by Mary Wesley
‘If Louisa is mean about beds I shall stay in an hotel,’ said Mungo, who was growing suspicious. ‘There’s a plot of some kind between these women.’
‘Then stay with me and we can—er—can—er—’
‘Stick together.’ Mungo finished the sentence automatically. ‘Alison is full of bounce,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘Very full of bounce.’
‘Perhaps she found you—er—found you bouncy when you came back from the—er—Syndicate.’
‘Oh, God!’ said Mungo. ‘Do you think Alison knows?’
‘It’s probable.’ Rory handed the last of the scones to Rufus. ‘Do you—er—want to sleep with her tonight?’
‘I had not planned to,’ said Mungo stuffily.
‘Gosh.’ Rory began stacking the tea things on to the tray. ‘You had better plan something of the sort. Better be—er—spontaneous,’ he advised.
Mungo restrained his longing to kick Rory, to thump Louisa, to assault Alison, all spontaneous reactions. He even refrained from ringing up and insulting his mother. Hebe, he thought, never brought out the worst in him.
Back in Rory’s house Mungo felt exasperation. He looked at Rory’s possessions with loathing. The absence of vulgarity maddened him. Good silver, lovely glass, enviable pictures, a collection of good books. The whole set-up would appeal to Hebe. Rory was watching as he glared round.
‘What’s—er—wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mungo sulkily. ‘That’s your trouble.’
‘I put my evil spirit into the hats,’ Rory said. ‘You wouldn’t find anything in the shop that would suit—er—Alison. Have a look.’ Hebe had the only suitable hat for a beautiful woman, he thought. ‘I made a good one for Louisa,’ he said.
‘Louisa.’ Mungo stood undecided. Rory watched him. ‘Louisa is manipulating me.’
‘Yes—er—she is.’ Rory tried not to laugh.
‘She is keeping me apart from Alison.’
‘Yes—er—’
‘Why?’
Rory shrugged. ‘To let her rest?’ he suggested.
‘I am going back.’ Mungo turned on his heel and left the house. Rory listened to Mungo’s car drive away, then went to bed and lay plotting how to find Hebe’s car and Hebe in Cornwall, quite a large county.
Mungo let himself into Louisa’s house and stilled the dogs. He went upstairs. A light showed under the spare room door. He walked in. Alison lay in the bed, her pale marmalade hair framing her face, dark blue eyes startled.
‘Mungo,’ she chirped.
‘Shut up.’ Mungo was undressing. He felt domineering, masculine, randy.
‘Mungo!’ Alison exclaimed again in a whisper.
Mungo got into the narrow bed. ‘Move over.’
‘I can’t, I’ll fall out. What do you want?’
‘To fuck you.’
‘Don’t use that word. You know I cannot bear—’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Mungo grunted. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Presently Mungo, holding Alison, said, ‘We don’t do this enough.’ And Alison began to laugh in a way she had not laughed for a long time, so that he said, ‘That’s right, my love, one should laugh. Now I shall make love to you.’
Alison bit back the question ‘Who else have you laughed with?’ and whispered ‘I’m glad I came back.’ Mungo fell asleep taking up more than his fair share of the single bed. So far, so good, thought Alison, enduring the discomfort. Perhaps I can wean him away from whoever it is who laughs. Could it be that cook? She tried to remember what the girl looked like.
Sitting between Mungo and Rory as they drove the next day, Alison felt a sense of levity usually alien to her nature. When Rory, sensing her high spirits, ventured to suggest, ‘Tell us—um—er—tell us about your hosts, these—er—friends of yours—’
‘Yes, do,’ said Mungo, driving the car. ‘What do Eli and Patsy do when they are at home? Come on, tell.’
‘What time does the helicopter arrive?’ Alison feebly tried to deflect the attack.
‘Alison!’ Rory protested. ‘Come on.’
‘What was this ménage a trois like?’ Mungo met Alison’s eyes in the driving mirror. ‘This troika.’
‘All right.’ Alison took a deep breath. She tensed her shoulders, gritted her teeth.
‘Go on,’ said Rory and put his hand over hers which were clenched in her lap.
‘Bed,’ said Alison in a rather high voice, ‘with him first. Then Patsy came and watched. I did not like that. Then she got in on the other side of me. I think it was what’s called and orgy.’
