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  As she crouched in silence beside the sleeping Lorato, Tom used the playpen rails to haul himself upright. Then he let out one of his piercing vocal experiments, half shout, half hiccup, right above Lorato’s head. Lorato’s eyes fluttered open. She shifted, and her bottom toppled sideways to roll her onto her back, releasing her face from the bars. She didn’t cry, and she did not look at Poppy. Her eyes were fixed on the bouncing Tom, who was reaching through the bars to clutch her nose with his fat fist.

  Poppy, kneeling up, reached into the playpen and lifted Lorato out. She looked deeply into the child’s face as she held her aloft and brought her down onto her lap, but Lorato never glanced at her. On the whole up-and-over journey her solemn brown eyes were glued to Tom’s dancing blue ones. As Lorato landed on Poppy’s lap Tom lurched forward as he crash-kissed Lorato somewhere between her broad flat nose and her wide round forehead.

  Poppy put her arms round the two children, lowering her head to kiss the unfamiliar crinkly hair, breathe in the unfamiliar musky smell. Tom looked up at her, his face alight with pleasure. Yes, she thought, oh yes.

  *

  When Poppy telephoned Eduardo that night, she tried to be detached and clinical, explaining how silent the child was. Should they perhaps get her looked at by a Johannesburg pediatrician before they made a decision? Eduardo had cut in:

  “You want her, don’t you?”

  “Well. . . . I . . . No. I don’t know. You need to see . . .” A short pause and then, “Oh Eduardo, how did you know? Yes I do. I want her. I think I’ll die if we can’t have her.”

  “I’ll catch tomorrow night’s flight.”

  Poppy was naturally law-abiding, and wanted to follow South African adoption procedure by the book. But Eduardo argued that Lorato would be grown-up before the combination of socialist bureaucracy and government incompetence would allow her hand-over. He hired a Johannesburg lawyer not averse to distributing small bribes, and Lorato had an exit visa and adoption consent forms (presumably forged, Poppy dared not ask) in a fortnight.

  The English end had taken longer. But at last the Foreign Office was satisfied that the toddler would not take some Brit’s job or cost the State anything, and had agreed to let Lorato in. Social Services, in the person of an earnest young woman with a folder of forms, had gone through the Santolinis’ life with a nit-comb. She’d found no reason for objection either. A guardian ad litem was appointed and adoption proceedings would begin as soon as Lorato was with them.

  She’d be a paid-up Santolini before she was two.

  When the airline rep arrived with Lorato in a pushchair, it was an anticlimax. The child was asleep, so there was no bouncing and hugging and laughing. Eduardo signed where the stewardess told him to. Angelina said, “Can I push her?” and commandeered the buggy. Eduardo put Tom on his shoulders and Poppy picked up the Kaia Moya carrier bag containing Lorato’s worldly wealth—half a packet of nappies and a baby’s bottle filled with juice. They were on the Heathrow Express within five minutes and back at the flat in half an hour. Lorato was still asleep.

  Chapter 2

  Poppy was determined to win over her reluctant mother-in-law and her own mother that first evening in the Paddington flat. She had not yet managed to extract a word of approval about the adoption from Guillia, and Lucille could not retain any information for long enough to develop a view. Poppy hoped the physical presence of Lorato would somehow gain a foothold in her mother’s muddled mind.

  Poppy had planned her offensive with care. Guillia was coming up from the Oxfordshire farmhouse to inspect the child, and Poppy had suggested the best time would be early evening. That way Lorato could sleep all afternoon so she would not be grumpy; she’d be fed and watered to prevent hunger, drama and mess; then she’d be dressed in a white Italian lace dress and black patent leather shoes (Guillia had said Tom’s baby-gro made him look like a Martian). Carrie would fetch Lucille and arrive in time for Lorato to wow them all for half an hour, then Poppy would tuck the two little ones up and park Angelina in front of Pocahontas.

  Carrie had promised to cook the dinner. And, thought Poppy, she’d cast her usual happy spell. Poppy loved her younger sister, who was everything she was not: as captivating and beautiful as she, Poppy, was bespectacled and dumpy. Carrie was carefree and confident, sometimes wild. People tended to stop talking when Carrie came in, to stare at her at bus stops, look round when she swung by. Poppy would not have said so, but she was proud of having such a sister. She felt her stock went up when Carrie was there.

