Harnessing Peacocks

  ‘Have a heart, Terry.’ She shook him. ‘Wake up.’

  Terry woke staring at her, puzzled.

  ‘Time to go, Terry.’

  He was sleepy, his mind far away. Reluctantly he got out of bed. ‘Don’t happen to have any briefs?’

  ‘Silas’ would be too small.’

  ‘Then I’ll go without. Lend us your jeans. I’ll see you get them back.’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t need—’

  ‘Yes. I’ll leave my skirt with you as a memento, and the panties now, it’s okay without them.’ He had forgotten Donne.

  ‘I am glad.’ Hebe watched him struggle into the jeans she had taken off when she went to bed.

  ‘Fit a bit tight, but what the hell. I’m—what am I?’ He stood looking down at Hebe, exultant.

  ‘Normal,’ she suggested, smiling up at him.

  ‘That’s about it.’ He searched in his skirt pocket. ‘This is for you.’ He thrust a wad of notes into Hebe’s hand. ‘You earned it. Can’t think how you did it. From now on I can be like anyone else.’ He bent down to kiss her. ‘’Bye, love.’

  ‘Thanks, Terry.’ Hebe looked at the money. ‘It’s far too much.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I’ve got this girl in mind. Don’t you want to know who she is?’ She could see he wanted to tell her.

  ‘No.’ He must manage on his own.

  ‘She will be the first to get the straight treatment,’ he said, zipping up the jeans.

  ‘Without frills.’ She was amused.

  He gave her a friendly hug. ‘Sending me up.’

  ‘Go now. I must sleep.’ She pressed him to leave.

  ‘But I had to tell you. Analysts try and you did the trick in just two years.’

  Hebe was counting the money. ‘This is an awful lot, Terry.’ She was shocked by the amount.

  ‘I shan’t see you again, not like this. I want you to have it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She did not trust herself to say more.

  ‘I’ll take care of Trip when you go away. Keep in touch with you.’ He bent to kiss her again. ‘Goodbye now.’ He moved to the window to climb out. ‘This is a lot easier in jeans.’ He gave a snort of laughter.

  She heard him land in the flower bed, switched off her light and went to the window to watch him put on his shoes, climb the fence to the alleyway behind the gardens and break into a run, the sound of his feet beating a tattoo.

  ‘There goes a satisfied customer,’ she said to the cat as she dropped the skirt and the discarded briefs into the waste-paper basket. ‘God! I must sleep.’ She got back into bed. She would miss Terry, miss the poetry reading. Buy herself a treat with part of his goodbye money, perhaps; put the rest towards Silas’ education. She felt a rush of affection for Terry. Will his new girl make him happy, will they read poetry together as we have? Why should I worry, she thought, as she lay listening to the cat purring. I taught him

  As freely as we met we’ll part

  Each one possest of their own heart.

  If he has learned that lesson why can’t I abide by it? We are friends. Restoration poems are not essential for survival, not essential for Silas. She dozed, thinking of the good times with Terry during the past years—quite a course in Eng. Lit., a profitable spell of work, a success. She remembered thinking him farouche until she had discovered his troubled spirit, grown fond of him for himself not only for the colour of his skin, which in some lights resembled a Mars Bar. So much for you. Briefly she permitted a vision of her grandfather, quickly banishing him from her mind.

  Then she reproached herself for not making Terry promise to tell his new girl about his little ways. He would never tolerate briefs, never really change. The girl was on to a good thing if she did but know. Terry was intelligent and caring, which was more than could be said for most fee-paying lovers. The word ‘fees’ brought to mind Silas. Would the term away have changed him?

