Harnessing Peacocks (19 page)

W
ALKING LOUISA’S DOGS ALONG
the river after dinner, Hebe felt pleased with life. She was enjoying her work for Louisa, revelling in the countryside so different from the dark brick street in which she lived. If Silas were with her it would be perfect, she thought, but if he were it would not be possible to arrange the addition of Rory to her troupe. She considered Rory. He was endearing but against this he was Louisa’s nephew, a potentially embarrassing connection. She liked to keep her cooking and tarting separate. It might be difficult, with Rory living so close to Louisa, to manage this. But why not, she encouraged herself. My old home is not far away and they, my grandparents with their new dog, don’t know I am here. Amy would approve of Rory. Hebe smiled to herself. Rory was unmarried, belonged to the strata of society Amy envisaged as Hebe’s. Amy, a romantic, would see Rory as the Mr Right she secretly hoped for her. Thinking of Amy, she felt a surge of love and gratitude. It was ungrateful to hate the hideous street. Amy had provided a loving home in it. In the street she had found refuge when filled with apprehension, waiting for Silas, experienced exuberant joy when he was born, reshaped her life, destroying the person she had been brought up to be, plotted her survival, planned her cooking career, found friendship with Bernard and through him discovered Hippolyte and the formula for survival she had carefully planned. Strolling by the river, pausing to throw sticks for the dogs, hearing a water vole plop, watching it swim close to the bank then vanish, seeing the swirl and rise of secret trout in the bottle green water, Hebe counted herself fortunate, congratulated herself on the profitable career which with balanced planning was so enjoyable a way of keeping herself amused while educating Silas. She dismissed a tiny cloud of whingeing doubt which occasionally assailed her as to whether she had truly chosen the right education for her child.

Hebe peered at her reflection and that of Rufus in the darkly waving water. Hippolyte, founder member of the Syndicate, had urged her to put a high price on herself, had taught her about bed. It was after learning ‘The Soufflé System’ that she had enlarged her horizon when occasion arose and became a tart as well as a cook. Mungo was the most profitable of her lovers, Hippolyte both friend and lover, constant. Latterly there had been Terry, a delightful novelty, and now Rory. She stroked Rufus’ wet head. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said to the dog, whose reflection in the water wagged its tail. ‘I like my work. I am giving Silas the chance to be whatever he likes. A few more pleasurable working years, Rufus, old dog, and I can retire.’ She leant forward to watch a trout sliding under the weed, its movement so beautiful she held her breath. ‘It’s a wonderful evening,’ she said to the dogs. ‘Run, run, you must get dry, run.’ Hebe ran with the dogs along the river, fleet and happy, for she would soon be home with Silas for the rest of the holidays.

The sun had set. From the French windows of Louisa’s drawing-room yellow light streamed into the garden, alive with moths, the sound of the news on the television, jasmine and tobacco plants scenting the air.

‘What a perfect evening,’ said Hebe, coming into the drawing-room from the garden, carrying flowers, accompanied by the dogs.

Louisa, sitting on her sofa opposite the fire, where a log glowed even though it was August, looked up, smiling.

‘We are just listening to the news,’ she said.

In armchairs on either side of the fire sat Mungo on Louisa’s left and Rory on Louisa’s right. Both looked at Hebe expectantly.

The news announcer was saying, ‘—to be unveiled by Her Majesty—happily the rain—informality mixed with pomp—the umbrellas have come down—generations represented here today—now the Queen—one might almost say—pulse of history—roll of Gotha—inspiration—pride—the Queen’s walkabout—adversity—hope—affection—great man—Prince and Princess of Wales—great—’

‘Great philanderer, had a lot of affairs, they say. I don’t call that much of a likeness.’ On the screen Her Majesty had pulled the string and the statesman was revealed in bronze. Louisa went on talking. ‘You’ve met Rory, of course, and I believe you know Mungo.’ She was enjoying the situation.

‘Yes, of course. How do you do. Hi!’ said Hebe, who never said ‘Hi’. ‘Is there anything you’d like?’ she asked Louisa. ‘I am on my way to bed.’

‘No, thank you, my dear.’

Mungo and Rory had risen to their feet.

‘I thought I’d take Rufus to sleep in my room tonight,’ said Hebe, looking her employer in the eye. ‘He was very noisy last night.’

Rory gasped.

‘So he was. A good idea. Goodnight, my dear.’ Louisa exaggerated cheerfulness.

‘Goodnight, then. Come along, dogs.’ Hebe left the room, followed by the dogs.