  So that was the plan: heart-warming family scene with enchanting children, followed by convivial family dinner.

  But Lorato, who had slept all morning, refused to sleep at all in the afternoon, and cried instead. Poppy knew the little girl was exhausted, but every time she tried to lower her into her cot, Lorato would curl up her legs as though she were being dipped in hell-fire and scream blue murder. Tom, usurped as the center of attention, screamed too.

  Poppy gave up and decided food had better precede sleep. She knew Lorato had been weaned on African sour porridge and mielie meal, neither of which was available in the local M & S. So she’d opted for fish fingers, sausages and chunks of raw tomato.

  The appearance of the food mercifully silenced the children. They sat in matching high chairs and ate with their fingers. Angelina helped Lorato, who opened her mouth, chewed and swallowed at an alarming rate. If Angelina did not immediately respond to the open mouth by putting something in it, Lorato would cram food into it herself with efficiency and concentration.

  When Tom had reached the well-fed stage of trying to force his sausage into the spout of his tippy-cup, Poppy wiped his protesting face, his hands and his tray, and lifted him to the floor. He plunked down on his Pampers-padded bum, and directed his energies to climbing the head of the long-suffering Great Dane, Olaf.

  But Lorato did not give up so easily. Her belly was tight as a drum, and she had a pouch of unswallowed food in her cheek, but she would not agree that supper was over. One hand held a fish finger, the other a sausage. It was clear she had eaten all she could, but when Poppy tried to pry food from her fists, she opened her mouth and wailed. Poppy used this opportunity to hook the wad of half-chewed food out of her mouth with a bent forefinger. This spurred Lorato to a higher pitch of protest.

  Poppy’s heart sank. Oh God, she thought, she’s got an eating disorder. It wasn’t surprising. She’d been hungry all her life until a few months ago.

  “It’s alright, darling,” she said, lifting the child and rocking her, “you can keep the sausage and the fish finger. There, my baby, shush, shush.” But Lorato, perhaps fortified by food, cried harder. Her yells and her distress intensified—tears spouting from her lower lids and running in small streams into her open mouth. No rocking or crooning or shushing could stop her. Tom, unsettled by the noise, climbed off the dog, and crawled to his mother’s feet. He got his arms round an ankle and joined in, his wails every bit as loud as Lorato’s.

  This was the scene that greeted Guillia.

  “Oh dio! What’s this?” she asked, kissing Poppy, glancing at the yelling Lorato, hugging Angelina, lifting Tom. “You have a very noisy new sister, eh?”

  Tom stopped crying as soon as he was in his grandmother’s arms. Poppy continued to bounce the struggling Lorato up and down to no avail. Then Carrie came through the door, leading their mother by the hand. Poppy caught Carrie’s eye and forced a laugh. Angelina said, “Why is it funny, Mum?”

  “It’s not, darling. But I’d hoped to present your two grandmothers with a dream grandchild, and look what I’ve got.” She had to shout to be heard over Lorato’s wails. She kissed the child’s wet cheek, which prompted further writhing and crying.

  Lorato smelt different, unfamiliar, not like Tom. The word alien blew into Poppy’s head and she suddenly felt unsure of herself. How could this wild and furious thing be her daughter? Tom would duck his
head into her neck when he cried, but Lorato clearly wanted to get away from her.

  “Oh Guillia, she won’t stop.” Poppy was tempted to put her down and let her scream. She turned so her mother-in-law could see the bundle of rage in a smeared baby-gro, face streaked with tears and dribble, a lump of food in each hand.

  Poppy went on: “She stinks too. I was going to have her bathed and in a pretty white dress, smelling of Johnson’s baby powder.”

  “Heavens, who is that child?” Lucille asked Carrie, her face a picture of distaste.

  Carrie answered, steering Lucille to an armchair, “That’s your new grandchild.” Lucille looked baffled, and Carrie said, “I’ll get us a drink.”

