Vacillations of Poppy Carew by Mary Wesley

she meant Edmund will hurt you which was Dad’s fear? I believe, thought Poppy, putting the postcards back in the drawer, I believe she fancied Edmund, how repulsive, eugh.
    Soon after Edmund had become established as a fact, welcome or not, Esmé had retired, gone to live with her sister, showing no emotion at parting. Poppy remembered Esmé’s voice, its rasping timbre. ‘My sister wants me. You are old enough to look after your father. I’ve arranged for Mrs Edwardes to come in and clean, she will do for you well enough.’ Esmé’s voice had been contemptuous. Had the contempt been for the Carews or Mrs Edwardes? For us, thought Poppy, shutting the drawer, nobody could despise Jane Edwardes. At the time she had been shocked, realising that Esmé did not mind leaving, she and Dad had been a job, no more, she had wasted no emotion on them.
    She didn’t love us, thought Poppy, and to be honest we did not love her. Dad had suggested lunching out on the day of Esmé’s departure. They had lunched in Newbury. Dad had raised his glass and said, ‘Let’s drink goodbye to Rectitude.’ After another drink or two he had said, ‘I hope Mrs Edwardes won’t moralise or encourage followers,’ a dig at poor Edmund. (Why do I pity him, the swine, tucked up with Venetia.) Briefly Poppy considered finding Esmé, asking her what she knew of Dad’s life. Impossible. As impossible as to ask Mr Poole or Anthony Green exactly when the various dollops of dividends had appeared and in what quantities. It was extraordinary to have lived in the same house as Dad and not know what he was really like, shameful to have shown so little interest and to let him die a stranger. Am I too late? Poppy asked herself. Perhaps he did not mind, she thought hopefully, but if Dad had not minded he would not have been so inimical towards Edmund filling her life for ten years.
    And now Venetia. ‘I hope she chokes him.’
    Poppy re-routed her search into Dad’s bedroom. It was rather eerie going through his drawers and cupboards. Orderly, neat, smelling faintly of Dad. Shoes, socks, underclothes, suits, shirts, photographs of Mum smiling and one very sad and beautiful by his bed. She searched the dressing-table drawers. Indigestion pills, heart tablets, cufflinks, nothing to introduce or betray. Downstairs she searched his desk, fingering receipts, bank statements, (might be a clue or two there, but the only ones kept were recent). A catalogue of a country house sale, writing paper, pens, paperclips, old indiarubbers, TV licence, dog licence (old Buster dead last year), racing calendars, snapshots of herself at school, on the lawn with her rabbit, in her bath (what a fat baby), none of herself with Edmund, Dad had not wanted any. (I don’t need reminding.) Several drawers were empty. He must have tidied up, known he might die. Of course he had known. At another lunch—when, a year, two years ago?—he had said, ‘I might go any time, not to worry, it’s the only certainty and I’ve enjoyed my life, I only grumble about one thing and that is beginning not to bother me.’ At the time she had thought he is coming round to Edmund, beginning to accept him. Now she realised, sitting back on her heels, feeling chilly in her nightdress, that what made Dad feel better were the first signs of Edmund’s impending desertion. Clever Dad, you noticed before I did. Was it then you wrote me your letter and put it in the bank to wait?
    And now for the locked drawer, the drawer Edmund had prized open with his neat bit of plastic, the drawer full of old letters.
    ‘Other people’s letters are a laugh. Lush, slush, sentimentality, let’s see the sort of stuff they wrote to each other in their day.’ Edmund, giggling. Dad’s letters to Mum and Mum’s letters to Dad, tied in packets of ten or twelve with tape, the envelopes yellowed, the ink faded.
    She had slammed the drawer shut, catching Edmund’s fingers. He had black fingernails for weeks, months. He had