’s father. I am a simpleton, he thought. I rather took to Mary’s father and his bonhomie: he is using me, I shan’t pay the rent, there are far more urgent bills. Ruefully he considered the pile of buff envelopes on the kitchen mantelshelf.

Forgetting Mary, he stood looking down the valley, seeing all too clearly how cut off he could be. He thought, I could get the horses out, but where would I take them? His enthusiasm for his project had led him to jump at the cheap rent suggested by Nicholas Mowbray. He flinched, thinking of the monthly payments on horse-boxes, Land Rovers and the lorry. The horses are mine, he thought, seeking comfort, the tack and the hearse are mine. He looked round the yard for reassurance from the horses, as they watched from their loose-boxes. I refuse to be defeated, he thought, I must make a success of this. He said nastily, ‘What a bloody little Cassandra you are. There’s no necessity,’ he cried angrily, ‘for your single parent situation. I understand Joseph would like to make an honest woman of you, why don’t … ?’

‘Do you want to get shot of me?’ Her voice quavered upwards in thin defiance.

Fergus ignored the question. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for Barnaby?’

‘Why are you so keen on marriage for me? You steer clear of it. You are as bad as my father, you want to see me pegged down.’

‘I should have thought Barnaby quite a peg.’ Fergus met the baby’s eye. Barnaby smiled gummily.

‘I can travel with him; a child is a carrier bag, a husband is a trunk.’

‘You wish to travel light?’

‘For the present.’ Keeping her options open, Mary shifted the child from one hip to the other with a sensuous movement. Fergus appeared to have erased from his memory the horse-buying trip to Ireland when, for months, she had shared his bed. From Ireland, she had gone to Spain and returned with Barnaby. She stood looking down the valley, bleakly considering her options. She was glad she had planted the seed of unease in Fergus: he’s too bloody pleased with himself, she thought, remembering him in Ireland. And, before Ireland, Fergus had had something going with Victor’s ex-wife Penelope and, later, with the magazine editor Julia. ‘You and Victor are pretty close friends, aren’t you?’ she said with sweet malice. ‘Great sharers, keep your girls in the family.’

‘So, so.’ Fergus was not to be drawn. He was remembering Poppy’s slip; circuses, he consoled himself, have winter quarters—so?

Standing beside him, baby on hip, Mary shied away from the thought of the extended family ready with its octopus arms to gather her in, coddle her in its expansive bosom. I can’t live in Spain, she thought, I could never get used to that crowd. I shall get no help from Fergus. Despairingly she looked at her child who looked back at her with his father’s eyes. ‘Oh!’ Mary yelled in frustration. ‘Oh!’