by Mary Wesley
Thirty-four
MUNGO DROVE WITH VERVE and dash. They had spent the night in an hotel by the Helford river. He had feared, when Alison insisted on stopping at a chemist in Truro, that she was planning one of her fucking headaches (to be exact a non-fucking headache) but this fear had been groundless. After dinner with Rory, who entertained them during the meal with a description of his life as a milliner, he had, elevated by circumspect consumption of wine, gone up to their room to find that she had bought not, as he supposed, soluble aspirin, but a choice of contraceptives.
‘Which do you prefer?’ Alison presented her offerings. ‘Arousal? Elite? Fiesta?’
Mungo cried, ‘Fiesta every time. Or should we,’ he suggested, recollecting the night in Louisa’s house, ‘rename it, “Stable Door”?’
‘Face that fence when we come to it.’ Alison had drawn him into bed. ‘I wouldn’t say no to another baby.’
‘There’s a lot to be said for you girls from the Shires,’ said Mungo, hugging her.
Driving towards Penzance, Mungo considered Alison’s trip to Santa Barbara had done her a power of good. I am a fair man, he thought, as he drove. I owe that bastard Eli a vote of thanks. That there had been times when Alison should have been similarly grateful to Hebe did not occur to him.
Rory, silent as they drove through Cornwall, listened to Mungo and Alison talk. They seemed to look forward to the reunion with their children, the horrible little boys. Had not Mungo cursed them as positive millstones when in his cups?
‘We should have Michael to stay next holidays,’ said Mungo. ‘We owe it to the Reeves.’
‘Why not the family Reeves for Christmas?’ suggested Alison. ‘Invite the lot.’
‘A tallish order. Jennifer’s heavy going, bit of a drag.’
‘I’ll take care of her. You can take Julian out shooting or play golf.’
‘Okay,’ said Mungo good-humouredly.
‘I believe they have a boy from Michael’s school with them. If Ian and Alistair have taken to him we could invite him too. They can’t have enough friends. He’s bound to be all right if Jennifer has passed him.’
‘Is this Jennifer—a—er—an—’ asked Rory.
‘Expert,’ said Mungo. ‘A powerful sort of lady, knows who’s who, goes in for influence and the right sort of chums for her boy. Any boy she has to stay must be er—um—you know what I mean.’
‘The right sort,’ Alison suggested.
‘Socially oke—oke?’ Rory teased. ‘Okay? One of us?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Rory thoughtfully compared Mungo reunited with Alison, doing his loving husband, father-of-the-family bit with the Mungo wailing for his mistress who had shared his bed three nights before. Leaves the field a bit clearer for me, he thought, as he plotted a tour of garages who might know Hebe’s car. Possibly, he thought hopefully, the AA might help or even, if really stuck, the police.
‘Car park’s bloody full,’ said Mungo, swinging off the road into the heliport entrance. ‘Where can I fucking park?’
Alison compressed her lips.
Mungo cast her an affectionate glance. ‘Not allowed that word. Won’t happen again except in the right place.’
How does Hebe put up with him, for crying out loud? Rory asked himself.
‘I think that must be their helicopter.’ Alison craned her neck as Mungo squeezed the car into a gap. ‘Jennifer said they’d be on the twelve-thirty.’
Standing beside Hebe in the heliport lounge Silas, already nervous at the prospect of meeting the Reeves, was seized by a fresh horror. ‘Oh, God, Ma, Mr Reeves will have to pay excess on my bag. It says here,’ he pointed to a notice, that “excess baggage costs thirty pence a kilogram”.’
‘If it’s excess I’ll pay. Don’t worry so.’ He is working himself into a stew and it’s making me jumpy, thought Hebe, feeling sorrow and sympathy for her child. ‘Here comes a helicopter. It’s probably theirs.’
‘Oh, God,’ muttered Silas, ‘what am I to say?’
‘Just be normal.’
‘What’s normal?’ cried Silas, anguished.
They watched the helicopter clattering down, standing close together, braced for the confrontation.
