The Peacock Emporium

  'Car door shut on me,' said Jessie, and pulled it back with a smile. 'Daft, aren't I?'

  There was an unexpected embarrassed silence in the shop. The bruise was awful, a livid reminder of some extreme hurt. Suzanna had glanced at Arturro's face, noted that Jessie refused to look directly at either of them, and was ashamed that she had not noticed it. She was going to ask, thought perhaps that, if the subj ect were pursued tactfully, Jessie might confide in her, but as she ran through the possible questions in her head, she became aware that every possible variation sounded not only intrusive but crass, and possibly patronising too. 'Arnica cream,' she said eventually. 'Seems to bring out the bruising quicker.'

  'Oh, don't worry. I've done that. We've got loads of it at home.'

  'Are you sure your fingers aren't broken?' Arturro was still eyeing Jessie's hand. 'They look a bit swollen to me.'

  'No, I can move them. Look.' She gave a gay wave of her fingers, then turned back towards the wall. 'Who shall we put in the first display, then? I really wanted to do Alejandro, but I think that story about the baby who got given up would make everyone cry.'

  'It was him, wasn't it?' said Suzanna, much later, when they were alone.

  'Who?' Jessie was working on her display after all: she had targeted Father Lenny, who had conceded with some amusement, but only if she would mention that currently he had almost two hundred battery-operated back-massagers for sale. ('They don't look much like back-massagers to me,' Jessie had said, dubiously holding one up. 'I'm a priest,' Father Lenny had exclaimed. 'What else would they be?')

  'Your boyfriend. Hurt your fingers.' She had felt it between them all afternoon - was increasingly consumed by the need for them at least to acknowledge that understanding, even if it meant Jessie would take it badly.

  'I shut them in the car door,' said Jessie.

  There was a short delay before Suzanna spoke: 'You mean he did.'

  Jessie had been in the window. She got up off her knees, and backed out of the space, careful not to dislodge any of the items on display. She lifted her hand and examined it, as if for the first time. 'It's really difficult to explain,' she said.

  'Try me.'

  'He liked it when I was just at home with Emma. This all started when I did my night school. He just loses his temper because he gets insecure.'

  'Why don't you leave?'

  'Leave?' She looked genuinely surprised, even, perhaps, offended. 'He's not some wife-beater, Suzanna.'

  Suzanna raised her eyebrows.

  'Look, I know him, and this isn't really him. He just feels threatened because I'm getting an education and he thinks that means I'm going to bugger off. And now there's this place, and that's something new as well. I probably don't help matters - you know I'm a terrible one for talking to everyone. Sometimes I probably don't consider how it looks to him . . .' She gazed meditatively at her half-finished window display. 'Look, once he sees nothing's going to change, he'll go back to how he was. Don't forget, Suzanna, I know him. We've been together ten years. This is not the Jason I know.'

  'I just don't see that there's ever an excuse for it.'

  'I'm not making excuses. I'm explaining. There's a difference. Look, he knows he's done wrong. Don't think I'm some cowering little victim. We just fight, and when we fight sometimes we fight nasty. I give as good as I get, you know.'

  In the long silence, the atmosphere in the shop seemed to contract. Suzanna said nothing, fearful of how it might sound, conscious that even in her silence she was making some kind of judgement.

  Jessie leant back against one of the tables, and looked squarely at her. 'Okay, what is it that really bothers you about this?'

  Suzanna's voice, when it came out, was small. 'The effect it might have on Emma? What it's teaching her?'

  'You think I'd let anyone lay a hand on Emma? You think I'd stay in the house if I thought Jason might lay a hand on her?'

  'I'm not saying that.'

  'So what are you saying?'

  'That - that . . . I don't know . . . I'm just uncomfortable with any kind of violence,' said Suzanna.

  'Violence? Or passion?'

  'What?'

  It was the first time Jessie's face had darkened. 'You don't like passion, Suzanna. You like things neatly packaged. You like to keep things buttoned up. And that's fine. That's your choice. But me and Jason, we're just honest about what we feel - when we love, we really love. But when we fight, we really fight. There aren't any half-measures. And do you know what? I'm more comfortable with this - even with the odd busted hand,' here she held up her wrist, 'than the opposite, which is feeling so not bothered by someone that you lead this sort of cool, polite, parallel life with each other. Have sex once a week. Hell, once a month. Fight quietly so you don't wake the kids. What's that teaching anyone about life?'

