Vacillations of Poppy Carew

by Mary Wesley

  ‘What?’ Poppy, adjusting her thoughts, felt as though they were in a tumble-dryer.

  ‘I said pigs need lots of space. You see them lolling together in groups of course when they are feeling sociable.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My sows all have their separate styes. Terribly clean animals, pigs, did you know?’ (What does she know? She must have some clue, she’s lived in the country.)

  ‘Not enough.’

  ‘My breeding sows, most of them, well, all of them now, I bred myself. The principal, most important to me, are Mrs Future and her aunt. I admit that to the uninitiated they all look alike. The little pigs, when they are old enough, live in groups in deep litter.’

  ‘Not on concrete?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ Willy exploded.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I believe you thought I was a factory farmer,’ Willy accused, furious.

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ (That was it, that was what Edmund admired, a factory farm. Oh Edmund, what a lamentable mistake you have been.) ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘please go on.’

  ‘All the pigs are out in the fields when it’s not raining, rooting about playing.’

  ‘Playing? What?’

  ‘Pigs are humorous animals.’ Willy was quite huffy now.

  ‘I had not realised.’

  ‘I believe in my animals having happy lives.’

  ‘And after? What about after?’

  ‘After life is ham. I specialise in smoked ham, the trade name is Guthrie.’

  ‘I’ve seen it in Fortnum’s catalogue.’ Poppy steadied the tumble-dryer.

  ‘I have my own smokery.’

  ‘Goodness.’

  ‘They live cheerfully, die quickly without prior knowledge. They reward me with a fat profit. It’s a lot neater than what happens to humans.’

  ‘We are not eaten for breakfast.’

  ‘You split hairs. Your father—’

  Poppy remembered Dad in the hospital bed surrounded by those sad grey old men. He had not been cheerful there. True, his life had been pretty comfortable—very comfortable, if one remembered the Dividend bed—he’d obviously enjoyed himself at the races but what about all those coronaries and although laughter had killed him—

  ‘Do they smell?’ she asked, seeking something derogatory to say, trying not to surrender to the description of the farm which sounded bliss. She had always longed for a large bedroom with an open fire. ‘Do they smell?’ she repeated as Willy did not answer.

  ‘About as much as Venice and not all the time. A good pig farm should not smell.’ (One must be truthful, there were times the pigs smelled, times they did not.)

  ‘Do you grow fond of them?’ (Keep on doubting, do not yield to this insidious propaganda.)

  ‘Of course I do. I am particularly partial to Mrs Future and her aunt. I love them.’ Willy laughed.

  ‘What’s funny?’ There was something suspicious in Willy’s laughter.

  ‘They are pigs of character.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘I brought Mrs Future up on a bottle, she was a runt, she used to follow me about like a dog.’

  ‘And her aunt?’

  ‘She’s something quite else. Once, to make it easier to care for her I moved her and her litter. She ate the lot. You remind me of her.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ exclaimed Poppy.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Willy trod hard on the brakes as the car was engulfed in sudden dense deafening fog. ‘Curse it. Can you see out your side? We seem to have hit a bit of road without markings or cats’ eyes. Oh bloody hell, I hate fog.’

  ‘It’s beautiful new macadam.’ Poppy peered down at the road. ‘So fresh I can smell it. Delicious.’

  ‘Fuck the new macadam.’ Willy reduced the car to a crawl. The car lights, drowned in the fog, came bouncing back. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  The fog was dense and eerie. Trying to see, seeing nothing, they were quiet for a while, crawling in low gear.

  ‘Can you see the verge?’

  ‘Just. I’ll keep my window open.’ Poppy leaned sideways, watching the verge. ‘It may only be a patch.’

  ‘And it may go on for miles; this road runs along a river.’

  They crawled on, nosing into the fog which fingered cold and wetly into the car. Willy switched on the wipers.

  ‘There’s a foghorn,’ said Poppy.

  ‘It’s a cow, stupid. In a field somewhere near.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A motorbicycle came suddenly out of the fog, swerved to avoid them, the rider shouted something antagonistic before disappearing, its noisy engine silenced in the vaporous air.

  Suddenly all around them loomed enormous shapes. Dazzled by the headlights a vast Friesian bumped into the car, lurching against it so that the chassis rocked.

