by Mary Wesley
‘Why not,’ said Edmund accepting a cup of coffee. (I can’t possibly tell her, never, never, never.) ‘I can take the day off, finish the job tomorrow,’ he said. ‘This is good, just what I need.’ He gulped the restorative liquid. ‘That fellow Mustafa is a bit of a bore in large doses, we can dispense with his services today.’
‘Lovely,’ said Poppy, looking across the palm tops towards the sea. I had better not suggest aspirin, she thought, it only irritates him.
‘It’s a long time since we spent the day together,’ said Edmund, who had lately spent his free days with Venetia.
‘Ages,’ said Poppy thinking of Venetia, had she posted that card, did Venetia know what chameau meant? ‘Did you have a successful day?’ she asked in the tone of voice which expects no answer.
‘You could say that.’ Edmund chose a roll, buttered it. ‘How was yours?’
‘So, so,’ said Poppy, ‘so, so.’ She put on her sunglasses, handed Edmund his, wondered whether anyone had yet trod on them. ‘Sun’s very bright,’ she said. If we can keep this up nothing need have happened, nothing will have happened.
There was an English language paper by the breakfast tray. Edmund picked it up, glanced at it. ‘There seems to have been some political trouble just before we arrived. All quiet now it seems.’
‘Oh really?’ said Poppy.
Edmund put the paper down, helped himself to more coffee, looked out across the palms towards the sea, burst out laughing. How could Venetia’s feet be so permanently chilly, she must have a funny sort of metabolism.
‘The cupboard in the first room they put us in was full of cockroaches,’ said Poppy.
‘Oh darling,’ said Edmund, still laughing, thinking of Venetia’s feet. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You weren’t there to tell,’ said Poppy lightly. And you weren’t there when they hanged those men either. She clipped up her secret thoughts.
30
WILLY GUTHRIE’S INTENTION OF flying in search of Poppy on the first available plane got a setback when he found no airline called at the desired destination for two days. With mounting impatience he prowled his farm, trying not to drive his stockman mad with repetitious instructions for the duration of his absence. He sought solace watching the young porkers hop, skip, chase each other in short grunting rushes, root thoughtfully along the hedges, gobble their balanced diet from their speckless troughs. He found no solace. Communing with Mrs Future, admiring her aerodynamic Zeppelin shape, catching the beady intelligent eyes peeping at him from the shade of ears shaped like arum lilies, he sought comfort. It was some years since, tiny, pushed aside by her siblings, squashed almost to death by her mother, she had lain in Willy’s arms feeding from a bottle. She had rewarded him with almost as much companionship as a dog, he had derived a lot of pleasure driving to market with a pig beside him. Walking the fields with Mrs Future was something he missed now that, full grown, she regularly brought litters of little Futures into the hard world of hams.
There was no trace of sentiment in Mrs Future’s eye as she twitched her mobile snout, took from his hand a proffered carrot. Willy felt that Mrs Future would consider, were she human, his emotions vis à vis Poppy rather ludicrous, without place in the real world.
Scratching Mrs Future’s flank with a stick kept specially for the purpose, Willy dreamed of Poppy as he had seen her standing alone in the front pew at her father’s funeral. ‘You don’t know what it is to be lonely,’ he said to the pig, lifting her large ear to peer into her little eye. The sow’s eye gleamed red in the evening light. ‘When your litter have grown a bit we will take them for a walk under the oak trees,’ said Willy. ‘You love acorns.’
Mrs Future turned away sashaying back to the litter in her byre. It was sentimental to think of her as any different from the other breeding sows lolling in their comfortable quarters, rows of piglets laid along their flanks in pale pink harmony.
To the uninitiated each sow identically resembled the next. Except for their past relationship Mrs Future might just be one of the many, indeed the pig’s rather nonchalant attitude inclined to hint that now that she had better things to do their special relationship was at an end. Rebuffed, Willy experienced a fresh pang of loneliness, his mind veered away from the pig to speculate on his aunt in her house on the other side of the wood and her uncharacteristically helpful attitude towards his love for Poppy. Had she murmured something about risk? He searched his memory. Did she suggest love was a risk? Was that her opinion? Surely a risk worth taking? Uneasily Willy set out to walk off his fretful anxiety, tire himself so that he would not lie sleepless before his journey. As he walked he remembered Calypso visiting his smoke-house, inspecting the cadaver of a pig split neatly in half ready for smoking. ‘That is what I feel like,’ she had said, turning away. Willy had wondered what the hell she meant. As he walked along the wood path Willy discovered what she had meant for he felt he would never be whole without Poppy just as Calypso could never be whole without Hector. Here was the endemic risk in loving. There is no knowing, thought Willy grimly, whether I shall ever experience that wholeness. Pig farmers cannot afford to be morbid, he told himself.