  'The two things don't necessarily . . .' Suzanna tailed off, mid-sentence. Intellectually, she knew she could have disputed the sense in what Jessie had said, however forcefully it had been put, but even though it had not been meant maliciously, there was something so profoundly discomfiting about it that Suzanna could hardly speak. In Jessie's description of the relationship she didn't want, the relationship she found more frightening than violence, than a busted hand, Suzanna had clearly seen herself and Neil.

  It had been almost a relief that afternoon when Vivi appeared: Suzanna and Jessie, while outwardly polite, had lost a certain spontaneity in their dealings with each other, as if the conversation had been too premature for their infant friendship to survive its honesty. Arturro had drunk his coffee unusually quickly and, with a nervous thank-you, had left. Two other customers had talked loudly in the corner, oblivious, temporarily masking the long silences. But now that they were gone it had become painfully apparent that Jessie's normal chattiness had been deadened, replaced by the sense that she was measuring everything she said. Suzanna, making an uncharacteristic effort to talk to her customers as an attempt to bypass the strained atmosphere, found herself greeting Vivi with an unusual warmth, which Vivi, flushed with pleasure at being hugged, had eagerly returned.

  'So, this is it!' she exclaimed, several times, in the doorway. 'Aren't you clever?'

  'Hardly,' said Suzanna. 'It's only a few chairs and tables.'

  'But look at your lovely colours! All these pretty things!' She bent and examined the shelves. 'They're all exquisite. And so nicely arranged. I did want to come by - but I know you don't like to feel we're all breathing down your neck. And the couple of times I did come past you looked like you were busy . . . anyway. The Peacock Emporium,' she said, slowly reading a label. 'Oh, Suzanna, I'm so proud of you. It really is like nothing else around.'

  It was as if, Suzanna thought, her burst of warmth evaporating, Vivi could never gauge the correct level of emotion: her over-enthusiasm left the recipient unable to accept it gracefully. 'Do you want a coffee?' She motioned to the blackboard listing, in an attempt to disguise her feelings.

  'I'd love one. Do you make them all yourself?'

  Suzanna fought the urge to raise her eyebrows. 'Well. Yes.'

  Vivi sat carefully on one of the blue chairs and gazed over at the cushions on the pew. 'You've used that fabric I gave you from the attic'

  'Oh, that. Yes.'

  'It looks much better here. It could be almost contemporary, couldn't it, that print? You'd never think it was over thirty years old. An old boyfriend gave it to me. Am I all right here? Not in anyone's way?' She was holding her handbag in front of her with both hands, in the manner of a nervous elderly lady.

  'It's a shop, Mum. You're allowed to sit anywhere. Oh, Jessie, this is my mum, Vivi. Mum, Jessie.'

  'Nice to meet you. I'll do your coffee,' said Jessie, who was behind the machine. 'What would you like?'

  'What would you recommend?'

  Oh, for God's sake, thought Suzanna.

  'The latte is nice, if you don't like it too strong. Or we do a mocha, with chocolate in it.'

  'A mocha, I think. I'll treat my
self.'

  'We'll need to top up on the chocolate flakes, Suzanna. Would you like me to get some more?'

  'It's okay,' she said, acutely conscious of Jessie's new formality. 'I'll get some.'

  'No problem. I can go now.'

  'No, really. I'll get them.' Her own voice sounded wrong, too insistent - like someone's boss.

  'It really is stunning. You've completely changed the look of it. And you've got such an individual eye!' Vivi was gazing around her. 'I love the smells, the coffee and the - what is it? Oh, soap. And perfume. Aren't they beautiful? I shall tell all my friends to get their soaps here.'

  Normally, Suzanna noted, Jessie would already have seated herself with Vivi, would be bombarding her with questions. She was instead focused on the coffee machine, her bruised hand now hidden under an overlong sleeve.

  Vivi's hand reached to take Suzanna's. 'I can't tell you how wonderful I think it is. All your own vision. Well done, darling. I think it's just marvellous that you made it happen all by yourself.'

  'It's early days yet. We're not in profit or anything.'

  'Oh, you will be. I'm sure you will. It's all so . . . original.'

  Jessie handed over the coffee with a muted smile, then begged to be excused so that she could unpack some jewellery that had just come in. 'If that's okay with you, Suzanna?'

