The Peacock Summer

by Hannah Richell

  ‘But Helena—’

  Lucinda had held up a hand. ‘It’s afternoon tea. I insist that you accept.’

  Lillian hadn’t been convinced – and if she were honest, she felt a little afraid at the thought of visiting Charles Oberon in his huge house. Certainly he was attractive, and so sure of himself in that way men of privilege and a certain age could be, but Lillian didn’t feel worthy of his time or attention. She remembered how she’d felt standing at the roadside with him: foolish, diminished, a silly young girl. What on earth would they talk about? No doubt he would find her bland and disappointing. But Lucinda had been adamant: it would be rude not to accept.

  From the moment they had arrived at the front door, Cloudesley had appeared nothing short of extraordinary. The sheer size of the house, its endless twisting corridors, the numerous doors hinting at untold rooms and treasures, the luxurious rugs laid across the floors, the strange and wonderful objects littering the hall as they’d followed the maid through to the drawing room, had all captivated her. As they’d sat drinking tea with Charles, she’d found it hard to focus on the ebullient man sitting before them, her eye instead drawn by the most extraordinary and wonderful sights. The carved gilded furniture with its velvet upholstery. The Victorian glass domes housing stuffed birds, coral and shells. The paintings lining the walls from virtually floor to ceiling. The enormous vases perched on pedestals. The furs and the fabrics. The room was a riot of colour and sensation. Lucinda’s cottage on Chestnut Lane was certainly charming, but Cloudesley was an opulent palace by comparison.

  She’d always known, on the days when she’d visited the house as an evacuee, sitting as a pupil at the wooden tables in the makeshift school room, that something extraordinary lay beyond. On the occasions when they’d been released from their desks and allowed to run in the arboretum, she had glimpsed through an open wooden gate to a lavish lawn bordered by extravagant topiary. But until that day, she had never been inside any of the luxurious rooms in the main house. Judging by the drawing room, she’d known then that they were more than she could have ever imagined.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ he’d said, one hand resting on the head of an enormous wolfhound as he’d eyed Lillian keenly. ‘I’ve been feeling rotten about the accident. Did you like the bike?’

  ‘Very much. Thank you. But really there was no—’

  ‘Oh rubbish,’ Charles had said, waving away her protest. ‘There was every need.’

  Charles had smiled at her as he’d scratched behind the huge dog’s ears and Lillian had returned his smile, relaxing a little. He seemed quite different from the blustering man she’d met on the roadside just a few days ago.

  ‘Your home is beautiful, Mr Oberon,’ Lucinda had offered graciously.

  ‘I’ll show you around, give you the grand tour, if you’d like?’ Charles had looked at them both hopefully, like a small boy keen to show off his treasures.

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ Lucinda had answered for them both, before turning to Lillian and beaming up at her with a knowing look.

  Moments later, the door to the drawing room had creaked open and Charles’s son, dressed in a smart shirt and short trousers, had been steered into the room by a nurse. ‘Here he is,’ the nurse had said in a bright voice. ‘Albie wanted to come and say “hello”, didn’t you, Albie?’

  The little boy had nodded. ‘I hope you are feeling better after your accident,’ he’d said, his voice stiff and scripted, but heart-meltingly sweet all the same.

  ‘I am feeling much better. Thank you, Albie. What’s that you’ve got there?’ she’d asked, pointing to the object clutched in the little boy’s fist.

  ‘It’s a snail shell. I found it outside.’

  Lillian had leaned in to inspect it more closely. ‘It’s a very fine shell, Albie. A real beauty.’

  The little boy had smiled and when Lillian had looked up at Charles, she’d found him studying her keenly, with the oddest expression on his face. She had sensed that day that he was a man used to getting what he wanted. She’d simply had no idea then that what he wanted was her.

  On the far side of the cricket pitch, villagers are spreading their picnic blankets on the grass and unfolding deck chairs, while over at a small white-painted pavilion several stout ladies in floral dresses fuss over cake tins and tea urns. Lillian is not in any rush to join them. Now that she’s here she’s reluctant to get drawn in to the gossip and village politics, the petty squabbles and subtle one-upmanship between the other wives.

