Vacillations of Poppy Carew (17 page)

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 watched 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.

Nobody could help the dog.

A few cars patrolled along the sea road. She watched their lights. Her watch had stopped, it must be pretty late. The hotel was silent, almost as though it were empty. She ran water in the bathroom, bathed her face, washed her hands, her hands would not stop shaking. Stupid.

Better to unpack and go to bed, be asleep when he comes up.

She heaved her bag on to the bed, picked out the lovely dress, Dad’s present, carried it to the cupboard to put it on a hanger to hang it perhaps outside the cupboard where she could see it, be comforted. She opened the cupboard door, screamed a small controlled choking scream, shut the door in haste, bent to pick up the bedside telephone.

‘’Allo?’

‘A gentleman in the bar. Please find a gentleman in the bar. Mr Platt, Room Thirty-eight. Get him fast.’

‘
Comment
?’

‘Oh—Un
monsieur. Il y a un monsieur dans le bar, appellez le vite, s’il vous plaît
.’

She waited taking deep breaths.

‘Plat?’ a puzzled voice.

‘Yes.
Oui.
Platt. P – L – A—’

‘
Pas de messieurs
.’

‘What?’

‘No gentleman. Bar empty.
Fermé. Chiuso
.’

‘God!’

‘
Comment
?’

‘Send somebody up, Room Thirty-eight.
Vite.
At once.
Subito
.’

‘
Subito
.’ The line went dead. This is ridiculous.

It seemed a long time before there was a knock on the door. Two servants standing, moderately interested.

Poppy showed them the occupants of the cupboard, a group of very large reddish cockroaches clustered halfway up the cupboard, fidgeting in the electric light, waving long sensitive feelers.

‘Ah!’

‘I want another room, I can’t sleep here.’

‘
Comment
?’

‘Another room.
Une autre chambre. Ein anderer—un altro
—’

Confabulation, shrugging of shoulders. One of the men flipped at the cockroaches with a towel from the bathroom.

‘No.
Non. Nein.
Another room—’ She pushed the dress back into the bag, zipped it shut, made herself plain by signs and single words. One man seemed to understand Italian, the man who had flipped with the towel. Now he craftily captured the cockroaches in it, shook them away out of the open window.

‘
Ecco
!’

‘I still want to move.’

‘
E pericoloso sporgersi
.’ The man leaned out laughing, demonstrating the insects’ departure, smiling ingratiatingly, expecting to please with his little joke.

‘I—’

The man pointed at the bed. ‘
Allora
!
Dormez bien. Gute Nacht
.’

‘
No.
Another room. The bloody things will come back.’ She knew she was being irrational.’
Un altra camera. Ein.
Oh God, I can’t speak German. For Christ’s sake move me.’

‘Okay.’

At last another room far down the corridor, the servants anxious to please, by now opening each cupboard door exhibiting its pristine emptiness. The drawers too pulled out, virgin clean, bringing more towels to augment those already in the bathroom, running the water. (See it runs?), testing the lights, the telephone. Everything in order. ‘
Alles in Ordnung
’. Accepting tips. English money again. Good night. Good night. Poppy locked the door after them, washed her hands again, undressed, got into bed, covered her face with the sheet, prayed for sleep.

He
must
have noticed the dog.

Perhaps he had
not
noticed the dog.

Had Victor and Fergus helped Jane Edwardes clear up after the party? Perhaps the girls had helped? The girl with the baby, Mary? Why had she not telephoned from London, she was after all responsible, it was her father’s funeral, asked Mrs Edwardes whether everything was all right, told her that she was letting the house and stables to Fergus. Yes, Mrs E., all those horses, yes, Mrs E., that’s what I said.

Am I having a nervous breakdown?

What about her job? Had she or had she not made it clear when she telephoned them about Dad’s death that she was not coming back? What had she said? Had she made herself clear? Memory failed her. Why worry about that now, a bit late surely.

No, I am not having a breakdown.

And Edmund? Not in the bar? There were other bars. There were always other bars. She had seen this film before.

What would Venetia Colyer do under these circumstances? Or Mary with her dyed and spiky hair pomaded into points, tiny upright striking spears?

Poppy switched on the light, took the dress Dad had given her for her birthday and hung it near her on a chair so that if by some miracle she slept it would be in view when she woke. Then she got back into bed, laid her head on the pillow, switched off the light.

Neither Venetia nor Mary would have got themselves into a dump like this boiling with cockroaches with a man like Edmund. When they didn’t really want to.

We have no joint destination, she thought, Edmund and I.

Somewhere in the night a donkey brayed, expressing, as no other beast can, all the sorrows of the world.

I
N AN EMPTY BAR
Edmund sat with Mustafa from the Government Tourist Board, a half-full glass of whisky before him. He was aware that his host barely succeeded in hiding his feeling that it was a long time since he had met the plane, that everything that could be discussed between them that evening had been mulled over multiple times, that it was time to call it a day.