‘Go on,’ said Mungo, scowling at the road ahead. ‘Go on.’
‘Well,’ Alison’s voice rose higher, ‘I enjoyed it with him, it was different, a change—’
‘A nice change,’ said Rory in an unwarrantably plump voice.
‘Well, it was. If it had been only Eli I might still be there.’
‘Oh,’ said Mungo, his face clouding, but Alison was back in Santa Barbara. ‘He was far worse than you, Mungo.’ She did not notice her husband’s eyebrows rise. ‘He used words I have never heard. Your language pales. That put me off a little.’
‘Only a little.’ Rory’s voice betrayed no feeling.
‘But Patsy did not like it. She did not like the Eli and me combination.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Rory under his breath. ‘So what happened?’ he asked, for he could see, glancing at Mungo’s profile, that Mungo could not or would not ask.
‘What happened,’ said Alison, the words coming in a rush, ‘what happened was that Eli suggested he and I should take a trip to New Mexico without Patsy. I said, “Fine, I’d like that.” Patsy was getting on my nerves, alternately pawing me and being nasty to Eli. I got packed and as I was coming down to the car I heard a scuffle on the stairs. She had torn all the buttons off his shirt and was tearing at his trousers. Then,’ Alison gasped, ‘then she went down and bit him in the leg.’
‘Oh’ said Mungo. ‘Gosh! How shocking.’
‘Ah,’ said Rory. ‘Then what—er—what—’
‘I got into Eli’s car and drove myself to the airport. I had talked to your mother, as you know. I had lied, of course. I had no intention then of coming home.’
‘You lied to us,’ said Mungo.
Alison’s voice was tired. ‘Of course I lied. Your mother was so obvious. Eli has not got AIDS but your mother can’t manage without me.’
‘Nor can I,’ Mungo blurted, red in the face.
Rory noticed that both Mungo and Alison were close to tears. ‘I have never seen man bitten by woman,’ he said. Then they were laughing with the unstoppable hilarity usually confined to adolescents.
Twenty-nine
CRAMMING HER SPECTACLES ON to her nose, Hebe ran to her car, started the engine and roared down the street, swinging dangerously into the traffic as she joined the main road. The agony since Louisa had given her the message, the anxiety she felt for Amy, the resentment engendered by her grandparents, the cumulative distress waiting for news of Silas combined to feed the panic which had begun in Amy’s house. She forced the maximum speed from the engine, nipping perilously through the traffic, so tense she almost forgot to breathe. Jim, following, flinched at the risks she took, hoped she would not lunatically crash, that he would not have to carry a corpse to the hospital, be harbinger of woe to Silas.
Hebe travelled into the country out of sight. Jim caught up with the car by the telephone kiosk, its door swinging open, engine running, saw Hebe racing across the fields towards Bernard’s house.
He parked his car and ran back to Hebe’s car, shut the door, pocketed the keys and started running after her. Twice he saw her leap at a bank and scramble over. Once she fell, but was quickly up and running. As he ran Jim muttered to himself, ‘This time, this time, this time.’ Hurdling the last bank into Bernard’s garden he collided with Feathers, stumbled, fell, swore. Feathers made haste to greet, snuffling at Jim’s face, delighted to find it within reach.
‘Bugger off.’ J
im pushed the dog away. ‘Out of the way, damn you.’ He was on all fours in the wet grass.
Bernard stood over him. ‘Hurt yourself?’
‘No.’ Jim staggered to his feet. ‘Out of the way,’ he said to Feathers.
‘Stop,’ said Bernard, as Jim turned towards the cottage. He caught Jim’s arm and Jim swung round nearly knocking the old man down.
‘Why?’ Jim cried furiously. ‘Why?’
‘They have to be alone.’ Bernard held Jim by the sleeve. ‘We are going out.’
‘I have to see her,’ panted Jim. ‘I’ve got to.’
‘Presently,’ said Bernard. ‘You and I are going to the cinema. Go home,’ he said to Feathers. ‘It doesn’t matter you being here. Come along,’ he said, ‘we must go out so that Silas can talk to his mother.’
‘I have to see that girl,’ Jim shouted.
‘Not now. She has to be alone with him, it’s important.’
