The Queen of the Tambourine (24 page)

The baby, all chocolate éclair, stirs. His eyes fly wide and he watches the water streaming from the oars above him. I pick him up and hold him out over the water and he begins to wriggle and yell. So I drop him in the water and he disappears like the bag.

I watch. Up he comes. His back is rounded over and I can't see his face. He comes up for the second time. I can only see his bottom now in its bunchy covers. I watch him a moment.

Quite soon, the third time, before he sinks back, I catch hold of him, nearly upsetting the boat. I lift him high.

I stand in the boat. I lift him high.

Water and weed stream from the child as they streamed from the oars, and there is silence like the first or the last moment of the turning world.

Then the voice of the child is loud in the heavens. He yells. He roars. He rampages. My hands support his armpits. His head is flung back. The boat rocks. His voice cracks the firmament. His legs and arms flail, hard, strong as roots.

The boat has sidled up to the bank. It shimmies over the water to the shore. Flop-slap goes the water against the sides of the mere and some loutish, truanting boys come running and shouting out of the trees and appear beside the water, quite near to us. They seem brought up short. They stand still.

They are silenced.

“It's fallen in,” says one.

“She's let it fall in.”

I gather the baby, light in my arms, still screaming, and push the stroller one-handed, past them. They seem uneasy.

“Eh—miss? Missus? Did it fall in?”

“Yes. He's all right.”

I push on through the woods, up the steep wooded slope, the baby crying, and take him on to the sunny plain of grasses up above. I think I see Bella walking by herself somewhere in the distance, determinedly smiling.

I stop, I lay down the baby and peel off his outer skin, take off my jacket and jersey and wrap him in them. Some golfers go by.

I sing to the baby. I point out this and that to him. At last his sobs begin to grow farther apart. “Look,” I say. “A daisy. Look, a butterfly.” At last there is the true long shuddering pause between sobs that means the worst is past. He takes a blade of grass from my fingers. Gravely he hands it back again to me. I give him the seventh éclair, but it is some time before he begins to eat it, watching me.

Then I play a tickling game, rubbing him hard all over, my hands and my clothes drying him, warming him. Secure in the pushchair, he laughs once on the way home. His drying hair curls sweetly over his head, in rings. I look down on his hair and sometimes, now and then, as we proceed, I stroke it.

And back in his own home I give him a bath, remembering perfectly all I was taught by Amanda Fish. I wash his clothes and put them in the drier. I find others and dress him. Then I play with him in the sunny garden, but he's tired. He seems to need no more food. He is such a very good child. Soon now he sleeps in his cot, eyes heavy. His afternoon rest.

I sit in the pine and marble of the kitchen, watching over him, so much more beautiful than any inanimate thing—the steel, the polished wood, the black glass tulips in the white glass vases. Oh, the beauty of him! I should like a cigarette but it would be a pity for I have managed to stop. And I don't like to see people smoking near a baby. I look at my nails. I shall have to cut these pretty flowers.

At length a taxi drives down the road and the father, the man who has everything but might today have had less, goes running up the steps to my front door. I watch him from across the road in his basement. When there is no answer I see him begin to look frantic. How very emotional he is. He jumps about, then comes running across to his own front door which I've left on the latch. A moment more and he stands at the top of the staircase to his basement dream-kitchen and cries, “Daughter!” and I rush to him and we embrace. I kiss the man with the small nose whose surname I do not know, and he seizes Mick from the cot and kisses him, too.

“You have a sister, a sister, a sister.”

“And all's well?”

“Oh, very well. Perfectly well. Not so quick as we thought at first. We were misled. There was an interval. But perfectly well, both of them. A beautiful child.”

“She couldn't be lovelier than Mick.”

“She's Perry—for Peristroika. Perry Margaret. Do you like it?”

“I think it may date her.”

The baby in his father's arms looks at me.

Holding one hand before me I feel for the kitchen wall. I edge now, most exhausted, to the foot of the stairs. “I must go home.”

The man who has everything finds that it is time for a large, late luncheon. “Famished, famished,” he cries, “I'm ravenous. Has Mick been fed?”

“Yes. Rather a lot.”

“How good you are. I must get myself some nosh-up,” and crash, bang he goes among the copper saucepans and bunches of fresh herbs, the baby on his arm. He sings and twirls about.

“I really shall have to go now, Dickie.”

“How can I ever thank you?” he says and then decides to give me a present. He says, “You're not so eccentric Eliza P., whatever they all say. You're the best of the lot. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't been in. There should always be someone who's at home all the time—a sort of tribal mother, isn't it? Gab and I thought we were all geared up for anything, but we couldn't have managed without you. I'd have had to stay behind and Gab would have been furious. She's pretty Feminist you know—she doesn't believe in doing things by herself.”

