Vacillations of Poppy Carew

  Meanwhile the old cousin droned on (he was not all that old, years younger than Willy’s mother). He had, Willy knew, a perfectly good house already. Through the verbal screen it became clear from what was left unsaid that the cousin would benefit greatly by moving into Willy’s mother’s house. It was nearer his club, nearer Harrods, nearer the favourite bus routes and the tube, it was SW1 rather than SW14, it would be cheaper to heat (cheap, Willy noticed was a recurring word) needed no money spending on heavy repairs. If he sold his present house (there was an offer in the offing, he hinted) he would make a respectable profit.

  As the old man rambled along his chosen course Willy plotted the future of his farm. He would expand, build more piggeries, fence more land eastward under the sheltered lee of the woods, he would pipe more water, increase the number of drinking troughs, build an annexe to the smoke-house, increase the insurance.

  ‘How are your cows?’ The cousin had noticed Willy’s silence.

  ‘I keep pigs.’

  ‘So you do, so you do, I forgot.’ He returned to his dissertation.

  Now I come to think of it, Mother couldn’t stand this man, thought Willy buttering his bread, she would hate him to have her house. I should have thought of that before. This stew is really revolting, all water, no dumplings, only one carrot and potatoes I wouldn’t insult my pigs with.

  ‘Of course the whole house needs redecorating,’ said the cousin brazenly. ‘One must take into account your mother has not touched it for years and Lord knows what I’ll find when I take the carpets up.’

  ‘Rugs, parquet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said parquet.’

  ‘Oh really, I thought—’

  ‘Never mind. I wonder, could I have some cheese?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ The cousin snapped his fingers towards the waitress.

  ‘Bring the cheese board. I rather doubt the roof, you know, and the gutters and down pipes are, let’s say, suspect.’

  Didn’t he say earlier there was no fear of spending on heavy repairs? Willy helped himself to cheese, a surprisingly beautiful Stilton wrapped as it should be in a damask napkin. ‘What do you suspect the gutters of?’ he asked.

  ‘Dear boy! Your jokes, ha, ha, ha.’

  ‘They were all renewed when Mother had a new roof put on three years ago.’

  Willy was enjoying the cheese, its bite took away the flaccid taste of stew. There would be no time for coffee if he was to catch the earlier train. He let his eyes rest on the cousin’s face. What an old fraud.

  Catching Willy’s thoughtful eye the cousin felt uneasy. Those dark eyes in the boy’s mother had concealed a pretty sharp …

  Behind the dark eyes Willy was now calculating just how much he could risk borrowing from the bank, how to spread the improvements to the farm over a longer period—no need to rush. ‘The Stilton’s good,’ he said.

  ‘Good, good, what about coffee? A brandy?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’

  ‘I have a train to catch.’

  ‘Of course you have. Back to the cows.’

  ‘Pigs.’

  ‘Pigs of course, how stupid. Now about the price, I was going to suggest—’

  ‘I think there is a misunderstanding,’ said Willy. ‘I have not decided to sell.’

  Leaping into a taxi, speeding towards Paddington Willy hoped he had not been too rude, hoped on the other hand that he had. Then he thought I can use Mother’s house as collateral on the loan, she would far rather I did that than sell to the old cousin. The taxi driver, who enjoyed a joke, slid back the glass partition asking Willy why he was laughing.

  ‘A near miss,’ said Willy getting his money ready and thrusting it through the partition into the man’s hand. ‘Thanks. If I run I can catch my train—bye.’

  Saying goodbye on the steps of the club, crafty enlightenment had lit the old cousin’s eyes.

  ‘I see, the penny’s dropped. You are getting married, want to keep the house. Very wise to have a London base.’ Cousin had looked wonderfully cunning.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you want to keep the house for—er—girls. Of course! There aren’t many who’d want to dally on a pig farm. You did say pigs?’

  ‘No girls.’

  ‘Ha, ha, no girls?’ The rather pleased disbelieving expression on cousin’s face had delighted Willy. ‘Boys?’ he suggested, lowering his voice.

  ‘No boys either. I am free, free, free.’ Willy had laughed as he said goodbye.

