by Tim Jeal
‘She wouldn’t let them stay more than a couple of days.’ Charles kicked at a tuft of grass and managed a rueful smile. ‘Enough self-pity. I thought I ought to explain why I was edgy. Subject closed, all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got another apology to make. I had asked Otto Meyer and his wife. Do you know his collages?’ Derek shook his head emphatically. ‘Anyway for various reasons he couldn’t come. A pity because you’d have got on well. I tried to get several other people but no go; not surprising at this time of year.’
Derek nodded agreement. Like hell he’d asked other people.
‘I don’t mind if we’re the only guests,’ said Derek.
‘I wish you were. Angela turned up out of the blue a week ago; you remember sister Angela? Who’d forget. She left her husband last year and’s been sponging off me ever since. Not all the time but most of it. To crown it all she asked her new man without a word to me and had the gall to suggest that since I’d met him before I wouldn’t mind. He used to come and soak up booze at my private views and then write hostile drivel in Studio International. The galleries are dead, art objects are finished, that old line.’
‘I see.’
‘This morning I told her as tactfully as I could that he’d stayed long enough. Not a case of brilliant timing, I’m afraid.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She’d have to think about it.’
‘Awkward.’
‘I thought I’d better warn you.’
‘Have you spoken to either of them since?’
‘They went out early this morning, so I haven’t had the chance.’
‘I suppose I’d better get the stuff down from the roof of the car,’ said Derek after a brief silence. Charles nodded and they walked back towards the house. While the two of them took down cases and untied ropes securing Giles’s bicycle, Charles said, ‘I’d much rather your father stayed here. There isn’t a decent hotel in miles and the pubs are pretty terrible.’
‘I’ll ask him what he wants to do when he gets here.’ Derek lifted down the bicycle and rested it against the side of the car. ‘I’ve got to collect him tomorrow. Three something at Truro; I’ll have to check the time. I’m grateful you’ve been so good about it all. Diana was dead against his coming. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘I can’t see why. Say what you like.’
Derek could hear a car farther up the drive.
‘Trust them. Haven’t missed one meal since they’ve been here,’ muttered Charles. Derek thought of making a joke about the Last Supper but didn’t. Instead he picked up two cases and walked briskly towards the house before the car drew up.
*
Diana had dressed for dinner, not in her smartest clothes, it was true, but since Charles’s sister Angela was wearing a man’s shirt and a pair of faded jeans, Diana’s green dress decorated with beads and small glass panels seemed conspicuously fashionable. Between mouthfuls of soup Derek examined Angela’s friend Colin. A sallow angular face framed by long black hair; deep-set eyes with well-defined creases under them, a sign of Angela’s nocturnal demands? A bright yellow T-shirt with an eagle, probably the American eagle, stamped on the chest. Three drops of blood fell from the bird’s beak. Silence while they drank soup. Derek concentrated on not slurping it. Diana always accused him of doing so at home. Giles was looking at Colin’s shirt.
‘A boy in my form’s got a shirt like that.’
‘They are mass-produced,’ Colin replied coolly. Derek was irritated by the slight sarcasm in his voice. At least Giles had been trying to start a conversation.
‘Normally of course it’s the pelican which is portrayed with a bleeding beak. I don’t know the medieval fable well, but it’s something about the female pelican feeding her young with blood from her breast. There’s some parallel with Christ’s shedding his blood for mankind.’ Derek gave Colin a donnish smile and reapplied himself to his soup.
‘I don’t see the relevance myself,’ Colin replied.
‘You must be a man of few words if they’re all relevant,’ answered Derek.
Charles laughed loudly and Angela joined in. Colin looked at Derek angrily.
‘If you mean do I bore people with academic marginalia at every possible opportunity, the answer is that I don’t.’
‘I didn’t mean that at all, so you’re the irrelevant one, old man.’ Derek wasn’t sure why he added the last two words; possibly an instinctive feeling that they would annoy him more. The effect was considerably more insulting than he had intended.
Angela turned to Derek and said quietly, ‘I suppose Charles asked you to be rude to Colin?’
‘Let him play with himself,’ cut in Colin derisively.
‘Are you suggesting that I ought to start masturbating?’ asked Derek mildly. Giles’s spoon stopped halfway between his plate and his mouth. Diana was studying the surface of the table.
‘Do what you like but just leave me alone.’
Derek nearly made a joke about mutual masturbation but restrained himself. Instead he smiled blandly. ‘It’s strange how many aggressive people wear anti-war shirts.’
‘That’s a pretty cheap generalization,’ said Angela in a flat matter of fact voice.
‘I’m a bit mean with my expensive ones.’
Giles laughed nervously but when nobody else did he blushed and pretended to scrape a last spoonful from his already empty plate.
‘Do you find it amusing to make jokes about people’s beliefs?’ Angela enquired with polite interest rather than anger.
