Vacillations of Poppy Carew by Mary Wesley Page A

hit her dancing about the room in agony. It was the first time he had hit her and she forgave him, crying, ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.’
    I’m not sorry now, she thought, pulling gently at the brass handles. She would find the key among Dad’s things. The drawer opened sweetly, lightly, showing emptiness. Empty of Dad and Mum, empty of written evidence of their love. Dad had not trusted her, had withdrawn himself and her mother too.
    She stood up remembering Dad coming into the house when he had been away, holding out his arms to hug her, ‘How’s my Poppy love?’
    Outside the hearse came to a discreet halt, the driver rang the bell, his mate stood by the hearse, waiting.
    Poppy put one of her father’s old coats over her nightdress and opened the door.
    ‘Miss Carew?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’ve brought—’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Indoors, love?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘A couple of chairs perhaps?’
    ‘There are stools. Wait a moment.’ She must hurry to let Dad into the house. She ran to the sitting room where his small television perched on a stool. ‘Here,’ she called, ‘help me with this.’ One of the men moved the television to the top of the desk, carefully displacing the silver photograph frame which held her mother aged seventeen. ‘There’s another upstairs.’ The second man followed her, fetched down the stool.
    As they carried Dad in Jane Edwardes drove up in her car. ‘Thought I’d come early, get you some breakfast.’ She put her arms round Poppy and hugged her. ‘Heard he was to come home. Still in your nightie, don’t catch your death.’
    ‘I’m all right.’
    They watched the men settle the coffin on the stools. They were quick, expert, tactful, did their job and left.
    ‘Go and pick a few flowers from his garden while I make your coffee.’
    Jane Edwardes handed Poppy secateurs. Poppy, walking in the dew listening to the birds in Dad’s garden, remembered his favourite flowers and cut their stalks snip, snip, as he had done. A robin sang furiously asserting territorial rights. Edmund knew a lot about birds. Damn Edmund, don’t come between me and my father, get stuck into Venetia.
    Jane Edwardes had a bowl ready on the coffin. The house smelled of coffee. ‘That’s better.’ She steadied a rose into place. ‘Looks nice. My nephew works for Brightson’s—’
    Oh, not that again.
    ‘Tells me you are having Furnival’s.’
    ‘Yes.’ (Must I be defensive?)
    ‘The old bastards had the monopoly far too long, my nephew says. He’s thinking, my nephew that is, of applying for a job with Furnival’s, says Furnival’s will soon be the “in thing”. That’s what the young ones are saying.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘He, my nephew that is, my brother’s son Bill, you know him?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘He rang up Mr Furnival and offered to give a hand Saturday at the funeral—’
    ‘How very—’
    ‘He thought, well we all thought, the village would like it, you know just to show—’
    ‘What?’
    ‘We loved him, always had a joke your father. He gave them many a good tip in the pub too.’
    ‘Dad did?’
    ‘Didn’t you know?’
    ‘No, no I didn’t know.’ I didn’t know the village loved him, I didn’t know he went to the pub. ‘Thank you, Mrs Edwardes.’
    ‘Come and eat your breakfast, love.’
    ‘I’ll come in a minute.’ Poppy stood by the coffin. This oblong box held the man with the unmalicious laugh, now silent. The capable hands which would never again pick flowers. ‘Pick flowers with the dew on them, they last better.’ She touched the flowers in the bowl, the late roses, rosemary, pink daisies, a few late lilies. I am making myself think these morbid conventional thoughts. Those hands, those fingers used a biro to mark many a race card, how I wish I’d known his companions at the races. Those strong fingers tore up all your letters, destroyed your past, wrote me that last short note. An appeal? An order? A warning, a suggestion?
    ‘Fergus thought you would like