Harnessing Peacocks (2 page)

‘The poor—’

‘Poor nothing. We have cherished a crocodile.’

‘My hearing aid is on the blink. I can’t hear what—’

‘I said we have cherished a crocodile.
Façon de parler
.’

‘Crocodiles are wonderful mothers.’ Faint hint of discord.

‘We are not giving this one the chance of showing how wonderful.’ He slammed down the window.

Hebe put on her shoes, pulled up her coat collar, stepped out into the rain. She hoped never to hear those voices again.

T
HE YOUNG MOTHERS WALKED
abreast, pushing their double buggies. Each buggy held two children. The younger children sucked pacifiers, the elder sprawled in resignation behind the plastic covers protecting them from the drizzle. The women paused to stare in shop windows, turning to one another to comment on the contents. They filled the width of the pavement. Both were pregnant. People attempting to pass stepped into the gutter or shrank aside in doorways.

Hebe’s gorge rose. She felt an almost joyful desire to jostle the young mothers, to shout at them to give way, give them a start, force them to show consideration. That both were heavily pregnant only made Hebe the more furious; she had never, when carrying Silas, taken up so much space; she had never let Silas suck a pacifier; come to think of it, Silas had never had a buggy. She had carried him in a sling next her heart.

Cherishing her uncharitable thoughts, Hebe prowled behind the women, disliking their swaying rumps, their mechanically turning heads, their abrupt bursts of inane laughter. As her intolerance grew she felt her face grow hot and her glasses begin to steam over. She let the women draw ahead, took off her glasses and wiped them, enjoying the slippery feel of glass between finger and thumb.

At the street corner, still talking, the women pushed the buggies off the pavement. An approaching car jammed on squealing brakes, missing the children by inches, nearly giving the driver a coronary.

‘Can’t you look where you’re going?’

‘Stupid git nearly killed my Kevin.’

‘Look where you’re going, look—’

Hebe swung round the corner, grinning with vengeful delight. Carrying her glasses so that she could see as little as possible of the street she deplored, she wondered whether in her absence of patience and lack of charity she had ill-wished the women. She felt a glow of power, both irrational and delightful as, increasing her pace, she set herself to climb the hill.

Without her glasses she could only see a blur of dark brick, each house as awful as its neighbour, purplish brick with light beige brick round the windows, uncompromising, solidly built, hideous.

Starting the climb, stiff for even the young and healthy, paradisiacal for the free-wheeling bicycles of reckless children, breathing the damp, salt-tinctured air, she became aware of a smell she could not define, coffee, pepper, smoke, with connotations of the panic nightmare which visited her, catching her as it did now, to bring horror so total that she stood holding her glasses, her hand pressed to her chest, then moving to shield her eyes, in an effort to black out the towering buildings rearing up to blot out the sky, bending inwards to stare from sightless unlit windows with the eyes of deep-sea fish. She heard jeers and laughter, the mindless chatter of an unseen crowd surrounding her with frightful cheer, isolating her in a dreadful cocoon so that she sweated and trembled, unable to move, as the voices began their litany.

‘Who is the man? It might be anybody. Who is the man? Don’t speak to your grandfather like that. A long-haired layabout. Dirty feet. Beards. You are a whore. Your sisters never—Who was the—Guitars—Don’t answer in that tone of voice. Earrings, cannabis, heroin. Probably a Communist. Dirty fingernails. Who was the man? Can’t speak the Queen’s English. Don’t prevaricate. Must have an abortion. What will your brothers-in-law say? Who was it? You must know. Don’t be impertinent. Where did it happen? Might be
black
. So many sacrifices, gave you everything. Don’t dare to speak like that. Don’t lie. If it were not so public you would have it on the National Health. What d’you mean too late? How many months? Of course you know. Think of our friends. I am
not
shouting. Your sisters. You’ve made your grandmother cry. At least be civil. After all we’ve done for you. All the right people. Who was it? Might have a police record. Might be diseased, might be a black. This is intolerable. Who—who—who—?’

She knew that if she could hang on the terror would dissipate. She would recover as though coming round from an anaesthetic.

