Harnessing Peacocks (31 page)

‘Milk chocolate babies,’ said Silas, munching.

‘Great,’ said Hebe. ‘All those in favour—’

‘In favour.’ Jim and Silas agreed light-heartedly.

‘And those against?’ asked Jim seriously.

‘Hannah will enjoy the challenge. You see, with Terry,’ said Hebe seriously, ‘she will never be bored.’

‘Mr Quigley said Giles’ father was boring,’ volunteered Silas. ‘It hurt his feelings.’

‘There you are, then.’ Hebe took off her glasses and looked myopically out to sea.

Watching her Jim thought, She cannot have seen me clearly when we met in Lucca, no wonder she had nightmares. Jim was not without vanity. We are no nearer what matters, he thought, disgruntled. Discussing Amy’s, Bernard’s, and Hannah’s affairs does not help me.

‘Shall we go down to the sea?’ Silas suggested.

Jim paid for the tea and they walked back to the cliff path and scrambled down towards the cove. This time Jim led and Hebe brought up the rear. On a ledge of grass Hebe sat. ‘You go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait here.’ She watched the man and boy climb down the cliff, heard their feet crunch when they reached the pebbles at the bottom. Feathers sat beside her, mouth open, panting. Hebe lay back. She could hear Silas’ voice call and Jim answer. Giving way to exhaustion, she was grateful for the lulling warmth of the sun and the sound of the sea grinding the pebbles.

On the beach Jim and Silas played ducks and drakes then undressed and swam, letting the sea welcome them. They raced to the ledge of rock which flanked the cove, pulled themselves out of the water and lay on rocks warm from the afternoon sun. Silas shaded his eyes and looked up at his mother. ‘Is my mother the girl you met in Italy, the girl you told us you were looking for?’

‘Yes.’ Jim looked at the sea, furious that he could not look Silas in the eye. This is all wrong, he told himself, the boy should not be involved until we have sorted ourselves out. This is putting the cart before the horse again.

‘I thought so.’ Silas lay back and closed his eyes.

My God, thought Jim, why doesn’t he say something? Is he glad, is he sorry, is he even interested? Lying there so calmly he’s exactly like his mother.

Silas felt the blood drumming in his ears. So I’ve got a father, this man, this Jim. What do I do now? What does Ma do? What did they do in Italy? Silas kept his eyes tightly shut, sparks from the sun on his eyelids. Did they kiss as people do on TV, as though they were eating a banana? What happens now? Do I go back to school as usual? What will Ma do, will she go on being a cook, a prostitute, will she be there to meet me when I get off the train? ‘I’m cold,’ he cried out in fear, and dived off the rock into the sea. Jim watched the boy swim back to the beach, scramble out of the water to his pile of clothes. When, twenty minutes later, he rejoined them Silas sat on guard by his sleeping mother and eyed Jim watchfully as he climbed up to them. Feathers barked and Hebe woke.

‘Time to go home,’ she said. ‘We have a tough day tomorrow meeting Mr Reeves, Mrs Reeves, Master Reeves and the duffle bag.’ She set off up the cliff. The man and the boy followed. When they reached the cars Hebe said, ‘Thank you for the lovely cream tea and the eggs. I am quite restored.’ She held out her hand as to an acquaintance. ‘Perhaps,’ began Jim, taking it, ‘perhaps we can talk—’ Hebe let go his hand. ‘There is altogether too much to talk about,’ she said despairingly, ‘or nothing.’ She got into her car. ‘What seems to matter most at the moment is the bloody duffle bag.’ She drove off with Silas beside her. Jim followed Feathers through the fields to Bernard’s house. He had never before felt so lonely.

I
T HAD BEEN AN
interminable day. Crawling into bed after reassuring herself that Amy was on the mend and Hannah and Terry as happy as it was possible for lovers to be, Hebe prayed for sleep, but she was too tired. Her head buzzed with sounds. Traffic on the motorway, dogs barking, a jumble of voices from which she could pick Louisa’s or Bernard’s, the stranger in the traffic jam, the waitress at the farm, Jennifer Reeves’ offensive intonation, Amy. Resolutely she excluded Jim, muttering to herself, ‘I’m in no fit state’, repeating, ‘No fit state’. She tried to relax her fingers and toes, tried not to flinch when a late motorcycle roared up the street, tried to recover the murmur of the sea on the cobbles of the cove as she heard it that afternoon when all too briefly she had slept.

Trip nudged the quilt and crawled in beside her to settle, her gentle heaving flank pressed into the small of Hebe’s back.