  Poppy gave a surprised shriek as another cow blew sweet breath in her face through the window, starting back, slipping awkwardly on the road as her nose touched Poppy’s cheek, her bland eye rolling in terror.

  ‘I can’t see the verge any more,’ she exclaimed.

  Willy edged the car back to the side. ‘See it now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Willy switched off the engine. ‘Some clot has let these cows out.’ He got out of the car, cupped his hands round his mouth, shouted, ‘Anybody with this lot?’

  His voice echoed back, ‘Islot—islot—’ ‘You stay there, I must get them back, find their field, otherwise there will be a smash. There will be a gate open. Sit tight.’

  Willy disappeared along the road they had come, following the cows. She heard his voice ‘How-how-how’ and soon the cows lumbered past the car at a trot in the reverse direction. For a second she saw Willy following them. ‘Whoa there, steady there, no need to rush. Stay where you are, I won’t be long,’ he called to her as he and the cows were swallowed into the fog.

  For a few minutes the steam rising from the cows’ bodies sweetened the fog, then it was back swirling cold and inimical. There was a strong smell of cowpat and silence.

  Curiously afraid, Poppy undid her safety belt and scrambled out of the car. She called, ‘Willy, Willy.’

  The fog replied, ‘Silly—silly’, remote, impersonal. She strained her ears, heard nothing. It may be miles before he finds the open gate, hours before he comes back. Supposing this is it, suppose this is the nothing, supposing he is gone?

  ‘Willy.’ Poppy shouted louder now, urgently, experiencing the acute terror Nature’s vagaries can engender. ‘Why was I so detestable?’ she cried aloud and then again, ‘Willy, come back.’

  ‘Ack,’ rejoined the fog laconically. She stood straining her ears, her hand on the cold metal of the car, beaded with droplets from the fog. Should she switch off the headlights to save the battery? No, they must serve to guide Willy back.

  He must come back.

  She felt as though she was alone on top of a high mountain in her fear, she felt exalted. She listened so hard she was deafened by the fearful blood thumping in her ears.

  The transport lorry hit the car so suddenly there was no time to jump clear. It crunched over the bonnet and straddled the chassis with its giant wheels as it shuddered, clanked, crackled to a stop. Breaking glass tinkled and chinked, there was the smell of hot oil, mingling with cowpat and spilling petrol and the blare of the car horn jammed on by the accident.

  Oh God, I’ve peed all over myself, I am lying in a cowpat. She was flat on her back pinned down.

  Slightly concussed, too frightened to lose consciousness, Poppy expected her past life to flash by. At top level her mind rummaged around to locate broken bones and torn sinews, at a deeper level it seemed imperative to recall Dad’s message about, what was it, money lenders, racing tips?

  She tried to move her head and yelped with pain as the hair was wrenched from her scalp (I am trepanned).

  She tried moving her legs but somebody had put them in a bag and bound them tightly.

  Warm oil dripped on h
er face but she could not turn her head to escape it.

  I shall drown in a sack she thought, my legs are paralysed, if I survive I shall be a paraplegic. She tried to call out ‘Get me out of here’ but her mouth filled with oil. She choked and gagged.

  She remembered the terror and anguish of falling out of bed during nightmares as a child, all wound up in the bedclothes, and her father coming from his room across the passage to unravel her. She spat out the foul oil.

  I have been run over by a lorry and am pinned underneath it.

  I am soaked in oil and petrol and when it catches fire I shall fry.

  I am paralysed.

  I have something to say to Willy, it’s important. I was forming a witty phrase when this thing hit me.

  I wish someone would turn off the car horn, it is getting on my nerves.

  I am too badly hurt to feel anything.

  My central nervous system is gone.

  I wish I could lose consciousness. I need to tell Willy I love him.

  This will teach me to prevaricate and play hard to get (not that he was taking a blind bit of notice).

  All I want is to be safe in his arms for ever, oh dear God, I am so cold.

  Shut up, you fool, stop whingeing and whining and pitying yourself. Listen, listen to hear if there is anyone there.

  There may be some sound not drowned by the car’s horn. It will stop when the battery goes flat.

  This lot may go up in a whoosh of flame before the horn stops.

