Harnessing Peacocks

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Who is this you are taking me to see?’ Sitting in the bus beside Silas, Giles wiped the steam from the window with his sleeve.

  ‘An old man in a cottage miles from anywhere. He’s got the most fabulous things. He is very old. He is called Bernard Quigley. He has a dog called Feathers and a cat. He’s my friend. I found him when I was exploring across country.’

  ‘Is he a relation?’

  ‘I have no relations.’ Silas stared at the passing country.

  ‘You must have. I’ve got lots of relations in America and Amy’s Mum’s aunt. Everybody has relations.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘You must have. Why don’t you have relations?’ Giles persisted.

  ‘Don’t be boring. I don’t have any.’

  ‘Ask your mum. Doesn’t she tell you about them? My mother tells me all about her father and mother, what they did and everything.’

  ‘Boring. We get off here.’ Silas led Giles out of the bus at the stop near a telephone kiosk forlornly posed at a crossroads. Rain was pelting down; the boys pulled up the hoods of their parkas.

  ‘We go across here.’ Silas climbed a gate into a field.

  ‘Isn’t there a path?’

  ‘No.’

  Silas led the way through wet grass. Water seeped into their shoes, which squelched. ‘Should have worn wellies.’

  Giles persisted. ‘Surely your father had relations? Hasn’t your mum kept up with them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? Hasn’t she told you about them? My mother tells me about my father. She wants to put me off him.’

  ‘We climb this.’ Silas leapt at a bank and scrambled over it, dropping down into a field of kale. Giles followed. Silas trudged on, the tall kale brushing against his shoulders.

  ‘Surely,’ Giles nagged, ‘she’s told you about your father.’

  ‘Nothing, I told you.’ Silas let a kale plant swish back to hit Giles’ face.

  ‘But when you ask?’ Giles mopped his face.

  ‘I don’t. She never brings up the subject, so it’s not there.’ Silas pushed on through the kale.

  ‘Perhaps you were born in a test tube like those kids in Australia.’

  ‘They didn’t do it twelve years ago.’

  ‘Might have done. What else could you be?’

  ‘Son of a murderer? Artificial insemination?’

  ‘Secret agent, titled bloke of some kind, pop star.’

  ‘If I were I’d get maintenance, like your mum.’

  ‘That’s boring, too. Mine goes on and on about my father. One of these days I shall run away, live with him in America.’

  ‘You do that. Here’s Feathers.’ Silas squatted down to greet the large wet dog who had appeared out of the mist. ‘We have ham sandwiches. You like ham.’ Feathers pranced back a pace then came forward and licked Silas’ face. He had large ears with strands of hair round the edges. His tail, long and feathery, waved so that a swirl of drops swished from side to side of his chocolate brown body. ‘This is Giles,’ Silas told the dog.

  Giles patted the dog then followed Silas to a clump of trees bent sideways by the prevailing south-wester. From the trees rose a drift of smoke. ‘He’s in.’ Silas trotted to a wall and began to climb, putting his feet neatly between the stones. Giles followed. Silas called in his high child’s voice:

  ‘Mr Quigley, Mr Quigley, are you there?’

  Bernard Quigley stood in his porch. ‘I did not expect visitors on a day like this. Come and get dry by the fire.’

  ‘I just thought we would visit. This is Giles Krull. I am going away tomorrow to the Scillies for three weeks.’

  ‘What does your mother say to that?’ Bernard peered into Silas’ face.

  ‘She’s pleased for me. I shall be sailing. She’s going to do a job for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Where?’ The old man moved jerkily about his tiny sitting-room, pushing the boys near the fire, fetching glasses from a cupboard, a bottle of sherry.

  ‘To some old girl called Fox.’

  ‘Fox.’ The old man glanced quickly at the boy. ‘Get by the fire. Don’t let the dog take up too much room. He’s wet too. Have a drink, dear boys, a drink won’t do you any harm. You’re old enough. Eleven, are you?’

  ‘Twelve.’ Silas held his hands towards the fire.

  ‘Well then, drink up.’

  The boys tasted the sherry, trying to hide their distaste.

  ‘You’ll like it when you are grown up.’ The old man observed them as he drank, emptying his glass in one gulp, quickly refilling it.

  Giles was fascinated by Bernard Quigley. He was small, stooping and old. His face had fallen in in some places and filled out in others so that the original proportions were lost. His nose, once an aristocratic curve, had taken hold and jutted out above a gentle mouth, putting large hooded eyes into shaded misproportion. His hair hung wispily round his collar. He wore brown trousers, a collarless shirt and braces which hung down over shrunken shanks, like the harness of a horse too old to work waiting for the knacker. His straggling moustache was stained with snuff.

  ‘I knew your father,’ he said to Giles. ‘Edward Krull.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ Giles, beginning to steam, moved away from the fire. ‘When?’