  The umpire, a chubby, red-faced man in a wide straw hat, flips a coin. The visiting team win the toss and opt to bat first. As Charles strides out onto the pitch, directing his men to their different fielding positions, Lillian sees Jack turn and look back towards the car. There is something of the lost boy about him, trudging off to do his duty. She lifts her hand in acknowledgement – then feels instantly foolish, realising he isn’t looking at her at all, but probably casting an admiring glance at the car. With a deep breath, she turns towards the pavilion, steeling herself for the afternoon ahead and praying silently for a win that might help to settle Charles’s volatile mood.

  Up on the veranda it is all gossip and small talk. Lillian greets the group of women with the appropriate kisses and hellos. ‘Lucky us,’ says Barbara Palfreyman, a buxom busybody, always to be found at the centre of any village event. She grips Lillian’s arm tightly. ‘We don’t often have the pleasure of your company, dear.’

  Lillian ignores the reproach hidden in the woman’s greeting. ‘It’s such a beautiful day. How could I resist?’

  ‘Quite right,’ pipes up Susan Cartwright, one of the prettier girls from the village. ‘We should all be doing our bit for the chaps.’

  Lillian catches the eye of her friend Joan, her closest ally, and shares a small smile. ‘Our bit for the chaps?’ Joan mutters under her breath. ‘Give me strength.’

  Lillian busies herself with teapots and teacups, retrieving them from a dusty cupboard and rinsing them out as she listens to the women’s conversation volleying around her. There is widespread outrage over the price increase of milk at the village shop as well as thinly veiled competition over the homemade cakes and scones. She finds herself drawn back into the conversation as Susan reaches over and fingers the fabric of Lillian’s summer dress. ‘You are a lucky duck,’ she sighs. ‘Is it Dior? It looks it. Oh for a husband who owns a fancy shop in London and showers me with beautiful dresses and jewels.’

  It’s Joan who rescues her from Susan’s gushing. ‘Here, be a love would you, Lillian darling?’ She steers her away from the pavilion to where a pram stands in the shade. Joan reaches inside for a plump little baby in a blue playsuit and thrusts him at her. Lillian grapples with his fat little arms and legs until he has stopped wriggling and is secure in her arms. ‘Ah look at you, little Georgie-Porgie,’ Joan says, grinning down at her son, ‘you’re going to be a real heartbreaker. You don’t mind, do you?’ she asks Lillian. ‘Only he won’t lie there for too long without wailing and I said I’d help Barbara with the cucumber sandwiches. You know how pedantic she gets about her crusts,’ she adds in a dramatic whisper.

  Lillian feels the baby’s warm head pressing against her chest. She lowers her face instinctively and breathes in the scent of him. ‘I don’t mind in the slightest.’

  Joan eyes her carefully. ‘You’ve been rather reclusive of late. Everything all right? I heard you weren’t well.’

  ‘Just a touch of spring flu. It kept me in bed for a few days. I’m fine now.’

  ‘How’s Helena?’

  Lillian nods. ‘She’s fine. The same, as always.’

  ‘Well I think you’re a saint.’

  ‘I’m no saint. I’m all she has.’

  Joan nods. ‘Well, I wish I had a sister like you. Oh look!’ she says, suddenly distracted by the baby in Lillian’s arms. ‘He’s smiling. He likes you, Lillian. You’re a natural.’

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ she says, putting her face closer t
o the baby’s.

  Joan leans in closer, conspiratorial. ‘Now tell me, who is that divine man you brought along with you today? I’m sure I recognise him from somewhere.’

  Lillian glances out to where Jack stands on the boundary and nods. ‘Jack Fincher. Perhaps you met him at the ball last month?’

  Joan shrugs. ‘Darling, the only thing I remember from that night was your scoundrel of a husband plying me with gin fizz. Gerald had to practically carry me home. I could have met your handsome friend and danced a horizontal rumba with him and I wouldn’t remember. Fincher, you say?’ she adds, lifting her sunglasses to study him again. ‘Why is he here?’

  ‘Charles has hired him to paint the nursery. He’s staying with us for the summer.’

  ‘Oh . . . but you don’t mean . . . ?’ Joan casts a delighted glance down at Lillian’s flat stomach. ‘You are a sneak. I never would have guessed.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Lillian shakes her head. ‘No. I’m not expecting. He’s not decorating the nursery. He’s transforming it, at Charles’s request.’ She gives Joan a pointed look. ‘We’ve missed the boat as far as babies are concerned.’

  ‘Oh surely not! You’re doing a marvellous job with Albie, of course – but there’s nothing quite like that bond between a mother and her own child.’

  Lillian nods and tries to smile. Joan could never understand how much her words might hurt.

  ‘Besides, you’re still young enough. What are you? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? Hardly over the hill. A baby or two would help to keep you busy in that sprawling house. Plenty of room for them to run around and then you simply ship them off to boarding school the moment they get troublesome. I really do recommend it. Oh! What is it?’ Seeing Lillian’s frantically blinking eyes, Joan reaches out to touch her arm. ‘What have I said? Is it Charles? He’s not keen?’ She leans in closer again. ‘You do surprise me. A hot-blooded man like him . . . I’d have thought he’d be pawing at you every night.’

  Lillian shrugs, still not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Maybe he’ll change his mind? Men do, you know. They’re scared of change. They’re afraid of competing for your attention. But all it takes is a little feminine persuasion. A little guile.’

  Lillian shakes her head. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Nonsense. We’ll get you and Georgie set up on a picnic rug at tea. One look at his beautiful wife holding this bouncing baby boy will be enough to convince him.’

  ‘You’re sweet, and George is, of course, the perfect advertisement for parenthood, but believe me—’

  ‘Oh but you mustn’t give up!’

  Lillian can’t bear it any longer. She cuts her off. ‘I lost a baby.’

  Joan’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It wasn’t flu – I – I was expecting a child and then . . .’ She takes a deep breath and says the rest in a rush, desperate to have it done with. ‘Well, there were some complications and afterwards, the doctor told me that I wouldn’t be able to conceive again. It’s been a . . . a terrible blow.’

  Joan pats her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve really put my foot in it, haven’t I? No wonder you’ve been looking so wan. I had an inkling at the ball something was up. Oh dear. Gerald’s always telling me to think before I shoot my mouth off. Forget I said anything. You’re a wonderful step-mother to Albie. Best thing that could’ve happened to that boy after losing his mother.’

  Lillian nods. ‘He’s the only child I’ll ever have. I do love him – like he’s my own.’

  ‘Of course you do. And perhaps there will be grandchildren?’ Joan smiles hopefully at her and Lillian nods and holds the baby just a little bit closer.

  ‘Go on,’ Lillian says, nodding her head in the direction of the pavilion. ‘Go and help Barbara. We’ll be fine over here, won’t we, George?’ The baby gurgles obligingly.

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling, I’ve been an awfully clumsy clod.’

  Lillian watches Joan go, holding the baby to her cheek, feeling a painful yearning building in her like the pale grey clouds massing on the distant horizon.

  The afternoon meanders at a creeping pace. The air grows still and stultifying under the gathering clouds. The home team take three slow wickets but even Lillian can see that their bowler is off pace and the visiting team’s batsmen are blocking easily. She watches Charles from the pavilion, red-faced and irritable, his growing frustration evident. She knows the evening ahead will be a difficult affair if the game continues like this.

  A group of young children play on the grass. Lillian watches them for a while, her eye drawn to two young girls with long corn-coloured plaits playing at the edge of the green; quite clearly sisters. Together, they perform a series of roly-polies and cartwheels and Lillian smiles to see them, the sight bringing a distinct memory of that most freeing sensation of tumbling over the ground, the feel of grass beneath hands, bare knees and dizziness.

  The memory links easily to another, lying under a tree, feeling the curve of the earth’s embrace solid beneath her, as she and Helena whiled away an afternoon with their father, picking buttercups and weaving long daisy chains in a blossoming London park. There had been an outing on a rowing boat, their father navigating them about the still waters of a large, green lake with impressive skill and as they’d disembarked, Helena, larking about, had lost a shoe over the side of the boat where it had sunk without a trace. All this before the war had struck and their family had been altered forever. What freedom. What joy. If only they had known then how precious those fleeting moments were – how they would have to be enough to last a lifetime.

