Harnessing Peacocks (20 page)

Silas reached for a dry shirt and put it on. Standing in socks and shirt, he looked down at Michael. The boots were full of blue-white water. Michael stirred with a stick and emptied them down the drain. Silas craned out to see if there were any identifiable bits of pasty, then began to search for dry pants and jeans and his one dry jersey.

‘Bring your wet clothes down with you when you have changed, Silas. I will wash them,’ Jennifer called.

Silas called back, ‘Thank you very much,’ and went back to the window, one arm in the sleeve of his jersey, pulling the rest over his head. ‘Are the boots spoilt for good?’ He leant out of the window.

Michael looked up. ‘Only unusually wet.’ He was grudging.

‘I will stuff them with newspaper,’ suggested Silas. ‘That’s what my mother does.’

‘Good idea.’

‘I am awfully sorry.’

‘Forget it.’ Michael’s cheek was fading.

‘Your mother’s—’

‘Got a filthy temper,’ muttered Michael. ‘They both have.’

‘Hot tea,’ shouted Jennifer up the stairs, falsely cheerful. ‘Hot tea, Silas.’ Then, changing tone, ‘For heaven’s sake go and change, Michael, don’t hang about, you’ll be catching cold. Tell Alistair and Ian to change too. You are too old to need a nanny.’

‘Nanny never hit me.’ Michael came up the stairs at a run, looking as though he had dodged another blow. ‘Take your wet clothes down to her,’ he snapped at Silas. ‘Give her something to do. She can put them in the machine.’

‘Thanks.’ Silas collected his clothes. Hebe’s white Guernsey smelled of vomit. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Nobody means to be sick.’ Michael was pulling his jersey over his head. ‘Does your mother create?’

‘No.’ Hebe seemed very distant from the Scilly Isles. ‘No, she doesn’t.’ He tried to imagine Hebe shouting like Mrs Reeves. The idea was ludicrous.

‘Ours does.’ Ian and Alistair, who had joined them, were also pulling jerseys over tousled heads. ‘Our mother makes fury, our father makes sound.’

‘They all do.’ Alistair was philosophical.

‘Today was all my father’s fault,’ Michael said, searching for dry clothes. ‘He knew sailing round the Bishop’s Rock would frighten him, he was showing off.’

‘Oh.’ Silas stood in the doorway holding his wet clothes.

‘Tea,’ Jennifer Reeves called up the stairs. Silas ran down to the kitchen. Jennifer took his bundle from him. ‘Ugh!’ She held it at arm’s length as she crossed the room to the outer kitchen. Silas heard her open the washing machine and say ‘Ugh!’ again.

Julian, already changed, sat at the kitchen table. ‘Tea?’ he offered Silas.

‘Thank you.’ Silas watched Julian pour tea into a large cup. He had a heavy jowly face; he was scowling.

‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Yes, please.’

Julian poured in milk and added lumps of sugar. Taking a flask out of his pocket he added a dollop of whisky. ‘That will settle your stomach.’ He winked at Silas. ‘Drink it up and you will feel better.’

Silas drank, thinking the mixture disgusting. He hated being winked at and wondered morosely whether he would throw up again. Julian clearly hoped he would. Instead he felt a revivifying glow. The cup empty, he held it out and asked for more.

‘Oliver Twisting?’ Julian stopped scowling. Jennifer came back into the room, shutting out the sound of the washing machine as she closed the door. She said, ‘Really, Julian,’ in mock reproach, then sat at the table to drink tea and eat buns. Julian switched on the radio, muttering, ‘I want to hear the weather forecast.’

‘You should have listened last night,’ said Jennifer sarcastically. Her husband raised his eyebrows in mock resignation. Somebody was interviewing a politician.

‘Mumble, mumble.’

‘That’s a very good question,’ said the politician.

‘Fuck. Bloody watch has stopped. Missed it.’ Julian switched off the radio, wound his watch, stood up. His stomach sagged over his trousers. ‘What time’s supper?’

‘Same time as usual?’ Jennifer did not look up.

‘Same old stew?’ asked Julian nastily.

‘Mrs Thing doesn’t have a large repertoire,’ said Jennifer snappily.

‘Time for a drink. I’ll ask them whether they heard the forecast at the pub. You coming?’

‘Get me some cigs, I am running out. No, I’m not coming. If you’d listened to the forecast last night instead of trying to pull that girl in the pub, you wouldn’t have—’

‘Oh, Christ!’ shouted Julian.

‘Here we go,’ muttered Michael
sotto voce.

‘She was hardly likely to look at you, she’s on her honeymoon.’ Jennifer’s voice rose.