‘I am not mad.’ She opened her eyes. She had spoken aloud, looked quickly round to see if she had been noticed, then rushed up the street, forcing her legs to hurry, driving herself. Reaching her door, heart thumping, breath coming in gasps, she fumbled for her key, breathing in the illusive whiff. What was it? Imaginary or not, it brought solace after the horror, even a sensation of happiness which she attributed to relief from the paralysis of fear. It was imaginary. She was safe in the ugly familiar street, safe from the voices mumbling the familiar accusations in weird accents in the strange city, the nightmare background of prying eyes, claustrophobic walls, darkness and that smell mixed with the voices. If only she could control the panic she might recover the shaft of joy which was always out of reach. Finding her key, she felt shame for the envy she had felt of the two women with their children, their buggies, their ordinary lives. Perhaps, she thought, putting on her glasses, it was envy which brought on the panic. She unlocked her door; the telephone was ringing in the house. Her heart slowed its beat. Somewhere behind the dead fish eyes, bullying questions, was gaiety, illusive, poignant, almost blotted out by that other fear. Epileptics must feel like this, she thought, and breathed in the smell of her house: garlic, flowers from the market, herbs. The telephone stopped.

Trip, her tortoiseshell cat, came to greet her, pressing her head against her ankles with sharp little pushes, prickling with her whiskers. She picked up the cat. ‘Hungry?’ Trip purred, pushing a paw against her cheek, flexing her claws, just not drawing blood.

Jim Huxtable, talking to Hannah Somerton further up the street, put the hat he was holding on his head, stopped what he was saying and stared.

‘Who is that girl?’

‘She’s called Hebe. She’s a neighbour.’ Hannah claimed Hebe.

‘Hebe, a young virgin crowned with flowers, arrayed in a variegated garment.’

‘Thrift shop parka.’ Hannah tried to retrieve his attention.

‘Hebe, daughter of Jupiter and Juno.’ She had opened the door, disappeared.

‘Who?’ What was the man talking about?

‘Hebe is the Latin name for Veronica.’ He looked at Hannah. ‘She harnessed peacocks. Fell down in a position which—’

‘I thought Veronica was a bush. A shrub,’ Hannah corrected herself, fearing to sound lewd.

‘Ah, yes.’ Jim looked at Hannah, small, fair hair, lovely green eyes, rather like Maudie Littlehampton. He was tempted to get to know her, find out what she was like in bed.

‘She’s hardly a virgin, she’s got a son of twelve.’ Hannah laughed, showing her perfect teeth. ‘She’s a cook.’

‘Really? Well, I must go. If you think of anyone with anything interesting to sell, here’s my card. My telephone number’s on it.’ He lost interest in Hannah.

‘Thanks, I’ll get in touch if I think of anything.’

‘Thank you.’ He began to move away.

‘Did you see my aunt’s paperweights?’ She tried to keep him talking; really attractive men were a rarity.

‘Yes, she doesn’t want to part.’

‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ She would like to delay him.

‘Very pretty.’ He moved away. She liked the way he walked, a European lope, an American lope was quite different. His hair under the hat was grey, his eyes dark grey. Wish I knew more about antiques, she thought as she crossed the street, then I could have kept him talking. She looked at the card: ‘James Huxtable’. A London telephone number, Fulham address. She opened Hebe’s door and walked into the house.

‘You came up the street in a rush.’ Her statement held a question.

‘It’s good for the heart, they say.’ Hebe snapped shut her mind, trapping her fears until the next time.

‘What was the hurry?’ Hannah pressed her, curious.

‘I must get into dry clothes, I am soaked.’ Why does she walk in on me like this? ‘There were two idiot girls who pushed their children out into the street and nearly got them killed.’ She took off her parka and shook it. Trip moved hastily under a chair to avoid the drops. ‘They had so many children.’

‘Not single parents, like us. Shall I put the kettle on?’ Hannah moved to pick up the kettle, take it to the sink, turn on the tap. Hebe wished she would not treat her kitchen and her kettle with such familiarity.

‘I must change my clothes.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘For a walk.’ She had no intention of sharing the joy of her walk. The tramp across fields and moorland, the sound of water dripping from trees, the rustle of wind, cries of sheep, shriek of buzzards, the delicious solitude.

‘I would have come with you if you’d said.’

I dare say you would, thought Hebe, climbing the stairs without answering.

‘There’s a lot to be said for single parenthood,’ Hannah called after her.

‘Yes.’ She pulled off her jersey.

‘Edward’s late with my maintenance,’ Hannah called up the stairs.

‘Always is,’ Hebe shouted back.

