‘No, he wasn’t,’ Hebe shouted in fury.
‘How old are you?’ Jim asked.
‘Thirty. Why?’
‘I wanted to calculate how many years we have to talk and fight.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shall we start with a row? Then you can tell me about your bloody grandfather,’ cried Jim, his patience gone. ‘I can tell you about myself. You can tell me what you know of Silas, our son. We have years and years. Come on—’ He no longer wished himself back in Fulham, he wondered what would happen if he hit her, she would probably hit him back. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s begin. Talk.’
‘All right,’ she said, and wondered whether the half of it would get said and knew it did not matter. ‘Where shall we start?’
‘Was that the lot?’ Jim asked.
‘What lot?’ she prevaricated.
‘The entire Syndicate.’ He tried to be patient.
‘M’m.’ She took off her glasses. ‘No.’
‘Don’t take them off. You must see me clearly.’
Hebe pushed the glasses up her nose defiantly, turning towards him, meeting his eyes.
‘How many more?’ asked Jim bravely.’
‘One.’
What will she do about that one, he asked himself, and found his heart was beginning to beat rather fast.
‘I had better telephone. Have you got any change? It’s long distance,’ she said.
Jim emptied his pockets, gave her change, watched her walk to the telephone booth, dial, insert coins, push the button, begin to talk. He felt horror. What a fool I am, he thought. Why did I let her telephone? The bloody man will tell her to look sharp and come at once. No, he will say, Stay where you are. I am coming to fetch you. How can I have been so idiotic, so moronic, I’ve positively handed her over. He watched her talking, trying to read her lips, shuddered when she laughed, winced when she said something so sweetly, so confidingly he could have killed whoever she was talking to. At last she came back and sat beside him.
‘So,’ she said. ‘So.’ She was weary.
Jim said, ‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “Quel garce”.’
‘Oh?’
‘That was Hippolyte,’ said Hebe, ‘the founder of—’
‘Your Syndicate?’ Jim felt a rush of fury.
‘I told him what has happened,’ she said gently. ‘I—um—explained. He now has a restaurant in London. He has offered us free meals in perpetuity.’ Her mouth twitched into a smile. She did not look at him. Just as he had admired her over the handkerchief he respected her for not saying ‘You will like him.’ Like hell he would. She had again taken off her glasses.
They sat on in the sun while Jim’s heart resumed its usual tempo. Presently revived, he said, ‘All peacocks gone.’
‘Peacocks?’
‘Surely you know the story of your namesake, Hebe, or must I tell you?’
‘I do know it,’ she admitted.
‘Suppose I volunteer to be harnessed. What would you say to that? I must stipulate that I run solo.’ He took her hands. It was the first time he had touched her since Lucca. Letting her hands rest in his, Hebe watched his face. She longed to say something witty and original which they could remember in years to come, but all she said was, ‘You’re on.’
George Scoop, who had been alerted by his receptionist Jean of rumours of happenings in Wilson Street, thought he would drive past the heliport in his lunch hour. Having a horror of scenes and a great fear of getting involved in matters which might turn nasty, he was yet sufficiently curious, keeping a safe distance, to drive that way. He was disgusted to observe Hannah, wearing an outrageous purple dress strolling with her black beau who sauntered, dressed entirely in white so that his damson coloured skin vividly contrasted with Hannah’s fairness. They laughed their heads off at some joke shared with the boys Giles and Silas as they walked along the prom eating ice creams. Blackamoor, Coon, thought George with rage. What perfect teeth. To hell with Giles. He had thought, when he had it in mind to marry Hannah, that he would accept the challenge of Giles’ teeth, straighten them as a wedding present to his bride. I am well out of that, he congratulated himself. I was right to get shot of her. (Already he persuaded himself that he had denied Hannah, not she him.) Let her boy go through life with his teeth as they are, he thought sourly, refusing to acknowledge Hannah’s merry wave or Terry’s cheerful shout. There are other fish, he told himself.
Driving past the heliport he espied Hebe sitting on a bench with a strange man. He peered through his windscreen, trying to get a better view. Was she laughing or crying? He slowed the car, thinking, I could offer her a lift home. It’s time I got to know her better, find out what she’s all about. But from the way Hebe and the stranger sat sideways on the bench, turning towards each other, there did not seem room for a third party. A car behind George tooted its horn. George accelerated and drove on.
About the Author
Mary Wesley (1912–2002) was an English novelist. After she published her first novel at age seventy, her books sold more than three million copies, many of them becoming bestsellers. Her beloved books include Jumping the Queue, The Camomile Lawn, Harnessing Peacocks, The Vacillations of Poppy Carew, Not That Sort of Girl, Second Fiddle, A Sensible Life, A Dubious Legacy, An Imaginative Experience, and Part of the Furniture, as well as a memoir, Part of the Scenery.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985 by Mary Wesley
Cover design by Linda McCarthy
978-1-4804-5055-4
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Mary Wesley, Harnessing Peacocks
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