Sisters Page 4

  Carrie caught Poppy’s lifted eyebrow over their mother’s shoulder. Damn, thought Carrie, I should have told her it was from Poppy. But the moment had gone, and her mother had turned away.

  After the present-opening fest, Carrie went upstairs to put on the blue beach sarong and skinny knit silver cardigan Poppy had given her, and didn’t reappear. Poppy felt a stab of irritation. She’d hoped Carrie would give her a hand in the kitchen. Carrie, the professional chef, could make Christmas dinner with her eyes closed, and it would give Poppy a chance to be with her children.

  When Carrie had not come down an hour later, Poppy went in search of her. She found Carrie sitting on the bed, rolling a cigarette on the bedside table.

  “Carrie,” accused Poppy, “is that a spliff?”

  “Sure thing, Sis. Want one? I’ve got lots.” Carrie’s eyes fizzed with laughter as she waved a fat little plastic pouch at her.

  “For God’s sake, Carrie,” said Poppy, anger leaking out in spite of her effort to be calm. “It’s Christmas Day with the family, not a Chelsea rave. And I’d have thought you might give me a hand. It’s bedlam down there. Lucille and the children underfoot. Eduardo’s no help—he’s deep in a book. And then you just disappear in a marihuana cloud. Honestly, Carrie, you are about as selfish as it gets.”

  Carrie listened equably to this long speech, then immediately jumped up. She flung her arms round Poppy and said, “Oh Popps, I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll help. I just got carried away with my sarong and top, and then I saw the Rizla thing and thought, why not?” Carrie let Poppy go and twirled about, saying “I love the clothes by the way. Aren’t they great? I shall have to dye my winter belly brown though.” She pushed the short stretchy jersey up further to expose more of her midriff. “Where did you get them? I’d never have thought . . .”

  Poppy, instantly won over, interrupted. “I know—you’d never have thought I had enough fashion sense to buy a present for you! Well I don’t. But I asked the girl in GAP.”

  Carrie stuffed the spliff-making gear into the drawer, and said, “Come on, then, let’s go make Christmas dinner.”

  Poppy was basting the turkey when Lucille walked in, saying,

  “It’s Christmas Day, isn’t it? I just saw it on the television.”

  “It is,” said Poppy. “We’ve just opened our presents. Don’t you remember?”

  “Never mind that now,” said Lucille. “If it is Christmas why aren’t we going to church? We always go to church on Christmas morning.”

  Actually, they didn’t. Or not very often. But Poppy fetched the parish newsletter and said, “There’s a Christingle service at 11:30. You could go to that if we get a move on.”

  “Christingle? What on earth is that?” Lucille was suspicious. “Not happy-clappy, guitars and kissing strangers, is it?”

  “I think it’s for children. You know. Carols and candles and a crib, etc.”

  “Well, that’s all right then,” said Lucille, smiling and decisive. “Get your coats. We must get a move on.”

  In the end Poppy stayed behind to mind her turkey. Carrie had whizzed around in the last forty minutes and everything was back on schedule: sprouts peeled, spuds and turkey in, giblet stock simmering, ice cream balled, pudding steaming.

  The others walked the half mile to the village church. Lucille walked surprisingly briskly, her arm through Angelina’s. Behind them Carrie, a sheepskin jacket of Eduardo’s over her summer gear, led Lorato, and Eduardo carried Tom.

  “This is crazy,” said Carrie, quietly so that Lucille and Angelina would not hear. “Neither you nor I believe in God, and here we are going to church.”

  Eduardo said, “And why not? It’s a great little Norman church. And it’s a lovely day.”

  “That’s hardly a reason to join in a lot of mumbo-jumbo.”

  Eduardo laughed. Carrie was struck, as she often was, by the burly good looks of her brother-in-law. He was a confident, even arrogant, man, of course. But you had to admit Poppy had landed a catch. He had a broad dark face: dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. The hooded eyes and sloping brows gave his face a serious, intellectual air, but the impression was contradicted by his mouth. He had small, even teeth and full lips which stretched to a wide boyish grin. Eduardo smiled easily. He had a wonderfully relaxed love of life—of food, art, family,—that Carrie could see was perfect for Poppy.

