Vacillations of Poppy Carew (27 page)

On the back seat Bolivar now sat quiet and wary, his eyes brilliant with suspicion, his tail lashing.

‘How clever you’ve been. I never thought you’d catch him. Sardines did the trick, did they?’ Mary ran to greet them. ‘Hullo, Victor, what are you doing here?’ she shouted through the closed window, cheerful and pleased.

‘Went to visit my trout,’ shouted Victor, beginning to wind down the window.

‘Don’t do that! He might run away, he’s never been here, he might be frightened. Keep it shut,’ shouted Mary. ‘Wait while I fetch Fergus, he’s just got back.’ She disappeared into the house. They heard her voice still, ‘It was a very successful funeral, went without a hitch. Fergus, Bolivar’s arrived!’

‘Am I in Hell?’ muttered Penelope.

‘That was Byron on his wedding night—’ Victor, not one of those men who fancy themselves in Byron’s shoes, waiting obediently for Fergus to appear, wished that there might be a time when he was not in perpetual disagreement with his ex-wife then, feeling an unwonted rush of affection for her, leant across and kissed her cheek.

‘What did you do that for?’ Penelope took her hands from her ears.

‘Love,’ said Victor.

Penelope said nothing. In addition to the throb of her twisted ankle and her bruised knee she was trying to assimilate the revelation she had just been posed by Mary. Then: ‘I feel such an utter and complete fool,’ she whispered.

‘Why?’ Half expecting her to snatch it away, Victor took her hand.

‘I
say
! Clever girl, found and caught my Bolivar.’ Fergus came out of the house, bounding down the steps, putting paid to any explanation Penelope might see fit to make. ‘Thought you didn’t care for cats, Penelope. Here, just let me get at him. Come along, my treasure, you’ve no idea how worried I’ve been.’ Opening the car door, Fergus gathered Bolivar tenderly into his arms. ‘There, there, what a dreadful time you’ve had. Never mind, it’s all over now.’

Penelope and Victor exchanged glances.

Moaning with joy, Bolivar nestled against Fergus, pressing his furry bulk against his chest, his purr rumbling fit to choke in his throat.

‘It’s Penelope who’s had a dreadful time,’ Victor yelled in exasperation. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your bloody cat. Penelope’s hurt, I must get her to a doctor.’

‘Really? Why?’ asked Fergus, distracted from Bolivar, sighting Penelope. ‘What on earth have you been up to, you
do
look a mess. Did Victor get around to trying to murder you again?’

‘One of these days your jokes will get you into serious trouble.’ Mary pushed Fergus aside. ‘Shut Bolivar up somewhere until he’s calmed down, butter his paws. You come with me,’ she said to Penelope, ‘you don’t need a doctor. I’ll fix your wounds. Help me get her up to the bathroom, Victor.’

‘Bossy boots.’ Fergus stood aside.

‘And when you’ve shut the cat up, tell one of the girls to make a pot of tea. Come on, Victor. Lean on both of us,’ she said to Penelope. ‘Get cracking, Fergus, light the fire in the sitting room while you are about it and find the whisky. Keep an eye on Barnaby while I’m busy.’

‘Christ!’ Fergus, hugging Bolivar, watched Mary and Victor help Penelope into the house and up the stairs.

‘And tell Frances and Annie they can’t go out tonight, there’s far too much to do,’ Mary called from the stairs.

Fergus gaped. ‘What’s got into her?’

‘Your mother came to see you this afternoon,’ Mary called from the landing.

‘My ma? What did she want?’

Mary did not apparently hear. ‘Leave her with me,’ she said to Victor as Penelope sank on to the bathroom chair. ‘I can cope better without you.’

‘I—’ said Victor.

‘Go on, you’re only in the way.’

Victor looked at Penelope’s face smeared with mud and tears. She made a tentative movement. Victor bent down, she put her hands on his shoulders. They kissed carefully, neither spoke. ‘Okay, see you later.’ Victor straightened up and left the room.

‘Cry into this.’ Mary handed Penelope a roll of lavatory paper. ‘I honestly think you’d do best by getting into a hot bath, you’re soaked. Let me help you out of your clothes. I’ll lend you some of mine.’

‘You’re kind.’

‘Just interested in the boomerang effect of whatever it was Venetia started—’ Mary turned on the taps, helped Penelope undress. ‘Have a good soak while I find a bandage to strap up that ankle. I’m sure she didn’t intend you to meet Victor.’

‘It was a ploy, probably directed against Poppy Carew. Oh, that’s lovely.’ Penelope lay back in the bath. ‘Didn’t you say when I was here earlier on that both Fergus and Victor are interested in Poppy?’

