Harnessing Peacocks (9 page)

‘Who did?’ Giles was not used to bluntness from the old.

‘His friends.’ Bernard Quigley searched Giles’ face for a likeness to his father. ‘But you don’t look like him,’ he said, adding, after a pause, ‘fortunately.’

‘I thought he was supposed to be good-looking.’ Giles was defensive.

‘I grant you that.’ Bernard Quigley dismissed good looks. ‘He was good-looking all right, but what’s the use of that in the dark, ask your mother?’

‘In the dark?’

‘In bed, dear boy. Perhaps you don’t know about bed yet. Have your balls dropped?’

‘What?’ Giles retreated towards the fire.

‘Your voice hasn’t broken. Never mind. Think what’s ahead of you, all that glorious copulation.’ He eyed Giles speculatively. Giles grew pink.

‘That’s a lovely snuffbox.’ Silas, anxious for his friend, tried to distract Bernard’s attention.

‘George II. Belonged to my grandfather.’ The old man showed the box to Silas, snatching it back before he could touch it. ‘I will show you my things when we have had lunch. I have a lot of food in the house.’

‘Can I help?’ Silas offered.

‘No, no, get dry and give your sandwiches which your lovely mother gave you to the dog.’

Silas laid the sandwiches in front of Feathers, who sniffed cautiously and began to eat, more it seemed from good manners than hunger.

Giles looked round the room. Chippendale chairs elbowed Sheraton, occasional tables overlapped one another, laden with porcelain, silver, jade. Every wall space was hung with paintings and mirrors which reflected the light from the fire. There was barely room for an oil lamp on the table near the old man’s chair. Several candelabra stood on the floor, messy with candle grease.

Across the hall they could hear Bernard moving about.

‘Do you think he likes snuff or just wants to use his snuff box?’ Giles whispered, overawed.

‘I should think he made himself like it, just as he likes this.’ Silas poured the contents of his glass on to the rug.

‘Won’t he smell it?’ Giles felt uneasy as he copied his friend.

‘The smell of the paraffin lamp will drown it.’ Silas watched Feathers sniff the wet patch then return to his snack.

‘I never knew my father was dull.’ Giles mulled Bernard’s insult. ‘My mother’s said a lot of things. She never said he was dull.’

‘Puts you off America, does it?’ Silas asked, cheerfully spiteful.

‘Come and have lunch,’ Bernard called. Silas and Giles joined him in the dining-room which was as crowded as the sitting-room. Giles, counting the chairs, noted there was a set of ten with carvers. Some of the chairs were stacked, giving the room the appearance of a sale-room. Bernard had laid three places. Giles looked at the silver and cut glass. ‘Is all this very valuable?’

‘You don’t ask the value of things, you admire their beauty, rarity, workmanship.’

‘Sorry.’ Giles was abashed.

‘You’ll learn. Now eat up, the food’s delicious, not like the stuff Hebe put in your sandwiches.’

‘What a wonderful ham.’ Silas regarded a ham Bernard stood poised to carve.

‘Sent by post.’ The old man carved rapidly. ‘Girl friend of mine sends it from Wiltshire, it’s specially cured. The pig’s right buttock is more tender than the left, it scratches with the left.’

‘How does the postman get here? There’s no road.’ Giles accepted a plate of ham, wondering meanwhile about the pig’s buttocks.

‘The man has feet. He walks.’ The boy is like his father, thought Bernard.

‘In all weathers?’ Giles persisted.

‘Of course he walks. I have my coffee posted, peaches in syrup, Stilton cheese, all the things that matter. Have some salad, make your bowels work.’

‘They do, thank you.’ Silas helped himself to lettuce. ‘My mother’s a good cook.’

‘Get constipated at school?’

‘Sometimes,’ Silas answered gravely.

Giles, disconcerted by the train of talk, asked, ‘Did you never have a road?’

‘Of course there was a road.’ Bernard Quigley was crushing, shooting a sharp glance at Giles, wondering whether he was going to like this boy sitting there looking so healthy and young opposite himself, so hunched and shrunken, his life behind him.

‘What happened to it?’ Giles felt impelled to ask.

‘I let the grass grow. People might use it. People might visit me.’

‘We are visiting you,’ Silas said, grinning.

‘But you’ve taken the trouble to jump a few banks, get yourselves wet. Your mother comes.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Silas looked surprised. ‘I thought you only knew me.’

‘I know lots of people. Keep them separate, that’s all. Your mother’s like that. Makes life easier.’