  He said, putting his arm over her shoulder, “My dear Carrie. We all need rituals. It doesn’t matter if we believe in them.”

  Carrie was slightly nettled by “My dear Carrie”. He always patronized her. She was tempted to shake off his arm.

  *

  Christmas lunch was good. Carrie had returned from church in high spirits and got them singing nursery rhymes and carols which Lucille enjoyed as much as the children. And Eduardo was indulgent with Lorato, cradling her in his lap while she crammed Smarties into her mouth.

  Eduardo took snaps with his new digital camera (Poppy’s present to him) and printed them out, enlarged to A4, on his computer. Angelina accumulated everyone’s 20 pieces from the pudding and most of the trinkets from the crackers. No one cried, and no one got cross.

  Later, Carrie made turkey and cranberry sandwiches and fruit salad for an early supper and the exhausted children and no less exhausted Lucille were upstairs by 9:30. Poppy came down from seeing her mother into bed to find Carrie washing up.

  Carrie’s arms were in the sink and she had to jerk her head to indicate the fridge behind her. “Look over there,” she said.

  On the fridge and freezer doors Eduardo had stuck his Christmas lunch photographs. Carrie dried her hands and followed her sister to them.

  Eduardo had exhibited only the best: Tom trying to put a paper hat on the dog’s head; Lorato with her mouth so full her cheeks bulged like a hamster’s; Angelina and Lucille singing. He’d caught Poppy’s triumphant expression as she carried in the holly-decked turkey; and Carrie rearing back as the over-heated brandy engulfed the pudding in three-foot flames. And he’d included the ones Carrie had taken of him, one hugging Poppy, one with the two little ones.

  The sisters were exclaiming over the pictures when Eduardo came in. He put an arm round each of them, and said, “Nice camera. Poppy, Thank you.” He squeezed Poppy’s shoulder.

  “Nice family,” replied Poppy, kissing his cheek.

  Then Eduardo rubbed his great bear hands up and down the women’s shoulders and arms and said, “Are you two going to drool over happy families all night or can I get to the fridge?”

  He released them as they stepped back. He opened the fridge door and reached in to extract a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

  “Come on. A bit of La Grande Dame to celebrate the miracle of a stress-free Christmas and No Tears Before Bedtime.”

  Poppy took this as a compliment, and kissed him again. Carrie smiled too, and did not make the remark that presented itself: “No thanks to you, dear brother-in-law”.

  *

  After Christmas Day, Lucille became increasingly restless, suggesting hourly that she went home. So, as soon as Adrienne was back from her break, on the 27th, Eduardo drove his mother-in-law back to London. Then he rang to say he’d stay in town until New Year’s Eve, if Poppy didn’t mind? She had her sister with her after all, and he’d be glad of the chance of a quiet few days in the office.

  In truth Poppy didn’t mind. She and Carrie got on better when Eduardo wasn’t there.

  Carrie came upon her sister at the door of the playroom, standing very still. Poppy held her hand up to Carrie, signaling silence.

  “Listen,” she whispered.

  Carrie looked into the playroom. Lorato and Tom sat on their fat nappied bottoms, close together on the carpet, and jabbered away like a pair of old women. The sounds were not regular or repetitive—not dah dah dah or mum mum mum. They were as varied and complicated as a whole language.

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bsp; Carrie looked at Poppy in astonishment. “How extraordinary,” she said, her voice low so as not to alert the children.

  “I know,” replied Poppy. “They’ve been doing it for two weeks now. Henson says twins quite often do it, but he’s never met it in non-twins before.”

  Carrie looked at her, puzzled. “Henson?”

  “Pediatrician at St. Mary’s.”

  The first time Poppy had heard them at it, she’d wondered for a wild moment if it was Hwesa that had somehow lain dormant in Lorato’s brain. She said, “It seems twins sometimes make up a private language. Until their mother-tongue takes over, when they drop it. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  From the door Poppy and Carrie saw Lorato and Tom clutching at each other, smooth brown arms against bright pink ones, and chuckling and hiccupping with laughter. As they watched, Lorato swiveled her head to gaze for a second in silence at the two women in the doorway. She then said something incomprehensible to Tom. At this Tom waved his arms toward his mother and shrieked with laughter. The effort unbalanced him and he rolled over, legs in the air. Poppy darted forward and set him back on his bottom. Both children fell silent at this intervention. Poppy said, crouching to hug the children in turn, “Monsters. What’s the joke then?” She tickled Lorato’s belly. “What did you say to him, Lorato?” Lorato looked at her in solemn silence, all trace of her former merriment gone. For a second Poppy felt hurt, excluded.

