Since they showed no inclination to leave, Louisa set them to work in the garden. Rory had done some ineffective weeding and Mungo had tied back some prickly ramblers. Now she watched them snipping away with secateurs. Lying with her feet up, her dogs lolling around her, Louisa enjoyed the spectacle of them spinning out the day as their hopes faded, unwilling to give up, suspiciously watching each other. She rehearsed what she would tell Bernard when next he telephoned. ‘Neither dared let the other out of his sight,’ she would say, hoping to amuse him. Rory came and sat on the grass beside her.
‘I thought Mungo had to go and meet Alison,’ he grumbled. ‘What can Hebe see in him? He is far too old for her, nearly fifty.’
‘Forty-five, nice-looking, rich,’ Louisa murmured.
Rory muttered under his breath, watching Mungo. Then, looking up, he hissed in a whisper, ‘He says she’s a—well, she says so, too, but I can’t—it’s not possible, it’s—’
‘What isn’t possible?’ Poor fellow, he looks so distressed. Louisa felt pity for Rory.
‘What he says—what she—that she’s a tart,’ Rory whispered.
Louisa raised her eyebrows. ‘I only know her in her cooking capacity,’ she said delicately. ‘That’s what she does here.’ Louisa hesitated, recollecting that Hebe had done other than cook with Rory.
‘Could it possibly be—’
‘True?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘That she is, but I—I can’t—’
‘You had better believe it.’ Louisa raised her head, watching Mungo approach. ‘What are you doing about Alison?’ she asked him.
‘I am going to telephone. I said I would meet her at Heathrow but she may have arrived by now. All this made me forget.’
‘All this being Hebe?’ Louisa pried.
‘All this being Hebe, yes,’ Mungo shouted in exasperation. ‘Oh, bugger it!’
‘Temper, temp—’ Rory crowed.
‘Shut up, you little jerk,’ shouted Mungo.
Louisa’s dogs began to bark, the barking started as usual by Rufus, seconded by the higher yapping of the smaller dogs. Louisa shouted, ‘Quiet!’ Dogs and men fell silent. When the cacophony died down Louisa said, ‘I think, dears, you had better give up. Hebe has gone and you, Mungo, must sort yourself out with Alison.’
‘Oh my God!’ Mungo’s reluctance was tangible.
‘Go on, Mungo, get it done. You have your boys to consider. Stop chasing shadows.’
‘Hebe’s no shadow,’ Mungo blurted in protest.
‘Go on, telephone. Take Rory with you as moral support.’
‘God forbid!’ Outraged by this frivolous suggestion, Mungo shambled away into the house.
Dialling Louisa’s number Hebe listened to the engaged signal.
‘Perhaps it’s out of order,’ Giles suggested. ‘Ask the operator.’ The operator checked and said, ‘The line is engaged. Do you want me to break in? Is it urgent?’
‘I will wait.’ She felt despair. She had often known Louisa, regardless of her telephone bill, gossip for hours with Lucy Duff, Maggie Cook-Popham, whom she professed not to like, or other old ladies referred to as girl friends.
When Hebe’s doorbell rang it was Giles who answered the door to Jim Huxtable, but Hannah arriving at a run brushed him aside.
‘Quick, Hebe, come. Aunt Amy’s collapsed, I think it’s her heart. Terry’s ringing the doctor.’
Jim watched the two women race to Amy Tremayne’s house. Soon a doctor’s car braked to a stop. The doctor, met by George, hurried into the house. The boy who had opened Hebe’s door came out to stand on the pavement looking irresolute. Ill at ease in this hideous street, Jim walked up to the seat erected in memory of aged parents too puffed to climb the hill in one go. He sat leaning back against a lovingly carved obscene inscription. He wished he had the dog Feathers with him. He waited, watching the houses.
The doctor came out after twenty minutes, pausing for a last word with the girl with green eyes before driving off. Almost immediately George got into his car and drove away. The boy on the pavement made a two-finger gesture. George did not look back. Still Jim waited. A black and tan dog with curling tail came busily down the street, paused, sniffed the seat, lifted its leg, caught Jim’s eye, looked doubtful.
