Harnessing Peacocks

  Further up the street Hannah restlessly debated whether she should marry George. She had planned to marry a man who pronounced regatta ‘regattah’. George said ‘regatter’.

  Four

  MUNGO DUFF HAD DIFFICULTY finding a parking space in the multi-storey car park and was infuriated that he had no loose change for the meter. It was a hot day. He was weary of the cathedral crawl Alison had insisted on for her friends the Drews from Santa Barbara, over on a two-week trip. By the time he had found change, tracked back to the ticket machine, stuck the ticket on the windscreen, he was more eager for a drink at the bar of the Clarence than the prospect of trailing round Exeter Cathedral, listening to his knowledgeable wife and her even more knowledgeable guests. However, duty calls, he told himself. Yesterday Winchester, Stonehenge, Salisbury and Sherborne, tomorrow home and put one’s feet up. Crossing the street on the way to the Close he caught sight of swirling skirts. There was something familiar in the swinging stride and lift of buttocks. Searching his mind to fit a face to the buttocks, he joined his wife and guests, who stood in the centre aisle gazing up at the minstrels’ gallery. By tonight Alison would be complaining of a stiff neck and serve her bloody right. Mungo sat down in a chair, stretched his legs and waited. Let Alison do the work, it was she who had angled for an invitation to Santa Barbara, not he. Mungo sincerely hoped the Drews would keep her for a long visit. Why, he mused, could they not be content with Oxford, Cambridge, Anne Hathaway’s cottage and Westminster Abbey, like any other decent Americans? Viewing his wife from behind as she wandered up the aisle, he compared her bottom and her friend Patsy Drew’s with the bottom viewed briefly in the street.

  ‘Oh, Mungo.’

  Damn! Alison had seen him just as memory was about to yield.

  ‘Yes?’ He went to join his wife.

  ‘Stay with them, darling. I just want to nip into that shoeshop on the corner, they’ve got a sale,’ murmured Alison.

  ‘They are your visitors, not mine,’ he hissed.

  ‘Darling, don’t be mean.’

  ‘Isn’t it nearly lunchtime?’ he prevaricated.

  ‘Soon, soon. Be an angel. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘If you’re not here when I come back I’ll meet you in the bar.’

  ‘That means you’ll be ages.’

  ‘No, no.’ She left him, walking swiftly in her expensive sandals to use her eye for a bargain and buy at reduced price a pair, more likely two, of exquisite shoes to flaunt in California. When, years ago, they had been in love, he had jokingly called her a shoe fetishist. Now he called her a shopaholic. He had loved her jaunty walk, comparing her to a Shetland pony, but now, as he watched her go, he wondered whether her legs were not too short and whether in middle age her body, all right at present, would become barrel-shaped. Sulkily he joined their guests.

  ‘A very lovely cathedral. We were comparing it to Durham and Lincoln.’

  Patsy Drew never seemed to feel tired. What did Alison see in her?

  ‘This is much cosier.’ Mungo made an effort.

  ‘Cosy?’

  ‘Friendlier. Smaller. Less far to walk.’

  ‘Are we tiring you, Mungo?’ Eli was concerned, younger, more spry than Mungo, a lot fitter; all that jogging.

  ‘Lord, no.’ He rallied his manners.

  ‘It’s all new to us. You see it all the time.’ Patsy was apologetic.

  ‘Actually I’ve never been to Exeter before.’

  ‘You don’t expect us to believe that.’ Must she be arch?

  ‘I’ve been through it in the train.’

  ‘But it’s so close to your home.’

  ‘Two hundred miles isn’t close to an Englishman.’

  The Drews laughed, appreciating his English wit.

  ‘Why don’t we skip the rest and have lunch?’ Eli suggested. ‘Then we can do Bath on our way home, perhaps fit in Wells too.’

  ‘Certainly Wells,’ said Patsy. ‘Wells is a must.’

  ‘So is a drink.’ Mungo headed towards the cathedral door. ‘Alison said she’d meet us in the bar.’

  As they walked across the Close to the Clarence Hotel, Mungo glimpsed the mystery bottom. It vanished through the door but the hall was empty when they reached it.