‘I’ve written to my solicitor.’

‘You always do.’

‘What?’

She writes every month, thought Hebe, brushing her damp hair. It’s amazing the funds don’t just dry up. At least I’m spared that hassle. She peered at her face in the mirror. I do not look like them, she thought, examining her face, nor sound much like them. It must be them behind those blind windows chanting their intolerable accusations. She stared at her high forehead, full mouth, dark eyes.

Bernard Quigley had said: ‘Your face is an asset. You look honest.’ And he had laughed his creaky old man’s laugh.

‘I’ve wet the tea,’ Hannah called up the stairs.

‘Thanks, I’ll have coffee,’ Hebe shouted, then reproached herself for snobbery. Why shouldn’t Hannah say ‘wet the tea’ if that came naturally?

‘Do you want real coffee, Nescaff or a bag? How was the job? Very boring?’

‘A bag will do. It was lucrative.’

‘When’s the next job?’

All these questions. Hebe pulled on a jersey and rejoined Hannah in the kitchen. ‘I haven’t decided.’ She took the proffered cup, and watched Hannah pour herself tea, resenting the way she made herself at home, sitting behind her teapot. Then, regretting her surly reaction, forced herself to be friendly.

‘After the holidays when Silas has gone back to school.’

‘And when does Master Silas grace us with his presence?’ Hannah’s lightness of tone failed to conceal the envy she felt of Silas at a fee-paying school, while her own son Giles was state educated.

‘Day after tomorrow. When does Giles get back from the Paris trip?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I hope he enjoyed it. Silas is longing to see him.’

‘Not grown too grand?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Hebe spoke sharply.

‘Edward Krull could perfectly well afford—’

‘Of course he could, but he doesn’t want to. You’ve told me.’

Hannah sniffed, scenting a rebuff. ‘Did you see that fellow I was talking to earlier on?’

‘I didn’t have my glasses on. I didn’t see anybody.’

‘A dealer. He was calling from house to house. Rather dishy. He visited Aunt Amy.’

‘People like that are called “Knockers”. Did she show him her things?’

‘He saw the paperweights. She must have liked him or she wouldn’t have taken them out of the cupboard. I was talking to him, getting friendly, you know how it is.’

‘No.’

‘You are so private. You never stop and chat. You miss a lot. I asked him to come in and see whether I had anything that might interest him. I thought he’d be someone I’d like to know.’

‘Might be a thief.’

‘He seemed friendly. Then he caught sight of you and he said, “Who is that? What’s that girl’s name?” It was as if he knew you.’

‘I didn’t see him, I told you. I hadn’t got my glasses on.’

‘He went on up the street but he stopped and stared when I came over to you. Pity you didn’t meet him, you could have made friends.’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘He talked with that kind of voice, you know what I mean.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You do. He talked like the people you go and work for.’

‘How do you know how they talk?’ Hebe was irritated.

‘I guess, bet I’m right. You talk like them yourself.’

‘Did he need a cook?’ Hebe mocked.

‘I told you, he was looking for antiques but’—Hannah narrowed green eyes—‘he gave the impression of—’

‘Rich?’ Hebe was laughing. ‘Stately homes?’

‘Confident.’ Hannah smiled, not resenting the mockery. ‘He seemed confident until he clapped eyes on you, then he seemed disturbed, sort of puzzled.’

Hebe wondered whether the stranger was a friend of one of her clients. ‘What was he like?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Tall, pepper and salt hair, grey eyes. Until you appeared I thought he was interested in me. Oh, I said that—’

‘I expect he was. You are beautiful.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Hannah looked delighted. ‘Honest?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Hebe warmly.

‘Another thing about him, he knew Latin and wore a hat.’

‘Latin?’

‘Said Hebe was the Latin name for Veronica, the shrub. You don’t often see men in hats. And something about driving peacocks.’

Hebe finished her coffee in a hurried gulp.

‘You aren’t interested, are you?’ Sometimes I wonder whether you are a lesbian.’ Hannah probed.

Hebe took her mug to the sink, standing with her back to Hannah to hide a broad smile.

‘I suppose Silas’ father was your one great love.’

‘Have you been reading Mills and Boon?’ Hebe asked coldly. Then—for she did not wish to hurt—she said, ‘I am busy making a living. Look, love, I have to get the place ready for Silas so—’