  Carrie followed Poppy into the room and knelt among the toys. Tom bounced up and down on his bum and reached his arms wide, demanding to be picked up. Carrie said, “No, sweetheart” and compensated him with a purple beanie baby. He took it happily and chewed its head. Carrie turned to Lorato, who met her gaze without expression. Carrie gave her a lime-green beanie baby, which she took and immediately dropped, her eyes not leaving Carrie’s face.

  Carrie tickled their feet. Tom curled his toes, jerked his legs in unison and giggled. Lorato moved her foot away, but otherwise did not react. Carrie blew gently into Tom’s neck, and he squealed with pleasure. She did it again and he shrieked and bounced in a paroxysm of delight. She tried it with Lorato, but the child bore it, Carrie thought, with fortitude. Certainly not with pleasure.

  “I think she wants us to go, so they can continue the conversation,” Carrie said, smiling to cover her failure with her niece.

  Back in the kitchen, Poppy jerked the espresso machine handle over the cups with a practiced movement and said, “I wanted you to see it. I don’t think Eduardo believed me until I videoed them. He’s home so little he’s never caught them at it. I hardly believe it myself, so I’m glad of a witness.”

  Carrie said, “It’s amazing. Especially as she doesn’t speak at all to us. Does she laugh or chatter with Angelina?”

  Poppy shook her head. “It’s so sad. Angelina was so excited by her arrival, and determined to love her to bits, and to mother her. But she’s getting bored with Lorato’s indifference.”

  “When do children start talking? English I mean?” Carrie blew on her coffee, thinking that children were not all the blessing they looked.

  “I suppose about now. Though Henson says Lorato may walk first. But he says the twin-jabbering is a good sign. And Tom already says ‘Mum.’ And ‘Lina’ for Angelina, and ‘Dite’ for Light.”

  “How about Eduardo? I expect he’s wonderful with her?” Carrie had a mental image of Eduardo carrying Lorato on his shoulders, mouth wide and laughing while he holds Lorato’s stubby legs each side of his face.

  But Poppy said, “Not too good. I think her baleful stare gets on his nerves. He’s getting ratty with her, especially when she cries and cries for no reason. He says he begins to understand baby-bashing.”

  Instantly Poppy felt disloyal. Eduardo was a wonderful father, he’d never hit a child. She qualified her words: “It’s a bad time for him. He’s working so hard, with Bilbao and the Paddington project going full tilt, and some new scheme in Manchester coming up. He could do with some peace at home.”

  Poppy smiled at her sister, and gave a slight shrug, dismissing any problem. That’s life, it said.

  She regretted saying anything at all. She didn’t want to discuss Eduardo with Carrie. She changed the subject, saying, “What about this photo-shoot then?”

  Carrie extracted a Hobnob from the packet, and offered the packet to Poppy. Poppy shook her head.

  “Thing is, Popps,” said Carrie, “if I can do it here it will save me hours of searching for a venue, and for props and antiques, etc. And for happy-family models—I can just borrow the Santolinis.”

  Poppy knew that agreeing would get her in trouble with Eduardo. Eduardo would say Carrie was, as usual, exploiting Poppy’s good nature. If Carrie came back for another three days, Eduardo would probably stay in London and work. He resented the mess and upheaval Carrie’s photo-shoots or filming sessions produced.

  Carrie’s eyes were wide and frank. Poppy knew she’d not be able to say no. She stalled, saying, “But who wants Christmas photos after Christmas?”

  “It’s for an American travel mag. For next year. Some promotion or other. They want to give away a pack of twelve Christmas cards with the November issue. With traditional English recipes on the inside.”

  “Mince pies and brandy butter?”

