Vacillations of Poppy Carew (23 page)

‘Here we go,’ said Willy’s neighbour. ‘Wonder what dump they’ll put us in.’ Wretchedly Willy followed him out of the aircraft to Customs to wait dejectedly in line. Dispirited, sniffing the smell of Algiers, garlic, spice, petrol fumes, thirsty earth, listening to the mix of French and Arabic, thinking that at any other time he would have been amused, interested, pleased by this diversion in his proper journey, Willy let his eye wander across the Customs hall to a group from another plane standing by their baggage, queuing for the Customs officers. A man and his wife were squeezing shut their suitcases, cursing each the other’s attempt to help. Next in line behind them a girl obeyed the Customs official, opened her case.

Willy exclaimed, shouted, leapt over a barrier, grabbed the girl, held her. ‘Poppy.’

She looked at him astonished without recognition.

‘I saw your dress, I knew it at once.’ The multicoloured dress lay on top of the case.

The Customs man poked brown fingers down the sides of the case. ‘Okay.’ Poppy pushed the dress back, shut the case. The man moved on to the next passenger. Someone called to Willy, ‘Hey, Monsieur.’

‘I think they want you back over there.’ She had a frightful black eye, she looked awful, her nose was swollen. She picked up her case, moved away.

‘Monsieur—’ An official harried Willy to get back where he belonged.

‘Wait for me,’ Willy shouted at her retreating back, ‘
wait
.’

‘We are all headed for the same hotel.’ Willy’s neighbour from the plane knew even this.

‘Your case, Monsieur, open it.’ The man was impatient. Willy complied, craning his neck to see where Poppy had gone. The Customs man took his time. Willy memorised his face so that some day, even if it were in the after life, always supposing there was such a thing, when he had the time he would come back and hit him. The man relinquished his futile search, moved away. Willy snapped the case shut, nipping his urgent fingers, ran. She was standing in the next hall.

‘I waited,’ she said.

‘Thank God,’ said Willy.

‘Do I know you?’ she asked.

‘You will,’ said Willy. ‘Give me your case, let me carry it for you.’

H
AVING MADE SURE BY
an unanswered telephone call that Victor was out, Penelope let herself into the flat. She wondered whether Victor knew that she still had a key, how much he would mind that she had quite often in the years since their divorce let herself in to pry. While she had a strong aversion to anyone poking their nose into her own affairs, she persuaded herself that her interest in Victor was excusable.

Inside the door she listened.

The tap in the bathroom dripped as it always had, defying DIY efforts and even the arts of a visiting plumber.

Outside the window on the parapet pigeons strutted and cooed as they always had. The noise of traffic passing in the street was deadened by the dry leaves rustling in the plane trees.

Penelope went into the bathroom to give the tap a futile nostalgic twist. Victor had filled the bidet with socks, they soaked in grey unappetising water, she was almost tempted to wash them. The bedroom had acquired an austere masculine air: pillows heaped against the centre of the headboard, the duvet pulled askew, suggested a solitary Victor. His clothes had edged across to her side of the hanging cupboard, he had left the doors open, a carelessness which had been a continual source of irritation during their marriage. Unable to resist interfering, she shut the doors.

In the living room she inspected the desk and was surprised at the number of receipted bills. Things were definitely looking up for Victor. She fingered through a pile of letters finding none of interest bar one from Victor’s mother. Opening it she read, pursing her lips, breathing in, closing her nostrils in imitation of her former mother-in-law who had the haughty appearance of a llama. Victor’s parent congratulated him warmly on the acceptance of his novel while hoping that it was not as autobiographical as the previous unpublished manuscripts. ‘Some hope,’ muttered Penelope. You were very unfair to poor Penelope, wrote Victor’s mum. I know she can be irritating but so, my goodness, can you. ‘Hallelujah!’ said Penelope loud in the silence. You get it from your beloved pa, wrote Victor’s mother, and went on to give some routine and boring news of Victor’s family. Penelope returned the letter to the pile.

In Victor’s typewriter a pristine sheet of paper, Page One, Chapter One. ‘The day I decided to drown my wife dawned crystal clear.’

‘Hey,’ said Penelope, ‘this
is
fiction.’ She knelt by the grate to inspect crumpled sheets of paper. Victor had written, ‘The day I decided to drown my wife dawned grey and—’

‘The day I decided to drown my wife dawned thundery—’

Penelope addressed herself to the desk drawers. ‘I must really clear out this mess,’ she muttered, momentarily forgetting her divorced status. ‘Oh bugger.’ She shut the drawer. There was no trace of what she feared, nor was there anything to indicate the existence of another woman in the kitchen, no alien garlic crusher, nobody’s favourite knife. After a final look round she let herself out and drove west out of London, towards Berkshire, in search of Fergus.

