Harnessing Peacocks (15 page)

‘Then say “lunch”. Don’t leave it in the air. I bet your father the General finished his sentences. If he hadn’t, wars would have been worse.’

‘Or better.’ Rory thought of his father. ‘He’s still alive. Do you have a father?’

‘I’ll clear up the kitchen and get ready.’ Hebe ignored Rory’s question. They were not likely to be in Salisbury, she thought. They only go there once a month and I, she thought, have altered so much they would not recognise me. ‘While I get ready, will you find Mrs Fox’s books and get a list of what she wants? Make yourself useful,’ she finished, rather cruelly, for she felt irritated that she was still rather uncertain about Rory. If only he were not Louisa’s nephew he would fit perfectly into the gap left by Terry.

Having watched Rory drive off with Hebe, Louisa settled to enjoy a potter round her garden, her dogs strolling behind her, pausing to scratch, snap at flies, indulge in a little larking about, enjoy in their middle age the security felt by animals aware of their own worth, generous in their love for their owner, prepared when necessary to bark their heads off at strangers but rarely bite. Dead-heading her roses, Louisa anticipated her next conversation with Bernard, when she would regale him with the getting together of his one-time rivals Christopher Rutter and Algy Grant’s descendants. Her peace was interrupted by the dogs’ wild barking at a man coming round the house. He paid no attention to the dogs, who reared and rushed round his legs. Louisa watched his lips move. ‘Quiet!’ she yelled and the dogs subsided. The man came up to Louisa.

‘Mrs Fox? I’ve brought you a packet from old Bernard Quigley. My name is Jim Huxtable.’

Louisa shook hands. ‘Is he so very old?’

‘
Façon de parler
. I thought as I was driving past I might be quicker than the post.’ He took from his pocket a thick envelope and gave it to Louisa. ‘Will you count it?’

‘I don’t think I need.’ Louisa liked the look of Bernard’s messenger. ‘Shall we go into the kitchen and I will give you a drink.’

‘Thank you.’ He fell into step beside her.

‘Or a snack. We could have a snack before you go on your way. Have you far to go?’

‘Cornwall.’

‘To Bernard?’ Her face lit up.

‘Yes.’

‘You must tell me how he is. It is ages since I saw him, ages.’

‘I think he is well.’ Jim Huxtable paced beside Louisa. ‘Have you known him long?’

‘More than fifty years.’

‘That’s quite a long time.’

‘It depends how you look at it.’ Louisa looked back along the telescoping years to see herself and Bernard young, she twenty, he rather older. ‘How is he keeping? Do you see much of him?’

‘When I am in Cornwall I stay with him. Do you know his house?’

‘No. Tell me about it.’

‘It’s very isolated. He lives in it with his cat and his dog.’

‘Feathers.’

‘Yes, his dog is called Feathers.’ Jim looked with interest at Bernard’s old friend. ‘He has a great collection in his house. He sometimes buys from me, occasionally sells.’ She was beautiful once, he thought.

‘So he’s still an active dealer?’

‘You could say that. Sometimes he asks me to sell things for him.’

‘Then he trusts you.’ Louisa looked at Jim with interest.

‘I hope so.’ Jim suffered her glance.

They went into the house.

‘Let’s see what we can find to eat. Is it too early for you to have lunch? My cook is in Salisbury.’ She did not wait for Jim to answer but flitted about the kitchen emitting little cries of pleasure: ‘Ah, bread. She makes bread—delicious. Ah, pate, here we are, she makes this too. And wine, here is a bottle and salad, she makes the most gorgeous dressing, here it is, and if we have any room left we can eat fruit and cake. How would that be? Are you hungry?’

‘I am beginning to be,’ said Jim, appreciating Louisa.

‘Sit down, then.’ Louisa found plates and glasses, poured Jim a glass of wine. ‘We can finish with coffee, though I cannot make coffee like my cook.’

‘Perhaps you’d let me. I learned how to make coffee in a bar in Italy,’ Jim offered.

‘Certainly, that would round off our snack. Tell me more about Bernard. How is age treating him?’

‘He keeps it at bay; he has some trick,’

‘He walks across country to the telephone. That keeps him fit.’

‘It’s a long walk, very long in rough weather. I have begged him to have the telephone put in.’

‘He won’t,’ said Louisa, spreading pate on crusty bread. ‘From Bernard originated the expression “Don’t call me, I’ll call you”. He is fierce in the preservation of his privacy, always was.’

‘It’s inconvenient.’ Jim remembered with irritation times when to get hold of Bernard had been impossible and necessitated the long trip to Penzance. ‘He does not answer letters. Does he ever write to you?’ Jim asked, then wished he had not, sensing her pain.