‘Now I can’t turn over.’ It was ridiculous to consider the cat’s comfort before her own, yet she did. Two motorcycles in rapid succession raced up the street, drunken voices shouting harshly.

‘I can’t sleep, Ma.’ Silas, standing by the bed in his pyjamas. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Of course.’ She sat up.

‘Have you got Trip? She left me.’

‘Yes.’

‘I think I’ll just get my quilt to wrap round me.’

‘Do.’

She heard his bare feet on the landing, the rustle as he came back trailing the quilt. She resisted the impulse to switch on the light.

‘I suppose it would be cowardly not to meet my duffle bag. Not to meet the Reeves tomorrow.’ He settled himself at the end of her bed, a hunched figure wrapped in the quilt.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Thought you would say that.’ Silas said no more for a while. She could not see his face in the dark. Another motorcycle roared up the street.

‘They do make a filthy noise, don’t they?’

‘Terrible,’ she agreed.

‘What are you going to do about Jim?’

‘I—’

‘He’s my father, isn’t he?’

‘I think so. Yes.’

‘Funny, isn’t it? He’s been looking for you for years. He told Mr Quigley and me about it yesterday evening.’

Yesterday evening she had walked by the river with Rufus and the other dogs, been happy, gone in to find Mungo and Rory with Louisa. Another life. ‘How did that come about?’ she asked.

‘Mr Quigley wanted to cheer me up, he was joking. He asked Jim whether he had ever been in love. Jim told us about this girl he had met at a fiesta in Italy. There was a procession, people, crowds, incense and a band played tumpity-tump. He was really there, Ma, at the fiesta. Bought you a nut necklace. Then he lost you. He said he’d been looking for you ever since. What happened to the necklace, Ma?’

‘I left it behind when I ran away from home.’ Surprised, she remembered the necklace. A lone motorcycle sputtered up the street, not as fast as its predecessors. ‘They take the baffles off the silencers to make more noise. It’s “machismo”.’

‘Yes. I don’t want a motorbike.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘Shall you marry Jim, Ma?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t know much about marriage. What do you think?’ she asked.

Silas sat thinking. Then, ‘I don’t know much, either.’ He laughed.

‘You should hear Giles about Hannah and his father and you should see Mr and Mrs Reeves. Oh, God, you will tomorrow.’ He stopped laughing.

‘Yes, I shall.’

The town clock struck one, the sound reverberating in the exhausted afterstorm atmosphere.

‘Married people
can
be happy.’ He was speaking again. ‘I think Terry and Hannah will be a riot. Super for Giles.’ He sounded envious.

‘Yes.’

‘What do you know about marriage, Ma?’

‘My sisters—’

‘Sisters? Do I have
aunts
?’ Silas jerked upright in surprise.

‘Yes.’

‘Could you tell me, or are they a big secret? It’s embarrassing at school not to have relations. The boys boast about theirs. Are they tarts or what?’

‘I’m the only tart in the family.’

‘Oh, Ma.’ Silas moved up the bed to crouch beside her. ‘I nearly sat on Trip. What happened to them?’

‘They married.’ Hebe thought of Ann, Beata and Cara. ‘Ann married a man called Robert. They had a Jaguar. Beata married Delian. They had an Alfa Romeo. And Cara married Marcus and they had a Range Rover.’

‘Rich.’ He was surprised.

‘That was it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Silas was made anxious by her tone. There was a tightness in her throat.

‘Well.’ She found herself speaking more freely. ‘They were a lot older than me. I used to watch and listen to them. They talked a lot about men and marriage. Whenever one of them met a new man they discussed him. They’d say, “I’ve met a new man,” and the others always asked, “Is he rich?” It didn’t seem to matter whether he was talented or good looking. It was always, “Is he rich?”’

‘Rich?’ Silas repeated the word. ‘Rich?’

‘Of course they were all suitable,’ said Hebe.

‘What’s suitable?’

‘Suitable meant—oh, suitable meant public school, related to nice people, the right sort. They’d ask, “Is he rich?” Then they’d ask, “Are his people nice, are they our sort”?’

Christ, just like school, thought Silas.

‘Then they would telephone copiously, giggle and shriek down the telephone. They never minded being overheard. It was a sort of ritual.’

‘Charming.’

‘I never felt I fitted.’

‘I don’t want to be suitable,’ said Silas, who had been mulling the word.

‘I don’t think there is any danger of that.’

‘I’m awfully hungry, Ma, shall we raid the larder?’

