The Peacock Summer

by Hannah Richell

  Maggie escorts him back through the house and shakes his hand on the doorstep. Back inside, she makes her way to Charles’s study. She dials the number on the old rotary phone and waits, tapping her fingers impatiently on the paper-strewn desk. The line has barely connected when she starts speaking. ‘We are not selling Cloudesley to that man. I don’t care what we have to do, but we are not going to let him and his bulldozers have it.’

  She can almost hear Harry’s smile at the other end of the phone. ‘Good morning, Maggie. Am I to assume you met with the charming Todd Hamilton?’

  ‘I mean it,’ she says. ‘No way are we selling Cloudesley to the Hamilton Consortium.’

  ‘Message received loud and clear. Once more unto the breach . . .’

  She puts the phone down and turns to stare at the silver-framed photo on her grandfather’s desk, a younger Charles standing proudly in his army uniform, a host of medals pinned to his chest. So different from the old man she knew, folded up in his wheelchair. Tell me what to do, she begs him silently. Tell me how to save all this.

  It’s only as her burning anger begins to fade that the realisation comes to her: perhaps this is what Harry wanted. He knew she’d hate Todd Hamilton and his vision for Cloudesley. Harry sent him on purpose; to show her what was at stake.

  Well, she thinks, screwing up Todd Hamilton’s letter of interest and tossing it into the waste-paper basket beneath her grandfather’s desk, it’s going to be one hell of a fight, if she’s got anything to do with it.

  The old shoebox rattles and clinks with promise as she pulls it out from under her bed. ‘Pick a colour,’ Maggie says, lifting the lid and holding it out to Lillian moments later in the drawing room. ‘Go on.’

  Lillian smiles and reaches for one of the small glass bottles. ‘This one, I think.’

  ‘Good choice.’ Maggie takes the jar of fluorescent pink nail varnish from Lillian and gives it a shake. She helps her grandmother move to the old wingback chair near the window, the dresser of photographs beside them glinting in the sun. Her grandmother splays her fingers over an old book balanced on the armrest as Maggie sets to work. Screw you, Mr Hamilton, and your beauty spa plans.

  Up close and under such intense scrutiny, Lillian’s hands are quite extraordinary; thin and long-fingered with raised veins running across the backs of them in thick blue tributaries, age spots dotting the skin like faded topographical markings on an ordinance survey map. The jewelled rings she wears on her fingers seem almost welded to the clefts of her skin.

  Over the last few weeks, through the necessity of physical intimacy – the dressing, the lifting, the undressing, the bathing, the dispensing of pills, the propping of pillows – all the functions of caring for her grandmother have brought about a new familiarity. She is coming to know her grandmother’s body in surprising ways. It’s no longer strange to touch her – to brush her hair, to massage a cramped muscle or sponge her neck in the bath. Beside them, young Lillian watches on from her wedding-day photograph, beautiful in a simple, white lace tea dress with a wide silk sash cinching the waist. Maggie glances across at it. She looks so young and the sight of her pretty, unlined face makes Maggie feel sad and a little afraid.

  ‘There.’ Maggie sits back on her heels while Lillian holds her hands up and waggles her painted nails.

  ‘Thank you, dear. They look very jolly.’

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘There’s something else I’d like to do. Would you help me up?’

  They take the stairs slowly, one at a time, shuffling along the landing until they are at the door to Lillian’s bedroom. ‘Here we are,’ she says, a little out of breath.

  ‘I could have fetched whatever it is you need and saved you the trouble.’

  ‘Thank you, but this is something I’d like to do with you. After all, if we’re to attend the flower show, we shall both have to dress the part.’

  ‘The flower show?’ Maggie can’t hide her surprise. ‘You want to go?’

  ‘I most certainly do. You’ve been working so hard on those flower arrangements, it would be a shame not to go along and see them.’

  Maggie studies her for a moment. ‘It’s just a few flowers from the garden. I really haven’t done that much. And it will be very hot . . . and very busy. The crowds might not be a good idea with your—’

  ‘Oh nonsense. I should like to go. I can sit in Charles’s wheelchair, if you don’t mind pushing me?’