‘How?’ Giles’ mouth was full of ham, Bernard noticed. A bad mark there. Surely table manners still mattered.

‘They do not discuss you behind your back if you keep them separate. Silas’ mother may find her life easier to manage that way; other people such as your dull Krull father are gregarious. Have some figs in syrup or cheese. You can have both, of course.’

The meal continued in quasi-silence, Giles ill at ease, Silas content. As he ate Giles looked round the room. ‘You have no electricity,’ he observed.

‘Right. No electricity. Well water. No drains. No road. Any other queries?’ Bernard stared at Giles offensively.

‘He wasn’t exactly querying.’ Silas felt Bernard Quigley was about to badger his friend. ‘I like your house as it is,’ he said.

‘Sure?’ The old man looked suspicious.

‘Quite sure.’

‘Then I’ll show you some of my treasures. Sit by the fire.’ Bernard led the way into the sitting-room with his braces flapping.

‘Your braces are hanging down.’ Giles was diffident now.

‘More convenient,’ said the old man ambiguously as he opened a drawer in a Sheraton desk. ‘You can look at these things while I have a snooze.’ He handed a box to Silas, sat back in a wing chair and fell asleep.

Crouching in front of the fire, the boys inspected rings, watches, early sovereigns, diamond brooches, a large emerald set with diamonds, medals, Battersea boxes wrapped in tissue and jewelled bracelets.

‘Must be worth a bomb,’ whispered Giles. ‘These medals alone.’

Bernard Quigley woke and observed the children.

Giles sat back on his heels and stared at his host. ‘Where does all this come from?’ He waved his hand round the room.

‘My work. I live in my bank.’

Giles’ eyes widened. ‘A burglar?’

‘Certainly not. I am a dealer. You look very pretty.’ He smiled at Silas, showing beige teeth, amused by the boy who had put the rings on his fingers and the bracelets round his wrists. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, jumping up. ‘I’ve got a tiara in the kitchen drawer.’ He left the room.

‘What did he say?’ Giles stared at his friend.

‘A tiara,’ said Silas.

‘What’s a tiara?’

The old man came back carrying a plastic bag from which he took a tiara. He set it on Silas’ head. ‘Keep still or it will fall off.’

Silas, cross-legged by the fire, sat looking at the old man. The diamonds and emeralds twinkled in the firelight. Giles gasped. ‘Beautiful.’ The old man snatched the tiara off Silas’ head and put it back in its wrapping. ‘Now,’ he said in a practical tone, ‘would you chop me some wood before you go? Stack it in the shed.’

‘Of course.’ Silas stood up, took off the rings and bracelets, putting them back in their box, which he placed on Bernard Quigley’s knee. ‘Thank you.’ The boy and the old man looked at each other. Giles felt excluded.

‘Trot off home when you’ve chopped the wood. Come and see me again.’ Giles felt the invitation was not for him.

‘Thank you for lunch,’ he said. Then, unable to repress his curiosity, he said, ‘In what way was my father boring?’

‘He talked about money, he was respectable, he was conventional.’ The old man spat out the epithets then, noticing Giles’ stricken face, he relented. ‘A bit of cross-pollination has done you no harm.’ He edged the boys to the door and pushed them out into the rain, shutting the door behind them.

‘Come on, chop, chop.’ Silas led the way to the wood pile and set about chopping wood, stacking it in a neat pile. Sulkily Giles helped him. When they had finished they set off across the fields towards the bus stop.

‘If my father’s a bore,’ said Giles, the cruel description rankling, ‘what’s yours?’

‘A mystery,’ Silas answered shortly.

‘You mean you really don’t know?’

Silas turned on his friend and hit him on the nose. Taken unawares, Giles sat down, getting wetter than before. His eyes watered.

‘There’s the bus.’ Silas began to run. Giles got up and followed.

‘Perhaps you are adopted,’ he yelled as he ran, the rain mingling with blood from his nose, which had begun to bleed. ‘I thought you were just a bastard,’ he shouted as he followed Silas on to the bus. Silas fought his way forward and sat beside a tourist so that there was no room for Giles, who stood miserably in the crowded aisle, jostled by strangers. Seeing his plight, a woman handed him a tissue which he held to his nose.

When they reached the town they walked up the street on opposite sides. As Silas came level with his door Giles called out, ‘See you when you come back?’ in questioning tones.

Silas called back warmly, ‘Of course,’ and went into the house.