Jim, arriving late, having been delayed by Bernard’s obsessive need to buy flowers for Amy (I am making up for fifty years of gross neglect), approached the heliport as the helicopter shut off its engine. He ran to the arrival lounge, pushing in behind two men and a woman who were apparently also meeting friends. A party from the helicopter came surging into the heliport hall. A trickle of confident vowels, swelling to a stream as their voices bounced off the formica tables, tinkled round the fruit machines, rose high in greeting as they sighted the people ahead of Jim.
‘Alison, darling!’
‘Jennifer, love, Julian!’
‘Dear Mungo, how are you, how well you look.’
‘This is my cousin Rory Grant, Jennifer Reeves.’
‘How do you do and you know Alistair, Ian and Michael, of course. Do look round, dear, that tiresome woman is supposed to be here to collect her wretched boy’s bag.’
Jim watched Hebe and Silas as they faced the crowd of people, sunburned, healthy, laden with baggage, overladen with self-confidence. Silas had drawn himself up to stand by his mother, hair ruffled, brown eyes so like Hebe’s, glaring down his nose. He experienced a thrill of pride. Hebe, recognising Alison, Mungo and Rory, struggled to keep her heart from her boots. This was the appalling sort of coincidence she had blithely felt could never happen.
Passengers from the helicopter milled through to the car park to stow their luggage, pack themselves into their cars, fasten seat belts, drive away to London, Bristol, Birmingham, Stevenage and Harlow new town.
Jennifer Reeves cried again in her carrying voice, ‘Look round, Julian, and see whether you can see that woman.’
‘No need to look far,’ said Hebe, stepping forward.
The group of the confident vowels was stilled, frozen into what Silas in later years described as social glue.
‘Thank you very much.’ Hebe took the duffle bag from Michael. ‘Do I owe you for excess weight? Silas has been worrying.’ She turned towards Julian. ‘Oh, hullo.’
With his back to the light Julian resembled momentarily the man with whom there had been the fiasco long ago in Rome. Hebe’s heart took another lurch downwards. Julian, recognising in Hebe the sort of woman for whom one could almost risk alienating Jennifer for ever, responded with a hearty ‘Hullo’, and a delighted grin. Jennifer, sniffing danger and fast off the mark in defence of her own, brushed aside Julian’s hand extended towards Hebe as he said, ‘It’s been super having Silas.’ He was about to add that he hoped Silas would come again and Hebe must come too. This must be stopped.—
But Hebe was smiling with relief, which had nothing to do with Jennifer, at the realisation that what she had recognised in Julian was a potential applicant to join the Syndicate. She had taken off her glasses and while staring at them with her myopic gaze was fully occupied choking back unsuitable mirth. This charge of feeling between Hebe and the Reeves by its very variety created a spark which was near tangible. Watching them Jim felt a sensation of mad elation.
Alison, coming up to Hebe, taking the hand which Julian had hoped to shake, said, ‘How nice. It’s you who saves my mother-in-law’s life with your wonderful cooking, isn’t it? All that exquisite food.’ She kept hold of Hebe’s hand.
‘That’s right.’ Hebe fought to recapture her cool. ‘I love working for her, she’s so appreciative.’
‘And so is Mungo,’ said Alison, smiling up at Hebe, almost a head taller.
‘And are these your boys, the little millstones?’ asked Hebe, laughing affectedly to hide incipient hysteria.
‘Yes,’ said Alison, squeezing Hebe’s hand before letting it go. ‘He doesn’t hate them all the time. We may even have another.’ She lowered her voice confidentially, distancing herself from Jennifer as she stood beside Hebe, smil
ing up as friendly as you please.
‘Women!’ gasped Mungo admiringly to Rory. ‘Old Julian damn near put his great foot in it there, nearly made a bid.’
‘How dare he?’ whispered Rory, disgusted.
But Julian, undeterred by his wife, was persevering. ‘Why don’t we make a date? We could—perhaps next holidays—’
Jennifer, interrupting again, said, ‘We never see you at the School Sports or on Founder’s Day.’ She struggled to regain the superiority she considered her right.