  ‘Famous last words!’ shouted the old cousin as the taxi left the kerb.

  4

  ‘YES,’ SAID THE VOICE, ‘Saturday’s okay, can do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Do you want four horses or two?’ asked the voice. ‘One could make do with two.’

  ‘Oh no, he wants, I mean I want, the lot.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said the voice. ‘Black and gold, or silver and black? Mutes? What coffin do you fancy? Oak? Black lacquer or red, tricked out in brass or plate? Loops?’

  ‘Loops?’ There was nothing about loops in the advertisement.

  ‘Silk ropes, nylon actually. We do a good line in a sort of frogging round the box—the coffin I should say. You can choose from the catalogue when it reaches you: it suits military gents.’

  ‘He is not—was not—military. I gave you my London address, but I’m in the country in my father’s house.’

  ‘Ah, not so easy then. Shall I send another?’

  ‘I could come and choose for myself, then I would know he was getting what he asked for. You are not very far away.’

  ‘Fine. You do that. Pass the time until Saturday. Any particular flowers?’

  ‘I will decide when I see you.’

  ‘We do a good line in laurel wreaths.’

  ‘He is not—was not …’ was not the stuff of laurel leaves. ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’ She put the receiver down and looked dubiously at the advertisement her father had ringed in red biro. (Get me this) ‘Furnival’s Fun Rococo Funerals.’ Dad, what have you let me in for? Why rococo in death when, in life, his taste had run to restrained eighteenth century?

  Time to get ready for Anthony Green, her father’s solicitor, hers now, she supposed. She must change her clothes, have a reviving bath. She had not slept since leaving the hospital, had not slept the night before. She felt light, as though levitating, as she went up the stairs.

  The house was full of her father’s presence: she related to him in a way she had never managed in life.

  Avoiding her old bedroom, she took her bag into a room reserved for visitors, which held no special associations of childhood. She ran a bath, found clean clothes, laid out black shirt and sweater, sensible skirt, clean tights. She must impress Anthony Green as sober and responsible. They had not met for years, although he was one of her father’s oldest friends, had known her mother.

  The visitors’ bathroom was equipped with large towels, expensive soaps. Who had been her father’s visitors during the last years when they had met only in London, in restaurants, agreeing not to quarrel, not to cause an irreparable breech? The breech, she thought as she soaked in the bath, wedged open by Edmund.

  Enough of that. She left the bath, dried herself and went to dress. Picking up her discarded clothes, she looked for a laundry basket. One of her father’s foibles had been that unwashed clothes should be out of sight until whisked into the washing machine. Seeing no basket, she braved her father’s room, dumping her clothes into his basket.

  There were signs of hasty packing for the departure to the hospital, drawers half shut, cupboard doors ajar. Illness had come like a thief. Moving to shut a cupboard, Poppy saw a parcel in festive wrapping labelled, ‘Happy Birthday, Poppy’. My birthday, Saturday, on Saturday … She untied the ribbon, held up a dress, put it on, viewed her reflection in the glass, wondering where he bought this marvellous garment, composed of a multitude of triangles in bright colours
. She brushed her hair, saw that the dress suited her, felt elation.

  Outside the house a car crunched on the gravel, stopped, the door clunked shut. She ran down to meet Anthony Green as he let himself into the house.

  ‘I see you found your father’s present.’ He bent to peck her cheek. ‘He bought it in Milan. It suits you.’

  When had he been to Milan? She had not known her father’s movements, nor he hers, carefully kept secret.

  ‘Come in. Would you like tea or a drink?’

  ‘Tea, please.’ Anthony followed her to the kitchen. ‘Feels odd,’ he said in his pleasant voice, ‘without your father.’

  ‘I feel closer to him than ever before.’ Poppy filled the kettle. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she added, noticing Anthony’s raised eyebrows, ‘I’m not fey or anything, just short of sleep.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You know I killed him,’ she watched the kettle, ‘made him laugh.’

  ‘Not a bad way to go.’ Anthony found a tray, assembled cups, sugar and milk, showing Poppy that he knew the house as well as she, perhaps better.

