Harnessing Peacocks (23 page)

‘That must be tantalising.’ Bernard was almost sympathetic.

‘It keeps me young.’ And single, Jim thought, surprised.

‘Perhaps she is still looking for you,’ Silas suggested, liking the idea.

‘I doubt it. Last seen in full flight,’ said Jim. ‘She was a fast mover.’

They sat drinking their coffee, Bernard by the fire in his wing chair, Jim opposite him, Silas, Feathers and the cat at their feet. Outside the rain poured pitilessly, soaking the peninsula from the Atlantic rain clouds. Feathers licked his chops in a dream. Bernard put his cup into its saucer with a clink.

‘I have never before told anyone about that girl.’ Jim caught the old man’s eye.

I am supposed to believe it never happened, thought Bernard. He is as vulnerable as the boy. ‘It was generous of you to tell us,’ he said. Presently, he thought, I shall stumble across the fields to the telephone and alert Louisa about Silas. She will tell Hebe. I must wait as late as possible; I have not the strength to stump across the fields twice. We must see that Hebe does not take fright and drive recklessly on her way home.

F
ROM THE CALL BOX
by the bus stop Bernard dialled Louisa’s number and listened to the ringing tone which would rouse her in Wiltshire.

Many years before, knowing that she was in London with her husband, he had visited the house, prowled round, explored the garden, posing as the man who was calling about fire insurance. He had asked the maid to accompany him round the house so that no suspicion would be aroused. Thus when he talked to Louisa he could picture her in her surroundings, enduring grief when her husband dropped dead (quite a shock) and the change to widowhood, pushed for money but enjoying her garden, her dogs and latterly the joyful treat of Hebe’s cooking visits. He could visualise her in the drawing-room with the view of the garden through the French windows. When he rang up at night he saw her in bed, library books, clock, pills, spectacles on the bedside table. Sometimes he forgot that she had grown old and imagined the girl who had shared bed and breakfast in the Hotel d’Angleterre with such zest.

‘Hullo?’ Louisa’s voice was clear. ‘Bernard?’

‘Yes.’ She always guessed right.

‘Darling Bernard, I have so much to tell you that will make you laugh.’ She bubbled with delight.

‘You have Hebe with you?’ He cut her short.

‘Of course I have. What’s the matter?’

‘Her boy. You know she has a boy?’

‘She doesn’t know I know. You know I am discreet.’

‘Louisa, I have the boy here with me.’

‘With you? Why? How strange.’

‘Hebe let him go and stay with smart schoolfriends in the Scillies.’

‘I know. You told me that was why she has come to me. What’s happened?’

‘Jim Huxtable, our go-between—’

‘Yes? I liked him. I liked his looks. Nice manners, too.’ She would have liked to discuss Jim.

‘He found the boy sitting on the doorstep, his mother’s you understand, locked out, blubbing. The man doesn’t know what to do, the boy won’t tell him what’s the trouble, so Jim brings him out to me. He is here in my house.’

‘But what happened? What—?’

‘Child doesn’t say. Just like his mother, a clam. I have not asked.’

‘Was it something terrible? Was he raped? One reads such awful things in the papers.’

‘No, no, nothing physical. He’s run away, that’s all I know, and needs his mother.’

‘Of course he does,’ she cried.

‘Will you then, darling, tell Hebe to hurry home but to drive carefully.’

‘Of course I will. No need to use that tone of voice.’

‘Can’t think why people have children, they are nothing but grief,’ Bernard grumbled.

‘Come now, Bernard, just because we—’

‘Let’s stick to the point.’

‘Very well.’ Louisa was quiet.

I have hurt her, thought Bernard. She always wanted children. Supposing we had married—‘Are you still there?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I was thinking that although it’s worrying for Hebe, she will be glad of an excuse to leave me.’

‘Why? She enjoys going to you enormously.’

Louisa told him—the tale growing with the telling—of Mungo and Rory calling at the same time. ‘If you had telephoned before I would have told you about Rory. She wandered into his hat shop on the way here. He is
épris,
everything going very nicely and then Mungo appears and, oh Bernard, she was splendid, such aplomb, an example to any girl in her situation, such nerve.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

‘I will tell her in the morning. She must get some sleep.’

‘If what you tell me is true she will not be sleeping, she will be worrying.’

‘I did my best, I turned them out.’