  ‘When he was at university.’ The old man took a snuff box from his waistcoat pocket and said: ‘Edward Krull, so dull, dull, dull. They sent him to America.’

  ‘Who did?’ Giles was not used to bluntness from the old.

  ‘His friends.’ Bernard Quigley searched Giles’ face for a likeness to his father. ‘But you don’t look like him,’ he said, adding, after a pause, ‘fortunately.’

  ‘I thought he was supposed to be good-looking.’ Giles was defensive.

  ‘I grant you that.’ Bernard Quigley dismissed good looks. ‘He was good-looking all right, but what’s the use of that in the dark, ask your mother?’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘In bed, dear boy. Perhaps you don’t know about bed yet. Have your balls dropped?’

  ‘What?’ Giles retreated towards the fire.

  ‘Your voice hasn’t broken. Never mind. Think what’s ahead of you, all that glorious copulation.’ He eyed Giles speculatively. Giles grew pink.

  ‘That’s a lovely snuffbox.’ Silas, anxious for his friend, tried to distract Bernard’s attention.

  ‘George II. Belonged to my grandfather.’ The old man showed the box to Silas, snatching it back before he could touch it. ‘I will show you my things when we have had lunch. I have a lot of food in the house.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Silas offered.

  ‘No, no, get dry and give your sandwiches which your lovely mother gave you to the dog.’

  Silas laid the sandwiches in front of Feathers, who sniffed cautiously and began to eat, more it seemed from good manners than hunger.

  Giles looked round the room. Chippendale chairs elbowed Sheraton, occasional tables overlapped one another, laden with porcelain, silver, jade. Every wall space was hung with paintings and mirrors which reflected the light from the fire. There was barely room for an oil lamp on the table near the old man’s chair. Several candelabra stood on the floor, messy with candle grease.

  Across the hall they could hear Bernard moving about.

  ‘Do you think he likes snuff or just wants to use his snuff box?’ Giles whispered, overawed.

  ‘I should think he made himself like it, just as he likes this.’ Silas poured the contents of his glass on to the rug.

  ‘Won’t he smell it?’ Giles felt uneasy as he copied his friend.

  ‘The smell of the paraffin lamp will drown it.’ Silas watched Feathers sniff the wet patch then return to his snack.

  ‘I never knew my father was dull.’ Giles mulled Bernard’s insult. ‘My mother’s said a lot of things. She never said he was dull.’

  ‘Puts you off America, does it?’ Silas asked, cheerfully spiteful.

  ‘Come and have lunch,’ Bernard called. Silas and Giles joined him
in the dining-room which was as crowded as the sitting-room. Giles, counting the chairs, noted there was a set of ten with carvers. Some of the chairs were stacked, giving the room the appearance of a sale-room. Bernard had laid three places. Giles looked at the silver and cut glass. ‘Is all this very valuable?’

  ‘You don’t ask the value of things, you admire their beauty, rarity, workmanship.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Giles was abashed.

  ‘You’ll learn. Now eat up, the food’s delicious, not like the stuff Hebe put in your sandwiches.’

  ‘What a wonderful ham.’ Silas regarded a ham Bernard stood poised to carve.

  ‘Sent by post.’ The old man carved rapidly. ‘Girl friend of mine sends it from Wiltshire, it’s specially cured. The pig’s right buttock is more tender than the left, it scratches with the left.’

  ‘How does the postman get here? There’s no road.’ Giles accepted a plate of ham, wondering meanwhile about the pig’s buttocks.

  ‘The man has feet. He walks.’ The boy is like his father, thought Bernard.

  ‘In all weathers?’ Giles persisted.

  ‘Of course he walks. I have my coffee posted, peaches in syrup, Stilton cheese, all the things that matter. Have some salad, make your bowels work.’

  ‘They do, thank you.’ Silas helped himself to lettuce. ‘My mother’s a good cook.’

  ‘Get constipated at school?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Silas answered gravely.

  Giles, disconcerted by the train of talk, asked, ‘Did you never have a road?’

  ‘Of course there was a road.’ Bernard Quigley was crushing, shooting a sharp glance at Giles, wondering whether he was going to like this boy sitting there looking so healthy and young opposite himself, so hunched and shrunken, his life behind him.

  ‘What happened to it?’ Giles felt impelled to ask.

  ‘I let the grass grow. People might use it. People might visit me.’

  ‘We are visiting you,’ Silas said, grinning.

  ‘But you’ve taken the trouble to jump a few banks, get yourselves wet. Your mother comes.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Silas looked surprised. ‘I thought you only knew me.’

  ‘I know lots of people. Keep them separate, that’s all. Your mother’s like that. Makes life easier.’

  ‘How?’ Giles’ mouth was full of ham, Bernard noticed. A bad mark there. Surely table manners still mattered.

