Harnessing Peacocks (18 page)

‘What’s the matter, Ma?’ Giles, in pyjamas, called from upstairs.

Terry shouted the situation to Giles. In minutes they were in Amy’s house. Giles dialled 999 on Amy’s telephone. Terry went to the back of the house to find the source of the flood. Hannah arrived wearing yellow boots, jeans and a green jersey.

‘What’s it like out there?’ she asked.

‘Job for the Council. We telephoned. Got a spade so we can divert the water?’

‘No, we haven’t.’

‘I’ll get one from Hebe’s. Got to feed the cat, anyway.’ He darted out into the rain.

‘Who is that? He sure is bossy,’ said Hannah to Giles.

‘Friend of Hebe’s. Lucky he found the flood. Hurry up, Mum, stop staring.’

‘That you, Hannah?’ Amy’s voice from upstairs.

‘I’m coming up.’ Hannah went up, expecting Amy to make a fuss.

‘You all right, Auntie?’ She stood by Amy’s bed.

Feeling ill but unwilling to show it, Amy said, ‘Just a bit tired,’ unconvincingly.

‘You don’t look well,’ Hannah was anxious.

‘I shall stay here until the mess is gone. That boy can help you. He’s been reciting poetry to me.’

Hannah glanced out of the back window at Terry, stripped to the waist, digging a ditch to divert the water. ‘Doesn’t Hebe know him?’ she asked.

Lovely, isn’t he?’

‘Lovely?’ Hannah stared at Amy. ‘How did he get in?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Jumped. He’s a jumper.’

‘You’re joking—’

Amy closed her eyes. Hannah looked more closely at Terry. He was lovely. He was also making Giles laugh. Hannah’s spirits soared. Mm, she thought, why not? ‘I’d better go and direct operations if you are comfortable,’ she said.

‘I’m comfortable.’ As Hannah left the room Amy chuckled, pleased at the prospect of vicarious entertainment. Time Hannah loosened up, she thought, and who better than Hebe’s joker to do the loosening. She knew Hebe’s standard to be high, but this one was superb. She quite understood Hebe breaking her unwritten rule never to have a local involvement.

By the end of the morning Terry and Giles had stemmed the water, the ground floor of the house was ready to be scrubbed, Council workmen had unblocked the drain. Hannah, filling the kettle to make tea, was almost sorry the crisis was over. As she handed Terry his tea she looked at him appraisingly. Waking her in the morning and grubbing at the back of Amy’s house with Giles, she had thought him not much older than Giles. The look he was giving her now was in another league. Her eyes widened when he advanced on her, catching her round the waist so that the cups in her hands joggled.

‘Watch out, you’ll spill the tea.’ She showed her toothy regiment as he pushed his face close to hers.

‘How about a quick little screw before din-dins?’ he suggested.

She pulled away from him, laughing. ‘I must look after my aunt.’ She tried to look disapproving.

‘After, then,’ he pressed.

‘And look after Giles. Let go, Terry.’

‘I’ll wait.’ He let go. ‘I’ll show you a thing you’ll enjoy.’

‘Cheeky.’ She could not help laughing. Then ‘That’s enough,’ slightly nervous. She tried to snub him.

‘It will be,’ he leered, looking lascivious.

‘Will somebody bring me my treasures?’ Amy’s voice came in quavery descant from upstairs.

‘I’d forgotten her. What treasures she got? Nothing like yours, I bet.’ He put his hands over her breasts.

‘Hey, hands off

‘Treasures,’ came Amy’s voice. ‘My treasures,’ on a higher note.

‘Coming,’ shouted Hannah, backing away from Terry. ‘Terry can bring them up.’ She thrust a tray into Terry’s hands. ‘Stand there.’ She opened the cupboard and started arranging its contents on the tray.

‘They real?’ Terry looked in wonder.

‘She thinks they are.’

‘Baccarat, Clichy, St Louis, my, my!’ He stared in surprise.

‘Don’t drop them. Take them up to her. Give you something to do with your hands.’

‘Worth a fortune these, they’re the real McCoy.’

‘What?’

‘Your boobs, luvvy.’ He was irrepressible.

‘I’m going to ring George and tell him what’s happened.’

‘Who’s he?’ Terry’s eyes, reflecting the multicolours of the paperweights, were jealous.

‘George Scoop, he’s a dentist, a dontologist,’ she corrected herself.

‘Scoops the tartar off your gnashers? Scoops you into bed, does he?’ Terry, his face close to Hannah, mocked. ‘What a name for a dentist!’ He leant across the tray which he held between them to kiss Hannah, his tongue flicking across her teeth.

‘Keep off.’ Hannah pushed. The tray slanted and the paperweights began to slide. ‘Watch it!’ she cried. ‘They’ll smash.’

Terry righted the tray. ‘I’ll take ’em to her, you telephone your fella.’

