Vacillations of Poppy Carew (34 page)

‘We live on the top floor, too,’ said Victor. ‘Have you not had breakfast?’

‘I can’t remember when I ate last, on the plane, I suppose. I’m starving.’

‘Where have you been? Nice holiday?’ Penelope was untroubled by the stairs.

‘North Africa. Not exactly a holiday.’ What then? An experience, a nightmare? What?

‘Oh.’

‘Here we are, top floor at last.’ Poppy found she was breathless, rather weak.

‘Is this the stuff you have to move? All this?’ Penelope poked with her stick.

‘Er—yes.’

‘You are throwing a lover out lock, stock—’ Penelope approved.

‘Er—just a minute, I’ll let us into the flat—Oh God! I’ve locked myself out. Oh Christ, what a fool I am. The key is in my bag.’ She felt she might panic, cry or something. She kicked the door.

‘And the bag’s inside the flat?’

‘Yes. Oh bugger, my keys, the car keys, my cheque book.’

Penelope sat on the top step and laughed. Victor laughed too, then controlling himself said, ‘It’s not funny. She’s hungry, poor little thing. I bet she’s not properly up, has yet to clean her teeth and go to the lavatory. We shouldn’t laugh. Who has a spare key?’ he asked.

‘Edmund.’

‘The owner of all this?’ Victor prodded a sheeted bundle with his toe.

‘Yes.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘With Venetia Colyer.’

‘Venetia!’ Penelope stopped laughing. ‘Good old Venetia, I know Venetia.’ She did not speak particularly kindly. ‘It’s good riddance for you,’ she said ambiguously. ‘It is, I’m serious. It’s another of Venetia’s good turns.’ Victor, grasping the situation, looked down his nose.

‘Victor shall fetch the key, won’t you, darling? Now what’s the address, let me think.’

‘Really I don’t know—I can’t—I don’t think—’

‘I remember where she lives, that posh block where somebody got raped.’ Penelope told Victor the address. ‘We will wait here, won’t we, Poppy? Buck up love, rush. He might be out.’

Victor disappeared down the stairs. They heard the door slam and the car start up in the street.

‘Don’t look so miserable, this is fun,’ said Penelope cheerfully.

‘Not for me.’ (Bang goes that tonic.)

‘Serve them bloody right if Victor wakes them up.’ Penelope was enjoying herself.

‘He is probably jogging in the park, we always did.’ Poppy momentarily forgot the broken leg.

‘That’s one thing you’re spared. Don’t be so woeful.’

‘It’s so stupid of me.’

‘I think it’s quite funny.’

‘I don’t.’ Poppy sat beside Penelope on the top step. ‘Do you mind if I drink some milk, I’m so empty.’

‘Feel free. We had breakfast early. Funny that, usually I sleep late but these last few days, since Victor and I got back together, we’ve worked up such an appetite we wake starving. We get up, get breakfast then most times we climb straight back into bed, have a fuck and sleep again. It’s making me feel so healthy!’

‘Oh.’ Poppy erased any tentative vision of a whirl with Victor.

‘This morning,’ said Penelope, ‘you telephoned at the exact moment. We’d finished eating and not started again.’

Not finding a suitable reply Poppy opened her carton of milk, drank from it, wolfed some fresh bread.

‘That better?’ Penelope watched.

‘Yes, thanks.’ Poppy munched. There are lots of other fish, she told herself, the world is full of them; anyway Victor isn’t all that terrific, he’s too thin.

‘If we want to pee we can pee on your sod’s things,’ suggested Penelope. ‘I take it he is a sod?’

‘I suppose he is—yes, on the whole—I hope it won’t come to that.’ Poppy thought Penelope looked able, indeed capable of carrying out her threat, that she would enjoy—‘How is Victor’s trout?’ she asked.

‘You know Victor’s trout?’ Penelope was intrigued. ‘It’s very well, even I have been to see it.’ Penelope minimised the first person, maximised her position as Victor’s girl, his ex- (ludicrous to think of it) wife. ‘Fancy you hearing about Victor’s trout,’ she said.

‘I was there making arrangements for my father’s funeral just after Victor had brought it down from London. Fergus and Victor had put it in the stream.’

‘It’s thanks to that fish we are together again. Really, to give her her due, it’s thanks to Venetia.’

‘How come?’ How could anyone be grateful to Venetia? She was not the kind to inspire gratitude.

‘Venetia and I met in the food hall at Harrods. She didn’t mean to do me a good turn, quite the reverse—’ Penelope, with many sidesteps and embellishments regaled Poppy with the
histoire
fish. She was still talking when the street door opened and they heard men’s voices. Poppy jumped up. ‘I wish I could disappear.’ She was near panic.

‘Don’t be silly. You are throwing him out, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I—’

‘He won’t be drunk at this hour.’