“A great pleasure.”

“We never leave Mick with anybody you know. We're always being told that it's time to leave him with baby-sitters and so on, but we've never been able to bring ourselves to do it. You just can't know who you'd get. This is the very first time. I found that I utterly trusted you.”

“I must go, Dickie.”

“Mustn't keep you then.” The succulent ratatouille is purring in the mike, his omelette is growing a golden frilly edge with the perfect central wetness. He scatters soft cheese on it. “Mustn't leave this. Tricky moment. Hate you finding your own way to the door . . .”

 

I speak to the dogs and feed them. I look in the fridge. There is an opened tin of anchovies. Fillets of worm. They lie clouded in oil. The lid is coiled back in a lethal, razor-sharp roll. Unwound it could sever an artery. Well now?

There is a piece of bacon stuck to the floor of the deep-freeze compartment, but it will not tear off. There is half of a yesteryear's tin of baked beans in a pyrex bowl. The beans have a navy-blue ring round the top. They have grown old as we that are left have grown old. They linger.

Hunger is gone.

Standing at the far end of the drawing room with a cup of tea I see, out at the back, under the trees next door, funny little Mr. Deecie working in his daughter's garden with spade and hoe. I can only see his white shirt and braces and the top of his dark head. He works with the concentration of years: He lifts the rake forward, drops it to the earth, makes slow careful lines, trawling it towards him. Sometimes he stands and stares at the ground.

 

Evening of evenings

 

My dear Joan,

 

There are still hours to go before the arrival of Henry and I sat down on the chaise-longue, the last piece of furniture in the room, the rest having long been stacked in the crowded attic. I put my tea-cup on the floor beside me and watch the sky above the trees at the back of the house. There are two humps, two rounded hunks of wood, sticking up at the open window. They puzzle me but not enough to stir and when I look again, the light on them has changed. There's a glimmer of twilight. I have slept.

So still. The immobility of this day.

What's this? I've slept again.

I strain my eyes to see in the light, that is now different again, the rosy cups, the tea-spoons, the little pearly cake-knives, the sugar-lumps, the small lawn napkins tucked beneath two small plates. Whoever set that lot up? I did? Nonsense. It was not I. I, Eliza Peabody, have been used for years, programmed by the dead, by Lancashire half a century ago. By Annie Cartwright and her perfect sense of an ordered life, by her mother, by idiotic Victorian mores. By Henry?

Poor Henry. Well, I suppose this sort of archaic set-up is what he wanted. I'm sure it wasn't my idea to place bone china on a tray for Henry. Was it? Do I rather like it myself? Salami and booze for ancient Ingham but auntie's tea-cups still for the travelled experienced Mrs. P. Hush. Listen.

I hear now the faraway jungle I listen out for every June, the moment of moments. The blare and the rootle-tootle ting-a-ling clang of the Common. It's back again, Joan, the inconsequent, healing
Fair
.
The Fair is come
.

So, full summer is come, and I close my eyes and try to catch behind the canned music of the loud-speakers and the tannoy; the shake of the tambourine, the thump and vibration of the drum.

There's another sound, another thumping sort of sound quite close to me and I see the two chunks of wood sticking up on the sill begin to move urgently up and down. Bump, bump, knock, knock. They begin to bounce more vigorously as if it might be an earthquake starting perhaps, or one of the sexual encounters so dear to television.

A small head appears at the window. It is the Polish Croupier on Miss Ingham's ladder which must have been standing at the window since yesterday afternoon. Inviting ingress. All night long. Why did he not come to me during last night's dark?

When he sees me sitting in the half-dark the head jerks back and the ladder shudders. “My God,” he shouts. “My God.”

“What do you think you're doing—climbing that ladder?”

“I left it here last night. I forgot it. She is put out. As it was I had to run for the train and all down Park Lane to the casino.”

“Why have you come back?”

“To get the ladder.”

“You don't take ladders away from the top. Why didn't you ring the front door-bell?”

He is silenced. For three seconds. “I just came round the side. I saw the window was still open so I thought I'd climb up and shut it. I'm not very . . .” He totters.

“You'd better come in.”

He steps over the sill and sits crumpled at my feet. Thin as a fly. You never see a fat Croupier. It's the stretching and scooping, the scything and gleaning. Like the conductor of an orchestra. Conductors and Croupiers live forever. This man looks the oldest and weirdest little man in the world.