  Maggie hesitates. She’d been intending to deliver the flowers early the next morning and leave before the event had begun. The thought of attending the show fills her with horror. All those people, all the whispers and gossip. But Lillian is either oblivious to Maggie’s reluctance, or artfully ignoring it. ‘You’ll drive me, dear, won’t you?’ she presses.

  Maggie studies her grandmother. ‘Do you remember teaching me to drive?’ Maggie asks, a memory suddenly rising up.

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘I was terrible, but you were very patient.’ As a teenager, it was Lillian who had taken her out into the fields and let her practise in an old Land Rover, her grandmother clinging valiantly to the dash as Maggie had bumped them over muddy ruts and through copious cowpats. And it was Lillian who had retrieved one of the most expensive bottles of vintage champagne from her grandfather’s wine cellar and toasted her when she’d passed her test. A life with Lillian had been full of affection, though it hadn’t always set her up well for conventional life. Maggie had found that where most of her school friends talked of pop groups and PlayStations, she had been more au fait with bridge and Bach. It hadn’t seemed to matter, though. Not to Will or Gus – not to those she cared about the most. Maggie smiles at the memory and sighs. How can she deny her grandmother this one, small outing? ‘Of course I’ll take you,’ she says. ‘Though only for a little bit, mind you. We mustn’t wear you out.’

  ‘Good,’ says Lillian. ‘Now, up there on the top shelf, can you reach? I want to look through those boxes.’

  It’s the hats that Lillian wants to look at. ‘In my day, it wouldn’t do to attend a social occasion without one.’ She indicates the little stool in the corner of the room and Maggie spends the next half hour perched on top of it, fishing down dusty hatboxes. ‘I think this is the one,’ says Lillian, opening a large gold box and unwrapping from within layers of white tissue paper a beautiful teal beret with several peacock feathers jutting to one side. She places it on her head at a jaunty angle and peers out at Maggie, a whimsical, eccentric old lady playing dress-up. ‘What do you think?’ she asks, eyeing Maggie from beneath the feathers.

  ‘It’s fantastic.’

  ‘Too much?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Good.’ Lillian gives a satisfied nod. ‘You must choose one,’ she says, indicating the array of boxes now spilling from the cupboard. ‘Hats aren’t meant to spend their lives collecting dust in cardboard boxes. They should be worn. Try the yellow one.’

  Maggie reaches for the one Lillian is pointing at, a wide-brimmed straw hat in pale lemon yellow, relatively simple but for the soft netting around the crown and the single yellow quill held in place with a brooch. She picks it up and studies it from different angles before placing it on her head and regarding herself in the mirror. ‘It’s really lovely.’

  ‘One of my favourites. Come here.’ Lillian reaches up to adjust it slightly, angling it so that the brim falls across her eyes. ‘There. You look beautiful.’ Lillian points back to her wardrobe. ‘Look in there for the yellow dress. It goes perfectly.’

  Maggie does as she’s been asked, rummaging through the hangers until she finds the dress Lillian means, a pretty yellow cotton sundress with tiny white flowers dotted across the fabric. She slips out of her jeans and pulls it on, surprised to find it an almost perfect fit, the boat-neck collar scooping her shoulders, the zip at the back just about doing up with a deep inhalation.

  Lillian looks at her for a long moment. ‘You must be almost the exact same age I was when I wore
this dress.’

  ‘Twenty-six?’

  Lillian nods. ‘You have a lovely figure. You should show it off more, not hide it beneath those tatty jeans and T-shirts you’re always wearing.’

  Maggie turns in front of the mirror, pushing back her shoulders, feeling the soft fabric move about her bare legs. She doesn’t feel like herself. ‘It’s not very me.’

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  ‘But probably a little much . . . you know, for what is essentially just standing around in a field with a lot of other people drinking tea and admiring vegetables?’

  Lillian laughs. ‘Why should you care what other people think? Worrying about them will only stifle your own life. Trust me, everyone is far too wrapped up in themselves to worry about you, Maggie Oberon. You’ll see.’ There is a force to her grandmother’s words that surprises Maggie. ‘You will never be as young or as beautiful as you are today. Be bold. Seize the life that was meant to be yours. Make it magnificent.’