Leaving the motorway at Junction Thirteen Penelope headed towards the downs. She drove slowly with only the vaguest concept of Fergus’s whereabouts. Victor’s article giving Furnival’s Fine Funerals its splendid write-up had left the location of the enterprise enigmatically vague. ‘A beautiful secret valley in the Berkshire Downs’ did not get one far. While hoping to extract information about Victor from Fergus Penelope was unsure how best to set about it. After their brief affair Fergus had moved, apparently jointly, with Victor into Julia’s embrace, but now if gossip was true Julia was seriously committed to Sean Connor. Penelope was friendly with Julia who presented no threat; she was interested in the unknown quantity hinted by Venetia in Harrods. ‘Though why I bother—’ Penelope talked to herself. ‘Victor is just an untidy habit I have given up, or should give up if I had it.’

On the outskirts of a pretty village two workmen had just finished erecting a sign which read
Furnival’s Fine Rococo Funerals
in large letters, in smaller lettering,
Director Fergus Furnival.
‘What luck,’ said Penelope parking her car by the side of the road, peering up at the house, ‘but this village isn’t particularly secret—’

The men who had put up the sign collected their tools, got into a van and drove off. Penelope stood hesitating in front of the house.

From a window on the first floor Mary, baby Barnaby in her arms, watched. Penelope walked round to the back of the house. Mary moved from the front bedroom to watch Penelope’s progress from the bathroom at the back.

Penelope reached the stable yard and went round it, peering into the loose-boxes. Two Dow Jones put interested heads over their box-doors to observe her progress. Penelope, who did not trust horses, gave them a wide berth. She inspected the tack room, opened the double doors of the carriage house, looked in on empty darkness, walked slowly back towards the house through the yard, hesitated outside the back door, went round to the front.

Mary ran downstairs and opened the front door with a jerk as Penelope was putting her finger on the bell. Penelope jumped.

Mary said ‘Yes?’ on a note of query.

‘Oh,’ said Penelope. ‘Ah, I am Victor Lucas’s wife, Penelope Lucas.’

‘Yes?’

‘We are divorced of course—’

‘Yes?’

‘I was wondering whether—’

‘Yes?’

‘Whether Fergus, I am a friend of Fergus—’

‘Yes?’ Mary was enjoying this.

‘Whether,’ Penelope refused to be disconcerted, ‘whether Fergus knows where I can find—er—Victor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, he knows?’ Was this girl half-witted or plain bloody-minded? ‘Does he know?’

‘Yes.’

‘There is something I have to talk to him about, something I need to tell him.’

‘Yes?’

‘I believe he has a friend somewhere near here who might—er—Venetia Colyer said that—’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know Venetia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is Fergus out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you can help me.’ Penelope caught baby Barnaby’s eye, round, black, appraising. Without deflecting his gaze from Penelope he stuffed a hand in the opening of Mary’s shirt, grabbed her nipple and sucked. Penelope took a step backwards. ‘Isn’t that baby a bit old to be nursed?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought so.’ Penelope held out a finger which Barnaby snatched and held in his tight infant grip. ‘Are you being irritating on purpose?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

Penelope laughed and waggled her finger in Barnaby’s fist. He stopped sucking Mary’s nipple and tried to stuff Penelope’s finger in his mouth. Penelope snatched the finger away.

‘You’d better come in.’ Mary pulled the door wider, jerked her head towards the kitchen. ‘We aren’t settled in yet, we only moved the day before yesterday, Fergus and the girls are doing a funeral near Wallop.’

‘Oh.’ Penelope followed Mary to the kitchen.

‘Sit down.’ Mary nodded at a chair.

‘Thanks.’ Penelope sat. An old dog got to his feet, came across the room to sniff and wag, retreated to lie by the stove.

‘So you are looking for Victor,’ said Mary. ‘He lives in London.’

‘Of course he does. It’s a friend of his who—’ Who? What? Who is this friend I am so het up about whose existence is hinted at by Venetia. Venetia never meant good. Must I ask this rude girl as Fergus is not here? Penelope regretted her impulsive journey. ‘If Fergus is out I can telephone or come another time—’

‘Didn’t you go for a spin with Fergus?’ Mary’s eye, though not dark and round like her child’s, was more penetrating.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Screw, didn’t you screw with Fergus?’