  ‘They do not discuss you behind your back if you keep them separate. Silas’ mother may find her life easier to manage that way; other people such as your dull Krull father are gregarious. Have some figs in syrup or cheese. You can have both, of course.’

  The meal continued in quasi-silence, Giles ill at ease, Silas content. As he ate Giles looked round the room. ‘You have no electricity,’ he observed.

  ‘Right. No electricity. Well water. No drains. No road. Any other queries?’ Bernard stared at Giles offensively.

  ‘He wasn’t exactly querying.’ Silas felt Bernard Quigley was about to badger his friend. ‘I like your house as it is,’ he said.

  ‘Sure?’ The old man looked suspicious.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Then I’ll show you some of my treasures. Sit by the fire.’ Bernard led the way into the sitting-room with his braces flapping.

  ‘Your braces are hanging down.’ Giles was diffident now.

  ‘More convenient,’ said the old man ambiguously as he opened a drawer in a Sheraton desk. ‘You can look at these things while I have a snooze.’ He handed a box to Silas, sat back in a wing chair and fell asleep.

  Crouching in front of the fire, the boys inspected rings, watches, early sovereigns, diamond brooches, a large emerald set with diamonds, medals, Battersea boxes wrapped in tissue and jewelled bracelets.

  ‘Must be worth a bomb,’ whispered Giles. ‘These medals alone.’

  Bernard Quigley woke and observed the children.

  Giles sat back on his heels and stared at his host. ‘Where does all this come from?’ He waved his hand round the room.

  ‘My work. I live in my bank.’

  Giles’ eyes widened. ‘A burglar?’

  ‘Certainly not. I am a dealer. You look very pretty.’ He smiled at Silas, showing beige teeth, amused by the boy who had put the rings on his fingers and the bracelets round his wrists. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, jumping up. ‘I’ve got a tiara in the kitchen drawer.’ He left the room.

  ‘What did he say?’ Giles stared at his friend.

  ‘A tiara,’ said Silas.

  ‘What’s a tiara?’

  The old man came back carrying a plastic bag from which he took a tiara. He set it on Silas’ head. ‘Keep still or it will fall off.’

  Silas, cross-legged by the fire, sat looking at the old man. The diamonds and emeralds twinkled in the firelight. Giles gasped. ‘Beautiful.’ The old man snatched the tiara off Silas’ head and put it back in its wrapping. ‘Now,’ he said in a practical tone, ‘would you chop me some wood before you go? Stack it in the shed.’

  ‘Of course.’ Silas stood up, took off the rings and bracelets, putting them back in their box, which he placed on Bernard Quigley’s knee. ‘Thank you.’ The boy and the old man looked at each other. Giles felt excluded.

  ‘Trot off home when you’ve chopped the wood. Come and see me again.’ Giles felt the invitation was not for him.

  ‘Thank you for lunch,’ he said. Then, unable to repress his curiosity, he said, ‘In what way was my father boring?’

  ‘He talked about money, he was respectable, he was conventional.’ The old man spat out the epithets then, noticing Giles’ stricken face, he relented. ‘A bit of cross-pollination has done you no harm.’ He edged the boys to the door and pushed them out into the rain, shutting the door behind them.

  ‘Come on, chop, chop.’ Silas led the way to the wood pile and set about chopping wood, stacking it in a neat pile. Sulkily Giles helped him. When they had finished they set off across the fields towards the bus stop.

  ‘If my father’s a bore,’ said Giles, the cruel description rankling, ‘what’s yours?’

  ‘A mystery,’ Silas answered shortly.

  ‘You mean you really don’t know?’

  Silas turned on his friend and hit him on the nose. Taken unawares, Giles sat down, getting wetter than before. His eyes watered.

  ‘There’s the bus.’ Silas began to run. Giles got up and followed.

  ‘Perhaps you are adopted,’ he yelled as he ran, the rain mingling with blood from his nose, which had begun to bleed. ‘I thought you were just a bastard,’ he shouted as he followed Silas on to the bus. Silas fought his way forward and sat beside a tourist so that there was no room for Giles, who stood miserably in the crowded aisle, jostled by strangers. Seeing his plight, a woman handed him a tissue which he held to his nose.

  When they reached the town they walked up the street on opposite sides. As Silas came level with his door Giles called out, ‘See you when you come back?’ in questioning tones.

  Silas called back warmly, ‘Of course,’ and went into the house.

  Giles found he was still clutching the blood-stained tissue and threw it into the gutter.

  ‘Litterbug.’ Silas had reappeared as though about to say something. He stood in the doorway smiling, then shrugged as though he’d changed his mind and went in again.

  Late in the evening the rain stopped. Bernard Quigley, followed by Feathers, picked his way through the fields to the call box.