The Coming of Age. July Part 2.

20th July. Val rings. She has almost met Poppy’s new man. She was walking into town and was passing the Railway Station when she saw Poppy lurking by the ticket machine. Poppy seemed very pleased to see her and then suggested that the two of them walk slowly up and down by the taxi rank to see if the new man was there sitting in a taxi.

‘Why would he be there?’ I ask.

‘Well, he’s a taxi driver, didn’t I tell you.’

This is a bit of a comedown from Pink Rolls Royce but where men are concerned, you could not accuse Poppy of being a snob.

‘No you didn’t,’ I say, ‘You said he was ex-army and well travelled.’

‘He is all of those, and probably more. Anyway,’ Val continues, ‘Poppy and I walked up and down hoping to see him.’

‘You mean arm in arm, and giggling, like we used to do when we were teenagers?’

‘It did feel like that a bit except that we weren’t joined.’ Val giggles. ‘Can you imagine going arm in arm with Poppy?’

Of course not. It would have been more like a passagio. Though Station Approach does not quite have the glamour of the Via Condotti or the Ramblas in Barcelona.

‘Anyway, he wasn’t there. I couldn’t wait but I left her still hanging around the taxi rank being eyed up by the other taxi drivers. The thing is,’ Val went on, ‘Crispin Velge is also driving a taxi at the moment. There’s not a lot of money in poetry, and Poppy didn’t want to see him. Especially after her having him to coffee last month.’

‘Golly’, I said, ‘She did it. That was good of her. Did she manage to say anything about the Pageant?’

‘She didn’t say anything about it to me,’ said Val, ‘because she didn’t stop talking about Roger.’

‘The taxi driver?’

‘The taxi driver. How good looking he is, how fit he is, how he’s got all his own teeth, and hair.’

I decide I must ring Poppy, but perhaps not today. I need to get my strength up. I am reconciled to my solitary state - occasionally punctuated by lurches from entirely unsuitable men – but when Poppy lands one presentable bloke after another without even trying it is quite hard. She is only a few years younger than I am.

Later I ring Poppy and ask how she got on with Crispin Velge.

‘Oh, Jess,’ she piped down the phone, ‘he’s so difficult. I sacrificed myself you know, for you.’

I interrupt. ‘Not me, the town.’

‘I don’t even live in the town any more,’ she said, as near indignant as she ever sounds. At first he seemed a little shy, she related after a few minutes. ‘Then he was all over me, too much so, and then when I mentioned that nobody could understand his script…’

‘Poppy,’ I interrupted, ‘you weren’t meant to say it just like that.’

‘Well, that was the truth, anyway he just had one of his turns. I don’t know which was the worst, him breathing all over me, or him having a tantrum. He just got up and walked out when I said that simply everyone agreed they didn’t know what it meant. I don’t understand it. Often people get hold of the wrong end of the stick when I am talking and I don’t flounce out. Jess, he actually flounced. Well, I’ve learnt something, I shall never go out with a poet again, even in a good cause.’

She then went on for ages about some wonderful new interior decorating job she had just got. When she puts the phone down I realise that I have not even asked about her new man. I can’t think of anybody to ring who has actually seen Roger the Taxi driver.

22nd July. I am feeling so guilty that I put my mind to the problem of the Pageant. The magic spring is still worrying me. I know they haven’t worked out yet what they will do because Mavis told me. Then I have a brilliant idea. A stroke of genius. I should have gone into business really. I would have been a wow. Where did my life go?

My idea is that Val should lend the vicar her new Solar Powered Cascade with Integral Water Tank to play the part of the magic spring. Her daughter gave her this as a birthday/cum thank-you-for-looking-after-three-little-boys-for-three-weeks present last year and she has never managed to put it together.

I ring and tell her my idea. She is doubtful.

‘But it is very bright,’ she says, ‘shiny copper and the bowls are in the shape of water-lily leaves. I haven’t even used it myself yet. It’s still in the box.’

‘Look’, I say, ‘you would get it assembled. And..’ I add what I am sure will be the decider, ‘the Rev Scuffling will be very grateful. Do you know him?’

‘No, I don’t think I do.’

‘He’s very nice. He reminds me of Niles in Frasier.’

Actually he is nothing like Niles except for a slightly fastidious air. But I don’t tell Val that.

25th July. Val invites me to see the assembling of The Solar Powered Cascade with Integral Water Tank. When I get there the Reverend Scuffling is already present. It is rather embarrassing as I haven’t seen him since the day he pulled me out of the hole in the churchyard. He seems to have forgotten about this however in the excitement of the occasion. When I arrive he is already in his shirtsleeves fixing together the three copper bowls made in the shape of water lily leaves. It looks a little sophisticated to be a mediaeval spring, even one touched by divine intervention.

He tells us that it will be disguised with branches of fir. Val is standing by with a watering can full of water, ready to fill the Integral Water Tank.

When it is finished, the Reverend suddenly tells us to call him Paul. Val and I look at each other in surprise. We thought he was called Philip like his church.