  ‘The hospital seemed to think it reprehensible.’

  ‘Hospitals.’ Anthony dismissed hospitals. ‘He was on the way out—his heart was a mess.’

  ‘I am ashamed. I shouted at the sister, she implied Dad’s death was inconvenient. I apologised later. I saw him again when they had …’

  They had moved him out of the ward, tidied him up, closed his mouth and eyes. His nose looked as though they had pinched it with a clothes’ peg. She had preferred his expression in death, rather ghastly surprised amusement.

  ‘Let’s take the tray into the sitting room.’ She poured boiling water into the pot.

  They had also shaved him, brushed his hair, given him a parting.

  ‘You forgot to put any tea in.’

  ‘Oh God.’ She felt displaced, inadequate.

  ‘Let me.’

  She watched him make the tea, followed him when he carried the tray to the sitting room. ‘I have nothing to offer you to eat.’

  ‘Not to worry.’ He sat on the sofa, legs apart, watching her. ‘I watch my weight.’

  Poppy sat with her back to the light. ‘This won’t take long, will it?’ She wanted to be alone. ‘Dad had nothing much to leave, had he? He wanted me to arrange this funeral, he seems to have set his heart on it. I rang the man. He wanted Furnival’s Rococo Funerals, he …’

  ‘What?’ Anthony leant forward. ‘Who?’

  ‘Furnival’s Roco—’

  ‘I heard you. I’ve heard of Furnival too. What will the neighbours say?’ Anthony, discreet solicitor, was about to say it himself. ‘You can’t …’

  ‘I’m going over to fix it, it’s what Dad wanted.’

  ‘So far only a pretty odd pop star and a member, well, it’s said he was a member of the IRA, have used—’

  ‘Dad wants … wanted …’

  ‘It costs the earth to …’

  ‘I expect I can pay by instalments.’

  ‘You won’t need to do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s rather a lot you have to know, Poppy.’ Anthony sighed. ‘Shall you pour or shall I?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Poppy poured, remembering that Anthony liked one lump and a drip of milk.

  ‘I’ve given up sugar.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy fished hastily with a spoon. ‘Sorry.’ She passed the cup. ‘Dad didn’t even own this house.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Anthony took a swallow of tea, testing it for sugar. ‘You do; he put it in your name soon after your mother died.’

  ‘Why? What an extraordinary … he never told me.’

  ‘He wanted to save death duties. As a matter of …’ Anthony paused, the girl wasn’t listening. What was she thinking? He watched her: she had a curious expression. He opened his briefcase, took out the will.

  Laurel wreath, she thought. Why should Dad not have a laurel wreath? He would like it far better than a lot of rotting flowers, it had been a good suggestion from Furnival’s Funerals: it would amuse him. He would have laughed, too, if she had told him Edmund’s new girl was called Venetia Colyer, an upmarket name, far more sophisticated than Poppy. Poppy’s mind wandered to Edmund holding Venetia against him under the bridge over the Serpentine, his face against hers, her naturally yellow hair blown across his eyes. Perhaps she should have pushed them into the water. It was an opportunity missed. His hand had been on what the French call the saddle, pressing her against his genitals.

  ‘You are not listening, Poppy. I didn’t come here to watch you daydream; pay attention.’

  ‘I am, I will.’ She sat up straight, fixed her eyes on Anthony. ‘You had got to death duties.’

  ‘I had got a lot further. I’ll start again.’ Anthony blew out his cheeks. He had finished his tea; he poured himself another cup.

  ‘Sorry, Anthony. I am all attention.’

  ‘Right then. It’s all here in legal language.’ He tapped the will.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I will put it into plain English.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Poppy assumed a trusting, expectant expression. Anthony wondered if she was as great a ninny as she looked.

  ‘Your father put this house in your name to save death duties. You got that?’

  ‘Yes, Anthony. How wonderful of him.’

  One had doubted the wonder of it at the time, thought Anthony. However, ‘So, should you want to sell it, you can; straightaway.’ He watched her.