  Three

  HANNAH SAT IN FRONT of her mirror to do her nails. She wore rubber gloves for rough jobs, thought Hebe mad not to bother. Hebe had said, ‘Making pastry cleans them. The dirt lends zest to the pastry.’ Hannah wondered what the Cordon Bleu would say to that and remembered Hebe remarking that she had been given the best tips by the French chef when she worked at the hotel on the cliff. Saying this, Hebe had laughed, as though the tips were humorous. Painting her nails, Hannah wondered whether the antique dealer was staying at the hotel. She had dined there with George. It was perhaps too expensive for the dealer. He had climbed the street knocking at doors. Surprisingly, Amy admitted him. Hannah had been watching at her window, hoping to see Hebe return. It had been easy to talk to the man when he left Aunt Amy’s. She brushed her hair. Had the stranger noticed it? She lifted her lip like a horse sneering, admired her teeth, straight as a regiment of guards. George had done a good job. Would Jim Huxtable be interested in her year’s sessions with George who had gloriously brought to order her set of snaggles? Would he be interested to know she had flogged her only good piece of jewellery, Edward’s engagement ring, to pay for her teeth? Annoyance spoiled the joy of her teeth. Edward never sent her alimony on time. His dilatoriness kept alive the tie when she would rather forget him. New teeth, new life, damn you, Edward. But she was pleased with her adoption by deed poll of the name Somerton. Would Giles stop being obstinate and change his too? He hung on to Krull to annoy, to be able to threaten he would run away to his father. She hoped he would soon realise that Somerton sounded better than Krull. Perhaps he would latch on to this through his friendship with Silas and also perhaps get the hang of Silas’ and Hebe’s vowels. Eyeing her image in the glass Hannah mouthed A-E-I-O-U as taught at the elocution lessons she preferred to call speech therapy. Hebe’s vowels came naturally and Silas’ were perpetuated at his school. Hannah’s thoughts veered to Hebe’s odd life working as cook to rich old women. She never discussed the people she worked for. She never talked about Silas’ father, had not responded when Hannah told her about Edward, did not, as other women would, tell her own tale. Hannah’s mother and Aunt Amy had been sisters. Her mother had married higher socially than Aunt Amy, who had some undiscussed connection with Hebe, who was thick with Amy and like Amy secretive. Hannah realised that she knew as little about her aunt as about Hebe. She had been referred to by her parents as ‘that poor old maid living alone in that house. You should go and see her, she’s your only relative.’ A year ago, finding herself in the neighbourhood with Giles, she had visited, been welcomed. With no roots after living in America, it had seemed natural to settle here, send Giles to school, keep an eye on her aunt. She had grown very fond of Amy. Hannah’s thoughts wandered.

  ‘I must marry again,’ she told herself. ‘Have another bash.’ Though the marriage to Edward had left her bruised and there was much to be said for independence, marriage was what Hannah preferred. Hebe seemed to manage her life extraordinarily well for someone whose income of child benefit and single-parent benefit was only augmented by temporary cooking jobs. What did those old women pay? Hannah blew on the varnish, which was dry at last. What did she do about sex? While enjoying her relationship with George, Hannah had yet to decide whether to make it permanent. George’s line in pillow talk was mundane. Dontology does not turn me on, she ruminated. There must be somebody more amusing than George.

  Time to see whether Aunt Amy was okay for the night. She looked across at Hebe’s house. There was no light.

  Up among the hills Jim Huxtable sat with Bernard Quigley outside his house finishing the claret they had drunk with their supper.

  ‘I was wondering how you knew that old woman had that collection of paperweights. They are immensely valuable.’

  ‘What?’ The old man put his hand to his ear.

  ‘You are not deaf,’ said Jim patiently and waited for an answer.

  ‘I wanted to know whether, if she still has them, she is prepared to sell,’ said the old man grudgingly.

  ‘She invited me to come again, she may change her mind.’ Jim looked at his h
ost, sitting with his cat on his knee, stroking it with gnarled fingers. The cat’s purring was loud. The damp air, heavy with the smell of honeysuckle, was counterpointed by Bernard’s dog, Feathers, who lay at his feet. ‘Your dog smells a bit high,’ he remarked.

  ‘Rolled in a pong. You may bath him tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, ungrateful at the prospect.

  ‘She won’t sell,’ said the old man complacently, reverting to the paperweights. ‘She’s too fond of them.’

  Jim thought of Bernard’s idiotic trick, making him call from house to house. ‘I don’t buy at the door.’ ‘Nothing to sell here, not even the balls from a brass monkey.’ Rebuffs.