‘Switch off the television, Mungo. Would you draw the curtains, Rory, as you are on your feet?’ Louisa turned to Mungo. ‘Now tell me how dear Lucy is. Your mother, Mungo. Do pay attention.’

Mungo stopped staring at the door which had closed behind Hebe. ‘My mother’s all right,’ he muttered.

‘And Alison, how is dear Alison, hasn’t she gone to America or something?’

‘Or something,’ said Mungo heavily. ‘She eloped to form a troika.’

‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Louisa. ‘But you will get her back?’ she teased.

‘Unfortunately
yes
,’ cried Mungo. ‘My mother—’ He stared at the door. Why the hell had Hebe gone off like that, taking a pack of dogs with her as though she needed protection? He knew the dog Rufus, it had once bitten him. Did she imagine he would rush up and rape her in front of this crowd of people? Of course he wanted to rape her, wasn’t that what he’d come for? What the hell was that fool Rory doing here, anyway? Why was Louisa acting so funny?

‘Your mother, you were saying?’ Louisa pried.

‘She’s said something, implied something. Oh, I don’t know but Alison is coming back.’ In his fury and pain Mungo was almost shouting. ‘Coming back on the first flight she can get.’

‘What did your mother say to her?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mungo moaned weakly.

‘I expect she told her the man had AIDS. Alison wouldn’t like that.’

‘Christ! Do you think he has?’ Mungo was shocked.

‘I should be surprised if he has, but I cannot see your mother managing without Alison. She depends on her.’ Louisa grinned. She did not add, ‘And so do you.’

Rory, who had arrived at the house simultaneously with Mungo, and was a-bubble with suppressed rage at the advent of his cousin, let out a loud guffaw. He had never liked Mungo, who was ten years older, had the advantage of a richer background than his own and had been held up to him as an example by his father. ‘Your cousin Mungo fits into the family business, follows in his father’s footsteps. Why cannot you join the Army? You would be made welcome in the old regiment.’ Rory’s hesitation over joining the Army had been welded into determination by Mungo’s willingness to join his father’s firm. If he had not been in such a rage with Mungo he would have felt grateful for this negative influence. As it was, watching Mungo’s behaviour since arriving in Louisa’s house, the way his eyes wandered in obvious search, a feeble excuse to fetch water from the kitchen, his restless inattention to Louisa’s small talk, he had guessed that Mungo was a member of Hebe’s Syndicate. When Hebe came in through the French windows, surrounded by dogs, carrying flowers, looking in her light cotton dress like some latterday Diana, Rory’s heart had leapt, and so, quite obviously, had Mungo’s. Hebe had barely glanced at either of them but with a barefaced lie about feeling tired had swept out of sight to lock herself no doubt into the bedroom he considered his, where so lately he had lain in her arms and she brown, soft, warm had Rory closed his eyes in an effort to blot out the intruding vision of Hebe in Mungo’s arms. Oh, God, Oh, God! Rory cried to his maker, I cannot bear it. His fury switched from Mungo to Louisa. She was tormenting Mungo about Alison, his mother and his schoolboy sons Ian and Alistair. Rory overheard odd words which did not make much sense but, forcing himself to pay attention, became alert.

‘Not really, Mungo, none of the beds are made up.’ Mungo, it appeared, was inviting himself to stay. ‘I can’t ask Hebe to do housework. She comes here to cook, nothing else. She is tired, as you no doubt saw.’ Looking the picture of bounce and energy, thought Rory. ‘I suggest’—Louisa was swinging into her stride—‘that you ask Rory to put you up for the night. You will gladly do that, Rory, won’t you?’

‘What?’ Could one really choke with emotion, Rory wondered.

‘You will have your cousin Mungo for the night. He has to leave early so that he can be home when Alison telephones the time of her arrival from California. The west coast of America,’ Louisa added, as though Rory were some idiot child who knew no geography.

‘I don’t think—’ began Rory.

‘A good opportunity to see something of each other. You are, after all, cousins, even though perhaps you may not have very much in common.’

‘I—er—’

‘Perhaps you have more in common than you think.’ Was she being purposely malicious? ‘You are of the same generation. I am sure you will find mutual interests.’

‘I had hoped—’ began Mungo querulously.