Hannah watched him leave. He had a beautiful back. As she dialled George’s number she compared it with George’s whitish lardy version.

‘Can I speak to Mr Scoop?’ she asked the receptionist called Jean.

‘Do you want an appointment?’ Jean recognised Hannah’s voice.

‘It’s Mrs Somerton. I want to talk to him.’

‘He’s busy, Mrs Somerton, can I take a message?’ Jean giggled.

‘Just see if he’s free.’

‘Well, Mrs Somerton—’ Jean’s impertinent voice set Hannah’s teeth on edge.

‘Just try, girl.’ She used asperity. ‘It’s important.’

‘Just a minute, Mrs Somerton.’ Hannah listened, heard the receptionist say, ‘Tell Mr Scoop, Evie, Hannah Somerton wants to speak to him, says it’s important—to her.’

‘Hallo?’ George came on the line, suspicious. ‘Who is it?’

‘George, my aunt’s flooded, oh, George, water all over the ground floor.’

‘Have you rung the Council?’

‘Yes, but I—’

‘Did they come?’

‘Yes, but it—’

‘They’ll take care of things. Look, I’m busy, Hannah.’

‘I thought you’d help, I thought you’d like to know.’

‘But you’ve got help, love, what could I do?’

‘I thought,’ Hannah cried, ‘that you—’

‘I’m a dentist, Hannah, not a labourer. Can’t the neighbours help? Your street’s full of idlers.’

‘Only because they can’t find work.’

‘But I can. Hannah, I have a difficult extraction to do. I can’t waste time rabbiting to you.’

‘I’m not rabbiting,’ Hannah shouted.

‘Yes, you are. I’m busy. I don’t like being interrupted when I’m in my surgery. I’ll ring you some time.’

‘Some time!’ Hannah yelled.

‘Look, love, I’m sorry, it’s a compacted wisdom tooth, it’s—’ but Hannah had replaced the receiver.

‘Not rushing to your aid, Scoop?’ Terry was back in the room. ‘Your auntie says she’d like a sandwich. Hey, you’re crying.’ He put his arms round her. Hannah laid her head against his shoulder. He smelt of warm flesh and fresh perspiration. Suddenly she hated George’s deodorants, his aseptic body. Terry tipped her head back and licked her tears away.

J
IM HUXTABLE LEFT HIS
car in the pub car park and went into the bar, ordered a pint of bitter and stood drinking it, glad to stretch his legs after the long drive. ‘Got any sandwiches?’ he asked the landlord.

‘Brown bread with crab, brown bread with beef, brown bread with turkey.’

As he ate he listened to the talk of the storm, the street up the hill flooded. He pricked his ears. So, Bernard’s friend of the paperweights was in trouble. As he finished his sandwich he watched a black youth and a white boy arguing with the barman.

‘Ya, ya, he’s under age. Beer’s not for him, it’s for the helpers,’ the youth was expostulating to the barman. ‘Council blokes who helped at Miss Tremayne’s. His ma wants to give them a beer.’

‘So long as you know under eighteens can’t be served.’

The youth burst out laughing. He nodded towards Jim. ‘He’s a dealer, not a copper. Come on, Giles.’ He loaded Giles with beer cans. ‘See you.’

‘Have to be careful,’ said the barman to no one in particular.

Jim walked up the street. The wind was drying the surface of the road. A magpie from a nearby park hopped beside the gutter, searching for titbits, flew off sideways. Jim stopped outside Hebe’s house, hesitated, rang the bell. If she came to the door he would get the pang of disappointment he had grown to expect. He pressed his thumb on the bell, saw a curtain move. Was she nervous? What was she afraid of? He turned his head. The curtain moved again. A tortoiseshell cat peered out, fixing him with a green stare. Jim gave up.

Across the street the door of the owner of the paperweights was propped open. Jim knocked. A weak voice from upstairs called. ‘Who is it?’

‘Jim Huxtable. I came to see you a while ago. Friend of Bernard’s.’

‘Come up.’

She was in bed, the paperweights on a table beside her. She looked frail.

‘I see you’ve had a flood.’

‘The boys and Hannah mopped up. I’m waiting for something to eat. Sit down.’

Jim sat by the bed. ‘Still not for sale.’ He eyed the paperweights.

‘Not for sale.’ She smiled, observing him.

‘Know me the next time,’ he said. ‘Are you ill?’ It seemed strange that with her ground floor in a mess she should lie so calmly in bed.

‘Just a bit. Better now. The chocolate boy climbed in and saved me. A little bit of heart trouble, that’s all.’

‘Is the doctor coming?’

‘Don’t want him, my niece—’

‘The dark girl?’

‘No, Hannah, the fair girl. Do you know Hebe, then?’ Amy’s voice was suddenly sharp.

