Vacillations of Poppy Carew

  It is the not understanding the language just hearing the sounds which is so frightening, she answered herself.

  That dreadful silence when the crowd grew still, that greedy silence while the soldiers put the ropes round the men’s necks. The crowd holding its collective stinking breath, its lust. The roar of satisfaction when the dangling men kicked as though they were dribbling an airborne football.

  Snap out of it, she told herself. Pull yourself together, she told herself in Esmé’s voice of long ago. She had hated Esmé.

  Edmund was going to be furious when he got back from his day’s work with Mustafa and the Tourist Board and found her still out. She sipped her drink, looking about her, outstaring neighbours at the café tables with arrogance.

  There was rather a jolly family party two tables away. A young couple, three well-behaved children, a much older woman, some sort of baby-minder and fond grandparents, very bourgeois, very sedate, happy. Poppy exchanged a secret smile with a little girl who looked about three.

  What to tell Edmund?

  Edmund was not the man to understand the almost sexual smell of the crowd observing death or their sense of appeasement when the soldiers—

  Her hands were trembling again, she picked up the brandy with both hands, gulped.

  A thin cat shot out of the inner café and wove its way through the tables to disappear with the speed of light. Poppy thought of the cat Bolivar’s contempt as he outstared her in Furnival’s yard.

  Would Fergus understand?

  Would Victor Lucas, so tender-hearted over his rescued fish? He was supposed to have drowned his wife. What was it she had overheard at Dad’s wake? She sipped her brandy, one could not believe everything one heard.

  One could not believe everything one saw either.

  Poppy snapped her fingers for the waiter, finished her brandy, paid the bill.

  ‘Get me a taxi.’

  It was so easy. The waiter found her a taxi, she told the driver where to go and in no time was on her way to the hotel.

  It was almost dark as she drove along the sea front, past the waste ground to the hotel, dark enough to see the phosphorescent waves roll on to the sand.

  Edmund had not yet come back.

  Poppy went to her room and had a long bath, soaking in very hot water, easing the pain of her scraped heel, soaking away the sour smell of fear.

  Edmund had not come back when she got out of the bath.

  The multicoloured dress was on its hanger in the cupboard. Poppy put it on the chair by the bed, got into bed and covered her face with the sheet.

  28

  PENELOPE LUCAS MET VENETIA Colyer in Harrods food hall.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, kissing Venetia’s tendered cheek, ‘charging a few bits and bobs to your ma’s account?’ she joked, knowing Venetia’s shopping habits, swift to deliver the first thrust.

  ‘Paying for my own cheese actually, Penelope dear.’ Venetia laid her smooth cheek briefly against Penelope’s. ‘And how is Penelope?’ She pronounced the name to rhyme with ‘antelope’, having recently gossiped with Julia Wake on the telephone.

  ‘You’ve been talking to Julia,’ said Penelope, good-humoured. ‘She wears her jokes to death. Did you see Victor’s article about that super funeral in her magazine? A huge puff for Fergus.’

  ‘I was there actually.’

  ‘At the funeral?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really! Did you see Victor? You must have, he couldn’t have invented all that about the horse hearse, the horses dressed in feathers and the mutes.’

  ‘Victor was principal mute.’

  ‘Gosh! How did that come about? I know, don’t tell me. The Furnival man paid him, he’s fearfully strapped for money.’

  ‘He won’t be strapped long. Sean Connor is going to publish his novel.’

  ‘Whatever next!’ Penelope was genuinely surprised. ‘Is he getting a good advance, I wonder?’

  ‘Ask Julia, she might know.’

  ‘Can’t very well, Victor and I are divorced, she might think I was after his money.’

  ‘So you would be. Wait a sec while I buy my cheese, then let’s go and have a coffee.’

  ‘Harrods is too expensive for me.’

  ‘What are you doing here then?’

  ‘Just looking. It’s all so pretty, a lovely still life. I like watching the Japanese tourists taking photographs in the butchers’ department.’

  ‘I’ll stand you coffee, wait while I get my cheese.’

  ‘And a bun,’ Penelope stipulated, accepting.

