by Prue Leith
“That’s right. You tell him. Lazy little sod,” said Eduardo, laughing.
Poppy held Tom’s hand to help him negotiate the step, but Lorato took it in her stride. She made straight for the sandpit, saying, “Cover off.”
“Please, Mummy,” admonished Poppy.
“Please, Mummy,” said Lorato, pulling at the plastic cover. Poppy rolled it back and lifted the two children into the sandpit.
Olaf, who had followed them through the French windows, rested his head on the edge of the pit. Tom immediately poured a beaker of sand on his nose, but the dog simply shook his head and stared dolefully at the children.
“Watering can,” said Lorato. Poppy, on the point of going back inside, turned and looked at her, impressed that she’d remembered the words.
“Watering can, please, Mummy,” said Lorato.
Poppy filled the little plastic watering can from the terrace tap and gave it to Lorato, waiting for her to say, “Thank-you” before she handed it over.
“Did you see all that?” she asked Eduardo as she stepped back into the kitchen. But Eduardo was back in his newspaper.
Poppy was tempted to insist. She would so love Eduardo to share her pleasure in the children’s every word and step. But, conscious that domestic details bored her husband, she thought better of it, and set about clearing the table.
As she reached under Eduardo’s newspaper to wipe the crumbs from the table he lifted the paper to the side and said, “You could go on tour, you know.”
Poppy frowned, confused. “But I don’t want to.”
“Lorato is fine now. Look at her. She’s gabbling away much better than Tom.” His eyes flicked to the two small figures on the terrace.
“I know. It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” Poppy’s round face was pink with pleasure. “She can say watering can . . .”
“Why don’t you do the tour?” Eduardo interrupted, folding his paper along its original creases and turning to look at Poppy.
“Oh, all sorts of reasons. I’d rather be in the garden than in a sweaty theater. But mainly because I want to be with the children.”
Eduardo did not look convinced, and Poppy felt compelled to add, “Besides, maybe Lorato is fine now, precisely because I’ve been at home all day. Maybe she’d go back to wetting her pants and refusing to talk if I disappeared.”
Eduardo shook his head slightly but said nothing. Poppy noticed the gesture and, provoked, said, “You don’t want me to go on tour, do you?”
Eduardo said quickly, “Of course not. But you shouldn’t sacrifice your career for the kids. It’s not as if they don’t have me and Guillia.”
Poppy said, “I’m not. I told you, I’ll be back on the boards in September.” She picked up a bottle of sun-block from the windowsill and changed the subject, “I’ll put some sun-cream on those two. I’ve no idea if Lorato would burn, but Tom will, for sure.”
As she brushed sand off the children’s pudgy arms, she thought of what she hadn’t said to Eduardo: that he wasn’t much use because he was hardly ever at home, and anyway the children spent the summer here in the country, not in Paddington. And that she did not want her mother-in-law as a permanent stand-in either.
And that she had a plan, half-formed, for a family holiday in Mpumalanga.
*
Poppy spent the whole day weeding Lucille’s garden in the rain. She grubbed out the grass from between the paving stones with an old knife, hacked back the canary creeper and ivy and planted the tubs with a hundred pounds’ worth of instant bloomery.
She didn’t mind the physical labor, or even the rain making the tools slimy. It allowed her to feel she was doing her duty by her poor old mum without having to talk to her too much. Circular conversations were fine for an hour, but Poppy found trotting round the same loop ten times hard going.
Besides, she would be away in South Africa for almost a month and she felt she should do her bit to make up for that. Not that Lucille would notice her visits or the lack of them. Carrie didn’t agree, but Poppy was sure that somehow, in some subliminal recess, her mother was glad of the attention, of the evidence of love. And she did love Lucille. Indeed, she felt fonder of her mother now than before she’d lost her memory.
But today Lucille was driving her mad, appearing every few minutes to demand, “Darling, what are you doing out there? Come and have some lunch.”
“Mother, we’ve just had breakfast. It’s 10:30.”