  Guillia put Tom down on the sofa and turned to Poppy:

  “I take her, poor little cabbage.” She whisked Lorato out of Poppy’s arms. “You look after Tom.”

  Poppy watched as her mother-in-law headed for the door, changed from imperious mother-in-law to nursemaid in seconds.

  “Con un bacino passa tutto,” she crooned, kissing the child’s head.

  Poppy sank down next to Tom, who promptly climbed into her lap. Almost at once Lorato’s wails faded to whimpers, then failed completely. Poppy took off her glasses to rub her eyes, put them back and tried to smile. Her mother-in-law, as always, had proved herself superior on the domestic front. Well, at least she was cementing her relationship with her grandchild.

  Carrie handed her a glass of white wine, and Poppy took a long mouthful, eyes shut.

  “You look done in,” said Carrie.

  Poppy, drifting exhaustedly, thought how nice it would be if, for just half an hour, Eduardo failed to turn up, Carrie entertained their mother, Guillia stayed with Lorato and Tom fell asleep.

  *

  A week later, Carrie walked into the Paddington penthouse and followed the sound of Poppy’s singing into the kitchen. Poppy was bent double over the over-crammed rubbish bin, struggling with a bin-bag. She was trying to compact its contents with one hand so she could tie the top, and belting out “Moon River” at full power as she did so.

  Carrie watched her for a few seconds, thinking what a great rich voice she had. Poppy had always been able to sing, even before the lessons. When they were children it was mostly campfire songs and hymns in church, but even then Poppy had been the star, doing the solos and leading everyone else.

  Carrie joined in: “Moo . . . ooon River er . . .” and did a couple of sliding dance steps across the marble floor.

  Poppy stopped, and lifted her face to Carrie’s. She held her hands out stiffly, so as not to get any mess on Carrie’s clothes. Carrie put her arms round Poppy and hugged her, tight but brief. The way Poppy’s face always lit up when they met was one of the chief reasons she loved her. Poppy was always glad, really glad, to see her.

  “Hi Popps. I thought I’d find you in despair, not singing your heart out.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because you’re turning down The Controller.”

  For a second Poppy’s face sobered and she made a resigned moue. “Ah well,” she said, shrugging, “can’t have everything.”

  “But Poppy, how can you turn it down? It’s your first chance to direct.” Carrie persisted, “Surely you mind?”

  “Yes I mind. A bit. Not too much. I want time with Lorato.”

  “But the Theatre Upstairs! They may never ask you again.”

  “Ah well, I expect I’ll live.”

  Poppy’s plump body was again bent over the swing-bin. It was no good. The bin was too full, and she started to empty some of the collection of nappies, passata cans, banana skins and unidentifiable gunk into another bag. Carrie could never get over the insouciance with which Poppy did jobs like this. She cleaned up dog-shit, baby-sick, splattered food with the same easy competence with which she washed Angelina’s hair or stirred pasta, or with which she sang.

  Even as a child on the Transvaal farm, Carrie had watched with a mixture of disgust and admiration as Poppy de-ticked the dogs, carefully getting her nails under their blood-bloated bodies so as not to burst them. It was Poppy who cracked fleas between her thumbnails, and happily helped in the bloody business of butchering game, cutting the meat into strips to dry in the wind, salting the skins.

  Carrie knew Poppy as well as anyone could, but was still puzzled by her. Poppy seemed to have no difficulty making decisions that Carrie would have found anguishing—like not directing The Controller. She had also turned down a lucrative part in a TV soap being made in Newcastle, and a character part in a Hollywood film. It was unbelievable.

  Carrie was not sure whether she thought her sister a saint or a fool, but whatever it was, sometimes it grated a little. Poppy’s easy acceptance that you can’t have everything confused Carrie. Carrie would have at least tried to bag the lot.

  Also, Poppy was so competent. So capable. Carrie considered how her sister had solved Lorato’s two chief causes of misery (stopping eating and refusing to sleep) within days: Poppy now only spooned tiny amounts of food into a bowl, or placed only one or two pieces of bread or fruit in front of Lorato at a time—it was having to give up food that caused the child such distress: if she hadn’t seen it, she was fine. And when Lorato cried from exhaustion, and would not be put down, Poppy carried the child on her back, African-style, tied on tight with a tablecloth round her bosom. It worked like magic. Lorato would do the splits, her little legs straight out each side, and lay her head against Poppy’s back. She’d be asleep almost as soon as Poppy had swaddled her in and tightened the cloth.