‘How d’you—’

‘I’ve seen him about with you. Sticks out his lip. Warning signal. Venetia will limit his intake, she’s a strong-minded lady. What’s going on, why are they so slow?’ Penelope leaned over the banister, peering down, her dark hair swinging down like seaweed in an ebb tide.

‘Edmund has a broken tibia.’ Remembering the circumstances of the break, Poppy broke into a nervous sweat and backed against the door of her flat.

‘Here they come. He’s got lovely hair, your discard.’ Penelope looked down. ‘He’s tremendously good-looking, a bit passé perhaps. Struggling up with his crutches. One might get a bit tired of him. Okay, Victor?’ she called.

‘We’re on our way,’ shouted Victor from below. ‘We have the key.’

‘Why don’t you bring the key up, then Edmund needn’t bother. Poppy says he has a broken tibia.’

‘Determined to deliver it himself.’ Victor sounded not far off laughter.

‘Oh.’ Penelope drew back from the banister and looked at Poppy. ‘Are you afraid of him?’

‘Of course not,’ lied Poppy.

Disbelieving, Penelope sniffed and went back to watching the slow progress below. ‘One could spit on his head. Stump—hop—stump—hop—there’s no need to make such heavy weather,’ she jeered. ‘I made it with my poor ankle.’

Edmund’s head came into view as he climbed the last flight, putting his weight on his good leg, clutching the banister with his left hand, hopping with the crutch under his right arm, hopping one step at a time; Victor, following, carried the second crutch. Edmund’s face was flushed with effort, his lower lip thrust out. He reached the landing, stood looking down at Poppy.

‘Thanks.’ There was a cold stone in her midriff.

‘Here it is,’ said Edmund out of breath.

Poppy took the key. ‘It’s fortunate Venetia has a lift.’ Don’t soften, don’t look at him.

‘Don’t sneer.’

‘I’m not sneering, just stating facts.’ Stating facts was a favourite expression of Edmund’s cast in her teeth over the years. Why am I being so utterly horrible? ‘All this stuff is yours, I want to be rid of it.’

‘You could have thrown it away, I don’t need it,’ said Edmund offhandedly.

‘If I had thrown it away you would have wanted it. I foresaw weeks, months, years when you would come round to fetch it, one bit at a time.’ Why be so bitchy? Edmund flushed angrily.

‘Attaboy. Doesn’t she know him well?’ said Penelope in admiration, grinning at Victor.

‘Don’t be so militant feminist,’ said Victor good-naturedly. ‘We’d better start carrying it down, come on, darling.’ He hoped to stop Penelope’s mischievous trend, there was no necessity for more trouble. Poppy looked as if she might fall apart.

‘Yes, you two do that,’ said Edmund not taking his eyes off Poppy. ‘I have to talk to Poppy.’

‘But I don’t want to talk.’ Using the key, Poppy opened the flat door and tried to nip inside.

Before she could close the door Edmund stuck his plastered leg in it.

Penelope drew in her breath admiringly. Quite a fellow, clever blackmailer, to use the leg, a crutch, though safer, would not have had the same impact.

‘Just a word,’ said Edmund standing on his good leg, ‘it won’t take long.’

‘Why doesn’t she kick it?’ Penelope whispered to Victor.

‘Come on,’ said Victor picking up the suitcases, ‘come on, Penelope, help.’ He started down the stairs.

Penelope looked at Poppy at bay in the doorway. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes.’ Poppy stood keeping Edmund out, her face very white. She wished the door had a chain.

Edmund leaned against the door jamb, managing to keep his plastered leg in position.

Penelope shrugged, heaved up one of the sheeted bundles and dropped it down the stairwell, listening until it plopped in the hall below. So successful was this manoeuvre that she repeated it until the landing was almost clear, Victor arriving back just in time to grab the radio and the last suitcase. ‘Come down and help me load the car,’ he said. ‘You’ve broken quite enough.’

‘Should I?’ Penelope looked at Edmund and Poppy shadowed in the doorway.

‘Yes, come on.’ Victor pulled her away. ‘Let them get it over with, it’s best.’

With a last look at Poppy Penelope leaned her stomach across the banister, pushed off and slid away down out of sight. ‘Whoopsie, here I come.’

‘Mind your ankle,’ Victor yelled, anxious, but admiring her juvenile behaviour. He hurried after her, jumping down three steps at a time, endangering his spidery legs.

‘Poppy.’ Edmund tried to reach her hand. ‘Darling.’

‘No.’

‘Venetia’s gobbling me up, Poppy.’

‘Good.’

‘It’s not good. Save me. I want to come back, it was a terrible mistake.’

‘I don’t want you.’

‘I love you.’ (I really love her, I love her, I love her.)

‘Nonsense,’ said Poppy, trying to sound robust.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t know what I was doing—’

‘And I did not mean to break your leg. I’m glad it’s better. I apologise. Now please go, Edmund. Down the stairs.’