  “I guess. The Christmas cards are to be all holly-wreaths on ye olde oake door and upmarket ivy garlands strung from the mantelpiece. Which you’ve already done.” Carrie waved her arm in the general direction of the drawing room.

  “But why does a travel mag want to give away Christmas cards? Or English recipes?”

  “The cards are supposed to make people buy the mag. And the recipes are to come from Cotswold hotels, and there’ll be an article and a holiday offer in the mag.” Carrie grinned her wide, happy smile, and finished with “and with any luck I’ll earn enough for a week in Antigua”.

  Poppy shook her head in disbelief. “From one photo-shoot?”

  “It will be a three-day shoot. But that’s just the start. If I play my cards right, I’ll get to ghost the hotels’ recipes, write the travel piece, and style the pics. And if you let me do it here, I can fiddle my expenses because they’d expect me to stay in all the hotels and I’d much rather stay with you.” She leaned back and flicked her hair off her face. “And I’ll charge them a location fee, hire-charges for all the props, maybe even stylist fees for decorating everything.” She ended with a gleeful grin. “Pretty neat, don’t you think?”

  Poppy frowned. “But Carrie, the decoration’s done. And you’d be getting the place and the props for nothing.”

  Carrie put her arm round her sister and said, “That’s the point, Dumbo. It’s money for old rope.” Then seeing Poppy’s look of disapproval she added. “I’ll have to renew the leaves—the ivy will be dead by then.” She kissed Poppy lightly on the cheek and turned back to the espresso machine. “Can I have another?” She set the machine going again.

  Poppy didn’t answer. Carrie’s blithe admission of fiddling expenses worried her. But she knew Carrie thought she was old-fashioned and priggish. She was debating with herself whether to say anything.

  “Well, can I, Popps?” said Carrie.

  Poppy pulled her mind to the present and said, “Of course. Help yourself.”

  “Oh Poppy!” Carrie was more amused than vexed. “I meant can I do the photos here? Took the coffee for granted, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you can.” But something in her voice got through to Carrie, who said, perfectly cheerfully “Oh Poppy, you are not going to get on your moral high horse, are you? You can have the location fees and the hire-charges if you like.”

  “Don’t be daft. We don’t want anything.” Poppy turned to put her cup in the dishwasher, her back to her sister. Carrie walked round to see her face. She asked, cheerfulness giving way to slight petulance, “Well, what’s the long face for then?”


  Poppy caught the note of challenge. She hadn’t wanted to change Carrie’s carefree mood. But she forced herself to say, “I suppose I think you should only charge what you pay for. Fiddling expenses, if I may be pompous about it, is dishonest.” There, she’d said it. She waited for the explosion, but to her surprise Carrie burst into laughter, and put both arms round her neck.

  “Oh Poppy, I do love you. You are such an innocent.” She stopped laughing with difficulty and said, “Look, I work in Grub Street. Everyone understands about expenses. It’s the system.”

  Chapter 4

  Angelina had gone to a friend’s and Tom and Lorato were asleep. Poppy put Aida on the CD player with the intention of grabbing a rest on the sofa while she could. But she found herself thinking about her conversation with Carrie. Or rather conversations. The one they had half-had about morality, and the one they hadn’t had about Eduardo.

  On the morality issue, she realized she’d done what she always did, and had always done: she’d let Carrie off. Her sister had made her feel prudish about the expenses, and she’d backed off.

  And she’d let her get her way over the photo-shoot, also as usual. She knew Eduardo would say Carrie was using her. That she took them all for granted. It irritated him that Carrie borrowed their books and seldom returned them; cried off for dinner at the last minute or turned up with uninvited boyfriends in tow; and frequently invaded their Paddington penthouse or Oxfordshire farmhouse for photo-shoots.

  He didn’t know that she sometimes borrowed money too. Poppy felt a knob of unease in her diaphragm when she thought of that. It wasn’t the money—the amounts weren’t large—but she hated keeping things from Eduardo. She would mention it one day, but not now. For the first time in ten years Christmas had been as much hard work as pleasure, and Poppy was tired.

  The babies (she still thought of them as babies) were exhausting and Angelina had reverted to climbing into their bed at all hours of the night. And she suspected Eduardo had found the enforced holiday idleness in the bosom of his family a strain.