Vacillations of Poppy Carew

  Fergus dropped the gun on Poppy’s foot.

  Poppy yelped.

  Fergus shouted, ‘I love you, you FOOL!’ and rushed down the steps to the car.

  ‘And now he’ll wake the baby,’ said Willy, coming into the bright glare of the porch. ‘Why the hell didn’t you answer when I telephoned?’

  48

  BARNABY, WAKED BY THE shots, filled his lungs and began to scream like a steam kettle on a high-pitched, ear-piercing, bat-deafening note which terrified Poppy who was unversed in babies and paralysed Frances and Annie with fright.

  Fergus, reaching into the back of Mary’s car, took the baby out as Mary leapt furiously from the driving seat.

  ‘Gosh, what lungs,’ exclaimed Willy. ‘The child is perfectly all right, leave them.’ His urgent voice carried conviction. ‘For Christ’s sake, leave them alone. Here,’ he said, picking up the gun from where Fergus had dropped it, ‘put this back where it belongs.’ He thrust the gun into Frances’s hands. ‘Hurry, it won’t go off, he fired both barrels.’

  Arriving fortuitously to lure Annie and Frances to the disco, two youths now found themselves pressganged by Willy into pushing the flat-tyred car into the yard out of sight of the road. (Fergus, being an excellent shot, had hit what he aimed for, the back tyres.)

  Mesmerised by Willy’s authority, the girls’ escorts asked, ‘What happened? What happened?’ as they pushed, trying at the same time not to spoil their party clothes. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing happened,’ said Willy, pushing. ‘A couple of blow outs, it was nothing, nothing.’

  ‘Oh nothing, it was nothing.’ Annie, taking her lead from Willy, pushed the car also.

  ‘It was all our fault.’ Frances returned from putting the gun away and stood with Poppy on the front steps. ‘Fergus teased and tricked us into telling him about kind old Mr Joseph who gave Mary a job when she was pregnant. He and his wife warded off her family, they wanted to keep Barnaby, wanted to adopt him. Mary had to tear herself away from them. They still write and telephone, they’ve got a thing about Barnaby. Oh, poor baby.’ Frances sobbed loudly.

  ‘Shut up, stop that noise,’ snapped Poppy, furious in relief; wishing she had a second pair of eyes and ears to simultaneously watch the removal of the car and the taut drama between Fergus and Mary, who now stood in the road muttering.

  Each time Fergus’s voice rose to audibility it was drowned by shouting from the yard: ‘Put the bloody brake on, you git’, and ‘mind my foot’, and ‘watch it’, as the car was pushed by willing hands to bump into a wall to the accompaniment of crunching headlights and yells of anarchic irrepressible laughter.

  Fergus and Mary might have been alone on Mars for all the attention they paid to the outer world.

  Mary took Barnaby from Fergus as he stopped shrieking. He leaned towards her talking and presently took the child back, muttering intensely, his voice low, grumbling like summer waves on a cobbled beach. Mary gently took the child again, holding him up near her face as she answered in a very quiet urgent voice.

  The two were so preoccupied Poppy wondered whether they were aware of what they did as turn and turn about they took the child from each other with reassuring ritualistic movements. Fergus’s voice, still inaudible, rumbled and fell lower. Mary spoke less and less. From time to time Barnaby crowed as he was handed from one to the other, staking his part in the game. He had reverted after his shocked surprise to his habitual humorous self.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Frances, standing watching with Poppy. ‘Incredible,’ she sniffed, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

  ‘Did I hear a gun go off? Thought I heard shots.’ Jane Edwardes came up the road. ‘We thought we heard a gun.’

  ‘Oh, hullo Mrs Edwardes.’ Willy came through from the back of the house. ‘Do you remember me? I helped you clean up the golden syrup.’

  ‘Oh yes, so you did,’ said Mrs Edwardes. ‘Honey too, such waste. We were watching TV and thought we heard a gun. Boring programme, silly old Party Conference. I told my husband I’d come and look, he’s interested in politics, I’m not. Did you hear about the golden syrup, Poppy? Mr—er—helped me clean it up.’

  ‘What?’ said Poppy, still watching the two figures with the child. ‘He’s called Willy Guthrie.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Jane Edwardes.