Giles found he was still clutching the blood-stained tissue and threw it into the gutter.

‘Litterbug.’ Silas had reappeared as though about to say something. He stood in the doorway smiling, then shrugged as though he’d changed his mind and went in again.

Late in the evening the rain stopped. Bernard Quigley, followed by Feathers, picked his way through the fields to the call box.

When Louisa answered the telephone she sounded breathless, ‘Hullo.’

‘Are you all right?’ Bernard spoke without preliminary. ‘Having trouble with your heart?’

‘I rushed in from the garden. There’s so much to do. Why are you ringing up? Has something gone wrong? Are you well?’

‘Hebe’s boy was here today, told me she is coming up to you—’

‘She is. She said she had a cancellation, whatever that means.’

‘The boy’s going on a visit to the Scillies for three weeks. Schoolfriends.’

‘That explains it. I did wonder.’

‘Can you afford her?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Want some money?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I had not thought. I had not worked it out. She offered to come and I was so pleased I—’

‘I’ll arrange it.’

‘Bernard, should I?’

‘Don’t be silly. What is the point of keeping things for that nephew? He’s never going to marry, from what you tell me. When did you see him last?’

‘Weeks ago. He doesn’t always come into the house, he’s shy. He comes to fish in the evenings.’

‘I’ll send you some cash.’ Bernard listened to Louisa’s small protest. ‘Wait, I have to put in more money.’ He inserted the coins. ‘Are you there, Louisa?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘You must pay her more. Lucy Duff pays a much higher rate.’

‘Oh dear,’ Louisa protested. ‘How shaming.’

‘The girl likes you so she charges you less than Lucy.’

‘She cooks wonderfully, helps me in the garden. I don’t entertain.’

‘I will send the money by hand. You will get it in a few days.’

‘Thank you. Shall I send you more things?’

‘No, don’t bother.’

‘Your voice has not changed,’ cried Louisa in Wiltshire.

‘But the rest of me has. Goodnight, darling, get back to your garden.’

Bernard rang off. The telephone box smelt of tobacco and urine. How disgusting is the human race, thought Bernard, dialling another number, inserting coins.

Louisa’s voice had grown old. Forty years ago it had a lilt. ‘That you, Jim?’ The voice at the other end affirmed that it was. ‘Listen, I want you to sell some things for me. Shall I send them to you or will you collect?’

‘I’m coming your way, I’ll collect. There is someone I want to see near you.’

‘Ah. Meanwhile I want you to get five hundred to Louisa Fox. This is her address.’ Bernard named house, village and county. ‘Got it?’

‘Yes, okay. See you soon.’

‘Are you buying or selling from this person you want to see?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Jim Huxtable. ‘It’s just a hunch I am following.’

Bernard walked back to his cottage following Feathers, who trotted, tail aloft. As he walked he considered love in its various aspects. It was probable that he loved Louisa as much as he had forty years before, when they met secretly to love and part; now there was no guilt, no pain. They had not met for thirty years; to do so now would embarrass them. As he reached his door he wondered what Jim Huxtable’s hunch could be. He paused in his porch, looking at the fading sunset, remembering Silas in the tiara. Who was it the boy looked like? He cursed his unreliable memory. Indoors, fumbling for matches to light the lamp, he caught sight of his reflection in one of the mirrors. Forty years ago in Louisa’s arms, he thought, I wore the mask of youth. This may be the real me. I am still thin, he thought, recollecting the moment when her maid had come in unexpectedly with a message and he had lain flat under the bedclothes until she left the room. Bernard remembered their laughter had led to renewed lovemaking. Love affairs are much easier nowadays, he thought, applying the match to the wick, steadying the flame, but less exciting. Of all of them now only Lucy Duff had anyone who lived in and she had never had much to hide, seldom lapsing from virtue and not enjoying it overmuch when she did.

Giles, in his bed in the house Hannah had remodelled as George Scoop had remodelled her teeth, knocking rooms together here, making it open plan there, thought of Silas and that Silas would go tomorrow to other friends. The friends had fathers, probably their fathers were with them. Indeed he remembered Silas had said Michael Reeves’ father had driven him from school to Cornwall, offering Silas a lift. Giles, puzzling about Silas’ fatherless state, was seized by inspiration. He got out of bed and tiptoed downstairs, and wrote a note to Silas.

‘Perhaps your mother is a Hermaphrodite.’ Opening the street door with stealth, he darted across the street in his pyjamas and posted the note through Hebe’s letter-box.