‘Well, really I—’ Penelope got to her feet.

‘Yes or no?’

‘Well, yes—um—what business is it of yours what I—er—we. It wasn’t for long.’

Mary grinned. ‘Just placing you. Sit down, have some coffee.’ To Penelope there was something menacing about the offer.

‘I—I ought to go.’

‘Oh come on, you can’t come all this way for nothing.’ Mary put Barnaby on the floor, filled the kettle. ‘What do you want poor old Victor for, what’s his friend to do with you?’ As she spooned Nescafé into mugs Mary sized Penelope up. ‘I bet Victor never
really
tried to drown you,’ she said, looking at Penelope, amused.

‘Of course he did,’ Penelope said defensively.

‘And this friend?’ asked Mary. ‘What’s your interest?’

‘Nothing, it’s nothing.’ Penelope was harassed. ‘Just something Venetia said when we met the other day.’

‘I know Venetia.’ Mary handed Penelope her mug. ‘Sugar? Milk?’

‘Just milk please. I thought Fergus’s place was more isolated.’ Penelope took stock.

‘It was. He’s rented this from Poppy Carew. He did her father’s funeral. You read about it?’

‘Yes. I did. Victor’s article and—’

‘Poppaea has disappeared with Venetia’s new man—’ Mary chanted. ‘Poppaea!’ mocking the name.

‘Oh.’

‘This man is Poppaea’s
old
man, he left her, I guess, an educated guess, for Venetia.’

‘Gosh.’

Mary sipped her coffee watching Barnaby crawl across the floor to join the dog who licked his head. ‘There’s an interesting connection if you are interested in Victor.’ She switched her eyes back to Penelope. ‘Both Fergus and Victor have their sights on Poppaea. They do seem to like the same girls those two, you, Julia and now Poppaea, funny isn’t it?’

Penelope put down her mug. ‘Then what the hell is Victor doing installing some old trout in Berkshire?’

‘Is that what Venetia told you?’ Mary looked enchanted.

‘Yes it is.’ Penelope was outraged. What business had this girl to pry? Why had she let slip Venetia’s mischief? That she was herself prying did not bother her at all.

‘And you think Fergus can tell you where to look?’ asked Mary, deceptively mild.

‘That was the idea,’ said Penelope stiffly.

‘Are you jealous, do you want him back or just dog in the manger?’ Mary teased.

‘Of course not,’ said Penelope hotly.

‘You go up the road a few miles, take the fourth turning on your left, the second on your right, follow that road until you get to a humpback bridge and a track which goes up into the hills beside the stream. It’s possible you will find what you are looking for.’

‘Oh.’ Penelope got to her feet. ‘Thanks,’ she said grudgingly.

‘Not at all,’ said Mary, picking baby Barnaby out of the dog basket, walking with Penelope towards the door. ‘If when you are there you should see a large tabby cat please catch him and bring him here, Fergus is frantic, misses him terribly. He was out hunting when we moved, Fergus has been back to look three times already, he loves that animal.’

‘But—’

‘Surely you can catch a cat.’

‘I doubt it.’ Penelope loathed cats, longed to refuse, was afraid to.

‘He’ll be starving by now. Fergus will be eternally grateful.’ Mary spoke with enjoyment.

‘I don’t think—’ protested Penelope.

‘I’ll give you a tin of sardines to entice him; not allergic are you?’ Mary turned back to find sardines, opened a tin. ‘There, lure him into your car, keep the windows shut as you drive or he’ll jump out.’

‘I don’t know anything about cats,’ protested Penelope weakly.

‘Then now’s your chance to find out.’ Mary was propelling her out of the house. ‘You may also find out a lot about Victor, the great softie.’

‘I—’ Penelope was out of the house and in her car.

‘Fourth turning on the left,’ Mary pointed. ‘Then follow the track into the hills after the humpback bridge.’ She put the tin of sardines on the seat beside Penelope. ‘His name is Bolivar,’ she said. ‘Let me know about Victor’s friend when you come back. I would be interested to hear your opinion.’

Mary’s mocking tone so infuriated Penelope that she leant out of the car window and shouted, ‘I’m not going to bother about a bloody cat, Fergus can catch it for himself.’

‘Oho, what spirit!’ Penelope’s tormentor leaned in through the car window to stare at Penelope at close quarters; from her arms Barnaby reached in to stroke Penelope’s face. ‘Pitty, pitty.’ Mary snatched his hand away. Penelope flushed.