Play Dead by Peter Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page B

the wheel expressed a ruthless assumption of dominance, while Peony’s shrugs and turnings away, hoity-toity but come-hither, were just as speaking. Poppy had little doubt by the time the short trip was over that the chauffeur had been the squid-guzzling brandy-plier responsible for Peony’s sorry state a few days ago.
    The house was nothing like as imposing as Poppy had expected, nor as large, until she realised that the establishment included the house next door. The two stood in a twisting, cobbled side-street, one of those sudden oddnesses you find in London’s inner suburbs, where the rush of patterned development over what until a hundred years ago had been fields and gardens was intruded on by an older shape, some track or lane which had been there for centuries as a thoroughfare when Acton and Kensington were still villages and Kensal still was green. Poppy, in lonely evening walks after her separation from Derek, had passed through it several times and had told herself that she must try and look up old maps and see what its purpose had been but had never got round to doing so.
    Deborah had what was effectively her own suite, with day nursery and kitchen on the ground floor and bedrooms for herself and Peony on the floor above. Mrs Capstone had her office on the top floor, Peony said, but she and Mr Capstone lived and entertained next door. There was a little garden behind, paved, with a few shrubs, and beyond that the back of a mews, where the cars were kept, with a flat for the chauffeur above. Deborah instantly assumed the role of chatelaine and insisted on showing Toby her realm, so Poppy kept an eye on them while Peony got tea ready. Interestingly, though the place reeked of wealth, it did so as much by restraint as by ostentation. Even Deborah’s bedroom, for instance, didn’t have the hoard of toys Toby owned, and there were only a couple of soft animals in the cot, and no dolls.
    The bathroom contained a bidet. Toby was entranced. Real taps at his level, with real water gushing out, and a fancy waste-plug operated by a lever. The situation remained under control for about thirty seconds, with Poppy closing the taps and opening the plug as fast as he opened and closed them. Deborah at first hung back. It had apparently never crossed her mind to treat the bidet as a plaything, people rather than objects being her sphere, but as soon as she joined in Poppy had four hands against her two, one for each tap, one to keep the plug closed and the fourth to flail at the rapidly rising water, drenching all three of them and a fair-sized area round the bidet.
    â€˜No!’ cried Poppy. ‘Stop it, Toby! Stop it, Deborah! No!’
    But their joint excitement had reached critical mass, feeding each other’s, whipping them towards hysteria, a two-tot rioting mob, out of control of the state apparatus. Poppy seized both taps, forced them shut and held them All four fists welted the water. The splash shot into her face. Her spectacles fell. She was soaked, blind. The children whooped with the joy of freedom.
    â€˜And what is going on here?’ said a woman’s voice at the door.
    â€˜Help!’ said Poppy.
    Deborah was snatched away and immediately started to scream. Poppy groped, grabbed Toby and held him to her while she tried to rub the water from her eyes with the back of her wrist and then peered for her spectacles. Their tortoiseshell frames made them invisible on the brown carpet. She patted desperately around. Toby wriggled like a trapped animal.
    â€˜More,’ he shouted. ‘More baa!’
    (‘Baa’ was a new word, corrupted from the adult ‘bath’ and describing all things wet, other than drinks.)
    â€˜Not now, darling. Please, where are my specs—I’m blind without them.’
    â€˜By your left knee,’ said the voice, both brisk and patient.
    Poppy shoved them on and rose. The lenses were wet, so all was still blur. Toby threshed in her