‘You stupid cow, shut up.’ Julian left the cottage, banging the door. Jennifer began clearing the table. ‘Put on mackintoshes if you are going out,’ she said. It was an order.

‘I will help you hang the clothes on the line.’—Silas had noted the cessation of sound from the washing machine.

‘Thank you, Silas,’ said Jennifer.

Michael, Ian and Alistair put on boots and oilies in the porch and went out, leaving Silas with Jennifer.

‘Come on, then.’ She sounded martyred.

The rain had almost stopped. Silas piled the damp clothes into a basket and took them to the line. Jennifer shook each garment and pegged it up. Silas helped, observing as she stretched up that her heavy breasts wobbled and that where her jersey parted from her skirt there was a roll of white skin. He compared it with his mother’s taut brown body. Jennifer’s blonde bun came loose and lopsided on to her neck. Silas thought of Hebe’s brown bob.

‘I am going to rest before supper. Shall you go for a walk?’

‘Yes.’ Silas took off his shoes and set off up the hill barefoot, hoping to retrace the way he had walked on his first day. Perhaps he would see the seals again, find the little beach.

He climbed until he could look across the water to Bryher. The wind had dropped, the sea was subsiding. Between the islands the water was pewter-coloured in the evening light, smoothing itself calm. He watched the sunset begin its spectacular. Yellow light seeping under storm clouds gave the impression that golden treacle had been spread over the sea between the islands. As he watched the colours changed from gold to pink. The heather at his feet was spun with spiders’ webs, raindrops reflecting the reddish purple of the heather and occasional blue of Devil’s Bit. There was no sound other than the soughing of the wind, gulls and the sea pounding on the rocks. Away from the voices of his hosts Silas felt comforted. Then the raising of his spirits begun by the whisky in his tea ceased. It had been an awful day. He hated sailing. He loathed the Reeves family. Ian and Alistair were awful too, but he promised himself he would buy a postcard and post it to Hebe: ‘Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.’

Below him two people walked along the path talking in quiet voices. He recognised the couple who had been in the boat on his first day. Silas felt a pang of envy at their happiness, quiet voices, gentle pace, so different from the strident aggressive Reeves. He watched them move out of sight, then looked back at the sunset. He had missed the beach off which he had seen the seals, where he had swum and later seen the adder, but here was the sunset. He watched the clouds roll away and the sky blaze; tomorrow would be fine. His feet were cold. He stood up. Would he be late for supper?

Silas ran, arriving back at the cottage panting and out of breath.

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘It doesn’t matter, we started without you.’

‘Have a glass of vino.’ Julian poured Silas a glass of wine and pushed it towards him. Jennifer compressed her lips and handed Silas a plate of stew. Michael glanced anxiously at his mother. Ian and Alistair smirked. The stew was the same as the stew of the night before.

‘This food’s bloody monotonous,’ Julian said aggressively. He ate with a spoon, shovelling the stew into his mouth, crouched over his plate, heavy shoulders bulging in his jersey, green quilted waistcoat hanging open.

‘It’s a very good stew,’ Silas ventured.

Julian looked up and stared at Silas. Silas shyly gulped some wine and looked at his plate.

‘I didn’t say it was bad, I said it was monotonous,’ said Julian.

‘Yes.’ Silas swallowed more wine.

‘Monotonous. Comes from the Greek. Means lack of variety, sameness. Don’t they teach you Greek at your establishment?’

‘No.’ Silas felt confused.

‘Not taught Greek? What sort of school is it, then?’

‘We don’t learn Greek,’ said Michael.

‘We don’t learn Latin, either.’ Ian joined the conversation.

‘You know they do not take Latin,’ said Jennifer. ‘They take modern languages.’

Julian ignored his wife.

‘We opted for German,’ said Alistair.

‘What’s that to do with the stew? Why can’t you ask Mrs Thing to give us a bit of variety?’ Julian glared at Jennifer.

‘I have. It doesn’t make the slightest difference.’ Jennifer helped herself to bread. Julian looked away from his wife and glared round the table at the boys, who studied their plates. Silas decided not to ask for a second helping. He crumbled his bread and drank more wine.

‘Do you get stew at home?’ Julian was glaring at Silas, masticating with open mouth.

‘Sometimes.’

‘Not as good as Mrs Thing’s, I don’t suppose. Mrs Thing’s a stew artist. Have some more. You need a refill after today.’ Julian laughed abruptly.

‘No thank you, sir.’ The ‘sir’ slipped out. The atmosphere was so like school.