“Good Lord. So it is.” As always, her mother was genuinely astonished at her own forgetfulness. “How odd. My mind is getting very odd, you know.”
Sometimes her interventions were less cheerful. She’d lean out of the French windows and snap, “Poppy, do leave that. I’ll have a go at it tomorrow.” Poppy forbore—what was the point?—replying that Lucille had not been up to planting a petunia for five years. She tried distraction, “Mum. It’s tipping down. Why don’t you cozy down and watch the telly? I’ll join you in a minute.”
She wouldn’t, of course, but Poppy figured her mother, once hooked by the Teletubbies, would forget about her. But Lucille wasn’t playing, “Will you stop bossing me about? Anyone would think I was senile.” And then, two minutes later: “Darling, do come in. We’ll have some lunch.”
Mercifully, Adrienne turned up in the guise of a beautician and thoughtfully elongated Lucille’s pedicure for an hour and a half, and then made lunch, drawing Lucille’s attention away from her daughter’s efforts in the garden.
After lunch her mother fell asleep to the drone of the stock-market report, and Poppy managed to finish the job and assemble the garden table and four chairs she’d bought at B & Q. But she failed to spirit away the old ones. Just as the heavily bribed taxi driver finally managed to unscrew the rusted table legs to get the thing to fold flat, Lucille appeared at the front door. “And what may you be doing?” she demanded.
Poppy’s heart sank. She knew that duchess tone.
“Mum, I bought you a new table and chairs, and I’ve put them on the terrace. Go and look.”
But Lucille stood where she was, indignation fizzing.
“But there is nothing wrong with these ones. All they need is a lick of paint. I wish you wouldn’t interfere, Poppy.”
“Mum, they are rusted to holes. Look.” Poppy pointed to the tabletop, the metal edge rusted away from the top. “It’s dead. Beyond rescue. Dangerous even.”
“Nonsense. I am not having this man take away my things. Besides,” she said, suddenly looking plaintive “I feel sorry for them. You cannot just dump them. I’ll take them to Oxfam. When I’ve painted them.”
Poppy suspected she was beaten, but made a last attempt. “Mum, come through to the garden, please. I want to show you the new table and chairs I’ve got you. They are really . . .”
“But I don’t want new things. I want my old things. Why can’t I just have my own old things, Poppy?” Lucille looked so forlorn, Poppy thought, Oh God she’s going to cry. Putting an arm over her mother’s shoulder and kissing her cheek, Poppy said, “OK Mum, you win.” Lucille’s face cleared at once.
Poppy turned to the taxi driver, who was beginning to look as though he might report her for mother abuse.
“I’m really very sorry,” she said, “but could you put this thing back together again?” She dropped her voice so Lucille would not hear and said, “I’ll pay you, of course.”
“What are you two whispering about?” said Lucille. “I’m not deaf, you know.”
The taxi driver reassembled the rusty table and he and Poppy carried it, and the chairs, back through the flat and into the garden, where her mother supervised their reinstatement besides the new ones.
As Poppy drove back to Paddington she thought crossly that the beautifully revamped little garden now looked like a furniture store. Poppy told herself that Carrie could damned well deal with the defunct table and chairs.
This thought set Poppy brooding on Carrie’s relationship with their mother. Carrie was altogether too casual about Lucille. She was forever canceling intended visits, or rushing off as soon as she’d swallowed a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. She maintained that as her mother didn’t know if she’d been there yesterday or last month, or stayed for minutes or hours, it didn’t matter. All that mattered is that Lucille had a good time when she did come. Which she did, Poppy had to admit. Carrie made her mother laugh, and they’d giggle together like schoolgirls.
But Poppy felt a knot of resentment. I’m forever cast as the sensible nanny, and Carrie as the princess, she thought. Carrie takes no part in trying to keep Lucille’s flat, or even Lucille herself, half-decent.
Poppy could just hear Carrie: “Oh Poppy, sweetheart, stop worrying! If Mum doesn’t care about the threadbare carpet or the spring-free chairs, why should you? Just leave her be. She’s happy. Why bully her into a clean jersey? Or frog-march her to the hairdresser? Just go with the flow, Sis.”
