Harnessing Peacocks

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Somebody being funny?’ suggested Hannah.

  ‘Couldn’t be. I thought it was Amy but she says not. She’s the only person who had my number.’

  ‘Didn’t Silas have it?’

  ‘Of course he did, but the message wasn’t from him, it was about him.’ Hebe’s voice wobbled.

  ‘We had better get dressed.’ Hannah got out of bed. ‘Look sharp, Terry.’

  Hebe sat on the bed watching them.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, Hebe?’ Hannah zipped up her skirt.

  ‘Mind what?’

  ‘Terry and me.’

  ‘Why should I? Oh, sorry. I hadn’t taken it in. I’m glad for you.’

  ‘Told you she wouldn’t mind.’ Terry spoke across Hebe to Hannah. ‘She hoped you would be jealous,’ he said to Hebe.

  Hebe smiled wanly.

  ‘You both up there? I’ve made a pot of tea,’ Amy called up the stairs.

  ‘Tea!’ Hebe almost screamed. ‘Tea!’

  ‘Yes, tea.’ Terry took her arm. ‘Come to Amy’s while we think what to do next. Amy’s not been well, her ticker.’ Hebe appeared not to take in what he said. Amy gestured to him to shut up.

  As they reached Amy’s house Giles appeared at the bottom of the street, his arms full of driftwood.

  ‘Giles may know something,’ said Hebe.

  They waited for Giles walking slowly up the street. Terry ran to meet him, taking some of the driftwood. The women saw Terry question Giles, Giles shake his head.

  ‘Come and sit down, you look done in.’ Amy led Hebe into her house. ‘Sit down.’ She poured tea and gave it to Hebe. ‘Drink that.’

  They watched her drink.

  ‘That better?’

  Hebe shook her head. ‘Not much.’

  ‘Why don’t you ring up Mrs Whatsit in the Scillies?’ suggested Giles. ‘She would know why he has left, if he has.’

  ‘What a fool I am.’ Hebe sprang up. ‘I will telephone from home, it’s easier.’ She ran out of the house.

  ‘Hadn’t we better—’ Hannah stood up, ready to follow.

  ‘No, leave her.’ Amy was firm. ‘It’s a private conversation.’

  ‘Jennifer Reeves speaking.’ The line to the islands was clear. Invisible Jennifer Reeves sounded as though she stood next to Hebe.

  ‘This is Hebe Rutter,’ said Hebe.

  ‘I see.’ The voice was chill. ‘About time,’ it said mysteriously.

  ‘I got a message about Silas that—’

  ‘Does he want to apologise?’ Sharp, chill.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She was mystified.

  ‘So he has not told you? I am not surprised. What excuse does he give? We do not usually put ourselves out to have strange boys to stay.’

  ‘Strange boys?’ Hebe felt blood rushing to her face.

  ‘Very strange, and that’s putting it mildly. Poor Michael asked to have him as we were also having two very nice—’

  ‘Nice?’ Hebe felt anger and suspicion.

  ‘Very nice boys. The right sort, not at the same school as Michael and your boy, of course, though how—’

  ‘Right sort?’ Was this woman really speaking like this?

  ‘Of course they will all be at the same school soon. I am talking of Ian and Alistair, not your son. I don’t know what school will take him—not Eton, naturally.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I would suggest you teach him some manners, make him write and apologise for—’

  ‘For what?’ Hebe restrained a shout.

  ‘For his behaviour, his language, the inconvenience to say the least. His rudeness to myself and my husband—’

  ‘What are you trying—’

  ‘I am trying to tell you that we were quite worried until the Harbour Master at St Mary’s told us he had been seen getting off a boat from Trescoe and going up to the airport to the helicopter. We thought something unpleasant might have happened to him.’

  ‘It obviously had,’ said Hebe grimly.

  ‘What did you say?’ Jennifer tripped in mid-stride.

  ‘I said it obviously had. Something very unpleasant.’

  ‘Mrs Rutter—’

  ‘Did you send me a message?’

  ‘Of course not. The boy is message in himself.’ Jennifer Reeves laughed, pleased with her witticism. ‘By the way, he left most of his luggage behind. Not a very good packer, either.’

  Hebe felt fury at the word ‘either’, cast brutally into the murk.

  ‘If you like to be at the heliport on Thursday we are cutting the holiday short, you can collect it. I take it you will be there.’

  Hebe put the receiver back in its cradle. She was shivering.

  ‘So who sent the message?’ Terry put his arms round her.

  ‘You were listening?’

  ‘No need for a loud hailer, has she?’ He kissed the top of her head.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Hebe leant against him. ‘What can have happened? Where can he be?’

  ‘We had better go back to square one, telephone the old lady you were working for, ask her to tell you again.’

  Louisa did not answer when the telephone rang. She was at the bottom of the garden, feet up on her garden seat, surrounded by adoring dogs enjoying the afternoon sun, listening to the Bach concert on her transistor radio.

  Twenty-five

  MUNGO SURFACED TO THE sound of cathedral bells, light filtering through closed curtains, an unfamiliar room. He closed his mouth, parched from snoring. An attempt to breathe through his nose was partially successful. The scent of hair roused his curiosity and a response in his half-waking state of sensual arousal. The smell was not Alison’s, which he had been used to before they slept in separate beds, nor was it Hebe’s. With shock he remembered he was in Rory’s house, in Rory’s bed. And here lay Rory, asleep with his head on Mungo’s shoulder, breathing sweetly, relaxed and peaceful. As though aware of Mungo’s gaze he snuggled closer, turning trustfully towards him, nuzzling close.

  Recollecting the evening and night before, listening to the bells, Mungo remembered. It must be quite late. There was action to be taken, plans to make, but what action, what plans? He remembered his mother, her appalling direct approach to what she called Alison’s elopement. Sending him out of the room while she telephoned to Santa Barbara, she had said, ‘Leave it to me. You cramp my style if you listen. I will call you if I want you.’ He had gone downstairs to listen on the extension but Miss Thomson had been sitting by the telephone. His only consolation had been that while in the room with Miss Thomson she had not been able to eavesdrop either. Mungo envied his mother’s lack of hypocrisy. She is right, he thought, she cannot manage without Alison and neither can I. Fourteen years of Alison’s competent bossiness had unmanned him. The drive across country to sweep Hebe off her feet into Happy Ever After was poppycock. He would be fortunate if he could keep the arrangement with Hebe which had worked so well up to date.

  Rory stirred, mumbling in his sleep. Mungo began a manoeuvre to extricate himself from Rory without waking him. If he could get to Louisa’s without Rory he could see Hebe and arrange to spend time with her soon. But before that, thanks to his mother, he had to meet Alison, see that she was settled back at home in her role of wife, mother and daughter-in-law. He would have to spend a little time with her. Mungo tried to calculate how long. Since Alison had never defected before the question was academic. He squinted at his watch. Eleven thirty-five. He reared away from Rory whose hair was tickling his nose. Rory woke.

  ‘Hullo.’ Rory smiled cheerfully. ‘Good morning.’

  There was nothing good about it. Mungo swung his legs off the bed and tottered to the bathroom. His head was throbbing, his mouth felt like a grouted roof, he felt dizzy. Rory joined him. ‘I’ll get some tea.’ They urinated together. Rory flushed the lavatory. Rory looked bright-eyed, alert, healthy. He said, ‘You look revolting.’ He appeared concerned.

  ‘I feel it,’ Mungo grunted.

  ‘Go back to bed while I dress, then I
will get breakfast.’ Rory guided Mungo back to bed. ‘I’ll get you an aspirin.’ Mungo lay back with a groan. Rory brought a glass of water and aspirin. ‘Take two, come on, swallow.’ He had taken charge.

  Mungo lay hoping the aspirin would work, listening in disgust to his cousin shave, shower, whistle, sing, clean his teeth, gargle. Rory had hit him the night before and now this. Mungo felt middle-aged, resentful, jealous. Rory brought strong Indian tea, sat beside the bed and persuaded him to drink two large cups. ‘You are dehydrated, you must—’

  ‘I must go to Louisa’s,’ Mungo muttered.

  ‘We will go together,’ said Rory firmly.

  Mungo was too weak to protest.

  ‘There’s no hurry.’ Rory still looked concerned. ‘We will have something to eat and go to—er—gether. I won’t—er—I won’t sneak off without—’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘No.’

  Mungo felt a vicious desire to do something unpleasant to Rory for playing so fair. Had he not had the intention of doing just that, reaching Hebe first? Drinking his tea he sneaked a look at Rory, who looked young and, oh God, spry in clean jeans and white T-shirt which flattered his hazel eyes. His freshly washed hair, though thinning in front, curled jauntily at the back. He looked what he was, young.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Rory, in the voice of one talking to an invalid. ‘Have a bath, borrow anything you want.’

  ‘My bag is in my car,’ said Mungo grumpily.

  ‘Give me your keys; I will get it for you. When you have had a bath and changed you will feel better.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ Mungo shouted.

  ‘No, no.’ Rory took the car keys and disappeared with the tea tray, presently returning with Mungo’s bag. ‘It’s a beautiful day. We will eat in the garden when you are ready. There is no hurry.’

  How dare he be so nice? Mungo was consumed with self-pity. Trying to whip up his hatred he only succeeded in breaking into an alcoholic sweat. One way and another he had overdone the booze during the last few days. I am not a real drinker, he told himself.

  When Mungo came downstairs Rory had laid a table under a tree in the garden. ‘Brunch,’ he said to Mungo heartily.

  They sat down to orange juice, kidneys and bacon, fresh rolls, butter, bitter marmalade and strong coffee. They ate in silence, watched by a robin which ventured on to the table, helping itself to crumbs. Mungo felt a pang of envy for his cousin’s mode of life.

  ‘You live very comfortably,’ he said grudgingly. Rory looked at him, nervously cleared his throat and said:

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘But you do what you want.’

  ‘Within reason,’

  They had finished their meal. Mungo felt almost human. They sat watching the robin hop among the plates, flash back into the tree, return when Rory crumbled a piece of toast.

  ‘Tell me,’ began Rory, ‘um, tell me about—’

  ‘Hebe?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rory blushed. Sure of himself with Mungo hungover, he was unsure with Mungo recovered. ‘Six years?’ He shied away from the thought.

  ‘Alison,’ began Mungo, ‘was looking for someone to cook for my ma when the dragon housekeeper has her hols. She found Hebe, recommended by an old girl who had worked for Aunt Louisa at one time. I met Hebe in her capacity of cook. I fell in love with her.’

  ‘Love.’ Could one in charity imagine Mungo in love? It seemed doubtful to Rory.

  Mungo helped himself to more coffee. Rory waited.

  ‘I found,’ Mungo went on, ‘that she was willing to sleep with me if I paid, that her conditions were like any other tart.’

  ‘She isn’t a tart.’

  ‘She is. Conditions, money in advance. Fair enough, I said, to that, but the other conditions make her different. I don’t call her as I would any other call girl—’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Rory primly.

  ‘Actually I don’t either,’ Mungo admitted. ‘She would arrange dates. She found the flat we go to. She tells me when and for how long we may be together, I haven’t the foggiest idea where she lives, there’s only this Pakistani shop which forwards—’

  ‘She sounds as bossy as—’ Rory hesitated.

  ‘Alison. I know, but not the way she sets about it. It took me three years before I realised she had suggested, planted the seed if you like, of anything she wanted to do. When she wanted to go to Greece I found I wanted to take her there. My firm has connections so it’s easy. Same with Venice and Rome. She never suggests Paris for some reason. I have suggested Paris but no, she won’t.’ Mungo sighed. ‘I go to Paris alone or take Alison.’

  ‘Nice for Alison.’ Rory’s voice was downbeat.

  ‘Alison doesn’t really go for French food. Now Hebe, you can’t fault her on food.’

  ‘She is a cook, she—’

  ‘I know, I know, but she knows, she talks about food like a restaurateur.’

  ‘Perhaps she comes from a—’

  ‘No, no, Hebe’s what my ma calls a lady. One of us, you know what a snob she is.’

  ‘Almost as bad as mine.’

  Rory, momentarily distracted, thought of their mothers. Mungo thought of the joys of Hebe in London, Rome, Venice, that island in Greece. He sighed. ‘I love the girl,’ he said heavily.

  ‘So do I.’ Rory stated his feelings obstinately.

  ‘We read aloud to each other,’ said Mungo. ‘We play backgammon.’

  This piece of information disturbed Rory dreadfully, revealing a depth of intimacy infinitely more alarming than sex.

  Mungo shifted his chair, disturbing the robin. ‘One doesn’t like to link money with love,’ he said, ‘but if one does I warn you, Rory, keeping Hebe is like having a third son at school. Six weeks a year. For that I could have another son.’

  ‘Do you want another son?’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘I have no sons. I’m not bothered. Besides, you say you charge her to expenses. That’s pretty sordid and morally wrong.’ Rory was on the attack.

  ‘Last night you were all for it.’

  ‘Last night I had a few drinks and last night you were suggesting your sons, your well educated sons, should join—’

  ‘The Syndicate? Does she really call it a Syndicate?’ Had Rory been pulling his leg?

  ‘Yes,’ Rory admitted sadly.

  ‘I wonder who the other members are?’

  ‘We may know them.’ Rory was not pleased with this thought.

  ‘Aren’t we wasting time? Are we not going to see the girl, was not that the idea last night?’

  ‘Last night we were both going to marry her, today you seem to be content to keep her as your mistress. I still want to marry her.’ Rory began clearing the breakfast table. ‘Help me with this,’ he said sharply to his cousin.

  Mungo helped stack the remains of their meal on to a tray which Rory carried into the house.

  ‘Suppose I make you an offer, buy you out?’ Rory brought out the sentence in a rush. Could he borrow from the Bank perhaps, a sexual mortgage?

  ‘You must be joking,’ said Mungo haughtily.

  ‘She might be—er—she might be—’

  ‘What?’ Mungo snarled.

  ‘Pleased,’ Rory stacked the plates in the dishwasher, ‘to get rid of you.’

  Mungo tried a sarcastic laugh. This was an awful thought not to be voiced.

  ‘What about the forty-six weeks a year she is not with you?’ Rory mustered courage. If only he could undermine Mungo’s self-confidence.

  ‘She cooks.’

  ‘Only occasionally for your ma and Aunt Louisa, Louisa told me. Six weeks with your ma, that leaves forty, and about three to four with Aunt Louisa, that leaves thirty-six for the rest of them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Syndicate, you fool,’ Rory shouted in exasperation. ‘Just think, she—’

  ‘She must be a millionaire,’ said Mungo in admiration.

  ‘All you think of is money.’ Rory, outraged, sta
red at his cousin.

  ‘All I think of,’ Mungo stared back at Rory, ‘all I think,’ he said quietly, ‘is what I may lose.’

  The two men looked at one another, full of unvoiced thoughts of Hebe’s skin, eyes, mouth, hair, thighs, her laughter, her manner of giving, her voice, her talent for making them feel supermen.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mungo.

  ‘Right,’ said Rory.

  They drove out of Salisbury in silence. To Mungo the unspeakable thought of his clumsy young cousin fucking Hebe was distracting. Never allowed to swear or use four-letter words by Alison, he habitually used them to himself and outside her ambience. To Rory the vision of Mungo lying on top of Hebe with his, with his, oh God, with his thing up her was an obscene vision which would not go away. As he drove he wondered vaguely whether it would be first-degree murder if he killed Mungo, if he had the guts to do so, how to set about it.

  ‘There’s a hell of a lot of traffic on this road,’ said Mungo, remarking on what was obvious, a heavily congested road.

  ‘The races. Salisbury races.’

  ‘More like an air-show. Anyway, can’t we get off this bloody road? You live here, you ought to know.’

  ‘No short cuts, only very—’

  ‘Very what?’ How can Hebe consider this ass? It’s crazy, I must tell her it’s madness, he can’t churn out a single sentence.

  ‘Only very long cuts. You know, narrow and—er—winding.’

  ‘Are they full of traffic?’

  ‘No—nothing because you can’t—’

  ‘Can we get to Louisa that way?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then get us off this road. Can’t you see, it’s jammed for miles. We will never get cracking along here.’

  ‘You can’t pass anything on the narrow—’

  ‘You said there was no traffic on them. There will be nothing to pass.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Rory swung the car into a narrow lane which wound charmingly along a flattish valley. The lane ran back and forth, crossing and re-crossing a graceful chalk stream. Cows looked up in ruminative surprise, Rory slowed to let a pheasant pass. It was a lane unchanged since the era of the horse and cart.

  ‘What shall we say to Aunt Louisa? I usually only turn up in the—er—’