‘The boy calls me “Sir” now. Have some more stew, I say. Give the boy some more, Jennifer, give us all some more. ‘Julian held out his plate. Jennifer spooned stew on to it. ‘Don’t suppose you get stew like this at home. Make the most of it while you can. Mrs Thing’s excellent stew. Hah!’

‘Silas’ mother is a cook,’ said Michael.

There was a pause while Silas drank wine, Julian masticated and Ian and Alistair passed their plates for second helpings, exchanging covert glances.

Jennifer Reeves, spooning stew on to the plates extended towards her, said lightly, ‘One of my uncles married his cook.’

‘Blotted the old copybook there, didn’t he? Wasn’t even pregnant, was she? Still, think what it must have saved in wages. Quite a good idea, when you think on it. Marry a cook, good idea, good idea.’ Julian ate.

‘Must you use a spoon?’ Jennifer exclaimed.

‘Yes, I must. Knife and fork are okay, but for Mrs Thing’s stew a spoon’s the thing.’ Julian’s truculence was almost tangible.

‘You are drunk.’ Jennifer spoke through clenched teeth.

‘Not very. Mrs Thing’s stew will soak up the surplus alcohol. So Silas’ mother is a cook, is she? Well, I never. How, ah, did that come about? I mean in these days it’s pretty rare to find a cook. Endangered species. Clever of your father to find her. ‘Julian stared at Silas. Silas drank his wine, emptying the glass, reaching out his hand towards the bottle to help himself to more.

‘Let me.’ Julian took the bottle and poured wine into Silas’ glass. Jennifer sighed. Michael, Ian and Alistair sat watchful. ‘So this endangered species married your father. What does your father do?’

‘Julian.’

‘All I ask is what his father does. No need to say “Julian” in that tone of voice.’

‘Silas’ mother is very beautiful.’ Michael’s voice gave its first pubertal crack.

‘Beautiful, is she? Hah! A beautiful endangered species. She must have been something before she was a cook.’ With the doggedness of intoxication Julian worried his prey.

‘My mother is a Hermaphrodite,’ said Silas proudly, ‘and you are disgusting.’ He flung his wine in Julian’s face, stood up, threw down his napkin and left the cottage.

L
OOKING AT THE CLOCK
on the dashboard, Mungo noted the lateness of the hour. Too late now to find a bed for the night. He had been driving at random, angry and frustrated since leaving Louisa’s house. My dreams have fallen about my ears, he thought morosely. Where the hell am I? He had been travelling fast along unknown roads; the petrol gauge was dangerously low. ‘That’s all I need,’ Mungo muttered, driving slowly now, on the lookout for a signpost.

Presently he came to one which said ‘Salisbury 5 miles’. There would surely be an all-night garage. He nursed the car, glancing at the gauge which arrowed the red line. It seemed an age before he was on the outskirts of the city, passing one closed petrol station after another. Soon he was in the one-way system designed by clever councillors to entrap tourists. Close to the centre the engine sighed to a halt. Mungo drew into the kerb. He was tired, fed up and far from home. He got out of the car, locked it and started to walk. Rounding a corner he sighted a bay window in a small Georgian house, a white front door with a fanlight above it, a highly polished dolphin knocker. Light shone through the fanlight. Above the bay window the words ‘Rory Grant, Hatter.’ If only I had a brick to hurl through the bloody window. Mungo used the knocker—bang, bang, bang.

‘Hang on, I’m coming. What’s the—’ Rory opened the door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He recoiled.

Mungo shouldered past his cousin. ‘I’ve run out of petrol.’

‘Come in, then.’ Rory looked at Mungo anxiously. ‘I may have—a—’

‘Have you got anything to drink? I’m done in.’

‘—can in the garage. Yes, of course. Coffee? Whisky? Come into the—’ but Mungo was already in the kitchen and slumped at the table.

‘You are up early,’ he said in a surly voice.

‘I haven’t been to bed, I was too—’

‘Upset. Me too. I’ve been driving in circles.’

‘Here’s some—’ Rory produced a bottle of whisky, poured half a glass and pushed it across the table towards Mungo, then helped himself. Mungo drank, eyeing his cousin, who looked rather ahead of him in the drinking stakes.

‘You drunk?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. Would you like some soup?’

‘Oh, God,’ said Mungo. ‘Soup.’

‘You look hungry.’ Rory busied himself finding bread, butter, heating soup.

‘I haven’t come to stay.’ Mungo put down his glass with an aggressive clunk.

‘Of course not.’ Rory pushed a bowl of soup towards his cousin, handed him a spoon. ‘We can hate each other better when we’ve eaten.’

Mungo ate his soup, buttered his bread. ‘Got any cheese?’