‘Hallo.’ Jim held out a hand. The dog dropped its ears, allowed itself to be patted, looked up with a conniving expression, went its way with jaunty step. Feathers, had he been there, would have started a fight. Jim watched the street, taking in its remarkable ugliness, snatching at what he saw to steady his mind, attempting to come to terms with what he had seen. Should he go down the hundred yards which separated him from Amy’s house, go in, introduce himself to Hebe? Did he want to? What should he say? Would she recognise him, would she think him mad?
‘Her name is Hebe,’ he said out loud in the horrible street. It made the situation no better. Could he say, ‘I am the man you met in Lucca. I made love to you.’ By candlelight in Lucca he had been able to talk to her. He tried to remember what they had talked about. They hadn’t said much, there had been too much noise, too much doing. He shivered, sitting on the hard bench, its slats cutting into his thighs. Suppose it was not the girl? Suppose he was wrong, after all? She had not lived with a dream for—how long? Thirteen years. ‘Sod it, bugger it, what am I to do?’ Jim muttered. The suspicion that he was opposed to reality, wanted to keep his search unresolved, niggled at him. He had lived with it for so long he feared its ending. It was a part of his life; to end it was a terrible risk.
From Amy Tremayne’s house came the fair girl, a slim black youth holding her hand, then Hebe. The boy who belonged to the group joined them. They walked along the pavement to Hannah’s house. Jim stood up. The black and tan dog was coming back up the hill. Jim walked towards it. They met outside Amy Tremayne’s door. Would she be able to help? ‘I wish I knew what to do, ‘Jim said to the dog, who looked sure of himself. The dog wagged its curled tail, flattened its ears. On impulse Jim tried the door, telling himself she had invited him to come again. The door opened, he went in. He listened in the narrow hall with the dog beside him, walked slowly to the back kitchen where not so long ago they had talked. There were remains of tea on the table, chairs pushed back. With the dog Jim climbed the stairs and went into Amy’s bedroom. She lay stretched on the bed, eyes closed in a waxen face.
The dog went close to the bed lifting its inquisitive nose. Jim noted the paperweights on the windowsill, twinkling and glinting in the afternoon sun, delightfully alive. He was overcome with embarrassment. He crossed himself. ‘It’s just a gesture,’ he said to the dog, fighting the panic and surprise. I cross myself when I see a magpie. He remembered a woman with whom he had had an affair mocking him in Normandy, where there are many magpies. The dog farted. The noisome smell reached Jim’s nostrils. ‘Come on,’ he said to the dog, ‘we have no business here. She’s dead.’ The dog followed him down the stairs and went up the street without a backward glance.
Jim ran down the dark red brick street to the car park. He felt dazed. It was not until he was back in Bernard’s house and saw Silas that he realised he had not fulfilled his mission.
Twenty-eight
ALISON, ON ARRIVAL AT Heathrow, telephoned her mother-in-law, who greeted her with ‘I hope you had an enjoyable holiday. You are back sooner than I expected,’ as though there had been no crisis.
Alison understood that her elopement was to be ignored. ‘I wondered whether Mungo was staying with you. He is not at home.’ She tried the casual unconcerned approach.
‘He is visiting Louisa. I was talking to her earlier. He seems to have taken up with Rory. I would not have imagined they had anything in common, would you?’
‘No. Not that I don’t rather like him,’ Alison amended, since she was in no position to cast aspersions. ‘What is Mungo doing there?’
‘Fishing?’ Lucy suggested, thinking fishing for Hebe.
‘I doubt it. H
e has better fishing at home.’
‘Neglecting his work,’ said Lucy sardonically.
‘He’s by way of having a holiday, which reminds me we should fetch the boys soon. They are in the Scillies.’ Give the impression of united parents, thought Alison.
‘They have had dreadful weather.’ Lucy was undeceived.
‘I must telephone Jennifer—’
‘Why don’t you join Mungo at Louisa’s,’ suggested Lucy. ‘It would be a neutral situation.’ Which was as far, Alison realised, as her mother-in-law would venture on to the tricky ground she presently occupied. ‘Take a taxi and surprise the dear fellow, it will save him the drive to the airport.’
‘I might do just that,’ said Alison gratefully. ‘It should not take me long to get there.’
Lucy Duff went out to her terrace wet from recent rain. Miss Thomson brought the tray of tea things and sat beside her. ‘Shall I be mother?’ she asked in her fat voice.
‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘No, thank you.’ She looked at Miss Thomson with ill-concealed dislike. First ‘patio’, now ‘Shall I be mother?’ Irreplaceable Alison must be set to work replacing Miss Thomson. She poured tea. ‘Mrs Mungo is back from the United States,’ she said, well aware that Miss Thomson called Alison ‘Alison’ and would be affronted by the expression ‘Mrs Mungo’. ‘Mrs Mungo is joining Mr Mungo at Mrs Fox’s in Wiltshire. I believe Mrs Fox has the lady cook there at the moment. Oh, must you go?’ Lucy watched Miss Thomson retreat into the house to compose a letter of resignation. (‘I know when I’m not wanted.’) Lucy drank her tea, visualising life without Miss Thomson and the shortly to take place arrival of Alison at Louisa’s. Surprise for her when she finds what Rory and Mungo have in common is Hebe, Lucy thought pleasurably. ‘How I miss you,’ she murmured to the ghost of her dead husband, who would also have been amused. She rose stiffly and went to apologise to Miss Thomson, to whom she had behaved despicably, pausing en route to look at her husband’s photograph, so like Mungo and yet sure of himself. He had a theory, she remembered as she looked at the long dead face, that only his insecure friends got themselves into pickles with women. If that were true Mungo must be insecure, and from what Louisa said his cousin Rory also. On her way to be nice to Miss Thomson Lucy decided not to apprise Louisa of Alison’s imminent arrival. It would give Alison a sporting chance to find Mungo making a fool of himself over Hebe. Lucy did not know that for equally suspect reasons her friend had not informed her Hebe had left in the morning.
Alison, paying the taxi in Louisa’s drive, was surrounded by baying dogs. The driver drove away leaving her to fend off Rufus who leapt and bounced, scratching her legs, hoping to lick her face. Alison beat off Rufus’ unsolicited attentions by whirling her bag and shouting ‘Down, down, down’ in a voice which rose higher and higher as she became infected by fear. Such a lot of dogs, brute of a taxi man to leave her to cope alone. Mungo, coming out of the house, came down the steps in a rush, kicked Rufus, grabbed Alison round the waist and kissed her. Alison flung her arms round his neck and kissed him back, then leant back, holding his arms to look up into his face in surprise.
‘Oh Mungo’—her carefully prepared speech lost. ‘Darling,’ said Alison, ‘darling’.
‘Darling,’ said Mungo, kissing her again. ‘How wonderful to have you back.’ He was astonished to find himself acting pleased to see her. He was amazed. ‘Heavens,’ he said, ‘you are looking pretty.’ He looked at his wife with delight. Her pale marmalade hair caught the afternoon sun, her blue eyes were striking. What had she done to her eyelashes? ‘What have you done to your hair?’ He kissed her again. ‘Have you had a good time?’
‘No, I have not. Oh, Mungo darling.’ She gripped his arms.
‘You look like a Botticelli angel,’ he said. ‘Why have I never noticed?’
Alison said, ‘You have forgotten what I look like. Let me look at you.’ She looked up at him, her remarkable eyes admiring his thick hair, his dark looks. He seemed to have grown more lined since she last looked at him. ‘I had my hair done in Santa Barbara.’
‘It’s lovely.’ Will she admit she’s had her eyelashes dyed? he wondered.
‘And my eyelashes treated.’ Her gaze did not falter.
‘Treated,’ murmured Mungo, smiling. ‘Treated.’
‘We have to meet the boys when they come back from the Scillies.’ Alison looked up at Mungo. ‘I talked to Jennifer from Heathrow. They are all coming back on Thursday because the weather has been so vile.’
‘Day after tomorrow.’ He examined her face. What else had she changed?
‘I spoke to your mother. She told me you were here.’
‘Good.’ Mungo began to laugh.
‘What are you laughing at?’ She laughed with him. She looked even prettier laughing.
‘We can cut all these prepared speeches. Come and see Louisa. Rory is here. Remember him? Rory Grant, my cousin.’
‘Of course I do.’ They were moving into the house, Mungo carrying her luggage.
‘What speeches were you going to make?’ she asked courageously.
‘We can discuss our speeches on the way to meet the boys, if we have to meet them. It’s a bit of a bore. Shall we take Rory along, if we go?’