‘They will come back, Louisa, they won’t stay away. One might but two together won’t. Neither will trust the other not to steal a march.’

‘Do you think so? Is that what you would do?’ She was amused.

‘Go and wake her, Louisa. She must come back, the child needs her. Make haste.’

‘I will, I will.’

‘I can’t keep him indefinitely.’

‘How selfish you are. What about Amy Tremayne and that Hannah girl?’

‘Jim says he refused to go near them. Probably afraid of being laughed at.’

‘Very well, I will rouse her. Bernard, darling?’

‘Yes, Louisa.’

‘Keep in touch, tell me—’

‘That I love you?’ Bernard laughed. ‘You know I do. I love you,’ he said.

‘Yes, that, but tell me what happens, what upset the boy.’

‘I will if I ever find out. Goodnight, Louisa.’

‘Goodnight, my love.’ She rang off. Bernard laid the receiver back in its cradle. Time was, he thought, we said, ‘Goodnight, my love’ and meant it. Has time robbed me of feeling? How this call box smells. Bernard stood with the door of the box open, breathed in the wet night air, took a pinch of snuff and set off across the fields sneezing luxuriously.

As he walked he saw Louisa spring out of bed, put on the lace dressing-gown with satin lining which they had chosen together, run along the passage and up those stairs (hung, he remembered, with quite interesting prints) to knock on Hebe’s door, wake her. What would she say, how would she put it? Bernard laughed grimly. She was old, the dressing-gown would be of wool, Louisa had changed. In the old days she had not liked other women; she had feared potential rivals. She was right, he conceded, when once meeting unexpectedly he had been with another woman. She had been right to be jealous. But I always loved her best, he thought, trudging through the wet grass, or almost best. She need not have made such a fuss about that girl; I only slept with her once, can’t even remember her name. Now, he thought, as he caught sight of his house in the moonlight, she likes other women, she is friends with Hebe’s lover, Mungo’s mother—she never knew about my caper with her—and she loves Hebe. As he scrambled through the gap in his garden wall he was pleased that, while he could visualise Louisa in her house, she had never seen his. He was one up on her there. Time was, he thought, letting himself in, stroking Feathers’ soft head, time was we talked of love all night, now we discuss our beloved prostitute. I hope she drives carefully. It is a long way, she will worry. Should I have sent Jim to fetch her? I may not have wanted children, he thought, pushing his cat aside with his foot so that he could put a log on the dying fire, but I love Hebe as a father might or a grandfather. I am not, thank God, a dirty old man who pinches bottoms, fumbles up skirts. I did pretty well in my prime. I have memories enough to carry me to my grave. ‘You still awake?’ he called softly to Jim in the next room.

‘Yes. The boy is asleep. Is his mother coming?’

‘Yes, Louisa is telling her.’

‘Shall you tell the boy she is coming?’

‘No. He may fret if she is delayed.’

‘I am going to bed. Goodnight.’ Jim went upstairs.

Bernard sat in his wing chair, Feathers at his feet staring into the fire, twitching his ears when the fresh log caught and sparkled. Bernard listened to the prickle of burning wood, watched the flames. He thought of Louisa. Had she been happy? Would she have been happier if he had insisted that their love was large enough to flout convention. The opposition had not been insuperable; he had used it as an excuse to save the single status he enjoyed. She had married conventionally. He knew she had loved her husband. But not as she loves me, he thought jealously. Bernard stroked the cat as she leapt on to his lap. ‘She still loves me best,’ he murmured to the uninterested animal. ‘Things are best as they are. We are old, I am rich, I help her.’ Bernard liked his role. He thought, I send her money. She does not know that the things she has parted with when really short are here, that I kept them for her, pretended I had sold them. Some day when I die she shall have them back, the rings, the ridiculous—but valuable tiara. I have left them to her; a farewell surprise. Thinking of Louisa, Bernard cursed old age, its tricks of memory, words, people growing illusive and ephemeral. Who, for instance, was the girl Louisa heard he had been dining with the time he told her he had ’flu—he had spent the night with her in an hotel afterwards. She had not been up to much, he remembered that, but not her name, nor could he put a face to her. Louisa had made a scene. It had not been the first girl.

‘One often had ’flu,’ Bernard said to Feathers, who laid his head on his master’s knee. ‘Alas, one never gets it now.’

Feathers groaned sympathetically.