  ‘Anything you like.’ Venetia moved to the cheese counter.

  Penelope watched. Venetia’s hair in the artificial light was the colour of Wensleydale. She bought Brie, Parmesan and Goat. They repaired to a coffee bar and settled at a corner table. Venetia ordered coffee and cakes. ‘So what’s your news?’ she asked, scanning Penelope’s face with her bright eyes.

  ‘Nothing much.’ Penelope hesitated then, making up her mind, asked, ‘Did Julia tell you which of Victor’s novels Sean is publishing, he’s written three.’

  ‘His last I think.’

  Penelope let out a cry. ‘That one, it’s his version of our marriage, I never thought anyone would publish it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘All our rows, almost verbatim, masses of four letter words, abuse and some pretty intimate sexual revelations.’

  ‘You do let rip when cross.’ Venetia put two lumps of sugar into her coffee. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m trying not to. I could sue him for libel.’

  ‘Great publicity. How did you come to read it, he’s written it since you parted company.’

  ‘I still have the key of our flat. I went to look for something I wanted and as the manuscript was there I had a quick flip through. I thought it well written and terribly sad.’

  ‘Julia says Sean finds it irresistibly funny.’

  ‘Other people’s miseries are.’ Penelope sipped her coffee, made a face, weakened, put in a lump of sugar. ‘And what’s with you these days?’ She turned an appraising eye on Venetia. ‘Didn’t I hear you had a new man, Edmund something?’

  ‘Platt.’

  ‘What a name!’

  ‘He can change it to Colyer.’ Venetia was equable.

  ‘But Colyer was your ex,’ Penelope demurred.

  ‘True, but it’s a name I like, I shall keep it.’ Penelope raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s nothing new,’ said Venetia defensively. ‘A contemporary of my Granny’s married a big title, rather a pretty one, then she married a Mr Jones but she kept the title. I shall stick to Colyer.’

  Penelope stirred her coffee, watched Venetia. ‘It’s coming back to me. Your Edmund Platt is the man who’s been living with that girl Poppy Carew for absolutely years. You must know who I mean, her father’s the man who always backed winners.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Venetia bit into an éclair. ‘Try one of these, they’re super.’

  ‘A great judge of what horse would like which course, that’s her father.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘The Poppy girl’s father started life as a milkman then took to the turf, became the terror of the bookmakers.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Venetia, mildly curious.

  ‘An old friend of my aunt’s used to talk about him, she went racing with him, I think. My mother swears she left him money but you know her stories, she gets carried away with her powers of invention, she should write—’

  Venetia finished her éclair, licked her fingers.

  ‘I say.’ Penelope turned to look at Venetia. ‘The penny’s dropped. It was Poppy Carew’s father’s funeral Victor wrote about. He’s dead.’

  ‘Would have to be—’

  ‘And you went with Edmund,’ Penelope’s voice rose.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What a nerve. Did she see you?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Well!’ said Penelope.


  They sat thoughtfully stirring their coffee for some minutes.

  ‘Has Victor put how he tried to drown you in his novel?’ Venetia moved in to attack.

  ‘Of course not.’ Penelope was momentarily tempted to defend Victor, to tell the truth about the famous drowning.

  ‘Can’t think how you went on living with him so long afterwards.’ Venetia started on a fresh éclair.

  ‘I didn’t leave him because of that—’

  ‘These are too rich, I can’t manage two.’ Venetia laid the wounded éclair on her plate.

  One should think of the starving third world, thought Penelope. ‘I’ve often seen your Edmund.’ She turned again to look at Venetia. ‘Big tall man, fearfully good-looking, fair, lots of muscles.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Jogs in the park, used to be some sort of athlete?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Drinks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Drinks too much.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Darling! It’s coming back to me. I’ve seen him about with Poppy. He drinks too much and gets bad tempered, sticks out his lower lip like this.’ Penelope stuck out her lower lip.

  ‘Only when he’s bored. He’s been too long with—’

  ‘And he won’t drink too much with you?’ Penelope’s eyebrows rose, her tone implied ‘Pull the other one’.