Louisa stood up. No need for Mungo to voice his hopes. ‘It was lovely of you to visit me on your way, and you, too, Rory. Come and fish whenever you like. Now you must forgive me, I am feeling my age—rather overdoing it in my garden while Hebe is here. Such a cook, such food! I am sorry I cannot ask you—But of course Alison is a wonderful cook, too, and such a good manager. Next time you come’—Louisa was moving towards the door so that Mungo and Rory had perforce to follow—‘next time, ring me up and give me notice. It will be so nice.’ It was possible, thought Rory admiringly, to gather that it was not nice now.

‘I always enjoy seeing the young.’ Louisa had the drawing-room door open, was leading them across the hall. ‘You must bring your boys to see me, Mungo. So lovely for Lucy to have grandsons.’ Was that malice in her voice? She had hold of Mungo’s arm. Does she think he is going to sprint upstairs after Hebe? Rory wondered. ‘Did you bring anything with you?’ Louisa asked. ‘No?’

‘No,’ said Mungo, who had his suitcase in his car. I used to love Aunt Louisa, he thought bitterly. The old viper.

‘Then goodnight. God bless.’ Louisa put up her face to be kissed. ‘And goodnight, Rory. Lovely to see you, lovely.’

Mungo and Rory walked to their cars.

‘I’ll put you up for the night,’ said Rory, with unexpected pity for his cousin.

‘Oh, go to hell.’ Mungo got into his Jaguar and slammed the door.

Rory got into his Volvo and shut the door quietly before switching on the engine.

Louisa watched the cars drive to the main road. ‘What a pantomime!’ She burst out laughing.

Leaning from her open window with the dog Rufus beside her, Hebe grinned. Louisa stood on the steps until the sound of the cars died away then went in, closing the front door. Hebe saw the light in the hall turned off. She listened to the soft sounds of the August night, a roosting bird in the creeper resettling itself, distant traffic, the cow with a cough in the meadow. ‘Come, Rufus.’ She got into bed, followed by the dog. ‘Your mistress is a lovely lady.’ She put an arm round Rufus, who groaned with pleasure. ‘I am not going to worry about it tonight,’ she said to the dog and lay hoping for sleep, without dreams or voices chanting dirty fingernails—Communists—earrings—abortion—bare feet. She switched her mind to other moments when things had not gone exactly right: the embarrassing episode in the Clarence at Exeter; Rory walking in when she was trying on the hat; Hippolyte, surprised by the sound of his wife’s return from shopping, leaping from the bed to pull on his trousers, exclaiming, ‘
Il faut sauver les convenances’
before glissading out of the window. ‘You don’t worry about
“les convenances”
,’ Hebe said to the dog lying beside her. Rufus braced his feet against the wall and heaved his back against Hebe. ‘You take up more room than any lover,’ she said.

Refusing to review the tangle her carefully ordered existence was faced with, she slept surprisingly well.

‘D
ON’T BE SUCH AN
oaf, Michael, wash them out, there’s a tap by the back door—yes there is, use your eyes, you nitwit—I will give you some Jeyes, that will get rid of the smell—yes, it
will
. The sooner you do it the better—don’t be so
wet.
How dare you talk to me like that?’ The sound of a slap, a cry of indignant pain from Michael. ‘I have never known anyone make so much fuss, everybody’s seasick some time—’

‘Not into my boots.’ A whimper.

‘Shut up about your fucking boots, stop beefing.’ Another blow sounded.

‘That hurt!’ Michael yelped.

‘It was meant to.’ Jennifer Reeves’ voice spitting venom. ‘He is your visitor, you insisted on inviting him.’ There was the sound of another blow and Jennifer saying something Silas couldn’t catch.

Changing his wet clothes, Silas peered out of the window as Michael, holding the boots into which he had been sick, approached the tap under the window, dribbled Jeyes fluid into each boot and turned on the water. Silas saw that Michael’s cheek flamed red and that he was crying. Pulling on dry socks he felt pity for Michael, even though he had been foul and unsympathetic on the boat. Ian and Alistair had laughed high shrieking laughs until, looking at Julian to see whether he too was amused, they had abruptly sobered, realising something more than Silas’ seasickness was afoot. Julian was angry at his own temerity. The weather, far rougher than he had bargained for when they set out from St Mary’s, punished the boat. He would need all his expertise on the run home without being bothered with a seasick child. ‘Get below,’ he had shouted at Silas, ‘out of the way.’

Silas had crept unsteadily below, crawling into a corner of the cabin. It had seemed for ever before the bumping, crashing, heaving and jolting had stopped. Listening to Julian shouting orders at Michael, Alistair and Ian, he was glad, if this was what fathers were like, that he had none, and now Mrs Reeves (less than ever could he think of her as Jennifer) was steamed up.