by Mary Wesley
Reducing speed as he reached the village, he drove past the church and the graveyard where Bob Carew lay cool under a mound of flowers and along the village green. The line of cars which had stretched from the church to the house was nearly gone, a few people were standing chatting by their cars before driving away. Willy stopped the car by the house. The front door was open, the hall empty. He listened.
From the back of the house he heard a raised voice, a row of some sort was in progress, somebody was very angry, a woman’s voice expostulating, a high keening coloratura.
‘My rugs, my carpets, it’s ground into the parquet, I’ll kill whoever did it, my kitchen, the stairs, have you seen the landing? A whole pot and a tin of golden syrup, look at it, look! Don’t move, you’ll make it worse, oh, I could—’ The voice drowned a muttered chorus male and female. Willy had the impression that the lament was repetitious, could it be Poppy making this gruesome racket? Mystified, he took a few steps towards the sound and peered into what proved to be the kitchen. At once the voice shouted: ‘Don’t come in here you’ll grind it in. Who are you? What do you know about this? Was it you? Your idea of a joke?’
‘Not a joke,’ said a voice from the chorus.
‘Not funny at all,’ said another.
Willy felt the woman’s blast of anger; an oldish woman was doing the shouting, three girls in the background and two men he recognised as the undertakers the chorus. There was no sign of Poppy.
Silence fell. Willy introduced himself. Interested faces stared. One of the girls was holding a baby. He was suspected of something malign.
‘I came to see Poppy,’ he said bravely, ‘er—Poppy Carew.’
‘She’s gone,’ said the larger undertaker.
‘Evaporated,’ said the thin undertaker.
‘Whisked away,’ said one of the girls.
‘Dada, dada.’ The baby held out its arms.
The undertakers laughed, releasing pent up merriment.
‘What—’ began Willy.
‘Some joker has poured honey and syrup on the floor, it spread all over the house on people’s feet. Mrs Edwardes is furious. This is Mrs Edwardes.’
Willy smiled placatingly at Mrs Edwardes and said, ‘My name is Willy Guthrie.’ Mrs Edwardes looked unlikely to believe it.
‘I am Fergus. This is Mary, that’s Annie, Frances, the infant—’
‘Barnaby.’ Mary jogged the baby. ‘And Victor.’ Fergus indicated Victor.
‘How awful.’ Willy grasped the cause of the brouhaha. ‘Who did it?’ He deftly cast the ball back into Mrs Edwardes’s court.
‘The Mafia,’ suggested Mary, grinning. Mrs Edwardes drew in her breath, she was off again unless—
‘Why don’t we clear it up?’ suggested Willy. ‘I’d be glad to help.’
‘So who did spread the treacle?’ asked Calypso later that evening when Willy had recounted his experience. ‘It was good of you to stay and wash the floors, it was not after all anything to do with you.’
‘I was able to talk to them, get to know them.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes.’
They sat on either side of the log fire he had lit to cheer the autumnal evening, Calypso, resting after her tramp through the woods (working off the depression engendered by the funeral), waited for Willy to tell her more. She would not ask again who had spread the treacle, she thought she knew, her eyes had ranged round the congregation, not got stuck on one object like Willy’s.
They had washed the kitchen floor and mopped through the house cleaning the sticky footprints from rugs and carpets. Like a general with his troops, Mrs Edwardes had issued orders to her depleted workforce for as soon as Willy offered, Fergus and the girls remembered the hearse and the horses and the urgent need to load up and get them home which left Victor, who it transpired was only standing in as assistant undertaker, having no proper role in the Furnival outfit. As they worked Willy listened to Victor ingratiating himself with Mrs Edwardes; it seemed Victor too was interested in Poppy’s whereabouts.
‘I did see Edmund in the church,’ said Mrs Edwardes, emptying the bucket of dirty water down the sink, ‘but he was with another girl, not sitting as you’d expect with Poppy.’
‘Oh,’ said Victor, encouragingly tilting his voice to a questioning tone, ‘—is?’
‘Since her Dad couldn’t stand the sight of him, it may be that Edmund was being tactful.’ Mrs Edwardes made this sound improbable.
‘Perhaps he was,’ Victor led her on, ‘being tactful.’
‘But I got the impression,’ Mrs Edwardes raised her voice above the sound of fresh water pouring into the bucket, ‘earlier today, this morning to be exact, that Edmund is no longer persona grata.’ She turned off the tap.
‘Oh,’ said Victor, ‘why was that?’
‘Persona grata he has been for a very long time, years, I should say, eight years to be exact, yes I’m right, eight.’
‘Ah,’ said Victor, ‘eight.’
‘But not with her Dad. Oh no, Edmund was persona not grata with him.’
‘Non,’ murmured Victor.
‘I dare say you’re right.’ Jane Edwardes was undampened. ‘I got that impression from Poppy this morning when she was eating her breakfast. Bacon and egg, didn’t want two, I offered another, she seemed a bit off Edmund, if you get my meaning.’
‘Oh.’