‘Prig,’ exploded Charles. ‘Haven’t you ever told a joke about a Jew? Do you think Derek’s a mass murderer because he hasn’t got Love or Peace written on his clothes? I suppose it never occurred to Colin that Derek might feel strongly about medieval fables.’
Derek found himself grinning at Charles: an alliance of old friends. It was almost as though Charles had deliberately set up Colin as a target for a repetition of the vitriolic wit which had first drawn him to Derek when they had been at university together. And I fell for it, thought Derek with incredulity. No reason to dislike Colin. He hardly knew the man. The real reason for his irritation had had nothing to do with the wretched art critic. He had been angry because Diana had taken such trouble with her appearance. Charles and Diana should have been his targets. He ought unobtrusively to have taken Colin’s side but of course that was no longer possible. Charles’s cook, Mrs Hocking, had shuffled in and was removing the plates.
‘What delicious soup,’ said Diana brightly. ‘Did you make it, Mrs Hocking?’
Before the woman could reply Angela cut in, ‘Haven’t you heard of Porthleven crab soup? It’s tinned ten miles away. Every crab a Cornish crab, if that’s any consolation.’
When Mrs Hocking had gone, Charles murmured, ‘That wasn’t very tactful.’
‘God, how frightful of me. I’m terribly sorry.’ Angela gave her brother a look of grovelling contrition and then tossed back her head and laughed. ‘Tactful! I’m surprised you’ve got the gall to use the word.’
Up to that moment Derek had thought Angela rather glum but her sudden animation made him wonder whether her remarks about his attack on Colin had been made tongue in cheek. The last time he had seen her she had been seventeen or eighteen, ten years ago, and she didn’t look very different now. No make-up; straight blonde hair brushing her shoulders. A sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and a slight gap between her front teeth; her expression almost sulky in repose but utterly transformed when she reacted.
‘Be as rude to me as you like,’ said Charles, ‘but don’t offend Mrs Hocking.’
Angela turned to Derek and said, ‘Don’t be fooled by him. He doesn’t care a damn for the woman’s feelings. He’s just scared of losing a cook and not being able to get another.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Diana replied.
‘Perhaps you’d be less inclined to be sympathetic to my charming
brother if you and your husband were suddenly asked to leave. Colin and I got our marching orders this morning.’ Angela smiled pleasantly at Diana and folded her arms with complete composure.
Mrs Hocking wheeled in a trolley with their main course: chicken casserole. As Charles doled out helpings he turned to Angela and said without apparent resentment, ‘If I suddenly turned up at Colin’s flat and asked to stay, I wonder how he’d react.’
Angela let out a little cry of sisterly admiration. ‘Isn’t he just wonderful? Of course he has seven bedrooms and Colin lives in a two-room flat, and then Colin did just happen to come with me, and I am Charles’s little sister, but apart from that the comparison’s absolutely bang on target.’
Charles put down the serving-spoon with a clatter. ‘The possession of a large house doesn’t give the owner’s relatives the right to come and occupy it at will.’
Angela nodded understandingly and murmured to Derek, ‘In most primitive tribes generosity creates loyalty. Isn’t that so?’
Before Derek could answer, Charles cut in, ‘In our society it creates parasites like you, Angela.’
‘What are you then?’ rapped out Colin, bringing down his fist on the table. ‘Art dealers are the biggest bloody parasites of all.’
‘And critics?’ asked Charles, as he started to pour out wine.
Colin looked as though he was about to choke. ‘What did you make out of that Léger show? A hundred thousand? Two hundred?’
Charles finished pouring wine into Diana’s glass and replied soothingly, ‘They weren’t given to me, you know. Interest rates aren’t cheap these days. Shall I tell you what the overheads were on that one show?’
‘Shall I tell you what my salary is for one year?’ shouted Colin, pointing his fork at Charles.
‘I’m sure the Inland Revenue would be more interested,’ Charles came back coolly.
Colin pushed back his chair abruptly and left the table. A moment later they heard his footsteps on the stairs.
‘You don’t suppose he’s decided to leave?’ Charles asked Angela.
‘What do you think?’ she replied savagely.
Charles shrugged his shoulders. ‘Let’s say I’m hopeful.’
‘If he decides to go, I still intend to stay,’ Angela said quietly. ‘I’ve no use for gestures.’
‘You’re making one by staying,’ smiled Diana.
‘If it gets on your tits, it’ll have been worth it.’
Giles, who had been listening in horrified disbelief, suddenly let out a stifled sob. Derek looked round guiltily; he had been so engrossed with what was being said that he had not noticed the effect it was having on his son. Before he could intervene, Diana had helped the boy to his feet and led him from the room. As they left, Colin appeared in the doorway, holding a battered suitcase. He glared at Charles for a moment and then turned on his heel. After a short silence Charles said to Derek:
‘How about some lemon meringue pie?’