  A loud crack, the unmistakable sound of leather hitting wood, pulls her attention back to the match. Lillian scans the sky and spots the ball, a flash of red against the clouds hurtling out towards the boundary. Shouts of ‘catch it!’ rise from the players on the field. Her gaze finds Jack, running backwards and then sideways, trying to predict the angle of the ball’s descent. He lifts his arms, readying himself, but with his next backwards step he stumbles, his heel tripping on the hem of his borrowed cricket trousers. Her heart lurches as Jack begins to fall.

  ‘Catch it!’ she hears Charles roar.

  Lillian squeezes her eyes shut, unable to watch, only opening them fully when the cheers of the Cloud Green fielders reach her ears. Looking again she finds Jack lying on his back, arms raised in triumph, the cricket ball gripped tightly in one hand.

  Jack is helped to his feet by a teammate. Lillian sees the umpire lift one finger to declare the batsman out. Jack tosses the ball into the air then trots in to meet the fielders. As applause rises up from the bank of Cloud Green supporters, Lillian lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

  At tea, everyone wants to congratulate Jack. His catch has changed the pace of the game, crumbling the opposition’s batting order, and energising the Cloud Green players. They cluster round him, rattling teacups and slapping him on the back. Lillian watches from the trestle table where she helps to serve cake and sandwiches, grateful to have a job to keep her occupied. She notices how the ladies of the village are particularly attentive to Jack’s presence, Susan Cartwright leading the charge with an impressive display of skirt-swishing, giggling and hair tossing.

  Joan walks past and leans in, whispering so that only Lillian can hear. ‘It’s like watching the mating rituals of the black widow spider. They’re supposed to devour their mate after copulation, aren’t they?’

  ‘Joan,’ laughs Lillian. ‘You’re awful.’

  ‘What?’ asks Joan, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘She’s shameless, that girl,’ she adds in a lower voice, nodding at Susan. ‘Still, if I didn’t have my Gerald you can bet I’d be elbowing Susan Cartwright out the way. He is rather attractive, don’t you think?’

  Lillian glances across at Jack again. His full lips are set in a firm line, his skin flushed from the sun, or the attentions of the crowd. ‘I suppose so,’ she says.

  ‘Married?’

  Lillian shakes her head. ‘Apparent
ly not.’

  Joan sighs. ‘You have to admit that there’s something rather romantic about an artist . . . soulful . . . tortured . . . I bet he’s good with his hands.’ She elbows Lillian suggestively then turns to stare at her. ‘Why! Lillian Oberon, I do believe you’re blushing.’

  Lillian turns away. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she mutters, uncertain why Joan’s joke and the sight of the women in their colourful summer dresses fluttering around Jack like a kaleidoscope of butterflies should have stirred such a strange sensation within her. ‘It’s this weather,’ she adds.

  It is the day, she tells herself. The heat and the stillness of the air, the clouds pressing down upon the sky, and all of Joan’s ridiculous talk of mating rituals and babies. It has got her all het up and flustered. She never should have come.

  ‘You missed a good game this afternoon,’ Charles says pointedly to Albie that evening as they sit around the long mahogany dining table at Cloudesley. Charles’s good mood has lasted the rest of the afternoon, his anger at Albie’s absence kept at bay like the clouds that had hovered on the periphery of the Chiltern Hills all afternoon but failed to deliver their promised rain. Bentham has opened the French doors, letting a faint current of air into the room, but it is not enough to shift the atmosphere. Heat lingers in the house like an unwelcome guest, its presence heavy and oppressive.

  ‘You don’t enjoy cricket?’ Jack asks Albie.

  The boy shrugs. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do about him,’ says Charles, only half-joking. ‘My son is more interested in wandering aimlessly about gathering his strange objects. Bottle tops and books of matches, conkers and flints. What was it Bentham called you? A little bower bird.’ Charles snorts.

  Albie flushes red but keeps his gaze fixed on his soup bowl.

  ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ says Lillian lightly. ‘It’s not hard to see where he gets the interest from.’