  'Of course it is.'

  'This is delicious. Thank you, Jessie. Definitely the best coffee in Dere.'

  'That wouldn't be hard.' Suzanna attempted a joke, hoping Jessie would smile. She didn't think she could bear any more of this. But, then, perhaps it was what she deserved, given her blundering judgementalism. What had Jessie done, after all, she asked herself, apart from be honest?

  Suzanna turned to Vivi, her face animated. 'Guess what, Mum. We're going to play Cupid. Jessie's idea. We're going to get two local lonely hearts together without them knowing it.'

  Vivi sipped carefully at her coffee. 'Sounds exciting, darling.'

  'I meant to tell you, Jess. I bought these. I thought you could use them - you know, like you said.' She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small gold-wrapped box of chocolates. Jess looked at it. 'It was a really clever idea. I think you should do it. Pop them over there, you know, just before she leaves this evening. Or maybe first thing tomorrow.'

  Jessie's eyes held just a hint of a question, and some mute understanding passed between them.

  'What do you think?'

  'These are perfect,' Jessie said, with her old, unguarded smile. 'Liliane will love them.'

  Suzanna felt something in her relax; the shop itself seemed to breathe out, and brighten a little. 'Let's all have a coffee,' she said. 'I'll make them, Jess. Some of Arturro's biscuits. Cappuccino for you?'

  'No, I'm fine.' She placed the chocolates back under the counter. 'Better hide these in case he comes back in. There, you're in on a secret here, Mrs Peacock. You're not to say a word.'

  'Oh, I'm not Mrs Peacock,' Vivi said benignly. 'That's Suzanna's married name.'

  'Oh? So what's your last name?'

  'Fairley-Hulme.'

  Jess turned to Suzanna. 'You're a Fairley-Hulme?'

  Vivi nodded. 'Yes, she is. One of three.'

  'Off the Dereward estate? You never said.'

  Suzanna felt oddly caught out. 'Why would I?' she said, a little sharply. 'I don't live on the estate. Strictly speaking, I'm a Peacock.'

  'Yes, but--'

  'It's only a name.' Suzanna's relief - that the atmosphere between her and Jessie had cleared - dissipated. She felt as if her family had physically intruded.

  Jess's gaze flickered between the two women, and settled back on the counter in front of her. 'Still. It's all making sense now. I love the picture,' she said to Vivi.

  'Picture?'

  'The portrait. Suzanna was going to put it up in here but she thinks it doesn't look right. I've heard about your family's portraits. Do you still let people in to see them in the summer?'

  Jessie turned towards the painting, still sitting behind the legs of the counter. Vivi saw it, and flushed. 'Oh, no, dear. That's not me. It - that's Athene--'

  'Vivi's not my real mum,' interjected Suzanna. 'My real mum died when I was born.'

  Jessie did not speak, as if she was waiting for something to be added. But Vivi was now staring at the portrait, and Suzanna appeared to be thinking about something else. 'No, now I see. Different hair. And everything . . .' Jessie tailed off, conscious that no one was listening.

  Eventually Vivi broke the silence, tearing her gaze from the painting and rising to her feet. She placed her empty coffee-cup carefully on the counter in front of Jessie. 'Yes. Well. I'd better be off. I promised I'd drive Rosemary to see one of her old friends in Clare. She'll be wondering where I am.' She pulled her silk scarf more tightly round her neck. 'I just wanted to stop by and say hello.'

  'Nice to meet you, Mrs Fairley-Hulme. Pop by again soon. You can try one of our flavoured coffees.'

  Vivi made as if to pay at the till, but Jessie waved her away. 'Don't be silly,' she said. 'You're family.'

  'You - you're very kind.' Vivi picked up her handbag and moved towards the door. Then she turned back to Suzanna. 'Listen, darling. I was wondering. Why don't you and Neil come to supper one night this week? Not a huge affair, like last time. Just a simple supper. It would be so lovely to see you.'

  Suzanna was tidying the magazines in the rack. 'Neil doesn't get back till late.'

  'Come by yourself, then. We'd so love to have you. Rosemary's had . . . a difficult time, lately. And I know you'd cheer her up.'

  'Sorry, Mum. I'm too busy.'

  'Just you and me, then?'