  Somebody must have been driving the lorry.

  I am alone.

  Somebody must have been driving it. There must be somebody there.

  Nobody.

  The car’s horn stopped abruptly.

  Running footsteps circled the wrecked vehicles, men’s voices, lights.

  ‘The driver’s dead.’ ‘Have to cut him out.’ ‘Got a torch?’ ‘Bring it here.’ ‘Who was in the other car?’ ‘They dead too?’ ‘It’s empty, some damned fool left it parked.’ ‘There’s a body here. Run over, looks like. Must have been standing by the car when the lorry hit.’

  A torch shone in her eyes.

  Willy calling, ‘Poppy, Poppy. Where are you? Answer me.’ Running, running, frantic.

  Poppy spat oil, then, keeping her mouth shut, managed a sort of mooing sound, ‘OOOO—’

  A scrabbling behind her head, Willy’s voice hoarse with anxiety. ‘I’m here, darling, I’m on my way.’

  ‘Ooooo—’ She began to weep.

  Willy’s face upside-down, his velvet eyes close to hers beady with anxiety, the oil from the crankshaft dropping on to his head now cloying in long trails down his cheeks, his hands reaching round her, exploring her plight, his mouth kissing hers briefly.

  ‘This is a novel sort of Soixante Neuf. Will you marry me?’

  ‘I can’t, I’m paralysed.’

  ‘Nonsense, don’t be imaginative, your hair and skirt are pinned by the wheel of the lorry.’ Turning his head to one side Willy yelled, ‘Someone bring me a knife.’

  ‘A what? We’re busy with the driver.’

  ‘A knife. A fucking knife, hurry up, or scissors.’

  ‘Okay, okay, keep your cool.’

  ‘Better hurry, the petrol isn’t safe. Here’s a knife, what d’you want it for?’ said a voice.

  Then Willy speaking gently. ‘Sorry about this, darling, I’ll try not to hurt.’

  Willy sawing at her hair, her head suddenly free.

  ‘That’s better, now let me get at your skirt. Keep still or I’ll cut your stomach open. Right. Can you move your legs?’

  ‘Yes.’ Amazed. ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘How d’you feel?’ His voice quite wobbly.

  ‘The fear of death has sharpened my intellect.’

  ‘Great! Now keep still a moment then I’ll haul you out.’

  Willy edged backwards.

  ‘I was so frightened I peed and worse, Willy. Ouch, what are you doing?’

  ‘Pulling you out from under, let me get hold of your arms.’ Willy heaved, Poppy kicked as she scraped along the tarmac.

  ‘Get a blanket from the ambulance,’ said a voice bossily.

  ‘Got the stretcher here,’ said another invitingly.

  ‘Easy does it,’ said a third. ‘That was just in time, I’d say.’

  ‘Where do they all come from?’ Poppy staggered to her feet. The fog was clearing.

  ‘Police and ambulances left over from the pile-up earlier tonight on the motorway.’ Willy wrapped her in a blanket, kept his arms round her.

  ‘Lie on the stretcher, love,’ invited a policeman.

  ‘No thanks, I’m perfectly—’ She put her hand to her head and felt her hair gone from one side. ‘Oh.’

  ‘You can race Mary growing it.’ Willy was laughing with relief, covered in oil, his shirt torn.

  ‘What is that?’ There was an inert body on a stretcher, they were pushing it up into the ambulance, it looked very dead.

  ‘The lorry driver,’ said Willy, ‘don’t look.’

  ‘Watch out!’ cried a man. ‘Up she goes!’

  There was a thump and a whoosh of flame as the entangled machines finally caught. Willy, clutching Poppy, threw himself backwards. They toppled, staggering down a bank into a ditch. As they splashed down Poppy shouted ‘What did you do that for?’ indignantly.

  ‘I don’t want to marry a Roman candle.’ He pulled her along the ditch away from the blaze.

  In the distance a fire engine raced, its siren blaring, spreading panic.

  Presently, teeth chattering, wrapped in a dry blanket, she was in a police car with Willy. Somehow blessedly he had persuaded these authoritative people that there was no need for the hospital, they could skip it and after answering questions go home.

  Aeons later, awash with sweet tea, still wrapped in a blanket, she was standing beside Willy watching the police car drive away.