‘No.’ Louisa was expressionless. ‘Have some more pate? No? Fruit, then.’

‘Lovely pate. It was excellent. Your cook has talent.’

‘I’ll tell her. She is only here for a fortnight. I treat myself to a cook once or twice a year. At my age travel is an effort and to be honest I don’t care for it any more, so I have this splendid girl. She cooks divinely and when she is here she fills my deep freeze so that for a long time I have treats. Do you not think this a good idea?’

‘Brilliant.’ He tried to imagine this woman and Bernard in their prime.

‘There are other considerations,’ said Louisa. ‘I don’t have to leave my garden or my dogs.’ She looked at the dogs lying by the range. ‘And if the telephone rings I am here to answer it.’

She is still in love with Bernard, thought Jim, fascinated. How does it work in old age? Is it purely cerebral? ‘Shall I make coffee?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure I can’t compete with your cook but I’ll try.’

‘Thank you. She’s gone to Salisbury with my nephew. He was here fishing. We had trout for breakfast.’ Louisa smiled, remembering Rory’s unshaven appearance. ‘He must have got up very early. He is fishing again tonight.’ She laughed, thinking of Rory. ‘I am sorry you missed them,’ she said, watching Jim make coffee. Then, ‘Perhaps you can stay. Would you like to stay the night? It would be no trouble since I have my cook. She is bringing back some delight from Salisbury for dinner.’

‘Alas, I can’t, I must push on.’

‘Would you take one or two things to Bernard for me, since you are going his way?’ I can trust this man, thought Louisa, and he’s jolly attractive.

‘Of course.’

‘Bernard sells things for me. When we have had our coffee let me see what I can bear to part with. It is a question of balance; cook versus things.’

‘I see.’ Jim felt distress.

‘Cooks are expensive,’ said Louisa. This man would be much better for Hebe than Rory, she thought, and I wonder whether he is married.

‘Yes.’

‘But she gives me so much pleasure.’ She watched him make coffee, pronounced it delicious, ‘Even better than cook’s.’ She amused herself referring to Hebe as ‘cook’. Then she led him through the house and, while he envied her furniture, she opened a drawer and exclaimed, ‘Ah, this’, and again, ‘Ah, this and this’, producing pieces of jewellery, a snuffbox, a watch, putting them into his hand. ‘Put them into your pocket so that I do not see them,’ and seeing his surprise she explained, ‘If I hide things I may sell and forget them then I feel less wrench at parting. I think that should do for the present.’

‘I’ll give you a receipt,’ Jim said.

‘No, no. Bernard trusts you, that’s enough.’ But Jim wrote a receipt while she watched him.

When she stood by Jim’s car to say goodbye she said, ‘I enjoyed seeing you. Tell him to telephone me.’

‘I will do that.’ It is important; Bernard is not a stale old man to her.

‘I wish you could have stayed and met my cook.’

‘Thank her for my lunch. I will tell him to telephone.’ A lonely old thing, Jim thought, driving away. What would I want to meet her cook for? He switched on his car radio and settled himself for the long drive to Cornwall calculating, as he listened to the afternoon concert, the value of Louisa’s ‘things’. However much the cook cost Louisa could afford to pay her quite a few more times.

Weeding her herbaceous border with the sun on her back and the sound of bees among the flowers, Louisa thought Bernard’s friend a handsome man; tall—she liked tall men—nice hair, must have been that rare colour she liked before it went grey—good eyes, a humorous mouth. He was the type she admired, the type she had married. Why then the tug at her heart when he spoke of Bernard, why after nearly fifty years was Bernard, who was small and had never been good-looking, so special. ‘Ah,’ said Louisa, sitting back on her heels and pushing her hair back from her forehead, ‘he made me laugh.’ The dogs wagged their tails, glad that she was happy. Remembering the big bed in the Hotel d’Angleterre in Paris so many years ago, with the light shining through the chinks of the red plush curtains and the breakfasts of croissants and coffee, Louisa grinned. ‘He was a rascal,’ she said to the dog Rufus who was her favourite, ‘a rascal but he still makes me laugh.’ Rufus bowed down, inviting her to play, waving his plumy tail. ‘But I couldn’t be part of a team, could I?’ she said to Rufus, voicing the suspicion she had taken care never to verify that she was by no means the first girl Bernard had taken to stay in that hotel room in those long ago days which in old age seemed clearer than yesterday, infinitely more real than the present.