‘Quite off, I’d say. If you knew girls as well as I do you’d know the signs.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then suddenly at the party, I don’t suppose you noticed, you were all very busy talking. No, you didn’t notice.’ Mrs Edwardes looked round. ‘Got any more of that washing powder? Carpet shampoo’s what we need but I’ve run out.’
‘This do?’
‘Thanks, that’s fine, not much more to do now, is there, Mr—’
‘Guthrie, Willy.’
‘At the party?’ ventured Victor, manoeuvring the conversational wheel.
‘Just this bit, that’s the lot. I can check tomorrow when it’s dry.’
Willy admired Victor’s restraint.
‘As I say. All of you busy talking when in rushes Edmund, catches sight of Poppy, drags her off and in two jiffs they are gone. I don’t know what happened to the girl.’
‘What girl?’
‘The girl he was with. Came into the church with him, nice looking girl, a bit older than Poppy but as I say nice looking, wearing a decent black dress, very suitable not like—’
‘Like?’ Victor dared.
‘Well,’ Jane shrugged disloyally, ‘nobody could call the dress Poppy was wearing suitable.’
‘I thought it very pretty,’ said Victor rashly.
‘Pretty all right.’ Jane Edwardes twisted a floor cloth in her strong hands, wringing it over the sink. ‘There. That’s it then, that’s the lot. Thank you very much both of you. I’ll be shutting up now.’ It was plain she was waiting for them to leave. ‘Got a lift back with somebody else, I dare say.’
‘Who?’ asked Victor who had lost the thread.
‘The girl in the suitable dress,’ said Willy speaking to Victor for the first time.
Victor laughed. ‘Come and have a drink in the pub.’ He was convinced that Poppy would be returning to her father’s house that night, wished to fill in time.
‘No thank you, I have to get back,’ Willy declined thinking that if Poppy had been as it seemed abducted, she was not likely to come back. On the other hand it was just possible that his aunt might know where he could locate her in London. He was loath to ask Victor for Poppy’s address and so declare his interest. Victor was clearly a rival.
‘I am thinking of taking a few days off some time soon,’ said Willy casually as he prepared to leave for his farm, after supping with his aunt. He had decided to keep quiet about his sudden passion for Poppy; Calypso was used to a fairly rapid turnover of girls in his life and might class Poppy as just another of the many, not realising that she was unique, too precious to discuss.
> Calypso, who had found Willy’s company irritating during the meal, guessed that the sultry mood he appeared to be in could be attributed to the moment in the church when he had sighted Poppy.
‘Your pigs will come to no harm, you have left them before,’ she said.
‘Well—’ said Willy.
‘You have fallen in love with Poppy Carew, I saw it happen at the funeral. Coup de foudre,’ stated Calypso, cutting short Willy’s reluctance, tired of waiting for him to confide.
Willy laughed unconvincingly.
‘It happens,’ said Calypso blandly. ‘If one can hate at first sight equally one can love. It runs in your family. Your uncle Hector got it when he clapped eyes on me. I thought all he wanted was a healthy girl to breed an heir by. Later of course I adored him.’
Willy thought, this was not the picture of his aunt painted by her peers and that anyway no comparison could be made between an old uncle he had barely known and himself.
‘So what are you going to do about it?’ pressed Calypso, assuming Willy’s tacit agreement.
‘I have to find her,’ said Willy, yielding.
‘Ask if you need any help.’ Casually Calypso prodded the large dog who screened the heat of the fire from her legs. ‘Move.’ The dog flicked his ears back, settling his haunches more firmly on the rug. ‘Good luck,’ she said, as Willy bent to kiss her goodbye.
‘Thanks,’ said Willy, ‘I may take you up on the help.’ There were times when he found his aunt extremely trying. This was not one of them.
21
AS HER EARS BEGAN to pop and the stewardess made sure the safety belts were fastened, Poppy regretted her hauteur during the preparations for the journey. A new place in Africa might be anywhere. Judging by the length of the journey, North Africa was their destination. It was now too late and she was too proud to ask Edmund which country. If I had any wits I would have listened to the captain on the intercom, she thought, as the plane lost height, her ears popped and the engine whined then roared preparing to land, arriving with a triple jolt to taxi to the disembarkation bay.
Experiencing a spasm of fear, she thought of how beautifully birds came in to land, twisting their wings to brake against the wind, extending their feet ready for contact. She thought particularly of mallard measuring their descent exactly, their clever feet touching the water so that there was no bumping, jarring or shaking, just a long V of ripples on a still lake.
She looked out at lights, a glimpse of buildings, as the plane swung taxiing in a half circle. Fellow passengers raised their voices eager to get out of this metal tube, release the straps holding them, stretch their cramped limbs.
Edmund, stuffing his Dick Francis into his briefcase, was anxious to stand up and ease the new trousers cutting into his crotch.
‘There’s a fellow meeting me. Representative of the Tourist Board,’ he said offhandedly. Poppy did not answer. He would be nerving himself to think clearly, to be ready for his business talk, hoping to make a good impression. He should not have drunk all those whiskies.
‘He will be waiting at the Customs, see us through,’ said Edmund, ‘he’ll have a car.’ He checked their tickets were safe in his jacket pocket. ‘Got your passport?’