  Maggie is reminded of the inscription engraved on the lighter she’d taken from her grandfather’s drawer all those years ago. ‘Boldness be my friend,’ she muses.

  Lillian glances up at her. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know.’ She blushes, wondering if her grandmother might have guessed her secret. ‘I read it somewhere.’

  Lillian nods. ‘Well, it’s true. It’s too late for me, but perhaps you can be bold for the both of us.’

  Maggie wonders if she’s imagining the tears in her grandmother’s eyes. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ she says gently. We’ll see how you’re feeling tomorrow, shall we?’

  Maggie helps Lillian back down the stairs, gives her supper and settles her into bed before returning to the kitchen, where she makes tea and sits at the table, tying the last ribbons around the jam jars for her flower arrangements. She wishes she could take Lillian’s advice and care a little less what people think, live with less fear; but deep down, she knows what she most hopes for is that Lillian, come the morning, will have given up on her madcap idea to attend the show so that she might hide at Cloudesley and avoid the rest of the village altogether.

  Chapter 17

  ‘It’s another beautiful day,’ says Sarah, moving about Lillian’s bedroom, folding discarded garments and tidying the assorted brushes and combs on the dressing table. ‘Perfect for the show.’

  Lillian, threading a gold stud through her earlobe, catches Sarah’s eye in the mirror and shares a smile with her housemaid. ‘Yes, aren’t we lucky?’

  ‘Not according to Mrs Hill. She’s in a terrible state already, convinced her Battenberg is a disaster. And don’t get me started on the lemon curd drama we had yesterday. It’s this heat, apparently . . . it’s playing havoc with her baking.’ She rolls her eyes.

  Lillian smiles. She likes Sarah and her cheerful, chatty demeanour. Charles has complained that she’s a little gauche, a little too familiar with her mistress but, most days, Lillian feels closer to her than anyone else in the house. At least, she thinks, she did, inserting the other stud into her earlobe, until Jack arrived.

  Sarah picks up the ashtray from beside the bed before turning to Lillian. ‘Is everything all right, Ma’am? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look a little peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ says Lillian. ‘I didn’t sleep very well last night. It’s the heat.’ She turns back to the mirror, looking for traces of whatever Sarah has seen in her face. If only she knew the real reason for Lillian’s restless night. What would sweet Sarah think of her mistress then?

  Sarah nods. ‘It’s none of my business. I was just . . . I was just worrying for you. What with Mr Oberon still away, it must get lonely.’

  Lillian studies Sarah in the mirror as she continues to tidy her garments. Could she know about Jack? There is no way. They have been so careful. Sarah finishes her duties by straightening the bed covers. ‘You’ll be glad when he’s back.’

  ‘Yes. Just a few more days,’ she says, careful to keep her voice even.

  ‘We’ll miss him in the tug-o-war today though. Mr Oberon’s always on the winning team.’

  ‘That’s very true.’

  ‘My Stan is running the raffle,’ she adds, eagerly. ‘Will you drop by and say hello?’

  ‘Of course. I’d like to meet the man lucky enough to be stepping out with you, Sarah.’

  Sarah blushes and gives a funny little curtsey before backing out of the room.

  Lillian steps into the yellow cotton dress Sarah has laid out for her, then turns back to the mirror and scrutinises her reflection, wondering what people will see when they look at her today. She must wear some outward traces of her internal state – tired, yes, but somehow full of a pulsing energy too; as if aware of every tiny vibration in the atmosphere, alert with impossible aliveness. She brushes her hair, then takes up her straw hat and gloves.

  Normally, she would dread these village functions, feeling like one of Charles’s baubles paraded for display; but today she can’t deny there is a part of her that is thrilled. Any opportunity to see Jack, even if it is in public where they will have to maintain a careful reserve, is welcome. Lillian has sat on enough village committees and boards to know that there is nothing a small English village likes more than the tantalising scent of a scandal.