  In the bar Mungo ordered drinks and settled his guests in comfortable chairs. The bar was full of strangers. ‘I had better go and reserve a table,’ he said and made his way to the restaurant. As he went he looked about but saw no familiar face. He peered into the other bars and the buffet but to no avail. Returning to the bar after reserving a table he met Alison.

  ‘Bought anything?’

  ‘Three pairs.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘Just what I need for the States.’

  ‘Want,’ said Mungo sourly.

  ‘Want, too, of course. Have you ordered me a drink?’

  ‘Not yet. Didn’t know what you’d have.’

  ‘I always drink vodka.’

  ‘You don’t, you often drink sherry and when you are feeling continental you drink Campari.’

  ‘Mungo darling, don’t be so marital.’

  When Alison called him marital there was a row in the offing. Mungo apologised. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Patsy, love, wouldn’t you like to freshen up?’ Alison bent to kiss Patsy as though they hadn’t met for a week. Mungo flinched at the Americanism.

  ‘Order me a vodka on the rocks while we are gone,’ Alison said to Mungo.

  Mungo said ‘Of course’, resisting the urge to say ‘Sure’. He wondered whether Alison was having it off with Eli, or had it in mind for the future.

  The women went in search of what Patsy called the john. Mungo took a swallow of whisky and waited for the feeling of rejuvenation which would get him through lunch and the afternoon. ‘The wine waiter says they have a good Bordeaux,’ he said to Eli. This was one of the days he must get a bit drunk if he was to survive.

  In the ladies’ lavatory Hebe took off her clothes. The only annoying thing about Marks & Spencer was the absence of anywhere to try things on. Over the years, when shopping in Exeter before meeting Silas off his school train, she had formed the habit of taking her purchases to the Clarence, trying them on in the ladies’ cloakroom and returning such things as did not fit immediately. The fact that Marks & Spencer now had places where it was possible to try on clothes had escaped her, thanks to her myopia. The cloakroom was empty. Hebe left her clothes and bag on hooks in the lavatory and stepped out into the room to try on bikinis. She had tried on two and was about to try on a third when Alison and Patsy came suddenly into the room.

  Alison stared. Patsy’s mouth formed an ‘O’. Hebe stepped back into the lavatory and bolted the door. She stood petrified with embarrassment. She listened.

  Alison and Patsy went to other lavatories. She heard them go in, bolt the doors, pee, rustle paper, flush water, unbolt the doors, come out, wash their hands, leave the cloakroom and a burst of chatter in the corridor.

  Her hands fumbling, Hebe dressed, put the bikinis back in their bag. She could not now remember which fitted her. In the confined space she combed her hair, adjusted her glasses and stood listening. Would they say something to the hall porter, complain at the desk? She had never been to the Clarence for a drink or a meal; she was not known. Assuming nonchalance she strolled into the passage which led to the hall. As she went she adjured herself, look natural, don’t hurry. She had not expected to meet Mungo hurrying down the passage on his way to the gents. She dropped her parcels as she put up her hand to shield her face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Mungo had had two double whiskies and couldn’t believe his eyes. He stooped to pick up her parcels. Their faces came close as Hebe too bent down.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said accusingly. ‘Why aren’t you at home?’

  ‘Alison’s got these Americans staying. They are into cathedrals—Winchester, Stonehenge, Sherborne yesterday; today Exeter, Wells, Bath and if they n
otice how close they are to Glastonbury it’ll be that, too—’

  ‘You’re drunk.’ She snatched her parcels from him. ‘Your breath stinks.’

  ‘Only a little. Do you live here?’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Near here?’ He loomed over her, taller than she remembered.

  ‘Certainly not.’ She was in retreat.

  ‘Alison’s going to America on a long visit. Got her eye on the husband.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So we can be together, darling,’ said Mungo loudly.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ Hebe hissed.

  ‘She won’t hear, she’s in the bar.’ He snatched at the hand holding the bikinis and found himself grasping the bag. ‘Oh,’ he followed her, ‘here, this is yours.’ He caught her arm. ‘It was your bottom I saw earlier on. I couldn’t place it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She took the bag and hurried on.