‘Yes,’ she said, undoing her safety belt, giving Edmund a quick glance, noting with sinking heart his out-thrust lower lip, sure sign of too many drinks. Hope for the best, she told herself, standing up, collecting her hand luggage, following Edmund out of the plane into a dark North African night.
They waited with the other passengers by the carousel, yawning, tired, dousing the anxiety that their particular bag might have acquired a will of its own, gone elsewhere to a friendlier country, might not turn up whirling round on this piece of technological nonsense which replaced the human porter who might, just possibly, hoping for a tip, have greeted one with a smile.
Poppy looked round at hawk-nosed men, holsters on hip, watching them. Guards? Police? Customs men? She was not going to ask Edmund. Fleetingly she thought of Singh’s bulky figure carrying the Thermos boxes of delicious funeral meats. Had he got them back, had Jane Edwardes cleared away the débris, tidied the house?
Was her home still there?
Her bag appeared lying upside-down, shaken by the carousel, the strap torn, the label with her name on it shredded. She grabbed it as it passed. Edmund looked irritated, thrust out his lip, the carousel went round twice more.
‘Where the hell? Bloody inefficient—’
‘There, it’s coming, catch it—’
They pushed their trolley towards Customs. Haughty, expressionless men gestured at cases. ‘Open.’ Their fingers roughly probing among nighties, knickers, dresses, disarranging so that the case would be hard to shut, picked out books, ruffled pages, peered.
‘We might be in Russia,’ a man complained.
‘There’s nothing subversive or even porn in my bag.’
‘Didn’t like my duty free—’
‘Muslim country,’ said another in explanation. ‘Dry.’
‘Pay attention to that, do they?’
‘Wouldn’t know, this is my first visit.’
‘That must be my man.’ Edmund hurried, lip back in place, smiling, expansive, to shake hands with an Italian-suited individual, dark glasses blotting his eyes. He introduced Poppy who shook hands, failing to catch the name as muttered by Edmund, not really listening, thinking it rash of Edmund to refer to this individual as ‘my man’, it being more likely to be the other way about.
Their luggage was put into the boot of a black Mercedes. They sat three abreast on the back seat, Edmund in the middle, Poppy silent, ignored by the two men who talked immediately of the new hotel to which they were going, the prospect of opening the country up to the expected tourist boom, its troubles being now over.
Half listening, Poppy wondered which country in this part of the world did not have troubles. She was by now, as well as tired, hungry. She regretted passing up the meal on the aircraft.
They drove fast passing other cars with blaring horn, shaving close to contemptuous camels, terrifying cyclists wobbling out of the dark, nagging at lorries clinging desperately to the crown of the steeply cambered road, overtaking with a snarl and a howl, car lights briefly illuminating humble overloaded donkeys, errant goats, palm trees, dogs.
Poppy shut her eyes as a limping dog dashed across the road, the car bumped, the driver laughed a short yelp of glee. She strained her ears, heard nothing more. Dear God, let it have been killed outright.
Edmund went on talking. ‘How far out of town is the airport?’
‘Some thirty miles. In a moment the road runs along the sea by the new boulevard and the beach where we build The Cabana complex among the palms which I show you tomorrow. They should be a great attraction, bring many tourists. We transplant the palms of course from the famous oasis.’
‘I see.’
Had they not seen the dog, felt the bump? Poppy’s mouth was dry, she no longer felt hungry, drawing away from Edmund into her corner.
‘And there is our sea. See the waves are phosphorescent, see how they light up as they reach the sand, are they not beautiful, romantic?’
‘Difficult to see, it’s very dark.’ Edmund craned his neck to look out into the dark past Poppy.
‘I think perhaps there will be a storm maybe, an autumn storm.’
‘Rain?’ asked Edmund, not expecting rain, pained. ‘Really?’
‘But not to worry. Storms are short. Here is the hotel, as I told you, not quite completed but it is superb. The other passengers on your plane go to the old ones, you only are complimented with the best. Under this archway, here you are, please, welcome.’
The car stopped under a portico. ‘No doubt Miss Carew would like to mount straight up to the room?’
‘I expect she would.’
‘And we go to the bar for your nightcap?’
‘Great.’
Poppy drew breath, breathing in a lungful of wet concrete-smelling air. She wat
ched their bags collected by a servant in khaki uniform.
‘You go ahead, darling, make yourself comfortable, I’ll be up in a minute.’
He was pretending not to have noticed the dog. Perhaps he had not noticed the dog.
She did not look at Edmund, said a polite good night to their guide, followed the servant with the bags to the lift. The room was large, airy, twin beds, fitted cupboards, bathroom. It might be any hotel room in any country. The servant put down the bags, she tipped him with English money, he left. She opened the window, looked out from a balcony into inky darkness, the sound of distant surf, palm trees rustling and with the smell of wet cement a whiff of jasmine.
Perhaps he had not noticed the dog, he was busy talking.
He had his work, it was important that he should succeed in this his first venture in the new job.
Perhaps he had not noticed. He could not have helped the dog.