  ‘Sell Dad’s house?’ The house where she had first made love with Edmund? Not very successfully, they’d been expecting Dad back from a trip to Brighton. Edmund had enjoyed it; he was, she found herself admitting, pretty selfish in bed.

  ‘That’s something for you to decide later. I only wish to make the point that you may, if you want to sell, sell.’ Anthony suppressed a niggle of irritation.

  ‘Thank you, Anthony. Point taken.’

  ‘You will find—I shall explain to you—that you have not only the house and all its contents, but quite a substantial income and considerable capital sums banked in your name.’

  ‘Gosh. Why?’

  ‘Presumably your father did not wish to leave you destitute.’ Anthony could be acerbic.

  ‘I knew nothing about his money …’ Poppy was puzzled. ‘I mean, he never talked, he never …’

  ‘Your father had a phobia that some man might want to marry you for your money. I used to tell him you had more sense.’

  ‘Thanks, Anthony.’ Poppy’s mind strayed back to Edmund and Venetia. Venetia had money, Edmund made no bones about it, grant him that, ‘I fancy being kept, Venetia has a safe income.’ Would he be selfish in bed with Venetia, not bother whether she came or not, or would he feel he owed—

  ‘Poppy!’

  ‘Sorry, Anthony. I am paying attention, it’s just that I don’t understand. Dad was always rather economical, not mean, just …’

  ‘Careful,’ said Anthony. ‘Wise in his way.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I see,’ but she didn’t see. ‘Where did he get it, this money? I always understood my mother bought this house with her bit. I mean, he never earned it, he was always changing jobs; and for years he’s done nothing at all, just travelled about. Where does it come from, this money? Are you his executor?’

  ‘Well, no. Naturally he asked me—actually the bank is executor. As your father’s friend, as his solicitor, I am here to tell you, to advise …’

  ‘The bank. Nice and impersonal. Great!’ Anthony compressed his lips. ‘I mean, you won’t be bothered by me and a lot of trivia, that’s all I mean.’

  ‘A substantial inheritance is not trivia.’ This girl is hopelessly unworldly, thought Anthony, even if she isn’t stupid.

  ‘No, no, of course it isn’t.’ Poppy drew in her breath, dismissing Edmund and Venetia and their possible orgasms. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Anthony. Where did this money come from? Do you know? I never had an inkling. Was my mother, after all, rich?’


  ‘Certainly not your mother.’

  Why ‘certainly’ in that tone of voice? What had Dad done? Anthony did not approve, whatever it was. ‘Then what?’ asked Poppy, alert. ‘How?’

  ‘Your father backed horses.’

  ‘So that’s where he went, he went to the races, he was a betting man.’

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it—yes.’

  ‘Bully for him.’

  Anthony frowned. ‘And, ah … he nearly always won, and he—’

  ‘Spent it on women?’

  This girl, his reprehensible old friend’s daughter, was making light of what might so easily have been a disaster. Frivolity was, he supposed, in the blood.

  ‘Yes. You could say in a way that he did.’

  ‘But he invested a lot of it?’

  ‘He invested what he called Life’s Dividends.’ Anthony’s tone was repressive.

  ‘Sounds like Dad. Where did these dividends come from?’ Poppy fixed Anthony with her dark green eyes.

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it’ (why does he keep repeating himself?) ‘these … ah, um … women.’ Anthony dropped his voice, muting his tone.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Sums, large sums, left in wills. Quite legitimately, I assure you.’

  Poppy let this pass. ‘Had he been their lover?’

  Anthony poured himself a third cup of tea, now grown cold. ‘I have no idea,’ he said coldly.

  Silly old goat, thought Poppy watching him sip his chilly tea. Perhaps Dad saw to it these ladies who made wills in his favour had delightful, splendid times in bed.

  In a way I am glad, thought Anthony eyeing her, that I am not the executor. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s it, then. The bank will give you all the details. I have made an appointment for you with them tomorrow. I have put a notice of your father’s death in The Times, and I will contact the undertaker for you.’

  ‘Furnival’s Funerals?’

  ‘No, no, my dear. The best round here are Brightson’s. You will find them very efficient and discreet. Most helpful—’