The next day Poppy returned with a bottle of Pathclear. The label promised if she applied it to the terrace slabs, she’d not have to grub around with a penknife for at least another nine months. She hadn’t been able to apply it yesterday because of the rain, and she hadn’t dared leave it in the flat in case Lucille drank it, fed it to the cats or added it to her bath.
As soon as she knocked on the door, Lucille was there, her face flushed with excitement. “Come and see what your wonderful sister has done,” she said. “She is such a wonderful girl, that Carrie. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Bemused, Poppy followed her hurrying mother through the kitchen and out into the little garden. Lucille advanced a few paces onto the terrace. Turning round, her arms swept over the little garden. “Look,” she said. “Your sister has weeded the whole place. And planted the tubs. Aren’t they beautiful? And she bought me this lovely table and chairs. Isn’t she wonderful?”
Poppy opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. What was the point? Lucille said, “We just need to get rid of these rusty old chairs now. And this horrible table. Will you take them to the recycling center for me, Poppy?”
Chapter 12
Poppy found the condoms when she was packing their overnight bag for the plane trip. They were in the bag Eduardo used for short trips.
At first she looked at the two slim black packets with elegant gold lettering VIVA L’AMOR in puzzlement. One of them was unopened, but the sticky flap on the other was crookedly resealed.
Poppy sank down on the bed, and sat very still. She looked at the packets in her hand, mentally distancing herself from them, not allowing her mind to pursue any train of thought. Then, almost absently, she opened the resealed pack, and registered that two condoms were gone, one still there.
After a full minute she stuck the little flap down again, lining it up neatly and smoothing out its wrinkles between her finger and thumb. Carefully she tucked the envelope back in the bag, and stood up. She collected Eduardo’s washbag from the bathroom, then his book from his side of the bed. It was Tom Wolfe’s Man in Full, which even in paperback took up more than its fair share of the overnight bag. She’d have to stuff her own book in her handbag. She walked through to Eduardo’s dressing room for his cashmere cardigan.
She put the book in the bag and folded the jersey neatly. But condoms did not mean an affair. Sleeping with someone did not mean love.
Her spirit crouched inside her, afraid. She would not think about it. She couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face what? There’s nothing to face. These are Spanish condoms. Eduardo spends weeks at a time in Spain. One-night stands in Bilbao don’t count.
Poppy went into the bathroom to get her things, resolving to take the minimum. They’d give them those washbags on the flight. Her mind leapt to a lifeline: perhaps Spanish airlines put condoms in their toilet bags?
This brief escape route fizzled out: two of the condoms had gone. And anyway Eduardo always refused the washbags. Unnecessary tat, he said. Why don’t they just reduce the airfare by a fiver?
She reached inside the medicine chest for aspirins. In case Eduardo had one of his headaches. And sleeping pills so he’d get at least some sleep on the plane. And her Microgynon.
She looked at the row of little broken blisters on the card. She’d dutifully taken a pill every day for eighteen days, since her last period.
And for what? She shut the medicine cupboard door and sat down on the loo-seat. Think, she told herself. Think. She and Eduardo had not made love for weeks. Could it be months? Yes, months. She’d been stuffing her body with drugs day after day while he made love to someone else.
But they had a wonderful marriage, didn’t they? Sex wasn’t everything. Her mind went back to a conversation with Guillia, about a month ago, when, as Eduardo left the flat late one Saturday morning, Guillia had said, “Poppy, you should be more loving for Eduardo. Men are same as children. They need a coccola also.”
“Coccollo? A cuddle?”
Her mother-in-law said,
“Eduardo he takes children to the park. When they come home you hug and kiss all the bambinos like you no see them for a year, ask plenty plenty questions. But Eduardo he get nothing. No kiss. No thank you. No questions.”
“Oh Guillia, you don’t understand. Eduardo and I talk to each other when the children aren’t around. It’s impossible with them underfoot . . .”