‘It’s important that I see her,’ Jim insisted.
‘Only to you.’
Jim stared at the old man, deflated. ‘I had not thought of that.’
Bernard, old and shrunken, looked up at Jim. He said, ‘She won’t run away.’
‘I have her car keys.’
‘We will put them back in her car.’ He led Jim towards the road. ‘Did she recognise you?’
‘I don’t think so. When I went to her house she was talking on the telephone. I told her Silas was with you and she rushed off. I don’t think she noticed me, just registered the message.’
They walked slowly. Jim helped Bernard over the banks. ‘This is not a suitable progress for a man of my age,’ Bernard remarked, ‘but we shall sit in the cinema and be warm and dry.’
‘Why the cinema?’ Jim was rebellious.
‘It is dark.’ Bernard spoke stoically. They had nearly reached Jim’s car. ‘I can sit and mourn.’
‘Mourn what?’ Jim was ill-tempered.
‘You seem to forget,’ Bernard got into Jim’s car and began tying himself in with the safety belt, ‘that you went twice to the town. First you saw Amy dead and forgot to tell Hebe her boy is safe. I sent you back. Going to the cinema does not mean I am not shaken by Amy’s death.’
‘Are you? Why?’ Unwillingly Jim started the car.
‘Once we were in love. Very agreeable it was, too.’
Jim found nothing to say, his mind on Hebe.
‘If we find a movie which is a weepy I can pretend I am moved by that.’
‘Yes.’ Jim began to pay attention.
‘We were in the Hotel d’Angleterre. It ended badly,’ said Bernard. ‘Long ago in Paris.’
‘Why?’ asked Jim.
‘She discovered I was sleeping with Louisa. Why do women always expect this one-at-a-time business? It makes no sense. That is what upset her most.’ In old age Bernard refused the memory of Amy’s pregnancy.
‘All these years,’ said Jim, momentarily forgetting his own troubles. ‘All these years I have never known you visit her.’
‘We were not on speaking terms,’ said Bernard. ‘Latterly, since she befriended Hebe and I got to know the girl, I tried to make it up. Louisa and I have remained close. Amy was bitter. There was nothing doing.’
‘Perhaps she had reason to be bitter.’ Jim had never considered his old friend a particularly nice character.
‘Hebe has no need of you,’ said Bernard nastily, confirming Jim in his view. ‘She is even more capable than Amy of managing on her own.’ Then, as Jim did not respond, he said, ‘It’s the mode for women to live alone these days. You must have noticed, even you.’
‘Why even me?’ Jim asked, but Bernard was pretending not to hear, leaving Jim feeling he had in some way made himself ridiculous.
Thirty
SILAS CLUNG TO HEBE and Hebe clung to Silas. Too breathless from running, she felt, in the joy of relief, that it was enough to hold him. He was alive, in one piece. She feared if she spoke she might say the wrong thing. Silas, holding his mother, felt her heart thumping. They huddled together in Bernard’s wing chair in the dark little room. The fire flickered and Feathers sank down at their feet with a grunt. Silas, his face pressed against her chest, said, ‘I was seasick. I had no boots. They all know each other well. Mrs Reeves is a sort of horsey woman. I felt stupid because they all knew how to sail. I went off alone. I saw seals and an adder and people in a boat. There were two other boys. They boasted about their father’s mistress. Well, the younger one did and the size of his—Then he said he wet his bed as if it was clever. There was stew at every meal and Mr Reeves—he’s called Julian—picked on Mrs Reeves. She said to call her Jennifer. I couldn’t. He picked on her about the stew and they called the woman who came to clean and cook Mrs Thing. He niggled on at me about school. Why don’t we learn Latin and he and Mrs Reeves quarrelled without saying anything—they are snobs about everything—it was like that all the time. He gave me wine before I noticed the others only drank Coke. I felt so stupid. I’ve been sick on your jersey. We had to share a room, the four of us. It was a lovely cottage, very pretty but I wished—I sent you a postcard, I didn’t want you to know I wasn’t enjoying—now when I go back to school it will be awful—I was sick into Michael’s boots and all over the front of your jersey. They talk in loud voices—he niggled me about you and what did my father do. Mrs Reeves jumped in and said—and they looked down their noses because we live in a street. It’s okay to live in a street in London but otherwise you have to live in the country—and Michael said you were a cook and Mrs Reeves said she had an uncle who married his—Mr Reeves said cooks are an endangered species he was drunk—he kept giving me wine and there was a thick feeling in the room then he asked what my father does and I hated him and said my mother is a Hermaphrodite and I threw my wine in his face.’ Hebe’s arms tightened. Silas drew breath. ‘I looked up “hermaphrodite” in Mr Quigley’s dictionary so now I feel stupider than ever. When I’d thrown my wine at his head I rushed out—I grabbed your jersey off the line where Mrs Reeves had hung it, she washed it but it still smells—I didn’t know what to do, but I was lucky because the people I had seen fishing were going across to St Mary’s. They gave me a lift—I am sorry I left everything behind I just brought the jersey—the people didn’t ask anything—next day I managed to get back on the helicopter, the crew remembered I had a return ticket. When I got home you weren’t there and I cried—I’m sorry. Amy or Hannah would have asked questions—Jim found me and brought me here—he and Mr Quigley have been kind. It’s been great to be with Feathers and the cat—it hasn’t got a name, he says cats don’t need names, he doesn’t even call it “Thing” like the Reeves call the cleaning lady. They said—no, they didn’t say, but I felt they wanted to say I’ve got no bottle. Well, they haven’t got all that much. Michael cried when she hit him and I felt—felt Hermaphrodites don’t hit their children—Giles started it, he asked if I was a test tube baby and I said I couldn’t be because they didn’t do it when I was born—we had a row—I hit him—he fell into the kale and his nose bled. Mr Quigley had said his father was dull which was awful for Giles—he pushed a note through the door which said “perhaps your mother is a Hermaphrodite”—I felt proud of that until the dictionary—it’s all been so awful—have I got a father?’
‘No.’ Hebe felt terribly cold.
‘Don’t you know him?’ Silas tightened his grip.
‘No.’
Silas, sitting with his arms round Hebe, looked up at her face, put up a hand and gently removed her glasses.
‘They are misted up.’ He put the glasses on the table beside the chair, ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s wet from your tears.’ He looked at his hand. Then he said, ‘Not even a Hismaphrodite?’
‘Silas.’ Now is the time for burning boats, she thought.
‘Never mind,’ said Silas. He felt the pleasurable relief at being with her, the contentment at having poured out his troubles. He wrapped his arms round her. She began to speak, now or never.
&n
bsp; ‘I have never been able to talk to you because I didn’t know how to begin. I was in Italy and after I came back I felt peculiar, so they sent me to the doctor and he said I was pregnant. They—I have never told you that I was brought up by my grandparents. When they found out they were furious—horrible. I still get nightmares. I hear their voices say, “Who was the man?” and things like “Long-haired layabout, yobbo or black or bare feet and dirty nails.” They kept asking “Who was the man?”—I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know. They wouldn’t believe me. I wanted you. They wanted me to have an abortion. Do you know what that means?’
‘Of course I do. But you didn’t have one.’
‘I came to Amy who looked after me. I sold things I had to Bernard Quigley, we became friends. I learned to earn money. I have tried to think who your father could be, but I don’t know. All I get is this panic, I hear voices going on and on about an abortion and calling me a whore and asking who the man was.’ Hebe drew a shaky breath. Silas tightened his grip. A log shifted on the fire; Feathers groaned. ‘When I get these panics I hear their voices and it’s mixed up with running in dark streets, I run and run and the buildings all round me are taller than skyscrapers and people look out of blind windows. I hear that repetition, “Who was the man?” Hebe hurried on. ‘I must tell you, otherwise someone else will. As well as cooking jobs I am a part-time tart to make money to pay for us.’ There, she thought, it’s out.
‘Don’t you realise,’ Silas shifted in her arms and looked up, ‘don’t you realise that what happened was a bad trip, probably LSD.’ He sounded older than twelve. ‘Rather fascinating.’
‘I have never taken drugs in my life.’ She was horrified. ‘What do you know about them?’ She sat up and stared at him.
‘You can be given LSD in your drink. People think it’s funny.’
‘Funny?’
‘You don’t know and you go on a “trip”. A master at school gave us a lecture on drugs. Who were you with? It happens at parties. Was it Hismaphrodite?’