  Three large white tents stand proudly on the village green in horse-shoe formation, between which the rest of the fete stalls have been set up. Patriotic red, white and blue bunting flutters in the breeze welcoming a steady stream of villagers decked out in their Sunday best. The road is already clogged with cars. Bentham guides their vehicle once around the green then pulls up outside the Old Swan. ‘It might be best, Ma’am, if I drop you here,’ he says. ‘I’ll park in the field and wait for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Lillian. ‘But please don’t wait for us. Come and enjoy the fete. I’m sure we’ll find you if we need you.’

  Bentham nods. ‘As you wish.’ He opens Lillian’s door as Albie scrambles from the backseat, a scroll of paper tucked carefully under one arm.

  Lillian straightens her straw hat, then tucks her arm companionably into Albie’s. ‘So,’ she says, turning to survey the bustling village green, ‘I’m needed in the exhibition tent but afterwards we can have some fun. Are you sure you won’t show me your entry?’ she asks, eyeing the rolled-up scroll in his arms. ‘A little peek?’

  ‘No, you have to wait.’

  She smiles. Since Albie announced his decision to enter in the eight-to-ten-year-olds group of the portrait competition, he’s been very cagey. She assumes it’s down to Jack Fincher having been invited to be guest judge this year, or perhaps he’s taken a leaf out of the artist’s book and decided to keep his work hidden until the grand unveiling. Either way, she’s pleased that he’s decided to involve himself with the show this year. ‘Do you have enough pocket money?’ Albie nods and jingles the change in his trouser pocket. ‘Don’t spend it all on spun sugar and toffee apples; you know how you made yourself sick that time.’

  ‘That was two years ago,’ he says, rolling his eyes at her. ‘I’m not a little boy anymore.’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ she says, squeezing his arm. ‘In that case, I suggest you stay away from the beer tent.’

  He is still grinning as they cross the road and venture on past a couple of unsuspecting Shetland ponies tethered to a tree stump, waiting to carry boisterous children back and forth across the green for sixpence a turn. A man in a striped apron is setting up his lucky-prize barrel while nearer the tea tent, players from a local brass band adjust their jackets and arrange sheet music on stands. ‘Well, this is me,’ she says. ‘Good luck.’

  They part outside the exhibition tent, Albie slipping away to submit his painting, Lillian heading inside to join her fellow judges. ‘Here she is,’ exclaims Mrs Palfreyman, chair of the flower-show committee, pointedly checking her watch, an icy edge lurking at the corners of her smile. ‘I was just suggesting we start w
ith the savoury produce, then move on to jams and chutneys and finish with the cakes and biscuits. Are we all in agreement? Very good,’ she nods, and makes for the table laden with pies and tarts before any of them can reply. Major Bramfield, Mrs Bingle and Lillian share rueful smiles and fall in obediently behind their self-appointed leader.

  ‘At least we’ll get a decent spread this year,’ says the major, ‘now rationing’s finally over.’

  Lillian sees Mrs Bingle glance at the straining buttons on the major’s linen jacket and knows she is wondering exactly how much rationing he might have suffered over the last few years.

  It is slow going and Mrs Palfreyman, a stickler for the rules, does not miss a single opportunity to display her impressive knowledge of home baking, insisting on debating everything from the appropriate thickness of the peel in the marmalade to the ideal quantity of dried fruit in the rock cakes. Lillian is happy to bow to her superior knowledge but the usually agreeable Mrs Bingle proves to be an eloquent and opinionated sparring partner. Lillian, beginning to feel increasingly warm and lightheaded in the airless tent, fans herself with the show programme and takes a backseat with the major, though she is pleased to note that Mrs Hill secures a unanimous first-prize placing for her lemon curd, and a highly commended ribbon for her Battenberg.

  Just as Lillian is beginning to think she’d be happy never to see another cake in her life, Joan sidles up to her, looking fetching in a blue tea dress. ‘Hello, darling. Enjoying your power as our resident Mrs Beeton?’ She scans the array of entries and prizes. ‘Tsk tsk,’ she tuts, ‘poor Mrs Lacey. She’ll be positively crushed. Only third prize for her coffee and walnut cake?’