Guillia pulled her apron off and sat on the kitchen stool. She said, “You sit down, Poppy, I tell you.” Poppy did as she was told, half irritated and half amused. Guillia was so wonderfully old fashioned. Guillia said, “Eduardo is same like his father. Everyone love him. Wonderful man. But he must be in the middle. How you say? The center of attention. His father want always beautiful things all round. Beautiful clothes, beautiful buildings, beautiful food. Sometimes beautiful women.”
Eduardo had told Poppy that his father, like most of his class and generation in Milan, had had a succession of mistresses, and that Guillia had never reproached him, but had waited on him hand and foot, exactly as she now did for Eduardo.
Poppy said, “Eduardo loves those things too—except, I hope, the beautiful women. But he doesn’t expect me to run around him. Eduardo’s attitudes are the same as min. . . .”
Guillia tapped her forehead with her fist. “In his brain. His brain agrees with you, Bu. . . .”
“But what?”
For a few seconds Guillia hesitated, then she answered indirectly, “Eduardo’s life has been too easy. Still too easy.”
As Poppy reran the little scene with her mother-in-law, she wondered if Guillia had been trying to warn her. Trying to say that after a dozen years of marriage men, anyway Italian men, got tired of their wives.
Poppy stood up again and stared at her face in the mirror, seeking an answer. Was she unattractive? Was it her fault? Her reflection stared back, pale, eyes wide and worried behind her lenses, mouth set and unhappy.
Unblinking, she watched her eyes fill with tears. And then she couldn’t see anymore, and she ducked away and reached for a towel. She lifted her glasses and rubbed her face, then restored them. She folded the towel carefully lengthwise. She dropped one end behind the towel rail, the other in front, adjusted the towel to align the ends and smoothed it neatly on the rail. She stood for a moment not knowing what to do next, her hands gripping the towel rail through the towel. She pulled on her arms and leaned her brow against the marble wall. What shall I do, what shall I do?
The telephone rang and she went to it, unthinking. It did not occur to her to ignore it or to let the machine pick it up. She took a breath and pushed her chin up.
“Hello.” Her voice sounded normal. Fine.
It was Carrie. “I’ve done it. I’m coming with you!”
Poppy didn’t get it. “You’re what?”
“I’m coming w
ith you to Kaia Moya. I’ve swung two commissions. One for American Gourmet on bush cooking. You know braais in the boma and potjies round the lapa fire. And a safari piece for Tatler!”
Poppy said, “But Carrie, we leave tonight . . .”
Carrie’s excited voice interrupted her. “I know. I’m just trying to translate my two economy tickets into one Club so I can sit with you.”
“You mean you are coming with us? Tonight? You know we leave tonight?”
“Yup. Tonight. Isn’t it great? I’m booked steerage, and on standby for Club.”
She babbled on, and Poppy found her spirits lifting slightly. She said, “Oh Carrie, I’m glad. That’s . . . that’s wonderful. You . . .” As she spoke, her voice caught and faltered.
Carrie interrupted. “Poppy, what’s wrong? You sound . . . Popps, are you OK?”
“I’m fine.,” said Poppy, fighting not to cry. “Really.” She gave a barking little laugh. “I’m fine,” she said again.
“Poppy, are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
Poppy forced her voice into normality.
“Carrie, everything’s fine, I promise. But I have to go. Where will we meet? At the Paddington check-in?”
“Why don’t I come to you? Then I can help you with the kids and the gear. Bags and that. I’ll come about four. OK?”
Poppy wanted to say No, nothing’s OK, but she said, “You needn’t. Really.” But Poppy knew she didn’t sound convincing. Besides, she wanted her sister with her. She’d be a buffer between her and Eduardo. She didn’t know what she’d say to Eduardo. Carrie said, “See you later then” and hung up.
*
As Carrie drove along the canal down Blomfield Road, skillfully swerving to minimize the effect of the speed ramps, she dialed Eduardo’s number with her left hand.