*
Diana, Derek and Charles were drinking coffee in the sitting-room when Angela rejoined them. Without a word to Charles she opened the drinks and poured herself a brandy. She passed the glass slowly under her nose and sniffed deeply.
‘What bouquet. I think that’s the word.’ She paused and smiled contemplatively. ‘My husband loved brandy. He drank a whole bottle the day I left him. Very nearly became an alcoholic’ Charles had shut his eyes. Angela came and sat next to Derek. ‘There’s a happy ending, though. He’s living with his switchboard operator now and doesn’t touch a drop. They’re thinking of getting engaged.’ She nudged Derek. ‘Get it? Engaged … switch-board girl … No? Well, never mind.’ After a long silence Angela said, ‘I hope the boy was all right.’
‘He was sick,’ said Diana softly.
‘I’d better go and see him,’ murmured Derek.
‘He’s asleep now.’
Angela seemed to be having trouble stopping herself laughing.
‘I actually made him physically sick?’ she asked in amazement.
Diana nodded solemnly. A moment later Angela’s laughter filled the room. Diana rose with dignity and said that she was ready for bed.
‘And I must feed the cat,’ muttered Derek, following her out.
*
Diana hung up her dress carefully, took off her pants and got into bed. Derek climbed in beside her.
‘Was Giles badly sick?’ he asked.
Diana laughed maliciously. ‘He wasn’t sick at all. I said it to embarrass that ghastly girl.’
‘Giles knows what you said?’
‘Of course. He thought it was quite funny.’ Derek said nothing. ‘Don’t you think so?’
Derek thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t really.’
‘You heard how rude she was to me,’ said Diana sharply.
‘Everyone was rude.’
‘Let’s forget it then,’ she replied, turning off the light.
After the usual dull roar of traffic that permeated even the rear rooms of Abercorn Mansions, Derek found it hard to get used to the unfamiliar stillness of the countryside. The distant barking of a dog or even the sudden notes of a blackbird on the lawn sounded unnaturally loud. Derek tried to sleep but thoughts about the following day prevented him. He had imagined a very different first evening with Charles, the suave and unruffled host, effortlessly in command of everything and everybody. But after the chaos of the past hours, the arrival of his father, which Derek had envisaged as a severe blow to Charles’s perfectly planned holiday arrangements, would go virtually unnoticed and might very well prove more embarrassing to Derek himself than to anybody else. Already Derek could see that his trip to collect his father from Truro would leave Charles and Diana alone for the best part of the afternoon, and the last thing he had intended to allow them was uninterrupted time together.
Other worries also distressed him. He had imagined himself easily acting the perfect husband, but all the time the corrosive acid of his bitterness ate away his capacity for good humour and bonhomie. But more alarming than this was his suspicion that affability might not be the answer anyway. If he did manage to be pleasant and amiable every minute of each day, they might very well think him a more gullible idiot than they had previously assumed. Don’t worry, Charles, we can do it in the sitting-room in front of him; he’ll think we’re doing keep fit exercises or rehearsing a modern ballet.
As Derek lay in the darkness he began to doubt even his belief that his decision to come to Cornwall had been proof of his independence and newly found resolution. Why was he in Cornwall? Because of Diana. Why was his father coming? Because of Diana. Why had he forced Giles to come too? Because of Diana. Derek saw his suitcase on a chair near the foot of the bed. Why not just pack and leave? Place a note on the dining-room table: ‘Have gone to Ujiji.’ He imagined the stunned silence when they read the note. They would feel that he had weighed them up and found them wanting. He was thinking what a long time it would probably take them to find out where Ujiji was, when he fell asleep.
Chapter 7
A thin channel of sunlight pierced the gap between the curtains and formed a neat square of light on the pale green fitted carpet to the right of Derek’s bed. He reached for his watch on the bedside table: after ten. Diana had got up without waking him, had let him lie unconscious while the early morning freshness faded with the steadily increasing heat of the day, had allowed him to miss the dew and in all likelihood his breakfast. Hurriedly he put on the clothes he had worn the day before and went downstairs.
Nobody in the dining-room; only the remnants of breakfast. The noise of a hoover came from the sitting-room. As he came in Mrs Hocking switched it off and asked what he would like for breakfast. Five minutes later when she brought him toast and coffee he asked where everybody was. Apparently Charles had taken Diana down to the village, Angela had not got up and Giles had gone off with his snorkel. So that was how they intended to deal with his intruding presence: pretend he wasn’t there. Derek gulped down a cup of
coffee and hastily ate a slice of toast. They wouldn’t get rid of him that easily.
He thought of going to the village in the car but decided that Giles’s bicycle would be more in the holiday spirit. Tregeare was only half-a-mile away and downhill all the way so it didn’t take long. A small place, not much more than a cluster of cottages and a single street leading down to a narrow harbour. