Harnessing Peacocks

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Not really, Mungo, none of the beds are made up.’ Mungo, it appeared, was inviting himself to stay. ‘I can’t ask Hebe to do housework. She comes here to cook, nothing else. She is tired, as you no doubt saw.’ Looking the picture of bounce and energy, thought Rory. ‘I suggest’—Louisa was swinging into her stride—‘that you ask Rory to put you up for the night. You will gladly do that, Rory, won’t you?’

  ‘What?’ Could one really choke with emotion, Rory wondered.

  ‘You will have your cousin Mungo for the night. He has to leave early so that he can be home when Alison telephones the time of her arrival from California. The west coast of America,’ Louisa added, as though Rory were some idiot child who knew no geography.

  ‘I don’t think—’ began Rory.

  ‘A good opportunity to see something of each other. You are, after all, cousins, even though perhaps you may not have very much in common.’

  ‘I—er—’

  ‘Perhaps you have more in common than you think.’ Was she being purposely malicious? ‘You are of the same generation. I am sure you will find mutual interests.’

  ‘I had hoped—’ began Mungo querulously.

  Louisa stood up. No need for Mungo to voice his hopes. ‘It was lovely of you to visit me on your way, and you, too, Rory. Come and fish whenever you like. Now you must forgive me, I am feeling my age—rather overdoing it in my garden while Hebe is here. Such a cook, such food! I am sorry I cannot ask you—But of course Alison is a wonderful cook, too, and such a good manager. Next time you come’—Louisa was moving towards the door so that Mungo and Rory had perforce to follow—‘next time, ring me up and give me notice. It will be so nice.’ It was possible, thought Rory admiringly, to gather that it was not nice now.

  ‘I always enjoy seeing the young.’ Louisa had the drawing-room door open, was leading them across the hall. ‘You must bring your boys to see me, Mungo. So lovely for Lucy to have grandsons.’ Was that malice in her voice? She had hold of Mungo’s arm. Does she think he is going to sprint upstairs after Hebe? Rory wondered. ‘Did you bring anything with you?’ Louisa asked. ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ said Mungo, who had his suitcase in his car. I used to love Aunt Louisa, he thought bitterly. The old viper.

  ‘Then goodnight. God bless.’ Louisa put up her face to be kissed. ‘And goodnight, Rory. Lovely to see you, lovely.’

  Mungo and Rory walked to their cars.

  ‘I’ll put you up for the night,’ said Rory, with unexpected pity for his cousin.

  ‘Oh, go to hell.’ Mungo got into his Jaguar and slammed the door.

  Rory got into his Volvo and shut the door quietly before switching on the engine.

  Louisa watched the cars drive to the main road. ‘What a pantomime!’ She burst out laughing.

  Leaning from her open window with the dog Rufus beside her, Hebe grinned. Louisa stood on the steps until the sound of the cars died away then went in, closing the front door. Hebe saw the light in the hall turned off. She listened to the soft sounds of the August night, a roosting bird in the creeper resettling itself, distant traffic, the cow with a cough in the meadow. ‘Come, Rufus.’ She got into bed, followed by the dog. ‘Your mistress is a lovely lady.’ She put an arm round Rufus, who groaned with pleasure. ‘I am not going to worry about it tonight,’ she said to the dog and lay hoping for sleep, without dreams or voices chanting dirty fingernails—Communists—earrings—abortion—bare feet. She switched her mind to other moments when things had not gone exactly right: the embarrassing episode in the Clarence at Exeter; Rory walking in when she was trying on the hat; Hippolyte, surprised by the sound of his wife’s return from shopping, leaping from the bed to pull on his trousers, exclaiming, ‘Il faut sauver les convenances’ before glissading out of the window. ‘You don’t worry about “les convenances”,’ Hebe said to the dog lying beside her. Rufus braced his feet against the wall and heaved his back against Hebe. ‘You take up more room than any lover,’ she said.

  Refusing to review the tangle her carefully ordered existence was faced with, she slept surprisingly well.

  Twenty

  ‘DON’T BE SUCH AN oaf, Michael, wash them out, there’s a tap by the back door—yes there is, use your eyes, you nitwit—I will give you some Jeyes, that will get rid of the smell—yes, it will. The sooner you do it the better—don’t be so wet. How dare you talk to me like that?’ The sound of a slap, a cry of indignant pain from Michael. ‘I have never known anyone make so much fuss, everybody’s seasick some time—’

  ‘Not into my boots.’ A whimper.

  ‘Shut up about your fucking boots, stop beefing.’ Another blow sounded.

  ‘That hurt!’ Michael yelped.

  ‘It was meant to.’ Jennifer Reeves’ voice spitting venom. ‘He is your visitor, you insisted on inviting him.’ There was the sound of another blow and Jennifer saying something Silas couldn’t catch.

  Changing his wet clothes, Silas peered out of the window as Michael, holding the boots into which he had been sick, approached the tap under the window, dribbled Jeyes fluid into each boot and turned on the water. Silas saw that Michael’s cheek flamed red and that he was crying. Pulling on dry socks he felt pity for Michael, even though he had been foul and unsympathetic on the boat. Ian and Alistair had laughed high shrieking laughs until, looking at Julian to see whether he too was amused, they had abruptly sobered, realising something more than Silas’ seasickness was afoot. Julian was angry at his own temerity. The weather, far rougher than he had bargained for when they set out from St Mary’s, punished the boat. He would need all his expertise on the run home without being bothered with a seasick child. ‘Get below,’ he had shouted at Silas, ‘out of the way.’

  Silas had crept unsteadily below, crawling into a corner of the cabin. It had seemed for ever before the bumping, crashing, heaving and jolting had stopped. Listening to Julian shouting orders at Michael, Alistair and Ian, he was glad, if this was what fathers were like, that he had none, and now Mrs Reeves (less than ever could he think of her as Jennifer) was steamed up.

  Silas reached for a dry shirt and put it on. Standing in socks and shirt, he looked down at Michael. The boots were full of blue-white water. Michael stirred with a stick and emptied them down the drain. Silas craned out to see if there were any identifiable bits of pasty, then began to search for dry pants and jeans and his one dry jersey.

  ‘Bring your wet clothes down with you when you have changed, Silas. I will wash them,’ Jennifer called.

  Silas called back, ‘Thank you very much,’ and went back to the window, one arm in the sleeve of his jersey, pulling the rest over his head. ‘Are the boots spoilt for good?’ He leant out of the window.

  Michael looked up. ‘Only unusually wet.’ He was grudging.

  ‘I will stuff them with newspaper,’ suggested Silas. ‘That’s what my mother does.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘I am awfully sorry.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Michael’s cheek was fading.

  ‘Your mother’s—’

  ‘Got a filthy temper,’ muttered Michael. ‘They both have.’

  ‘Hot tea,’ shouted Jennifer up the stairs, falsely cheerful. ‘Hot tea, Silas.’ Then, changing tone, ‘For heaven’s sake go and change, Michael, don’t hang about, you’ll be catching cold. Tell Alistair and Ian to change too. You are too old to need a nanny.’

  ‘Nanny never hit me.’ Michael came up the stairs at a run, looking as though he had dodged another blow. ‘Take your wet clothes down to her,’ he snapped at Silas. ‘Give her something to do. She can put them in the machine.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Silas collected his clothes. Hebe’s white Guernsey smelled of vomit. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Nobody means to be sick.’ Michael was pulling his jersey over his head. ‘Does your mother create?’

  ‘No.’ Hebe seemed very distant from the Scilly Isles. ‘No, she doesn’t.’ He tried to imagine Hebe shouting like Mrs Reeves. The idea was ludicrous.
r />   ‘Ours does.’ Ian and Alistair, who had joined them, were also pulling jerseys over tousled heads. ‘Our mother makes fury, our father makes sound.’

  ‘They all do.’ Alistair was philosophical.

  ‘Today was all my father’s fault,’ Michael said, searching for dry clothes. ‘He knew sailing round the Bishop’s Rock would frighten him, he was showing off.’

  ‘Oh.’ Silas stood in the doorway holding his wet clothes.

  ‘Tea,’ Jennifer Reeves called up the stairs. Silas ran down to the kitchen. Jennifer took his bundle from him. ‘Ugh!’ She held it at arm’s length as she crossed the room to the outer kitchen. Silas heard her open the washing machine and say ‘Ugh!’ again.

  Julian, already changed, sat at the kitchen table. ‘Tea?’ he offered Silas.

  ‘Thank you.’ Silas watched Julian pour tea into a large cup. He had a heavy jowly face; he was scowling.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Julian poured in milk and added lumps of sugar. Taking a flask out of his pocket he added a dollop of whisky. ‘That will settle your stomach.’ He winked at Silas. ‘Drink it up and you will feel better.’

  Silas drank, thinking the mixture disgusting. He hated being winked at and wondered morosely whether he would throw up again. Julian clearly hoped he would. Instead he felt a revivifying glow. The cup empty, he held it out and asked for more.

  ‘Oliver Twisting?’ Julian stopped scowling. Jennifer came back into the room, shutting out the sound of the washing machine as she closed the door. She said, ‘Really, Julian,’ in mock reproach, then sat at the table to drink tea and eat buns. Julian switched on the radio, muttering, ‘I want to hear the weather forecast.’

  ‘You should have listened last night,’ said Jennifer sarcastically. Her husband raised his eyebrows in mock resignation. Somebody was interviewing a politician.

  ‘Mumble, mumble.’

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ said the politician.

  ‘Fuck. Bloody watch has stopped. Missed it.’ Julian switched off the radio, wound his watch, stood up. His stomach sagged over his trousers. ‘What time’s supper?’

  ‘Same time as usual?’ Jennifer did not look up.

  ‘Same old stew?’ asked Julian nastily.

  ‘Mrs Thing doesn’t have a large repertoire,’ said Jennifer snappily.

  ‘Time for a drink. I’ll ask them whether they heard the forecast at the pub. You coming?’

  ‘Get me some cigs, I am running out. No, I’m not coming. If you’d listened to the forecast last night instead of trying to pull that girl in the pub, you wouldn’t have—’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ shouted Julian.

  ‘Here we go,’ muttered Michael sotto voce.

  ‘She was hardly likely to look at you, she’s on her honeymoon.’ Jennifer’s voice rose.

  ‘You stupid cow, shut up.’ Julian left the cottage, banging the door. Jennifer began clearing the table. ‘Put on mackintoshes if you are going out,’ she said. It was an order.

  ‘I will help you hang the clothes on the line.’—Silas had noted the cessation of sound from the washing machine.

  ‘Thank you, Silas,’ said Jennifer.

  Michael, Ian and Alistair put on boots and oilies in the porch and went out, leaving Silas with Jennifer.

  ‘Come on, then.’ She sounded martyred.

  The rain had almost stopped. Silas piled the damp clothes into a basket and took them to the line. Jennifer shook each garment and pegged it up. Silas helped, observing as she stretched up that her heavy breasts wobbled and that where her jersey parted from her skirt there was a roll of white skin. He compared it with his mother’s taut brown body. Jennifer’s blonde bun came loose and lopsided on to her neck. Silas thought of Hebe’s brown bob.

  ‘I am going to rest before supper. Shall you go for a walk?’

  ‘Yes.’ Silas took off his shoes and set off up the hill barefoot, hoping to retrace the way he had walked on his first day. Perhaps he would see the seals again, find the little beach.

  He climbed until he could look across the water to Bryher. The wind had dropped, the sea was subsiding. Between the islands the water was pewter-coloured in the evening light, smoothing itself calm. He watched the sunset begin its spectacular. Yellow light seeping under storm clouds gave the impression that golden treacle had been spread over the sea between the islands. As he watched the colours changed from gold to pink. The heather at his feet was spun with spiders’ webs, raindrops reflecting the reddish purple of the heather and occasional blue of Devil’s Bit. There was no sound other than the soughing of the wind, gulls and the sea pounding on the rocks. Away from the voices of his hosts Silas felt comforted. Then the raising of his spirits begun by the whisky in his tea ceased. It had been an awful day. He hated sailing. He loathed the Reeves family. Ian and Alistair were awful too, but he promised himself he would buy a postcard and post it to Hebe: ‘Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.’

  Below him two people walked along the path talking in quiet voices. He recognised the couple who had been in the boat on his first day. Silas felt a pang of envy at their happiness, quiet voices, gentle pace, so different from the strident aggressive Reeves. He watched them move out of sight, then looked back at the sunset. He had missed the beach off which he had seen the seals, where he had swum and later seen the adder, but here was the sunset. He watched the clouds roll away and the sky blaze; tomorrow would be fine. His feet were cold. He stood up. Would he be late for supper?

  Silas ran, arriving back at the cottage panting and out of breath.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, we started without you.’

  ‘Have a glass of vino.’ Julian poured Silas a glass of wine and pushed it towards him. Jennifer compressed her lips and handed Silas a plate of stew. Michael glanced anxiously at his mother. Ian and Alistair smirked. The stew was the same as the stew of the night before.

  ‘This food’s bloody monotonous,’ Julian said aggressively. He ate with a spoon, shovelling the stew into his mouth, crouched over his plate, heavy shoulders bulging in his jersey, green quilted waistcoat hanging open.

  ‘It’s a very good stew,’ Silas ventured.

  Julian looked up and stared at Silas. Silas shyly gulped some wine and looked at his plate.

  ‘I didn’t say it was bad, I said it was monotonous,’ said Julian.

  ‘Yes.’ Silas swallowed more wine.

  ‘Monotonous. Comes from the Greek. Means lack of variety, sameness. Don’t they teach you Greek at your establishment?’

  ‘No.’ Silas felt confused.

  ‘Not taught Greek? What sort of school is it, then?’

  ‘We don’t learn Greek,’ said Michael.

  ‘We don’t learn Latin, either.’ Ian joined the conversation.

  ‘You know they do not take Latin,’ said Jennifer. ‘They take modern languages.’

  Julian ignored his wife.

  ‘We opted for German,’ said Alistair.

  ‘What’s that to do with the stew? Why can’t you ask Mrs Thing to give us a bit of variety?’ Julian glared at Jennifer.

  ‘I have. It doesn’t make the slightest difference.’ Jennifer helped herself to bread. Julian looked away from his wife and glared round the table at the boys, who studied their plates. Silas decided not to ask for a second helping. He crumbled his bread and drank more wine.

  ‘Do you get stew at home?’ Julian was glaring at Silas, masticating with open mouth.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Not as good as Mrs Thing’s, I don’t suppose. Mrs Thing’s a stew artist. Have some more. You need a refill after today.’ Julian laughed abruptly.

  ‘No thank you, sir.’ The ‘sir’ slipped out. The atmosphere was so like school.

  ‘The boy calls me “Sir” now. Have some more stew, I say. Give the boy some more, Jennifer, give us all some more. ‘Julian held out his plate. Jennifer spooned stew on to it. ‘Don’t suppo
se you get stew like this at home. Make the most of it while you can. Mrs Thing’s excellent stew. Hah!’

  ‘Silas’ mother is a cook,’ said Michael.

  There was a pause while Silas drank wine, Julian masticated and Ian and Alistair passed their plates for second helpings, exchanging covert glances.

  Jennifer Reeves, spooning stew on to the plates extended towards her, said lightly, ‘One of my uncles married his cook.’

  ‘Blotted the old copybook there, didn’t he? Wasn’t even pregnant, was she? Still, think what it must have saved in wages. Quite a good idea, when you think on it. Marry a cook, good idea, good idea.’ Julian ate.

  ‘Must you use a spoon?’ Jennifer exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, I must. Knife and fork are okay, but for Mrs Thing’s stew a spoon’s the thing.’ Julian’s truculence was almost tangible.

  ‘You are drunk.’ Jennifer spoke through clenched teeth.

  ‘Not very. Mrs Thing’s stew will soak up the surplus alcohol. So Silas’ mother is a cook, is she? Well, I never. How, ah, did that come about? I mean in these days it’s pretty rare to find a cook. Endangered species. Clever of your father to find her. ‘Julian stared at Silas. Silas drank his wine, emptying the glass, reaching out his hand towards the bottle to help himself to more.

  ‘Let me.’ Julian took the bottle and poured wine into Silas’ glass. Jennifer sighed. Michael, Ian and Alistair sat watchful. ‘So this endangered species married your father. What does your father do?’