‘No, I don’t. I just wondered whether she had any antiques to sell. I called at all the other houses. I thought I’d—’

‘Hebe has no antiques. She wouldn’t sell antiques, not now.’ Amy was weakly aggressive.

‘Did she once?’

‘Sandwich coming up, Auntie.’ Feet on the stairs, Giles hurrying into the room. ‘Mum says would you like anything else.’ Giles caught sight of Jim. ‘Hullo, saw you in the pub.’ He put the plate of sandwiches beside Amy. ‘She’ll be over soon. This enough?’

‘So she’s called Hebe,’ Jim reminded Amy, ignoring Giles.

Amy answered Giles. ‘Yes, love, that’s plenty, tell her, and thank her.’

Giles stood poised to leave. ‘You okay, then?’ He watched Jim with suspicion.

‘Yes, love.’ Amy reassured him.

‘Some of us are going to the beach for driftwood, it’s low tide.’

‘Have fun.’

‘Bye, then.’ Giles sprang away, his trainers going thud thud thud on the stairs.

‘So Hebe was selling things at one time.’ Jim tried to place her. Camden Passage? Some antique shop in the provinces? Portobello Road?

Amy munched her sandwich. ‘She sold some things to an old scoundrel, that’s all.’ Why was she telling him this, she wondered, champing on her sandwich. Because I like the looks of him, that’s why. ‘Give him his due, he gave her a good price.’

‘Bernard?’ Jim hazarded. ‘D’you know him?’

‘Hebe’s a cook.’ Amy ignored Jim’s question. ‘Cordon Bleu. Hannah, who made this sandwich, isn’t Cordon Bleu but she’s a good cook too. I saw you talking to her.’

‘Yes, very pretty. Green eyes.’

‘That’s right, Hannah Somerton. Her name was Krull but she changed it. Changed her teeth, too.’ Amy snorted.

‘Beautiful teeth, I remember.’ Jim was polite. How did one get her back to the dark girl?

‘They were,’ Amy leant forward staring at Jim, ‘snaggle every which way.’

‘Oh.’

‘Didn’t prevent her catching Krull. He’s rich. She wants someone else now, though.’

‘I’m not rich.’ Jim drew back from the old woman blowing crumbs.

‘You’re safe, then. Take this tray down when you go, there’s a dear. I’m now going to have a nap.’ She looked old, ill, wanted him to leave.

Jim took the tray. ‘Put it in the back kitchen. Nice of you to call. Goodbye.’ She drew the sheet up, pursing her lips, the movement matching the folds of the sheet, dismissing him, slipping away into old age.

Jim took the tray down. He could report the safety of the paperweights and, if Bernard was interested, come again. In the street he wondered whether to renew acquaintance with Hannah, glanced at her door, decided against and went back to his car. The old woman had choked him off. Why?

‘Now then.’ Terry drew the curtains of Hannah’s bedroom. ‘Let’s get down to business.’ He cleared his throat, pushing Hannah gently back on to the bed. ‘D’you like it under the quilt or on top of the quilt?’ His voice was husky. He cleared his throat again. ‘Suppose you take off your panties and I’ll take off mine.’

‘Panties!’ Hannah gasped. ‘Do you wear—’

‘Nice, ain’t they, and this,’ he was on top of her, ‘is nice too.’

‘I didn’t know men wore them.’ She was interested.

‘Real silk. I’ll buy you a pair. Now pay attention.’

She was half amused, feeling the silk. ‘Are they satin?’ This was unusual, exciting.

‘I am.’

‘You are.’ She touched him. There was something about a very young man. Now George, she forgot what she had been about to think of George. ‘I don’t usually—’ she began.

‘Shush. Come on, get cracking, it takes two.’

Presently Hannah, watching Terry asleep, breathing silently through his nose, remembered George who had been known to snore. George had money. She shook Terry gently.

‘What do you do?’ she asked.

‘I’m self-employed.’

‘Doing what?’ But Terry wanted sleep. She remembered she must scrub Amy’s filthy floor. She lay for a few more minutes considering George. Would he or would he not come and help her? Like hell he would. He would say that his hands were precious. Rubbish, she thought resentfully, he could wear gloves. The expression ‘rabbiting’ rankled. She turned to reach for Terry’s hand, smooth, firm, nice nails. George, under stress, bit his.

‘Terry?’

‘Yes?’ Terry woke, glinting a dark eye at her. ‘Hullo, goosegogs.’

‘Say “regatta”.’

‘Regattah.’ He was smiling. ‘Received pronunciation suit you? I regattah, you regattah, she begat her. You on the pill?’ A flick of anxiety.

‘Yes.’ She blushed at the admission. George had insisted.

‘Ah—Ah—’ He stroked her face gently.

‘I have to scrub auntie’s floor.’

‘I’ll help you.’ He sprang up. ‘Where’s me knicks, then?’

‘On the floor.’

She watched him put them on. They really suited him. Much nicer than George’s baggy boxers.