I can perfectly well live without Poppy, I have up to now, he persuaded himself.
The word mawkish occurred to him. He had survived other loves, he thought robustly, there was no need to be mawkish.
In the fading light the wood grew dark, occasional yellow fern, precursors of winter, lightened the way. In the still hour when the night’s inhabitants roused themselves, Willy waited under a giant oak, survivor of a long gone forest towering among the young trees planted by Hector. He promised himself to do some coppicing for Calypso during the winter. On the edge of the wood a cock pheasant cried, was still. From the oak a tawny owl flew out silent about its hunting. Willy sighed with satisfaction, walked back over the hill, came finally to his farm, turned on the harsh electric light, cut himself a sandwich, poured himself a beer, switched on the radio for the late news. ‘Terrorists, attempted plot uncovered, attempt on ruler’s life, shots fired in the streets, three men arrested, executed, calm restored.’ He waited for the weather report, went up to bed, slept. The distant sound of a train rushing through the night blew in on the night air.
At cockcrow Willy woke, shaved, bathed, dressed, checked his bag, put passport and tickets in his breast pockets, ate a hurried breakfast, carried his bag to the car and drove across country to Gatwick.
Arriving early, he wandered round the departure lounge, drifted through the duty free shop, read the titles of the books on the bookstall, bought a newspaper and a couple of weeklies, impatiently waited for time to pass. Ruefully he envied the sangfroid and ease with which habitual travellers drifted along just in time to board their planes. In the past he too had been a carefree traveller. At last, time relented, he boarded the plane. Once airborne he felt elation; in a matter of hours he would find Poppy, what happened after that was up to the Almighty. In an attempt to keep calm he opened his Spectator, tried to read.
Halfway through the third article he realised with a jolt that he was reading about the country of his destination, went back to the beginning of the article. ‘The country’s past record is by no means peaceful, the present troubles are due—’ Frowning, Willy read on. Plot, counterplot, suppression, terrorists, kidnappings, bombs had a familiar ring, he was not unduly disturbed. Reading about trouble abroad, he had always understood, was quite different to being actually present where it took place. The odds were, if you were on the spot you would notice nothing. Uneasily Willy cast his mind back to the previous evening’s news. Where and in what country had the reported trouble been. If it was in Poppy’s country her man (even to himself Willy refused to think of him as her lover) would take care of her and all governments took care of tourists. Willy put down the Spectator, searched his newspaper, found nothing, no mention even in the stop press. Reassured, he dozed.
Roused by the steward for the midflight meal, he was picking at the pac
kets on his tray when the intercom crackled and the captain made an announcement. The weather along the North African coast was of such turbulence that the plane must alter course and land in Algiers. The airport at their proper destination was temporarily under water.
Willy could not believe his ears. He checked with his neighbour who agreed; he too had heard the announcement. It was confirmed by the stewardess.
Willy shouted, ‘God damn the bloody plane I want to get off.’ His neighbour, much amused, ordered a large whisky and offered one to Willy who fretfully refused.
The plane altered course in the direction of Algiers. Philosophically the passengers ate their meal.
The captain apologised for any delay and inconvenience caused, promised that the passengers would be accommodated at the airline’s expense in the best hotels. The plane would land in forty minutes. Presently the plane lost height in a series of stomach-jolting jerks, groaning down through dark rain clouds. Willy watched the ground rush up, saw lashing rain, palm trees waving like dishmops.
‘Much worse along the coast,’ shouted Willy’s neighbour. How did he know? ‘Often happens in autumn, equinoctial gales—’ What a know-all.
The plane landed, splashing on to puddled tarmac, taxiing through sheeting rain to the terminal, stopped. The aircraft doors open a voice hailed, ‘Que messieurs les passagers descendent—’
‘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.’
31
HAVING 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 fro
m 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?’