  ‘Since when have you worn glasses?’

  ‘Goodbye.’ Hebe crossed the street in great leaps and on to a passing bus. Looking back she saw Mungo, a head taller than anyone on the pavement, black hair ruffled, staring after her, a wild look in the blue eyes squinting down his highland nose.

  Left on the pavement Mungo remembered that he was on his way to the gents. When he rejoined his wife and guests they were laughing as Patsy described her consternation at finding a naked girl in the ladies’ rest room.

  ‘She wore nothing except a pair of glasses.’ Patsy and Alison shook with laughter.

  Eli chortled. ‘Life in a cathedral town. Beats Trollope.’

  ‘She’s not a trollop,’ said Mungo, mishearing.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ Alison took him up quickly.

  Mungo sensed danger. ‘That girl,’ he said. ‘You know who I mean, that girl who cooks for mother. Thought I saw her in the street just now. What’s her name, can you remember?’ he asked Alison. ‘Does she come from these parts?’

  ‘I think she comes from London. I can’t remember what she’s called.’ Alison appeared uninterested. ‘Don’t order more drinks, darling; shouldn’t we have lunch?’

  ‘Of course, of course, and we’d better look sharp if we are doing Bath and Wells. We could do Glastonbury too, why not?’ cried Mungo, his voice hearty with relief.

  Alison, whose intake of alcohol did not match her husband’s, took the wheel on the drive to Wells and Bath. They decided they would after all give Glastonbury a miss. Patsy had heard that it was the haunt of hippies and drug addicts. ‘We have our own in California.’

  Feigning sleep on the back seat, Mungo wondered what the hell Hebe was doing in Exeter. Secretive girl, he loathed having to communicate via her forwarding address. Did she perhaps live hereabouts? Why had he not hung on to her and forced her to tell him her address? The moment he was sure of Alison’s dates for Santa Barbara he would write, get her to join him. It might be possible to take her abroad, she had had a bagful of bikinis. For a while, speeding towards Wells and Bath, he planned a Mediterranean holiday, but as the wine he had drunk at lunch on top of the whiskies began to wear off, he ruminated sadly that it was Hebe who called the tune, not he, that it was she who would choose dates and locale as she always did, a service flat off Sloane Avenue.

  Alison, in the driving seat, switched the driving mirror to get a glimpse of herself. She was dissatisfied with her appearance. Her hair, naturally the colour of golden-shred marmalade, needed styling. Cornflower blue eyes were fine but would be better if she had her sandy eyelashes dyed, as Patsy had suggested. Time I bothered more, she thought, sweeping on to the M5 motorway. She twitched the mirror again to look at Mungo on the back seat. She thought with amusement, as she often had before, that he had all the assurance of an old Etonian without having actually been there, whereas she herself felt unfulfilled and insecure in spite of her natural bossiness. I must put that right, she told herself, moving into the fast lane. She wondered how often Mungo had been unfaithful. He had looked shifty at lunch when his mother’s cook had been mentioned. Aha! Alison said to herself, sticking out her lower lip. Oho! ‘I shall get my hair restyled in the States,’ she said over her shoulder to Patsy, and ‘We are sending the boys to Eton,’ she said to Eli, sitting beside.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Eli, unimpressed. ‘Our speed limit in the States is fifty, what’s yours?’

  ‘Seventy.’ Alison increased speed, pushing the speedometer up to eighty.

  Five

  HEBE SWEPT A MILE down through Exeter on the bus and walked back up the hill cursing Mungo. She did not think Alison had recognised her; it was years since they had met when she had first gone to work for Mungo’s mother. In those days she’d had a fringe, now her glasses were an added disguise. With an effort she dismissed Mungo and his wife from her mind. The day, which she had planned as a peaceful shopping day, had lost its appeal. What mattered was to be in time for the train bearing Silas from school and his other life. She just had time to return the bikinis and get her money back. She forced herself to be patient, not to hurry getting her car from the car park, not to drive too fast to the station, to park tidily, to comb her hair, adjust her skirt, relax, concentrate on Silas.

  Always after the separation of term Hebe feared Silas would be changed, no longer hers, that he would not accept her. She was afraid of embarrassing him by too great a show of affection. She paced the platform in painful anticipation.

  When the train arrived on time she was surprised. She had persuaded herself it would be late. When Silas hugged her she nearly wept with relief. When they had piled his belongings into the car and he sat beside her as she drove he said, sounding heartfelt, ‘It’s great to be home.’ She felt overwhelming joy at having so miraculous a child. She loved his chestnut hair, his wide mouth, his nose jutting large, his slightly haughty expression which his eyes belied.

  ‘You have grown,’ she said.

  ‘What do you expect?’ he answered. Her euphoria evaporated.

  ‘What do you want to do these holidays?’ she asked. She had been about to ask, ‘What shall we do these holidays?’

  Annoyed with himself but anxious to assert his independence, Silas said, ‘I thought Giles and I could go exploring. There are places we have not been to.’

  ‘I could take you in the car.’ Involuntarily Hebe included herself in his life.

  ‘We rather like going by bus, if you don’t mind.’ Silas looked at her sidelong.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Hebe said sharply. ‘Why should I?’

  She thought my role is to cook, give him pocket money, be there when needed, if needed. For God’s sake, she adjured herself, don’t cling, don’t be possessive.

  ‘One of the boys offered me a lift down. His father’s taking him to Cornwall,’ said Silas. ‘The Scillies, actually.’

  ‘Why didn’t you accept?’

  ‘I’d rather come by train. I look forward to seeing you waiting on the platform. I like this long drive home with you.’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Her heart leapt.

  ‘Of course it would have saved the train fare.’

  ‘To hell with the train fare,’ cried Hebe and they both laughed, mocking the ruinous train fare.

  ‘How are the jobs? When did you get home? Do you mind that sort of work?’

  ‘It’s the only work I’m any good at, it pays. Do you mind me doing it?’ She feared his criticism.

  ‘Why should I?’ Silas was genuinely surprised. ‘One of the boys has a sister who cooks for shooting parties. He says some of the guns try and lay her.’

  ‘Oh.’ What did Silas know about laying? Academic knowledge, surely.

  ‘I told him you specialised in old ladies because they pay more and he said he’d tell her. Would it spoil your market, Ma?’

  ‘Of course not. There’s room for all.’

  ‘D’you never get asked to do jobs in the holidays?’

  ‘I wouldn’t take one,’ said Hebe quickly. ‘Holidays are my only chance of seeing you.’

/>   ‘You could take a quickie, go for a week, I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you send me away to school I could quite well stay at home while you work.’

  Oh my God! What a deadly barb.

  Silas, who had been meaning to say something of the sort for some time, thought perhaps he had said too much.

  Hebe wondered whether she was losing touch, whether she had ever been in touch with Silas.

  ‘Are you happy at school?’ Ask a silly question.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘What sort of answer is that?’ she cried in distress.

  ‘I’m perfectly happy, Ma,’ Silas lied, already at twelve adept. ‘I’ve lots of friends,’ he added, knowing that such a statement would assuage her fears. ‘How is the street?’ he asked sweetly, conscious that she thought it ugly.

  ‘As ugly as ever.’ Hebe glanced at him, wondering where he got that large nose. ‘But you used to like it.’

  ‘I do like it. It’s full of secret people.’

  ‘Hannah, Giles, Amy Tremayne.’

  ‘And other people. You never seem to get to know them. Don’t you think you might like some of them?’

  ‘Not really.’ Hebe spoke truthfully, I’m not sociable. I’m never at home long enough.’

  ‘You think the street’s too ugly to have anyone interesting living in it. I heard you say so to Hannah.’

  ‘You make me sound snobbish.’

  ‘We wouldn’t be any different if we lived in another street.’ Silas felt protective towards the street, which he found fascinating in its dark conformity.

  ‘I would be different in a Georgian square or a country cottage,’ said Hebe, thinking how different she was while away on her jobs. ‘As long as it was beautiful.’