‘As an umpire? Why not.’ Alison felt like a swimmer who, having swum too far, struggles weakly back towards the beach. With a bit of luck she would reach terra firma, retrieve her breath (for breath read marriage).
‘Alison, dear.’ Louisa was advancing from the garden, accompanied by the dogs wagging good-naturedly, no longer threatening. ‘How lovely. You will stay the night, won’t you? We were coming to see about tea. This is Rory, do you remember him? Put it all on a tray and take it out under the tree. There are scones in the kitchen, Rory. Hebe left a supply.’
‘Hebe?’ Alison felt a threatening whiff.
‘The darling girl who cooks for Lucy. You were the clever one who found her. She comes to me, too. Unfortunately she had to leave today. Now come on, Rory, make yourself useful.’
Smirking, Rory went to the kitchen followed by Louisa’s voice. ‘There is Devonshire cream for the scones and strawberry jam.’
‘Bought by me and darling Hebe in Salisbury,’ Rory said to Rufus, ‘as well she knows and she is making sure Alison does too, my old beauty. Everybody knows somethink but nobody says nuffink, not in so many words.’
Rory stacked cups and saucers on the tray, put the kettle on, found the scones, dropped one, found cream and strawberry jam. ‘Alison won’t let Mungo go,’ he said to Rufus who, thin streams of greedy saliva swinging from the corners of his mouth, ate gratefully. ‘What’s more,’ Rory told the dog as he made the tea and carried the tray out to the garden, ‘if I smell right, something has happened to Alison to make her value Mungo.’
Rory put the tray on the garden table by Louisa, who looked up at him with an amused expression. She was savouring the undeclared peace between Mungo and Alison and looking forward to her next conversation with Bernard. She would describe the unlikely development of comradeship between her nephews. She would suggest that Mungo, much as he loved Hebe, was also attached to his wife, and lay odds on Hebe losing a customer. As she poured tea and passed cups she assessed Alison’s appearance, new hair-do, make-up, clothes. She saluted Alison’s nerve. Summoned back from an elopement by her mother-in-law Alison should by rights be embarrassed, apprehensive, apologetic, uncertain. She was none of these things. She was eating her tea and describing her visit to Santa Barbara with animation, entrancing both her husband and Rory. She was not, Louisa noted, giving many details of her hosts while she described the house, its setting, its furnishing, its pool. Watching Mungo, Louisa counted several occasions when pertinent questions came close to expression but each time Alison, dolloping cream and jam on to her scones, switched the talk to topics nearer home, rounding off bravely with the question, ‘Shall we drive down and meet the boys, darling, as I suggested? It would be nice to see Jennifer and Julian. And it will save the boys that dreary jou
rney they so hate.’
‘I never heard them object to it.’ Briefly Mungo reverted to the argumentative mood he used to counter Alison’s bossiness.
‘Love! They have to change trains at Exeter. It would be fun to meet them. Why don’t you come with us, Rory?’ She doubted whether Mungo had been serious in suggesting Rory.
Rory, meeting her eyes, recognised an appeal. She was really much prettier than he remembered. He said, ‘I should love to.’
‘You can make an early start,’ Louisa chipped in. ‘Come and help me make up a bed, Alison. You must have an early night to get over your jet lag.’
Alison sprang to her feet.
‘Mungo stayed last night with Rory,’ said Louisa, looking at Mungo. ‘Would it be all right if you stayed one more night with him? It would save me the bother of making up another bed.’ Without waiting for an answer Louisa led Alison into the house. ‘You can tell him anything you may want to when you are less tired,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said Alison, sensing an ally.
‘What is she separating us for?’ Mungo turned angrily to Rory.
‘I imagine the idea is to get you—er—get you reunited.’ Rory began to laugh. ‘They don’t know how we—er—how—’
‘We spent last night.’ Mungo finished Rory’s sentence for him. ‘I don’t particularly want you on this drive to Cornwall,’ he said with chill.
‘But I am coming,’ said Rory with unusual determination. ‘I—er—want to—’ He did not say that, remembering the number of Hebe’s car, he had realised that her number plate was Cornish. ‘I want to have a snoop round Penzance. Nice antique shops,’ he added by way of excuse.