  Suzanna hadn't meant to be snappy, but something about the business with the surnames, or perhaps it was the portrait, had made her irritable. 'Look, Mum, I told you. I have to do book-keeping and all sorts of things after work now. I don't really get evenings to myself. Some other time, yes?'

  Vivi buried her discomfiture under a wavering smile. She placed a hand on the doorhandle and knocked a swinging mobile as she stepped backwards, so that she had to brush it away from her head. 'Right. Of course. Lovely to meet you, Jessie. Good luck with the shop.'

  Suzanna buried herself back in her magazines, refusing to meet Jessie's eye. As Vivi exited, they could hear her muttering, as if to herself, even when she was out of the door. 'Yes, it's really looking marvellous . . .'

  'Jess,' said Suzanna, several minutes later. 'Do me a favour.' She glanced up. Jessie was still looking at her steadily from over the counter. 'Don't talk about it. To customers, I mean. Me being a Fairley-Hulme.' She rubbed at her nose. 'I just don't want it . . . becoming an issue.'

  Jessie's expression was blank. 'You're the boss,' she said.

  'You'll never guess where I'm going.'

  Neil had burst in on her, and Suzanna, although largely concealed by bubbles, felt curiously exposed. One of the worst things about leaving their London flat had been having to share a bathroom. She fought the urge to ask him if he'd mind stepping outside. 'Where?'

  'Shooting. With your brother.' He lifted his arms, cocking an imaginary rifle.

  'It's the wrong time of year.'

  'Not now. On the first one of the next season. He rang me up this morning, said they've got a spare place. He's going to lend me a gun and all the gear.'

  'But you don't shoot.'

  'He's well aware that I'm a beginner, Suze.'

  Suzanna frowned at her feet, which were just visible at the other end of the bath. 'Just doesn't seem like your thing.'

  Neil loosened his tie, made a face at himself in the mirror as he examined some ancient shaving cut. 'To tell you the truth, I'm looking forward to it. I've missed getting out and about since we lost the gym memberships. It'll be good to do something a bit active.'

  'Shooting's hardly running the four-minute mile.'

  'It's still outdoors. There'll be a fair bit of walking.'

  'And a huge lunch. Full of fat bankers stuffin
g their faces. You're hardly going to get in shape that way.'

  Neil folded his tie round his hand and sat down on the lavatory seat next to the bath. 'What's the problem? It's not as if you're ever around at weekends. You're always in the shop.'

  'I told you it was going to be hard work.'

  'I'm not complaining, just saying I might as well do something with my weekends if you're going to be working.'

  'Fine.'

  'So what's the problem?'

  Suzanna shrugged. 'There's no problem. Like I said, I just didn't think it was your kind of thing.'

  'And it wasn't. But we live in the country now.'

  'It doesn't mean you have to start wearing tweeds and wittering on about guns and braces of pheasant. Honestly, Neil, there's nothing worse than a townie trying to pretend they're to the manor born.'

  'But if someone's offering me the chance to try something new, for free, I'd be a fool to turn it down. Come on, Suze, it's not as if we've had much fun recently.' His head dropped to one side. 'I tell you what, why don't you get someone to mind the shop and come too? You've got loads of time to organise it. You could be a beater or whatever they're called.' He stood, and made a swishing motion with his hand. 'You never know, the sight of you with a long stick,' he grinned, suggestively, 'might do wonders for us . . .'

  'Ugh. My idea of hell. Thanks, but I think I can think of other ways to spend my weekends than killing small feathered creatures.'

  'Pardon me, Linda McCartney. I'll turn the roast chicken loose, shall I?'

  Suzanna motioned for a towel and got out of the bath, revealing barely an inch of flesh before she had covered herself.

  'Look, you're the one who keeps accusing me of being boring and predictable. Why are you attacking me for trying something new?'

  I just hate people trying to be what they're not. It's phoney.'

  Neil stood before her, stooping to avoid bumping his head on the beams. 'Suze, I'm getting tired of having to apologise for myself. For being me. For every bloody decision I make. Because at some point you're just going to have to accept that we live here now. This is our home. And if your brother invites me shooting or walking or bloody sheep-shearing, it doesn't mean that I'm phoney. It just means I'm trying to accept opportunities as they come. That I, at least, am trying to enjoy myself occasionally. Even if you're still determined to see the worst in bloody everything.'