‘You know you love me. You are naturally jealous of Venetia—’

‘I’m not actually, that’s all over. I wish her joy. I am grateful to her.’

‘I want to marry you. I told you on the plane. You agreed.’ Edmund reached out. Poppy drew back. ‘You must remember.’

‘I did
not
agree. Stupidly I tried not to be unkind. You wanted to marry me and call yourself Carew-Platt. Nastily I thought you wanted my money. Venetia has a lot more than me, Edmund, mine’s peanuts compared to hers. Her father made washbasins and loos. With all the guilt in the world people wash more than ever. My father was a gambler who backed outsiders and doubles whatever that means—’ Nervously Poppy gabbled, straining to be eloquent, to get through to Edmund once and for all. ‘Why don’t you marry Venetia, keep a girlfriend round the corner? No, no,
not
me, not
me
, call yourself Colyer-Platt, that’s what you’d like, it’s much smarter.’ Edmund winced. ‘It’s not on, Edmund, there’s nothing doing. Nothing. Please go away.’ (This is not frivolous. This isn’t fun.)

‘My darling—’

‘I am not your darling. Go away, go back to Venetia, take all the mess you left here.’ Poppy felt rising hysteria, she began to cry. ‘I hope Venetia teaches you how to make love.’

‘What did you say?’ Edmund rocked forward glowering, managed to catch her arm as she put up a hand to wipe her tears.

‘Stop, Edmund, you are hurting me.’

Edmund shook her, swinging her round by the arm, pulling her out on to the landing.

‘I said—I hope—Venetia—teaches you—how to fuck. Ah!’ Poppy yelled ‘Ah! Ow!’

‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Victor, reappearing, caught hold of Edmund and pulled him away from Poppy.

Losing his precarious balance Edmund swung round cracking the back of his hand against the door. ‘Ouch!’

‘Come away now. Downstairs,’ said Victor placid but firm. ‘Down we go.’

‘I’m coming up,’ shouted Penelope bounding up the stairs, forgetting her injured ankle. ‘I’ll stay with Poppy while you drive Edmund and his rubbish back to Venetia.’

‘Okay,’ said Victor leading Edmund down. They met on the landing. ‘I’m afraid some of the things in the bundles are broken,’ said Penelope to Edmund. ‘There’s a terrible mixed smell of aftershave and cheese.’

Clutching his shredded dignity, Edmund managed to ignore her.

V
ICTOR DROVE PENELOPE’S CAR
with Penelope beside him. Poppy sat in the back listening to the loverly chatter in the front seat. This was an altogether different Victor to the solitary loose-ended man she had first met, who had eyed her with appreciation and kissed her with lust. Reunited with Penelope he was more stable, less attractive.

If she had had any mind picture of Penelope before meeting her it would have been of an uncaring bitch whom Victor had quite rightly almost murdered. The Penelope who had helped in the ousting of Edmund was a girl she could be friends with, an ally.

Even when Penelope exclaimed, ‘Watch out, you idiot, you are driving my car not your old banger,’ when Victor tried to overtake a juggernaut on a bend, and Victor answered ‘I’ll murder you yet, just you wait’, she gave the impression of affectionate marital give and take and clearly Victor’s joke was not vindictive.

They were on their way to the country, Victor and Penelope to retrieve Victor’s car and, as Penelope put it, take it to the knackers, and at the same time visit the now famous trout. They lightly toyed with the idea of buying another from a hatchery to keep it company.

Poppy was to visit her father’s house and belatedly attend to dull business matters such as the lease and her inheritance. At Penelope’s instigation she had packed an overnight bag and telephoned Fergus to apprise him of her plan. Mary, answering the phone, had said that Fergus was away on a job but why not stay the night? Poppy, demurring, ready to stay in the pub, had been overruled. ‘Stay here.’ Mary had been firm. ‘Mrs Edwardes keeps the visitors’ room ready for you, she says that’s what you wanted.’

Shattered by the scene with Edmund, Poppy let her day be organised by others, allowed herself to drift. She would visit Anthony Green, find out what he had done about her father’s house, get him to sell her flat, spare her the business details. Temporarily cocooned on the back seat of Penelope’s car she put off decisions, let her mind wander. Watching the back of Victor’s thin neck she tried to remember the spasm of attraction she had felt for him, looked forward to the rediscovery of Fergus, whose kiss at the wake had been if anything more ardent than Victor’s, more demanding, more—she toyed with words to describe Fergus—masculine? macho? lusty? Sitting in Penelope’s car, driving down the English motorway she blotted out the period with Willy. What had happened in Algiers seemed strangely improbable, so remote that it was as though it had not happened. I am frail, she thought wryly, I need a tonic; how grey the sky is compared to North Africa.