‘Exactly. Quite funny as things—’ Mary began to laugh.

Penelope joined in.

Fergus in the kitchen buttering Bolivar’s paws, looked up nervously.

‘Listen to those two. What can they be laughing at?’

‘Us, probably,’ said Victor. ‘Where d’you keep the whisky?’

‘It’s on the dresser.’ Fergus placed Bolivar in the dog basket. Bolivar shook his paws, sniffed, then started to lick them.

Victor poured them each a drink. ‘When did you move in here?’

‘Few days ago. Mary’s getting us straight. It’s lucky we moved. I’m wonderfully busy. We buried a retired hunt servant today and I’ve got two funerals in the next six days, an industrialist whose widow aspires to be county and a gypsy’s grandmother from near Romsey. Mary’s wonderful on the phone with that voice of hers, she talks posh to some, cosy to others, can’t think how I’d manage without her.’

‘What happened to Poppy?’ Victor looked round the kitchen, reminded of her existence.

‘No idea.’ Fergus sipped his whisky. ‘Her father’s daily lady doesn’t know either. Isn’t she in London?’

‘No,’ said Victor, ‘she isn’t.’

‘Oh.’ Fergus looked at his cousin thoughtfully. ‘I thought—’

‘What did your mother want, d’you suppose?’ Victor headed Fergus off, not wishing to discuss his intentions vis à vis Poppy with Fergus or to hear Fergus’s plans. If Fergus was busy he would have little time to spare chasing Poppy. His own intentions were ambiguous.

‘I don’t know,’ said Fergus, reminded of his parent. ‘She doesn’t usually drop in unannounced, she’s supersensitive to interference herself.’

‘Happy with your role as undertaker, is she? How does it fit in with the family image?’

‘She persuaded my stepfather to give me a reference, it gave Poppy’s solicitor a salutary shock.’

‘I should have thought—’

‘What?’ asked Fergus suspiciously.

‘That he was used to all sorts with Poppy’s father’s friends. What a
bouillabaisse
at the funeral.’ Victor laughed.

‘Not all of them fishy. Didn’t you notice Calypso Grant?’

‘Was that who it was? I wonder who spread the treacle. That was a fishy act if ever there was one. Must have been somebody with a grudge.’

‘We must ask Poppy when she reappears.’

‘Aren’t you going to look for her?’

‘How can I?’ said Fergus. ‘I’m up to my eyes with work. Are you going to look for her?’

‘I’m pretty busy with this book of mine at the moment.’

‘I see,’ said Fergus. ‘And Penelope?’

‘Well—’ said Victor. ‘I—’

The cousins paused like hunting dogs who have temporarily lost the scent.

‘What were you doing up at my old place?’ Fergus poured Victor more whisky.

‘I was stuck in my work. I went to visit the trout, see whether it was still alive, get a bit of inspiration.’

‘And is it?’

‘Yes, I think so. I forgot to look.’

‘Eh?’ Fergus looked at Victor. ‘And you took Penelope with you?’

‘No, I found her there—’

‘What was she doing? Why did you push her into the stream? How did she find her way there?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask her. I didn’t push her—’

From the bathroom above the kitchen there was a shout of feminine laughter, followed by a spate of chatter.

‘She seems all right now,’ said Victor dubiously.

The laughter above them was renewed.

‘Hilarious,’ muttered Fergus. ‘I wonder what the joke can be.’

‘Us,’ said Victor positively.

Listening to the laughter the two men felt threatened.

‘I wonder what my mother wanted.’ Fergus skated rapidly round his conscience. ‘It’s ages since I heard Mary laugh like that.’

‘Ganging up,’ said Victor.

‘Pessimist.’ Fergus was robust. ‘Still, I’d better light the fire, as she said.’

W
ILLY’S PERSONAL EXPERIENCE OF
black eyes and bruises was limited to an occasion in adolescence when he had been involved in a car smash. Watching Poppy sleep he tried to remember how long his bruises had taken to fade. He was anxious for Poppy, anxious too to get back to his pigs. All very well to leave Arthur in charge for a few days but the prospect of much longer irked him. He did not like the hotel, inefficient and sloppy with its resentful undertones of past French glories. The atmosphere created by fellow stranded travellers with their hysterical impatience to continue their interrupted tours made him jumpy. He worried about running short of money, and worse; now that he had found Poppy, there was a barrier of silence between them which he resented.

She was not, he thought, watching her sleep, capable of breaking anybody’s leg. It was at least doubtful. This must be some sort of joke. Not knowing Poppy he could only guess at her idea of humour.