Wrapped in their quilts they trailed downstairs. Robbed of her warm covering Trip furiously burrowed under the pillows. Hebe made bacon sandwiches and they returned to her bed carrying plates and glasses of milk. Trip went out of the window into the night.

‘What were your father and mother like?’ Silas asked with his mouth full, munching.

‘I never knew them. They were killed in an air crash when I was a baby. My grandparents brought us up.’

‘Were they “suitable”?’ He adopted the word.

‘I saw them this morning.’

‘
What?’
Silas put his glass down with a thump. ‘Where?’

‘On my way home. I met them in a lane, a short cut I was taking, they’d had a collision with a Land Rover.’ Hebe described the scene as she remembered it. ‘They had a sweet dog. He called it away when I was going to stroke it and I said, “I’ll find a long haired yobbo, a black layabout to mend your car.” What are you laughing at? I didn’t really say that.’

‘It’s so funny. What does it mean? Why should you say that?’ Silas went off into a fit of laughter.

Hebe found herself describing the inquisition, the family meeting, the planned abortion, the grandparents, the sisters, the brothers-in-law, the running away, the journey down to Cornwall hitching lifts, the final arrival on Amy’s doorstep, her recurrent nightmares. She did not mind that at moments Silas bubbled off into near hysteria. She guessed his laughter was as necessary for him as her tale-telling was for her. Now that she had begun she could not stop. She poured out the life that she had kept secret from him. The town clock struck twice and at last three times. Far away in the country a cock crowed, and on the town roofs the seagulls started screaming. Hebe trailed to a stop. Silas rolled into a ball in his quilt, managed to reach up and kiss her and say: ‘I don’t think Jim is suitable,’ before falling asleep, and Hebe pulling her quilt to her ears relaxed at last, feeling as close to her child as she had been when he was still in her womb.

While Silas slept she reviewed the day ahead.

First the duffle bag must be collected from the Reeves, an ordeal for Silas, who dreaded the embarrassment. Was it only the duffle bag and the Reeves, she mused, or something else? Her mind clear now after the disgorgement to Silas, she reviewed Silas’ situation. Did not the Reeves represent the sort of people, the nice sort of friends he was meant to be happy with at school?

‘But he isn’t happy,’ she whispered to the cat coming in from her patrol, creeping up on to the bed. ‘He isn’t happy at all.’ With the clarity that extreme fatigue occasionally engenders she reviewed her plans for Silas, the opportunities he was to have of friends and education. It began all right, she thought. Before boarding school she had left him for short periods with Amy while she cooked for Lucy, Maggie Cook-Popham or Louisa. And once the Syndicate got going she again left him with Amy, latterly only working in term time so that holidays would be free for Silas.

‘And now?’ she whispered to the cat, lying warm against her neck. ‘Now Amy is not well enough to help, Silas is not happy and I,’ she whispered, ‘must decide what to do.’ Listening to the gulls’ angry shrieking she faced the question, Did she send Silas away for his good, so that he would get the best education, or did she send him away so that she could enjoy her Syndicate? ‘Is he at school for his sake or mine?’ she whispered to the purring cat. But she was not really in doubt. She thought of the weekends in Paris with Hippolyte, the high spirits and delicious food, of the weeks with Mungo whom she was fond of. ‘He has improved so,’ she whispered to the cat, ‘we’ve been on such lovely trips,’ and of Rory not yet tried, Rory of whom she felt she could grow very fond. Oh God, she thought in tense alarm, there’s this Jim, Silas’ father. What of him? She felt threatened.

We have no memories in common, she thought, feeling recalcitrant. I do not even know whether he likes cats. ‘It’s altogether too much,’ she said aloud. ‘First things first. Concentrate on the duffle bag.’

M
UNGO DROVE WITH VERVE
and dash. They had spent the night in an hotel by the Helford river. He had feared, when Alison insisted on stopping at a chemist in Truro, that she was planning one of her fucking headaches (to be exact a non-fucking headache) but this fear had been groundless. After dinner with Rory, who entertained them during the meal with a description of his life as a milliner, he had, elevated by circumspect consumption of wine, gone up to their room to find that she had bought not, as he supposed, soluble aspirin, but a choice of contraceptives.

‘Which do you prefer?’ Alison presented her offerings. ‘Arousal? Elite? Fiesta?’

Mungo cried, ‘Fiesta every time. Or should we,’ he suggested, recollecting the night in Louisa’s house, ‘rename it, “Stable Door”?’

‘Face that fence when we come to it.’ Alison had drawn him into bed. ‘I wouldn’t say no to another baby.’