‘I loved her so much.’ Bernard stroked the dog’s muzzle. ‘But I could not stop having ’flu. It wouldn’t amuse her, even now.’

N
OT A NICE THING
to leave them in their party clothes, stuck there until somebody takes pity. Not nice at all. Holding the steering wheel tightly, Hebe drove west to get back to Silas. She cursed herself for working at Louisa’s when she should have waited at home in case he needed her. She had been apolaustic. Absorbed by self-reproach, she missed the turning which led to the faster, less winding road to Exeter. She had driven several miles before she realised this calamity. More time would be. wasted going back, better to go on, praying that the holiday traffic would not be too diabolical. She told herself, He will be with Amy or Hannah and Giles. They will look after him until I arrive. Try not to fuss, she adjured herself. She was sitting upright, the safety belt cutting into her shoulder, tense. She made an effort to relax, to drive less fast. It would not be nice to have an accident. Nice—now there was a word which didn’t apply. She drove feeling jolted and shocked by the meeting she had just experienced.

They have not changed; they are no nicer than they were. What a terrible hat she was wearing, and he all dressed up for some function. They are still my grandparents, she thought, with the mixture of love and hurt she had long suppressed. Have I not watched the obits in
The Times,
hoping they would die? She was amazed by the strength of her feelings. What a ludicrous coincidence that they should also use the short cut. If I had not I should be well on my way to Silas. This is the last thing I need. She stopped her car by a telephone box and leaned on the steering wheel, reliving the scene which had just taken place.

The old people’s Rover interlocked with a Land Rover. The farmer abusive, her grandfather furious. She had asked if she could help. They had not recognised her. He had said, ‘We could ask this young woman to telephone a garage for us.’ How pompous his voice sounded; it had changed. Did he have new teeth which fitted better than the old? And the new dog. It had come wagging. She had asked its name, seen the old man’s head jerk up, known that he recognised her, heard him call the dog back in the tone he used when the dog was about to roll in a smell. It was as if he thought I would contaminate it, she thought, horrified. She had said, ‘I will ring the AA for you.’ She had been polite. ‘I like your dog,’ she had said, and, ‘Goodbye’. Why, she thought angrily, did I not say, ‘I will find a black layabout, drug addict with dirty nails to fix your car.’ She looked at the call box, turned the key in the ignition, started the engine. Let someone else find them. I am wasting time, I must get back to Silas. The telephone is probably vandalised, she excused herself, treading on the accelerator, speeding away.

They brought me up to be nice, she thought. I was not nice leaving them sitting there. I bet they trusted me to phone the AA. Someone else will come along and be nicer. An involuntary gust of laughter seized her. Louisa Fox had been nice waking her when she had just got to sleep. Really nice. Hebe smiled, remembering Louisa.

‘Sorry to wake you, Hebe. There is a message that your boy has come back on his own from the Scilly Islands. He is all right. Naturally he wants you. No, of course you must go to him.’ She had been seized by manic anxiety.

As she scrambled out of bed to dress and pack, Louisa had given her money, far more than she was owed, waved aside protests, said something about it being perhaps a blessing in disguise that she had to cut her stay short; a hint, of course, to the Mungo-Rory duet, the disarray of the Syndicate. She had seemed amused, murmured something about having had less cooking but greater entertainment.

Yes, Louisa had been very nice. Not nice as ‘they’ would be, but nice from the bone. She had made her eat breakfast, stood in her dressing-gown on the front steps holding Rufus, who had indicated that he would like to come too. He had got into the car and had to be dragged out. Louisa had held him by the collar and waved with her free hand, calling, ‘Let me know how he is. Come again. Drive carefully in the holiday traffic. Take the short cut to the main road.’

‘Damn the short cut. If I had not used it I would not have met them. They probably also thought themselves clever using it.’ Hebe talked to herself. ‘It was not nice meeting them. Nice, not nice. Nice people. The right sort of people.’ She could hear their voices.

Louisa was nice and the right sort. She does not like my grandfather. Hebe remembered the dropped hint; she had casually accepted Silas’ existence, asked no nosey questions.

Should she have telephoned Amy or Hannah? Why had she not done so? It would have been so simple to telephone one of them. This is what being crazed with anxiety means, thought Hebe. All I want is to be on the road on my way back to him. I shall not stop fussing until I see him. Why did he send me that postcard, ‘Having a wonderful time, wish you were here.’ What does it mean? Try and think of something else.