  Last night’s fog was reduced to swags of mist circling round the willows along the stream running through the meadow. A pair of mallard flew up and away with a quack. A rosy sun was swinging up the sky. A bantam cock crowed in the barn.

  Calypso’s dog, loosed for his morning run, ran over the grass to greet them. A faint smell of pig, sounds of rustling straw, contented grunts and chomping jaws drifted across the yard.

  ‘We both need baths. I’ll put a match to the fires.’

  ‘Might I meet Mrs Future and her aunt first?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Willy, watching her walk barefoot across the cobbles, almost choked with emotion. She was so filthy. She looked so comical. ‘Here they are.’

  The giant sows were spotless, their flanks pink, their sparse hair crisp and bristly. The row of pearly piglets ranged sleepy, each snout aimed at a teat ready for the next meal.

  The sow rustled the straw with her trotters as Poppy leaned over and whispered into an arum lily ear, ‘Hello, there.’

  ‘Ham for breakfast?’ suggested Willy lightly.

  Poppy looked up. ‘I realise I should feel flattered at being compared to Mrs F’s aunt,’ she said. ‘I had not realised it was a compliment.’

  Willy stared at her.

  I must get this straight, he thought. She has taken my feeble joke as an insult. She’s had a knock on the head, she is probably concussed. She looks too silly for words, I’ve made a terrible mess of her hair. I shall cut the other side to even it up, give her breakfast and a bath, borrow some clothes from Calypso and take her home. I should never have rushed her in this way. I can’t even learn to behave from a pig. I have behaved exactly like that shit Edmund. I need my head examined. Well, there will be plenty of time for that in the years ahead, he thought bitterly. I’ve really loused this up.

  ‘When I saw you at your father’s funeral,’ he said carefully, ‘I fell in love with you. As far as I was concerned that was that. I realise I have behaved selfishly in trying to force you. Of course you have your own ideas about what you want to do with your life. I suggest you have a
bath. I’ll borrow some of my aunt’s clothes for you and drive you home in her car as mine is wrecked. I hope you will perhaps remember you felt some of your time in Algiers was quite fun.’

  ‘What’s got into you?’ cried Poppy. ‘I don’t want to borrow your aunt’s clothes. I don’t want to be driven anywhere in her car. If you want to get shot of me I’ll hire a taxi.’ She raised her voice to a shout. ‘Any feelings I had in Algiers were mere hors d’oeuvres, but oh, Willy, could I have something real to eat before we get on with dinner?’

  ‘At once,’ said Willy, not trusting himself to say more.

  As they crossed the yard to his cottage he looked at her sidelong. She looked so funny holding the blanket up to cover her breasts, nearly tripping as it trailed round her feet. She looked like some strange punk with hair topped from the left side of her head.

  ‘I trust you won’t be chopping and changing your mind,’ he said. ‘I don’t think my nerves could stand it.’

  ‘After this I shan’t be placing any more bets,’ she said. ‘I’m not very good at it.’

  Willy bent to kiss her, pushing her hair aside, tracing the streaks of oil down her face to her neck.

  ‘One thing we don’t need is all this lubrication. Let’s get ourselves a bath, see whether we can manage without drowning, then breakfast, how’s that?’

  Later, eating breakfast, Willy, watching Poppy dressed now in one of his sweaters, her hair still damp from the bath, was seized by a terrible twinge of fear.

  ‘If you don’t like it here,’ he said, ‘you may rather live in London, I have a small house there.’ He was prepared to give everything up, to sacrifice Mrs Future if Poppy would stay with him (he would of course never forgive her). Since lunching with his old cousin he had almost forgotten the house, his mind obsessed with Poppy; now he saw its value and offered it as a forlorn alternative.

  Poppy flushed. ‘I don’t need bribing. When I changed my mind, wouldn’t come back here with you, I was under the delusion that what I wanted was a lover, a pleasure man. I thought I might try Victor or Fergus or both.’ She watched Willy (if I said anything like this to Edmund he would black my eye and be off to Venetia). ‘Stuck under that lorry I realised that it wasn’t just pleasure I wanted, I want the lot. Right?’ Have I said too much, been, as usual, a fool? She looked away, afraid of meeting Willy’s eyes.