I stretch to the lamp beside my chaise-longue. I light up what there is to light—the gold looking-glass above the fireplace, the gold and glass table with the telephone on it, and propped by the wall the portrait of Henry the Goat.

“Is that a Gainsborough?”

“It's his pupil.”

“I thought so. I could get you twenty thousand pounds for that.”

“D'you know someone called Barry?”

“No, it's a man at Epsom.”

“It's a small world.”

He is dressed in black jeans and black T-shirt, gold medallion and black shadows about the jowl, rings on the bony fingers, clean dainty nails. He sits at my feet. He looks me over.

He says, “I have watched you for a long time, Eliza Peabody.”

“Isn't it time that you were setting off for work?”

“My night off. I have wanted you so much. I want you now so much.”

“Isn't Miss Ingham expecting you?”

“Miss Ingham is beyond expectations.”

“Many of us are.”

“You are not.”

“How d'you know?”

“I know.”

He takes my left ankle, making a white bracelet of his fingers and thumb. His lean black old, old arm. He unclasps the bracelet and moves it upwards. He moves the fingers up and up my leg. “Beautiful,” he says. “Long, long legs.”

“I'm over fifty.”

“Ah—you must wait for sixty. ‘A woman of sixty is a volcano.' Wesker. Beautiful. All women should wear suspenders. So sexy—stockings. Tights are for stuffings.”

The Victoriana on the table—let it go forever. I do not move. I have been given a mystifying command: make love with this atrocious and lascivious Croupier, Eliza Peabody, and you and Henry will be able to look each other once more in the face. You will both be saved.

Over the Croupier's shoulder I look boldly at the Goat and as the Croupier stands to switch off the light I stretch my arms up to him to pull him down.

And a voice says, “What the hell are you doing? What is this? Eliza—why are you sitting in the dark?”

Henry stands in the door and switches on both central chandeliers, and Satan flits away.

Yes, he's here at last.

Here is Henry.

He marches across to the window and looks out, and “Oh my God,” he says, “Eliza you're crazy. This ladder! Hullo—there's someone in the garden, for goodness sake—hullo? Who's there? Hullo—can I help you?”

There's a muffled noise below. Henry says, “Yes? Please explain yourself. No, of course don't climb the ladder. I can't think what the ladder's doing here. If you've something to say please come to the kitchen door.”

I say—it is a moan—I am feeling very tired—“Oh Henry. No.”

“Yes. Most
certainly
,” he says. “I'm not having people wandering about in the garden. Hold on, Eliza. I'll see to it.”

There is talk at the back door and Henry comes back with a small dark figure, hands hanging from shirt cuffs that seemed far too wide, head down.

It is Mr. Deecie.

“I'm sorry. I walked through into your garden, Mrs. Peabody,” he says. “Through the weak place in the fence.”

“This is a friend, Eliza?”

“Oh yes—Mrs. Peabody is a friend. She was also a friend of my . . .”

I ask, “Is Mrs. Deecie not with you?”

“Mrs. Deecie,” he says again, “Mrs. Deecie is . . .”

I thought, Henry will explode now, he will lose his temper and run the man out of the door.

“Mrs. Deecie is . . . ,” and Henry suddenly steps forward and lays an arm along Mr. Deecie's shoulder. He says, “All right, sir. Let me get you a drink. Sit down . . .” He looks for seats but there is only the chaise-longue so he goes to the hall and comes back with an upright chair. “Take it easy, sir. Do sit down.”

“Mrs. Deecie has passed away,” says Mr. Deecie. “I mustn't disturb you now. I've been meaning to make contact, but I can see that this is not an appropriate moment.”

“Of course it is,” Henry and I say together.

“No. I won't stop. I'll call perhaps again. One day.” He looks hopelessly around for a way out and drifts to the window.

“Mr. Deecie is staying with his daughter. Next door,” I say, and Henry says, “Then I shall see you home, and I hope we can get you to come back to see us tomorrow.”

“It was only last Wednesday,” says Mr. Deecie. “You know, it was all over in an hour. And the funeral so quick—Deborah's so brisk. Naturally everything took place in Leicester. Deborah and Ivan were present and I can only say that they have been towers of strength. Towers. I only wish that Mrs. Deecie could have . . .” His face begins to shake.

Henry says, “Come along, sir, we'll get you back to your beautiful daughter.”

“Thank you. Yes, beautiful. Thank you, Mr. Peabody, you are very kind. I shall be glad to call again. Mrs. Deecie took a great liking to Mrs. Peabody and talked about her all the way home in the coach. But it would be obliging if you did not mention the occasion, Mrs. Peabody, I wouldn't want Deborah to know about the visit. It might have the flavour of a scored point. Yes. Thank you. Deborah is a lovely girl.”