‘Thank you, Paul,’ we both say.

‘I am so grateful to you ladies, he says, precisely, ‘you have given the Pageant the centre that it needed.’

Val gives him a soppy smile. I am relieved that he’s not her type, he looks nothing like Niles in Frasier or Guy Prodger the wild-eyed dentist, being dark and stocky.

Val fills the tank and Paul, as we must remember to call him, switches the Cascade on. It is a great success. The water gushes out, splashing vigorously from one elegant copper leaf to another. Val’s cat takes one look and shoots across the garden, ending up behind the rhubarb.

On the day, the water will have to be coloured red. With the Integral Water Tank of course, this is easy to do. Paul will put some colouring into the tank about ten minutes after the pageant begins. We discuss the merits of food colouring, like cochineal, red ink, poster paints or tomato puree. Val says she will find the best thing. I suggest she should go the Herbalist.

‘We need to adjust the flow a little, I think,’ says Paul. He reads the instruction book. ‘Yes, that’s simple. Turn the lever to the right to reduce the flow and turn to the left to increase it. I shall remember that.’

I wake suddenly in the middle of the night remembering that tomato soup I made while staying at Sarah’s.

26th July. In the morning I ring Val to tell her that on no account should she consider tomato puree as a colouring agent for the magic spring.

She tells me that Paul has promised to take it down after the Pageant and re-assemble it in her garden. Val is being amazingly efficient. She has already been in touch with Mavis’s Keith, the pillar of the local thespians, and he is going to get some theatrical ‘gore’ for her. After all, the red of the spring was meant to be blood wasn’t it? she says.

30th July. It is Martin’s birthday and doubtless my children will be with him and Lolita. I am sure she will amuse my grandchildren much better than I do. After all she is close to their age. It should not tax her to run round the park in hot pursuit of a three and a half year old. She spends most of her time in the gym, on the tennis court or eating especially expensive food supplements. The funny thing is she never gets asked to look after anybody although, as she has done absolutely nothing to further the human race, it must be her turn by now.

Not that I want her to have anything to do with my grandchildren. The very thought makes me feel like crying.

Luckily there is a talk at the Town Hall this evening by a local luminary about the architectural gems of the High Street and I am going with Poppy so I do not have to brood for long.

There is an enthusiastic large audience and I creep in and sit at the back. Poppy sails in, looking stunning, just before the talk starts and waves expansively to me, and about half the rest of the audience. I notice that the helpful man from the tip who ignored me the next time I saw him, is there, on his own.

As soon as the talk is over Poppy and I slip away to have a drink in the hotel next door. I will not look at the man; one embarrassing blank stare is enough.

Then, just as we have found an empty table, the helpful man walks in, hovers a bit while he looks round and then diffidently walks over and acknowledges us. Poppy gives him an encouraging smile.

‘I haven’t seen you for some time.’

‘No,’ says Poppy, ‘I’ve been really busy.’

‘Perhaps I could buy you both a drink?’

Poppy beams at him fluttering her eyelashes and says ‘Oh yes please. It was so hot in there. Didn’t I see you at the talk?’

I am reduced to nodding in agreement and then saying
‘A white wine would be lovely.’

As soon as he has gone to the bar, I hiss to Poppy ‘Do you know him?’

‘Not really. I’ve met him at some friends a couple of times.’

‘He’s the man I met at the tip,’ I say, ‘who helped me with those cardboard boxes. You said you didn’t know him.’

‘He lives in that big house on the way to St Judes.’

‘You said he was married.’

‘Oh no,’ she says casually, ‘I don’t think so.’

By this time the man returns. He introduces himself and we all talk about the talk. At least Poppy chats away and I do my best to give my impression of an idiot talking compulsively about things I know nothing of. He does not say much but watches us both, looking intently from one to the other. Poppy is wearing a beautiful patterned silk jacket, with a brilliant pink design that exactly matches her lipstick. She leans back and crosses her legs elegantly. I am wearing jeans and T-shirt. I stop talking. Eventually the man says he must go.

‘Thank you so much for the drink.’ says Poppy breathily.

‘And for the company.’ say I politely.

Poppy widens her eyes and adds, in her best little girl’s voice, ‘I do hope we meet again.’

As soon as he has gone Poppy says ‘He is nice but frightening. I’m sure he’s very clever. I didn’t dare open my mouth.’

I don’t know what she thought she was doing while she was talking.

‘Why couldn’t I say something intelligent. Why did I have to go burbling on’ I say.

Oh well, it was probably Poppy he was interested in anyway. Men gravitate to Poppy like moths to candles. They often get singed too. In my head I can hear Martin say with exasperation I wish you wouldn’t always wear those jeans. And my mother saying It’s quite ridiculous, I don’t know who you think is going to be interested in you. Poppy’s voice breaks into these melancholy thoughts.

‘I thought what you said about the fenestration at number twenty eight was very clever.’
Did I say that? Golly.