  Poppy, bags tied and dropped down the chute, new bin liner installed, rinsed her hands under the tap. She gave them a shake, pushed her glasses back up her nose and took a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge. She held it toward Carrie, “Want a glass?”

  “Poppy, dry your hands, they’ll be rough as a bricklayer’s. And yes please to the wine.”

  Poppy clamped the industrial Screwpull onto the bottle and pulled the lever, over then back. The cork was out in seconds, and reminded Carrie that she’d taken ages to master that corkscrew. Same with deckchairs. Poppy knew instinctively how things worked. She, Carrie, had to learn.

  Poppy rubbed her hands together, and said, “They’re rough already.”

  Typical, thought Carrie. Not a thread of vanity in her.

  Carrie unhooked her long legs from the barstool, stood up and reached up for two glasses. They hung upside down on a pegboard, as in a pub. Except the board was gleaming stainless steel, the polished glasses reflected in it. Carrie thought how much she liked this kitchen. Eduardo had designed it as an all-purpose living space: kitchen, dining room, bar, playroom, sitting room. One day she’d like a flat just like this: with one big, open, informal space with real designer-style.

  The women took their drinks and the wine bottle onto the glassed-in section of the terrace, but did not turn the light on. They sat in the dark looking at the light show beneath them. Red and green Christmas lights ran right up both sides of the great necks of the builders’ cranes, and were reflected in the black water of the canal. And to the left, the Westway weaved away, a trail of red taillights on the left, white headlamps on the right.

  There were eight cranes on the site. It was to be a massive development, and it pleased Poppy to look down and know that Eduardo was largely responsible for it. As consultant architect to Westminster Council, he had designed the overall scheme, and as more of the buildings were started, he was increasingly absorbed in it.

  They had bought this warehouse on the wharf nine years ago, when Angelina was a baby and Eduardo had first started on the project. No one thought it would ever happen then, but Poppy and Eduardo had both fallen in love with the area, and had bought the derelict warehouse for what now seemed like very little money. It was the first of the renovated buildings and it housed Eduardo’s practice on the first two floors and their penthouse on the
top.

  Carrie lit a Marlboro, and caught Poppy’s flicker of concern. She said, “Yes I know, Popps, I’ll stop one day. Really. I will.” Poppy smiled, not believing her.

  After a minute or two Poppy said, “It is odd, I agree, my turning down work. The only thing that competes with the theater is the children. Even Eduardo doesn’t really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Poppy took a sip from her glass and frowned into it. “I don’t think he’s ever quite got over having to cancel our honeymoon because I took a job at the Oxford Playhouse, do you remember?”

  “Yes I do. And those awful tours of awful plays you did before you hit the big time. You’d have done three years in The Mousetrap if there was nothing better on offer.”

  Poppy laughed. “So would every actress in the country. Anything at all is preferable to reading The Stage and waiting for the phone to ring. And once Guillia came to live with us, and Angelina was so happy with her, I was desperate to work.”

  Carrie shook her head. “But why?” she asked. “Miserable digs, Equity rates, freezing theaters, rotten plays. I’ll never understand it.”

  Poppy laughed and said, “Yup, that’s all true, but it’s a disease. Or a drug.” She slowly twirled her glass by its stem, ordering her thoughts. “And for me there’s the fact that I’m someone else on stage. Someone quite unlike me. It’s like being let out.”

  “Who do you want to be?”

  Poppy shook her head quickly. “No, it’s not that I want to be someone else, someone particular, or some special character. The addiction is not being me. Not being Sensible Poppy, solid and dependable. Ordinary.”

  Carrie exclaimed, “But you aren’t ordinary! In fact, you are extraordinary. Actresses are meant to be all ego and glamour, and you couldn’t give a damn. I don’t know how you ever get a job. When you walk into a director’s office or on to a stage for an audition, don’t they just see Sensible Poppy standing there?”