 

Henry returns quickly and says, “Oh dear.”

He walks to the ladder window and stands with his back to me.

“New friends?”

“Not really. They were the most exhausting people I ever met, but oh—they were all love. I can't believe it, she was like a little doll that you keep forever.”

“You and your hangers-on,” he says. “You still can't help gathering them, can you?”

He is standing with his back to me. I had forgotten how tall he is. What wide shoulders. What beautiful clothes. (Gieves and Hawkes? It's new.) He has his back to me, arms stretched diagonally upwards to the window's corners, head bowed. He is examining the shadowy garden like God breathing on Eden.

“The irises are poor.”

“I didn't divide them.”

He drops one hand to the ladder top, shakes it, then pushes the ladder from him and gives it a sideways shove. It disappears and thuds down to the grass.

“Dangerous leaving that standing about. I hope it's not been there all day. You really ought to be careful.”

“It was yesterday. There were ladders everywhere. I expected you. I ran off. I locked myself out. You didn't come.”

“Well, I dare say Mr. Deecie wouldn't have hurt you.”

He turns and smiles. He looks bleak but I remember the smile. I see all the years we had. “It's a lovely evening,” he says. “I think I can hear the Fair.”

“Yes.”

“Summer's here then. First of June.”

“It is the third. It's always the third. You've forgotten.”

“No.”

“We found I was pregnant the first day of the Fair.”

“Yes, I know.”

He walks away from me, takes off his glasses, pushes back his floppy hair. What could I have meant by Goat? Not ever.

“Your hair's rather long.”

He says, “Yours is.”

“Mine's a bit grey. I ought to get something done.”

We both look at the tea-tray and he says, “I'll get us a drink.”

“No.”

“Did you get the roses?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“What colour were they?”

“Yellow.”

“Good. I told them yellow. I said not pink. Those aren't the Lancashire cups are they? Wherever did you find them? I thought they'd gone long ago.”

“I found them with some other things. Like Annie's sewing-bag. The pink one.”

 

He said, “You knew, didn't you?” and I said, “Yes, I always knew.”

 

The far-off music sweeps in on us like a tide and like a tide sweeps out again. He says, “There's a bit of a breeze getting up.”

After a time he says, “I have to tell you something else. Annie died.”

“I didn't know.
When
? I didn't know that.
When
? Why? I wasn't told!”

“Eight years ago.”

“Eight! Eight years? But she was so young. Only two years older than me—what—forty-five?”

“She'd not been well since . . . Since the child. Too old for a first child.”

“Annie? Annie a child—never!
Never
! Annie never wanted children, nor did Basil. However did Basil cope?”

“Basil had died more than a year before.”

I say (in time), “Oh yes. I see.”

“We couldn't—didn't—tell you.”

“I see.”

The wind blows again and the Fair rattles along.

He says, “I'll shut the window.”

He says, “Oh God.”

“And the child was . . . ?”

“Yes. It was. She is. She's fostered. Very settled in America. Very happy. Called Joyce.”

“Called
what
? Called Joyce? You never called her Joyce!”

“After Annie's mother. I'm sorry. I wasn't myself.”

“You certainly weren't. Oh well, yes. I expect you were. I think I was the one that was not.”

“Oh Eliza, you don't know how jealous she was of you. How you frightened her. You were so clever. So certain of yourself. She felt you despised her. You'd always despised her. And judged her.”

And so steady and so cool am I that I can listen to my calm voice saying, “Have you a photograph?”

He passes one across and shades his eyes with his hand as if the image of the child is dangerous, like a lazer beam. I see an easy-going large sort of girl sitting between two pleasant Americans and looking very much like them except for my fizz of red hair, and my black eyebrows. Henry's face, as in a Victorian novel, is now in both his hands. I say, “I suppose this is all true? I've been having a bit of trouble with what is and what isn't lately.”

He looks up, and I see that it's all true.

I say, “Could you please tell me properly?” and he says, “Oh God, Eliza.”

I say, “Her eyes are very bright. Like bits of coal.
Joyce
! Henry, how
could
you?”

Then at last I say, “D'you miss her?”

“Annie? No, not at all. That is worst.”

I say, “Henry Peabody, C. B. Lay-Reader. Church-warden. All those Diocesan Prayer Meetings.”

He says, “I love you. I never stopped. It was because you'd gone. You left when the baby left. You left me even though you never moved out of the house.”

“It was you who moved the beds.”

“That was years after. When you seemed mad.”