  ‘Of course he won’t.’

  Penelope gave the shriek of laughter which had charmed Victor in their early days but engendered murderous feelings during the latter part of their marriage. Venetia felt that Penelope was venturing too far.

  ‘That sort of man gets awfully fat, if he lasts,’ Penelope persisted, her tone foretelling heart trouble for Edmund.

  ‘I like fat men who drink,’ said Venetia comfortably. ‘Edmund will last.’

  ‘I was only thinking of your happiness, darling.’

  ‘That’s great of you.’ Venetia gave the discarded éclair a push.

  ‘Is he around? Would one be allowed to meet him?’ asked Penelope sweetly.

  ‘He’s abroad on a business trip to North Africa.’ (No, you would not be allowed to meet him.) Venetia helped herself to more coffee. ‘You needn’t think I don’t know Edmund’s weak points—more coffee? Oh, I’ve finished the pot—where was I?’

  ‘Weak points.’

  ‘Yes. Well of course he has weaknesses, who hasn’t? One must balance them against, well—’

  ‘Terrific in bed?’ Penelope slipped a quick thrust under Venetia’s guard.

  Venetia laughed, leaving the question unanswered. ‘Oh Lord, is that the time? I must go.’ She waved to catch the waitress’s eye. ‘Oh, I pay as I go out of course. What’s this I heard about Victor and some old trout?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something about settling her in Berkshire near the Furnival man, I didn’t catch it all. Must rush.’ Venetia gathered up her shopping, pecked Penelope’s cheek. ‘It’s been marvellous to see you, see you soon,’ and she was gone, walking fast back towards the food halls where she extravagantly bought a pound of smoked salmon, congratulating herself that she had not let slip to Penelope that Edmund was not alone in North Africa but accompanied by odious Poppy Carew, may she rot.

  Stung by Venetia’s thrust, Penelope sat on in the coffee shop. She could not visualise Victor with an older woman, had difficulty visualising him with any woman other than herself, it was after all her he loved she who was irreplaceable. He had no right, no business with anyone else. Why, she asked herself dolefully, had she allowed Venetia the last word? She should have kept her, hinted of an Edmund with an interest in little boys perhaps, suggested that soon he would develop not only into a fat man but a fat man with the spongy complexion of a drinker, boozer’s flush. Edmund was not likely to write a novel about Venetia. Penelope sought comfort in the thought that Victor had written a book about her, then remembering the parts she had read she was appalled that the quarrels, the memory of which had hitherto been privately dear to her, should be made public. Her eyes filled with an uncharacteristic rush of tears. She resolved on a vengeful expedition to Berkshire soonest.

  29

  EDMUND WOKE. IT WAS quiet, the bed was luxurious. He stretched out a hand, feeling for Venetia, moving his legs out of reach of her feet in reflex action. She was not there. He drifted back to sleep.

  Below in the garden sparrows chirped, the wind stirred the fronds of the palms making a gentle scraping noise. He woke again.

  A shaft of sunlight stabbed through the drawn curtains as the wind blew in to part them then sucked them closed again. He opened his eyes, looked round, sniffed, smelled wet cement, remembered.

  He was at least in the right hotel but not with Venetia.

  Steady, he told himself, take it easy, it will come back.

  Moving his head with care, he observed the room in the half light. It was not the room he had previously occupied, similar but a different shape.

  Hanging over a chair he recognised Poppy’s frock, the dress of many colours. What brilliant instinct had brought him safely to her room? Where was she? Moving with caution, Edmund rolled over. The adjoining bed was empty but had been slept in. There was a familiar dent in the pillow, sheets thrown back. Had she been in the bed when he came in? Take it easy, he told himself, it will unfold.

  He lay on his back, eyes closed, cudgelling his memory.

  They had arrived, he remembered, waiting by the carousel for the luggage, he had been with Poppy not Venetia. Surely the idea had been to bring Venetia on the trip. They were after all getting married (this bit was muzzy). Why had he brought Poppy, something wrong there. Sort that out later.

  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 ongo
ing, 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?’