I have one more thing to say to him, thought Edmund, it is important. Why did I tell him the whole story of my life with Poppy, my love for Poppy? Edmund tried to remember. How did Poppy come into this important thing he had to say, ah of course, got it, here goes.

‘I know the car’s well sprung. Trust the Krauts to make a good car,’ he began.

‘—?’ Mustafa hummed.

‘Yes. That’s what I said. No, not better than a Ro—Ro—What? I said Rolls Royce, didn’t I? Ro Ros are the very best, we all know
that.
You agree?’

‘—’ he sighed politely.

‘Of course. Even Arabs—God—I’ve lost the thread. I was saying that we ran over a dog, you must have noticed.’

Mustafa lit a cigarette, blew smoke towards the ceiling.

Edmund ploughed on. ‘Poppy noticed. Went stiff as a board with horror.’

Edmund’s host glanced secretly at his watch, caught the eye of the barman.

‘Yes.’ Edmund answered Mustafa’s silence. ‘As I say. Too polite, too tactful to protest of course, but horrified.’

‘A stray dog.’ Mustafa drew in a lungful of smoke.

‘Grant you, a stray maybe, but your driver ran over it. I felt the bump even though we were in the second best car. I say, that’s funny. Second best.’

‘So?’ Mustafa let the smoke drift out of his mouth finishing with a sharp puff.

‘He should have stopped.’

‘Stopped. Why?’

‘For appearance sake. Taken the dog’s number.’

‘No use, no point, no number—’

‘Of course no use to the
dog
, it was dead, wasn’t it, but if you want to attract the British tourist you have to stop when you run over a dog, it’s essential.’

‘Ha ha ha.’ The marvellously comic Brits.

‘No laughing matter. Preferable of course
not
to run over a dog in the first place. The British tourist doesn’t want to spend his hard earned pounds running over dogs.’

‘You say—’

‘I’m telling you. I say nothing matters, my precious Poppy says (well she didn’t, too polite wasn’t she, a tactful girl), nothing matters as much as dogs, better a child.’

‘A child?’ Mustafa straightened from a lounging position.

‘Yup,’ said Edmund wisely. ‘For some reason, yes. Herod is a secret hero with some sects in the UK.’

‘Ah?’ He must make enquiries, sects could be a serious cause of disturbances. ‘So?’

‘I say. What’s the time? Lord, it’s late. You’ve kept me talking while what I’ve been meaning to do is take my precious Poppy in my arms and tell her how much I love her. I’ve loved her for years.’

‘You will marry her?’ Mustafa feigned interest, he was sick of the subject of Poppy.

‘Of course. Her father died the other day. Didn’t like me, influenced her against me or tried to. I told you that didn’t I?’

‘Yes.’ Twice over, thought Mustafa, in truth, in triplicate. Can’t stand it again.

‘Didn’t succeed though, did he? Told you that too. Now then, look here, I can’t sit up all night talking to you when I have to comfort Poppy. Shall I tell you—’

‘No.’ Mustafa released a glint of impatience.

‘Oh, I see. Okay I won’t, but let me tell you the British won’t stand for killing dogs, it isn’t done.’

‘She did not notice,’ unwisely Mustafa answered.

‘Of course she bloody noticed. She noticed the
dog
, the bump, the shit driver laughed. Christ, that laugh could cost you all Thompson’s Tours, much better Herod.’

‘Who is this Herod?’

‘Wouldn’t go down well here, he was a Jew as far as I can remember.’

‘So?’ Bristle concealed by cigarette smoke.

‘So,’ said Edmund with a flash of sobriety, ‘I must leave you. Meet you tomorrow in the hotel bar. We can get down to business then.’

They drove back, conversation exhausted. Edmund knew they had arrived when he smelled wet cement. They said good night. The night was beautiful, moonless. Edmund looked up at the stars. He felt an overwhelming love for Poppy, he wondered as he went up in the lift why he had not insisted ages ago on marrying her. Soon he would be in bed, hold her warm in his arms, too tired tonight for more than that but her warm bottom in the small of his back held familiar allure. He would not wake her, just creep in (ah, here we are), no need to put on the light. He stood to accustom his eyes to the dark, moved forward, arms outstretched. ‘Oh hell, twin beds, creep into this one, tell her in the morning when my head has stopped roaring how much I love her.’ He pulled off his clothes, slipped into bed. He must not take Poppy so much for granted. He lay down, remembered his watch, wound it, put it on the bedside table, laid his head on the pillow. What had he told Mustafa? My love is a fire which inflames my soul. Oh dear God! I’m drunk. The classic way to make a fool of oneself. For some reason it seemed all Poppy’s fault he had made a monumental cock-up of the job, first try.