‘I fear now it’s unlikely that you shall,’ Hebe replied coolly. ‘There’s a good comprehensive school here full of nice people of the right sort.’ Beside her Silas flushed and glowed with joy. ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said to Jim who had ranged up beside her.
‘Shall I take the bag?’ asked Jim. ‘You can’t keep this up much longer,’ he said in an aside.
‘I don’t think you have met Silas’ father,’ said Hebe, raising her voice, looking round at the ring of faces blurred as much by her emotion as her nearsightedness. ‘Yes, do take the bag, darling.’ She surrendered the bag to Jim.
Rory came up to Hebe. ‘I had hoped, I was going to look for—to look—’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Your—er—car number is—er—is—’
‘Cornish?’
‘Oh, Hebe.’ He stood before her.
Whereas Hannah had decided between a hop and a skip to remarry and almost immediately found Terry, Hebe was faced by temptation. How easy to take Rory, unhesitatingly loving. How tempting to settle in his Georgian house with the fanlight and the dolphin knocker. How agreeable to spend weekends in his Great-aunt Calypso’s bluebell wood. There would be no hassle. There would be peace. Perhaps too much peace. It would be unfair. Short-sightedly she met his anxious eyes.
‘Goodbye, Rory, dear. Give my love to your Aunt Louisa.’ She did not touch him. ‘I have liked working for her more than anybody. One of these days I will come and buy one of your hats.’
‘Will that be all?’ Rory’s usually swivelling eyes looked directly at Hebe.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said sadly.
‘I will design—a—er—an especially marvellous one.’ Rory was valiant.
‘I shall wear it on celebration days,’ she said.
‘I wish—er—oh, I wish I could celebrate.’
Reluctantly Rory followed the others, who were now drifting awkwardly away, saying, ‘Well, I suppose we’d better be going.’
‘See you soon, I hope.’
‘Have we got everything?’
‘What about lunch one day?’ and things of that sort.
Alison did not, Mungo took note, invite Jennifer to bring her lot to stay for Christmas.
Michael, Ian and Alistair did not speak but exchanged looks, raised eyebrows and tried to catch Silas’ eye to seal a non-existent friendship.
Julian, striving to regain ground grown slippery, was speaking to Jennifer.
‘I promise you I never clapped eyes on the girl before.’ His intonation guilty.
‘I don’t believe you for one moment. She-recognised you, she said “Hullo”.’
‘She said hullo to us all.’ Desperately Julian tried to distract his wife. ‘She’s a perfectly ordinary girl.’
‘I think she’s a perfectly ordinary tart. You shall tell me how and where you—’ Striding towards their car Jennifer began the inquisition. If anything united the group which had been so confident it was a general feeling of commiseration for Julian who, it was felt, was in for a tough time, undeserved for once.
‘I always suspected old Jennifer of a mean streak, of being a bit bogus.’ Mungo headed the car towards home.
‘Of course she is bogus.’ Alison assimilated the fresh view of the family friend. ‘And it’s silly to be publicly jealous.’ A few miles on she said: ‘I’ve always thought we should consider state education as an alternative to Eton.’
Mungo drove in surprised silence for several miles before responding, ‘We shall have to consider it if we are adding to the family.’
‘My goodness, what a bill and coo.’ Rory began what was to be a long process of cheering up.
Ian and Alistair had exchanged sly looks, reassessing their parents, as Mungo manoeuvred the car out into the holiday traffic. They had seen Silas running and jumping across the heliport garden, his every movement as he threw up his arms and leapt the flower beds an expression of unadulterated delight as he ran to find Giles. Ian later suggested to Alistair that Silas had been shouting ‘I’m not out of a bottle,’ which Alistair said was nonsense.
Slumped on the back seat behind his warring parents, Michael continued the sulky drift into adolescent revolt which had started at the supper table during Silas’ visit.
Thirty-five
THE PEOPLE IN THE helicopter office were indifferent to Hebe and Jim. They had telephones to answer, bookings to make, cups of coffee to consume. The next helicopter would leave in an hour and a half. Until then they could exchange pleasantries, flirt, catch up on gossip.