  ‘If you knew that, why did you suggest that charade?’

  The old man did not answer.

  ‘There was a girl, a few doors up from your friend’s house. A talkative girl, gave me an oeillade.’

  Bernard laughed. ‘That’s her niece.’

  ‘Another girl came up the street, reminded me of someone. Who would she be? Lives opposite your Miss Tremayne, seemed short-sighted. She was carrying her spectacles. You know her, by chance?’

  ‘I do not know her.’ In the old sense to know a girl was to make love, thought Bernard, as he had made love in the old days, tenderness and laughter mixed with passion. How delightful to have such an experience with Hebe. She was born too late, he thought, jealous of the younger man’s interest. He remembered his dealings with Hebe, taking advantage of her naivety by paying her twice the worth of her mother’s jewels. He took a snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, measured, inhaled, sneezed. The cat jumped off his knee.

  Watching Bernard, Jim thought the light of dusk, usually so kind, made the old man look like a fossilised bird. ‘Why did you never marry?’ he asked.

  Bernard sat thinking. ‘Impossible to make up my mind. Wasn’t prepared to give anything up. Embarras de choix. What about you? If you are not careful you will end up a bachelor, not that I can’t recommend the state. Got lots of girls, have you?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Don’t want any of them to be permanent?’

  Jim did not answer.

  ‘If you get a chance to buy those paperweights—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am off to bed. See you in the morning before you go.’ Bernard heaved himself out of his chair. Jim stood up. Bernard snapped his fingers at the dog. ‘Come boy, bedtime. You could give them to the girl. She probably carried her spectacles because she did not want to see.’ There was tenderness in the old man’s voice.

  ‘So you do know her.’ Jim expected no answer. He decided to call on the girl called Hebe and ask whether she had any antiques to sell, see why she was worthy of the paperweights. That way he could get a look at her. He could still get to London by evening if he did not dally on the way.

  Also thinking of Hebe, Hannah let herself into Amy Tremayne’s house.

  ‘It’s me, auntie, how are you?’

  ‘Still alive.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘You usually do.’

  Ignoring this unpromising start, Hannah said, ‘What did you think of the Knocker?’

  ‘I thought he was rather interesting. Comes from London.’

  ‘Did you sell him anything?’ Hannah looked round her aunt’s cluttered room, absolute hell to dust.

  ‘No.’ Amy was grumpy. ‘I saw you talking to him.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? Did you show him your paperweights?’

  ‘They are in the cupboard.’

  ‘I know. I put them there. There is such a lot to clean.’

  ‘Stopped talking to you when he saw Hebe,’ Amy chuckled.

  ‘Do you think he knew Hebe?’ Hannah quizzed her aunt. ‘He seemed more interested in her than me.’

  ‘Say anything?’ The old woman looked up suspiciously.

  ‘He just stared. Perhaps he knew Hebe’s husband.’ Hannah fished.

  ‘She doesn’t wear a ring.’

  ‘D’you mean she wasn’t married?’ Hannah seized the chance of discussing Hebe, persuading her aunt to talk.

  ‘Wouldn’t be strange these days,’ said Amy drily.

  ‘Oh, auntie!’

  ‘Oh, auntie,’ mocked the old woman.

  ‘Perhaps he died before he could marry her, her lover.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’ Amy raised an eyebrow.

  ‘She never tells me anything. I imagined she had a great romance who died soon after they were married or even before they could.’

  ‘Perhaps she disposed of him like you did poor Krull.’

  ‘Rich Krull.’ Hannah corrected her aunt, laughing.

  ‘You girls. Chuck a perfectly good husband. Can’t stick to anything.’

  ‘If she isn’t married, perhaps Silas is adopted?’ Hannah pressed Amy.

  ‘With those eyes? Perhaps he’s her brother.’ Amy was heavily humorous. ‘I’m off to bed if that’s all you have of interest.’ She pulled herself up from her chair. The white hair framing her face was thick, her eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, were still beautiful.

  ‘Like a hot drink? Cocoa? Horlicks?’ suggested Hannah, still hoping for gossip.

  ‘I’ll have a toddy. Make it strong.’ Amy went up to bed. If Hebe chose to mind her own business, she was not the one to broadcast it. Amy felt contempt for Hannah, who told every Tom and Dick her life story. Stories grew in the telling, it was only sensible not to tell them. Climbing out of her directoire knickers, which were getting difficult to get these days, Amy sighed, wondering whether she had been wise to give Hebe introductions to Lucy Duff, Louisa Fox and at the beginning to that old bastard Bernard. Too late now and the child—she thought of Hebe as a child—had to live. Give him his due, Bernard had not cheated. He had introduced her to the hotel on the cliff and the French chef and she could not approve of that though it had proved useful.

  Hannah brought the hot toddy. ‘I made it strong.’

  Amy drank, sipping through pleated lips, sitting propped by pillows. Hannah watched with affection.

  ‘She works to pay for Silas’ school; it must cost a bomb.’

  ‘If you’d stayed married to Krull your Giles could have gone there too. If you marry again you will lose your alimony.’ Amy grinned over her glass.

  ‘Who said I wanted to?’ Hannah was on the defensive.

  ‘It’s on your mind. You weigh the pros and cons. Shall I, shan’t I?’

  ‘I thought we were talking of Hebe,’ said Hannah huffily.

  ‘But I was thinking you might marry again. I saw you this afternoon. You can’t sit around for ever taking money from Krull, giving nothing. It’s not right.’

  ‘You can’t talk,’ shouted Hannah, erupting in anger. ‘You’ve never been married, you’ve always been alone, you don’t know what it’s like.’

  The old woman was silent. Then, peering at Hannah, she said softly, ‘None of us should be alone, it’s not natural.’ She looked tiny in her large bed.

  ‘It’s better than being stuck with someone you don’t want,’ muttered Hannah, not intending her aunt to hear, annoyed that she must defend herself.

  ‘I heard you. You’re as bad as a tart I heard in Paris, she—’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Paris,’ exclaimed Hannah, surprised.

  ‘This tart’—Amy stressed the word—‘this tart said to another tart about a man who had just paid her off, this tart said, “Et moi, je soulage moi-même”. Perhaps you don’t.’ The old woman mocked her niece. ‘How that girl laughed!’

  Hannah giggled. ‘I hope Giles isn’t learning that sort of French on his school trip.’

  Amy raised an eyebrow. ‘When does he get back?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Send him to see me.’

  ‘No need. He loves you as much as I do.’

  ‘Ho.’ Amy switched off her light and lay back on her pillows, not waiting for Hannah to reach the landing.

  ‘Old bitch.’ Hannah fumbled for the light swi
tch. ‘I might kill myself falling downstairs,’ she called but Amy did not answer. Searching for the switch Hannah thought of Giles growing up so quickly. He would soon be gone.

  Courting sleep, Amy considered her afternoon visitor, questioning whether he had come by chance. He had admired her treasures, talked knowledgeably, known their value. Refusing to sell, she had put a tacit invitation in the manner of her refusal. They had talked about France. He had held the paperweights in his long fingers so that their brilliance caught the light. ‘Glass flowers last longer than bouquets,’ he had said.

  But are they as sweet? Thinking of her paperweights, she thought of the secret trapped as the flowers were in the glass. Let Hannah pity her as the old spinster aunt who had spent a dreary life. She need never know of the period when she had been la fille Anglaise. Later she had had no heart for it, had gone back to work in England, a dully secure secretary.

  Amy had watched Hannah waylay Jim Huxtable, watched them talking until, looking down the street, he had seen something which had caught his interest. Maybe, thought Amy, if he comes again I will sell him one. Considering her treasures, her mind went back to the Hôtel d’Angleterre fifty years ago. What fun it had been, waking to light filtering through the red plush curtains, the hugging and kissing, the cosiness before coffee and croissants. The warmth, the laughter, the presents. She was unwilling to think of the presents as payment since she had not in that instance wanted payment. It amused her that Hannah, who longed for romantic love, should think of her as ‘a poor old thing’ whereas Hebe, who thought of love with detachment, as an indulgence for others, should long since have correctly assumed her to be a retired lady of pleasure.