Since she was, he supposed, in the grip of some sort of trauma, it would do her good to unburden herself, break this stubborn silence, but how to bring this desirable effect about?

He must not force her.

Long ago in his early days of farming he had forced Mrs Future’s great-aunt to move from a sty where she was settled and content into another where it was easier, from his point of view, to care for her. Mrs Future’s great-aunt had retaliated by eating her entire litter, presumably acting on the theory that they were safer inside than out.

It was two days since he had found Poppy. During that time she had volunteered no information, had been politely grateful for his care but most of the time she had slept, shutting herself away out of reach.

Tired of watching the storm outside, Willy stretched out on his bed and tried to read the only paperback he had with him for the third time. The complexities of Len Deighton bemused him, the book fell forward on his chest, he fell asleep.

Waking in the dark, Willy listened for the storm; its frenzy seemed a little less. Next he listened for Poppy’s breathing, heard nothing, sat up, reached for the bedside lamp, pressed the switch, it did not work. Cursing, he blundered to the door, tried the switches, none worked. He opened the door into the corridor, that too was inky dark. Below in the hotel there was the confused sound of dismembered voices clamouring up the lift shaft. Back in the room he made for the window, looked out. There were no harbour lights. There was no moon.

Afraid for Poppy, he felt his way round the room, felt her bed, found it empty. Thinking he might have mistaken Poppy’s bed for his own he searched the second bed. This too was empty.

Suddenly afraid, Willy shouted, ‘Poppy!’ screaming ‘Poppy!’

‘I’m here,’ she called, ‘in the bath. The lights went out.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Getting cold.’

‘I thought you’d run away.’ His fear was still with him. ‘I thought you’d gone.’ He felt his way to the bathroom. ‘I thought something had happened to you, I was terrified.’

‘I was soaking in that stuff you brought me, it’s delicious, helps a lot. Can you find me a towel? There’s a bathrobe hanging on the door.’

Feeling for the robe Willy was surprised to find himself shaking. ‘I have it,’ he said.

‘Thanks, heave ho, up I come.’ She splashed up out of the bath beside him. ‘Where are you? What’s the matter?’

‘Thought you’d gone.’ He felt for her wet body, wrapped her in the bathrobe. ‘God, it’s dark. Am I hurting you?’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘Don’t get cold.’ He held her bundled against him, smelling her hair under his chin.

‘When the lights come back,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you I love you.’

They were pressed against the edge of the bath.

‘Perhaps until then we could sit somewhere comfortable.’

‘The bed—’

‘Yes, okay. Why don’t we get in?’ She was shivering.

They felt their way to the bed. Willy pulled back the bedclothes. They lay facing each other. Poppy put a hand over his heart.

‘Your poor bruised hands,’ he said.

‘They are getting better. Much better.’

Why did I tell her I love her? Blurt it out like that in a bathroom. Clot. Enough to put any girl off.

Outside the storm whooped up with renewed vigour. Further along the hotel’s façade a shutter broke loose, clattered in anguish against the wall.

Should he go down, try to find out why there was no light, when it would come on again, join in the confusion raging in the lobby? He held Poppy damp in the bathrobe. She was speaking, her breath warm against his throat.

‘I was awful to Edmund on the plane. I should not have come with him. I did it to spite Venetia. It seemed a good chance when he snatched me away after Dad’s funeral. A surprise, that, because he had left me the week before. He’s in love with Venetia. He wants to marry her. He never wanted to marry me, we just lived together. I suppose he had this impulse—I didn’t like to make a fuss in front of strangers and in a way it was a bit of a joke, a poke in the eye for her. I thought I’d say No in private, No, it’s over, then when I saw what she’d done I was sorry for him and I gave in, came on this journey. It was sheer cussedness and stupidity, crazy, a colossal mistake. But he assumed I loved him, assumed I would marry him, started talking marriage. He must have guessed I have money now, it couldn’t be anything else. It was so crass. There were these insects, awful things, we ran over a dog and then those men I saw. They hanged them, sort of hoisted them up—’ Willy held her, said nothing. She went on—‘He went out for the day, disappeared, came back so pissed he got into the wrong room, no, it was the second night he was pissed, no, both nights. Then in the morning I could see something terrible had happened to him, he was hangdog and hung over, so I said let’s have a lovely day together and we did. We picnicked and swam and drove out to an oasis in the desert and made love. Just like old times. When we got back he started drinking again, he can be awfully disagreeable when he drinks. Well, we had this bust up, this row, he hit me, knocked me down, stamped on my hands—I got frightened.’ Willy held Poppy tight. ‘Then I broke his leg with a chair.’ Still Willy held her, she felt his heart beating under her hand.