J
ENNIFER REEVES BELIEVED IN
her menfolk, as she thought of her husband, her son and his friends, starting the day with a good breakfast. Silas ate what was put in front of him, a bowl of porridge followed by bacon and eggs, washed down with tea, and listened to Michael arguing with Julian about the merits of a boat they had had the previous year compared with the boat they were to sail that day. As they talked it dawned on him that his hosts thought nothing of sailing to France or Holland and that Julian and Jennifer had sailed down the coast from Sussex during the summer term, taking several weekends to bring the boat to the Scillies, returning to London after each trip. He was impressed by so much effort. It became clear as he listened that Mrs Reeves was giving him her place in the boat on the day’s expedition. When he politely protested, Jennifer cried, ‘No, no, Silas, I don’t mind at all. I have lots to do here and you have never been to Bishop’s Rock. You must go, you will love it. I have been often, haven’t I?’ She appealed to her husband and son, showing her fine teeth and healthy gums. ‘Ma’s a great sailor,’ said Michael with his mouth full. ‘Pass the marm, Pa.’ Julian pushed the marmalade towards his son. ‘Are we taking our lunch?’

‘Mrs Thing has made pasties. Super for sailing.’

Silas wondered what Mrs Thing’s name could be.

‘Mind you all take lots of sweaters, it can be cold out there. Has someone lent Silas boots?’ asked Jennifer.

Michael said, ‘He can wear mine, I’ve got two pairs.’

‘When’s the off?’ enquired Ian.

‘Half an hour.’ Julian’s voice grew louder at the prospect. ‘If you’re not all ready by then I’ll go without you.’

‘Time to empty our bowels.’ Alistair, the younger brother, left the table. ‘Bags I the upstairs loo.’ Nobody commented.

Presently, wearing Michael’s spare boots, which, too large, made walking difficult, wearing his favourite sweater and carrying Hebe’s Guernsey for spare, Silas stood waiting for the others. He noticed that the wind had not dropped during the night and that the sea between Trescoe and St Mary’s was choppy. When the boys and Julian were assembled they proceeded down to the landing stage, carrying lunch baskets and a variety of objects strange to Silas which would be needed on the boat. Julian handed him a life jacket and Alistair officiously showed him how to put it on. At the landing stage they clambered into an inflatable dinghy and set off across the water to St Mary’s where the Reeves’ boat was moored.

Silas had never been in an inflatable boat and enjoyed the crossing; the wind made his eyes water. When they reached the boat in which they were to sail he clambered in after Michael and sat down where Julian told him, out of harm’s way. Michael, Alistair and Ian busied themselves about the boat, obeying Julian’s orders. Silas surreptitiously put on Hebe’s sweater over his own and flexed his toes in the too large boots to keep warm while he readjusted his life jacket.

Julian and the boys exchanged shouted greetings with people on shore. Silas sat hoping his ignorance of sailing would not show, wondering if he would ever learn which rope did what. He wondered belatedly whether he had the guts to say he would rather stay on shore and watch birds and as he wondered Michael cast off and they moved out into open water.

From time to time Julian shouted at Silas, pointing out to him St Agnes. ‘That’s St Agnes. Splits in two at low tide,’ and ‘Shags, d’you know the difference between a cormorant and a shag?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interested in birds, are you?’

‘Quite.’

‘Like to take the tiller?’

‘Oh, thank you.’ Silas felt tremulous pleasure. Was he now responsible for all their lives?

Pleasure was succeeded by anxiety. Suppose somebody shouted ‘Port’ or ‘Starboard’, what was he supposed to do? ‘Port on the right is never left,’ he remembered. Julian had gone below. He could see him putting on another sweater, balancing with his legs apart. Alistair and Michael were further up the boat near the mast, Ian right in the bows. The boat was crashing along on her side. Ian shouted something and pointed. Silas looked up. Coming in from Penzance was the
Scillonian
, a familiar friend moored in Penzance harbour but out here doing a chopping roll, sending up a steep wave at her bow, menacing. Silas watched with interest as she drew nearer. ‘Watch out, you shitty idiot!’ Julian snatched the tiller, tipping Silas off balance so that he sprawled backwards. Julian, white and furious, altered course, ignoring angry shouts from the
Scillonian.

‘What d’you want to give him the tiller for? He’s never sailed in his life,’ Michael yelled. ‘Ma would have a fit,’ he raged at his father. Julian shouted ‘Shut up!’ and chopped at his son. Michael dodged. It began to rain viciously, coldly, cruelly. Silas, on his feet again, wondered where he could go to be out of the way. He felt futile, ashamed, small.