‘I must apologise for calling you darling,’ said Hebe stiffly.
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Jim.
‘It was a temptation,’ said Hebe.
‘I quite understand,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s a seat outside, shall we sit on it?’
Has he noticed my knees are knocking together? I must not give way now. I wish Silas had not rushed off and left us. I wish I felt something. I wish I knew what I feel.
‘There, sit there,’ he said. ‘It’s nice in the sun. No need to say anything.’
How does he know? she asked herself, sitting on the seat. There’s a hell of a lot to say. How ghastly this is. Why doesn’t he say something?
Jim said nothing.
Hebe said, ‘Did you hear me? I told that woman Silas wouldn’t be going to that school any more.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘He isn’t happy there,’ Hebe cried. ‘He’s miserable.’
‘You are doing the right thing, then.’
‘Do you think so? Do you really think so?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I do so want him to be happy,’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ Hebe cried. ‘Bang goes my Syndicate!’
Jim did not know what she was talking about.
What can I say without putting my foot in it, he thought. I don’t know this woman. What the hell does she mean—Syndicate? If I ask she may bite my head off. I wish I was home in Fulham with my coffee shop and antiques, without all this bloody bother. ‘Oh, Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are crying.’ She was racked by sobs. He fished out a handkerchief. What a messy crier. He gave her the handkerchief. (What have I let myself in for?) She blew her nose. (If she were a man I’d say she trumpeted.) She stopped crying. She looked a mess. He waited for her to say, ‘I look a mess.’ She did not. She gave her nose a final blow, crushed up the handkerchief and put it in her bag.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
The handkerchief was one of my best, he thought, admiring her action. I doubt whether I’ll see it again.
‘You’ll get it back when it’s clean,’ she said.
It must be her knowledge of men which enables her to read my thoughts. He felt rather pleased with his percipience.
‘You got the duffle bag back all right,’ he said, to get the conversation flowing.
‘Yes.’
‘And decided Silas’ future.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you always so impulsive?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while.’ Several days, she thought.
‘He looked awfully pleased, radiant.’
‘Did he? I had taken off my glasses.’
‘That chap Julian Reeves—’
Hebe began to laugh. I may tell him, she thought, if I ever get to know him, about that fiasco in Rome.
‘I felt rather sorry for the one who looks
like a rabbit.’
‘Hare. He’s a hatter.’
‘But the one with the wife who allied herself with you found it all rather funny. Is she a friend of yours?’
‘She may become so.’
‘But he seemed to know you very well, her husband.’
Hebe, eyes and nose puffed by crying, looked at him pityingly.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Jim, latching on, ‘he’s one of—’
‘Yes.’
‘I get it. They were all—’
Hebe nodded. ‘Nearly all.’ She looked away.
He tried to guess what she was thinking, watching her face, trying to read her thoughts.
They sat on in the sun.
Jim thought, We ought to be talking. She should tell me what the hell she’s been up to all these years. She should tell me about her lovers. She should explain her life, tell me how she manages. She could tell me about her cooking jobs and then we could get on to the men. She obviously can’t carry on with that lot, but are there others? She should tell me about her friends, about our child.
Hebe sat beside him apparently relaxed, sleepy.
I should tell her how I’ve chased after every girl who looked remotely like her. I should tell her that I’ve never got her out of my system, that I’ve always hoped to find her, that I’m in love with her. But am I? He watched her as she sat, face held up to the sun, eyes closed, her glasses held loosely in her lap. He shivered. I am a coward, he thought.
‘In Lucca.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I—’
Hebe turned towards him, put on her spectacles, measured her words.
‘It is just an idea,’ she said, ‘an idea you had. I am not that girl you remember. I am not silly and naive any more. You remember her, I remember a smell. I didn’t know the smell was you until yesterday. I am grateful for your help with Silas. I am grateful for your help today, I—’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Jim, furious.
‘That’s what my grandfather always said to my grandmother.’
‘He was probably right,’ Jim snapped.