  ‘Did you ever find out who did it?’ asked Willy.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Edwardes, ‘I did not.’

  ‘Did what?’ asked Poppy, irritated at not being able to hear what Fergus and Mary were saying.

  ‘I wonder if that was a gun we heard.’ Mrs Edwardes reverted to the cause of her call.

  ‘Why don’t we go into the kitchen and make some coffee,’ suggested Willy, edging Jane Edwardes and Poppy into the house. ‘We can tell Poppy about the drama of the treacle,’ he said as they moved indoors. ‘And you,’ he turned to Frances, ‘are off to the disco, I gather.’

  ‘Oh, are we?’ said Frances, latching on. ‘I’d better be off, then. Bye,’ she called as she ran off to join Annie and the boys. ‘I’d been going to wash my hair.’ They heard her voice diminish, the visiting car start up and mixed-sex laughter as it drove away.

  In the kitchen Bolivar lay on his back in front of the stove exposing his gingery stomach to the warmth, his hind legs splaying out from his furry balls, eyes closed, front paws dangling across his chest.

  ‘If anyone had fired a gun that cat would have been up and away,’ said Mrs Edwardes, moving the kettle across to the hotplate.

  Willy grinned at Poppy.

  ‘I hope no nosey-parker has telephoned the police,’ said Mrs Edwardes, spooning Nescafé into mugs. ‘Reach me the milk, dear, from the fridge. Thank you. I heard their sirens as I came along.’

  ‘There’s been a pile-up on the motorway, I had difficulty in getting past on my way over,’ said Willy. ‘I expect the police are all busy with that.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Mrs Edwardes, pouring boiling water into the mugs. ‘Can’t be everywhere, can they? Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Both, please,’ said Willy.

  ‘I know how you like yours,’ Jane Edwardes said to Poppy.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Poppy, ‘so you should.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Willy.

  They took their mugs, stood grouped by the stove. Willy caressed Bolivar’s stomach delicately with his toe. Bolivar yawned, sneezed, went on snoozing.

  ‘All the same,’ said Jane Edwardes, ‘it would be a sensible thing if he cleaned his gun when he stops being so busy.’ She jerked her chin slightly towards the road.

  Willy laughed. ‘I’ll do it now,’ he said. ‘He may be busy for quite a while.’

  ‘Got a lot to say to each other, no doubt,’ said Mrs Edwardes. ‘He keeps the cleaning things in that drawer,’ she pointed, ‘the one on the left.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Willy put down his mug.

  Poppy watched him clean the gun and return it to its place.

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Mrs Edwardes, satisfied. ‘Didn’t take care of your father all those years without learning a thing or two. I’ll be off now, Poppy. I’ll send young Bill up to change those tyres in the morning first thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Poppy, ‘you were watching.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Jane Edwardes, ‘not exactly. I’ll be getting along. They’ll take some time getting it all said, I dare say. Well, good night, I’ll be missing the news if I hang about.’ She kissed Poppy.

  Willy went with Mrs Edwardes to the front door. Coming back he said, ‘And I have a lot to say to you.’

  Poppy said quickly, ‘Are they all right, Fergus and Mary?’

  ‘Looks like it. They seem to have taken root in the road.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Fergus’s mother came and moaned it all out to my aunt when she rumbled the situation.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘They share the child.’

  ‘How?’
>
  ‘As people do, the accident of procreation.’ It’s different, thought Willy, with my pigs. There’s family planning for you.

  ‘Accident! Good God!’ said Poppy.

  Willy looked at her with careful eyes. Poppy flushed.

  ‘Or,’ said Willy, ‘it was some convoluted form of love and Mary’s pride got in the way.’

  ‘I admire and like Mary,’ said Poppy stoutly.

  ‘So do I, so do I,’ said Willy. (Curious this little trick he has of repeating himself, said a little nerve in Poppy’s head.)

  ‘Where’s your bag?’ Willy was saying. ‘I am taking you home.’

  ‘Supposing I don’t want to come?’ she prevaricated.

  ‘Not that again,’ said Willy. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

  49

  WILLY HOLDING POPPY BY the hand pulled her towards his car.

  As they passed Fergus and Mary he squeezed her hand but got no response. If Poppy was not exactly holding back physically she was confused and recalcitrant.

  Fergus’s dogs, crouching in the vicinity of their master, uncertain of what was going on, jerked hurriedly aside, jumping to their feet to let Willy and Poppy pass. The oldest dog, who did not normally concern himself with anything much, gave the whisper of a growl. None of the dogs had barked when Fergus loosed off his gun; two of them had run to Mary, the third, who now growled, had stood looking from Fergus to Mary, a prey to indecision.

  Passing by the silent pair Poppy wondered how long they would stand bemused, whether Barnaby would catch cold in the night air, whether she wanted to stay and watch the upshot of this curious scene, whether she ought to stay or would it be better to allow Willy to take her away as he was now doing.

  Possibly she had counted on another night in the Dividend bed. As she thought of this it became almost certain that this was what she wanted and Willy was depriving her of it.

  As they pushed past Fergus he took Mary’s head between both hands and, leaning to kiss her, said, ‘Promise you will let it grow?’

  Mary said, ‘All right, I will,’ laughing, putting the arm not holding Barnaby round Fergus’s neck, returning his kiss. ‘You shall have your bellrope.’

  ‘Then let’s go back and start.’ Fergus turned Mary towards the house.

  Overhearing this exchange, allowing herself to be pushed into Willy’s car, Poppy craned back to watch as Willy pulled the safety belt across to fasten her in.

  ‘He wants her to grow her hair,’ she said. ‘That’s what he means.’

  ‘And to let l-o-v-e grow too.’ Willy slammed the car door, irritated with his darling.

  Poppy wound the window down the better to watch Fergus and Mary disappear into the house.

  ‘I bet they sleep in the Dividend bed tonight,’ she said.

  ‘The what bed?’

  ‘It’s neutral ground. My bed. Well, Dad’s visitors’ bed. Some day I’ll tell you—’

  Some day, thought Willy, starting the car, engaging the gears, some day I shall have learned much about her but never the whole of it. There is no way that two people can know each other wholly, nor do I want that. He switched on the headlights, accelerated.

  Some day I shall persuade Jane Edwardes to tell me all she knows about Life’s Dividends, thought Poppy, regretting the so comfortable bed, or would it be wiser not to ask, just be grateful to them for their money?

  Edmund would search around, poke and pry into Dad’s past, suggest Life’s Dividends could be better invested, know better, interfere. Thank God that is not Willy’s style. But, she thought, amused as Willy swung the car too fast out of the village, I am not sure Edmund is not the better driver. Willy is a bit erratic.

  ‘The last time I was driven away from Dad’s house without prior consultation or consent was by Edmund,’ she said. ‘I have a distinct feel of déjà vu.’

  ‘I am not interested in Edmund,’ said Willy, keeping his eyes on the road, ‘until I have a spare moment and can take time off to murder him.’

  ‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Poppy mockingly. Willy, not keen on Poppy’s mood, drove on in silence.

  He is assuming possession, thought Poppy. He has not asked whether I want to come with him. I have not been asked what I want. Yesterday I wanted a bit of experimental fun with Victor and lo he was snitched back into Penelope’s marital orbit. Today I had promised myself a trot, canter or gallop with Fergus and now it’s clear that he and Mary love each other and have even gone so far as to have a ready-made child. As far as my love life goes those two men are non-starters. She resigned herself to Willy. Just for a while, she assured herself, it’s purely temporary of course.

  ‘Do you think it possible,’ she asked presently, ‘that Fergus really did not know Mary’s baby was his?’

  ‘Perfectly possible,’ said Willy. ‘I know other people who can’t recognise what’s going on under their noses.’

  ‘Such as?’ Poppy resented Willy’s tone which was sarcastic.

  ‘Such as you,’ said Willy on the same note.

  ‘In what context?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘In the context of love,’ said Willy. ‘You busily pretend that you do not know that I love you. I should have thought by now you would be fully aware of it. Cognisant, if we are being pompous.’

  ‘I resent—busily.’

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘I haven’t had time to think about it. I am still bruised and battered by Edmund—’ (This whining is ridiculous and also false.)

  ‘Come off it.’

  ‘I want time to think,’ she complained.

  ‘You are not slow witted. You’ve had time.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. When Edmund and I parted—’

  ‘He left you.’

  ‘Agreed. But he came back—’

  ‘You wanted to annoy Venetia. You told me.’

  ‘So I did—and I did.’ Poppy relished the memory of an unsurpassed act of annoyance.

  ‘Well then,’ said Willy, his eyes on the road.

  ‘Well then, when we’d parted, split up, finished, when Dad had died, I was deciding what to do with myself, sorting myself out, taking my time.’

  ‘I came along,’ said Willy cheerfully.

  ‘That didn’t settle anything, Willy.’

  ‘It did for me.’

  ‘But not me. I was thinking of selling my flat and buying a little house in London, starting all over—’

  ‘That’s what you are doing now, starting afresh with me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am taking you home.’

  Home, thought Poppy, what is home? My flat, with its connotations of Edmund, is impossible, even though I have thrown out all his things, he will still be in the air I breathe. Dad’s house, my early home, it’s now, thanks to my own bright idea, Mary and Fergus’s. Would a little house in London, always supposing I found one, be a better deal? To be honest, until a moment ago, when Willy acted so sure of himself, I had forgotten that slight conversation with boring Les Poole at the bank. I am not being honest with Willy but no need to let on just yet.

  There is always the possibility of nothing, doing nothing, nothing happening. One night or three in the Dividend bed is fine, but what about longer? What about it?

  There is no way I can start afresh, thought Willy. I have been clumsy. I was so sure of my own love I didn’t take hers into account. Does it exist? Am I rushing her too fast? With other girls I have sailed ahead not really caring, felt so confident, so carefree. This is absolutely bloody. Surely that was love as well as enjoyment we had in Algiers? Is it possible she was fucking for fucking’s sake when she laughed and cried out for more? Is it possible it all means nothing to her? Am I making the most awful fool of myself? What does she think I mean when I say I am taking her home. If I told her her home is my heart she would call me a sloppy romantic and I am one, unashamedly, hopelessly so where she is concerned.

  Willy began to sweat. He had wanted to surprise and delight her with the charms of his farm, see her fall in love with it, f
it into it, love it as he did.

  ‘Perhaps I had better tell you where I am taking you,’ he said tentatively. ‘My farm.’

  ‘You were keeping it as a surprise.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Tell me now then.’

  She had seen a pig farm once. Long concrete buildings with hard concrete floors crowded with pigs penned in cramped partitions, fed in long communal troughs, no peace, no room to move, no privacy, no dignity. She had been aghast, repelled by the questing snouts, the hot atmosphere, the squeals and grunts, the slopping sound as they souped up their food, hastening to grow to the correct weight for the bacon factory.

  Edmund, having taken her (it was in his house agent days) to view a house near the farm, had reacted quite otherwise, approving of the use of minimal space, the speed of growth, the financial turnover achieved by modern farming techniques. For her part she had been so shocked by the sight of the degraded pigs that she gave up eating bacon for at least a month. (If I were honest I would remember it was only a week.) I must be deranged, thought Poppy, sitting here letting Willy take me to a place like that, out of my tiny mind.

  But Willy was talking.

  ‘There was this group of farm buildings, my uncle restored them in his day. When I took over I did a lot more. The buildings are rather lovely pink brick barns with tiled roofs. The principal ones are squared round a cobbled courtyard with a well in the middle. I keep a few bantams and ducks because I like the noise they make and they look pretty. I live in one wing I converted into a cottage. I have a very large flagged living room with an Aga at one end, an open fire at the other. I can walk out either into the yard or into a walled garden. I made the garden but it still needs a lot doing to it. There’s a dovecot, one of those conical jobs with a tiled roof. No doves at present, though.’ (Doves, white fantails, would be lovely, thought Poppy.) ‘Above the living room I have a large bedroom with an open fire and bathroom and you can see across the fields to the wood. I use a second barn as my office and store.’ (Is she listening? I am being very boring, wouldn’t it have been better to wait and let her see it, judge for herself?) ‘The pigs, the principal sows have the other two sides of the square, each has her own space; pigs need lots of space.’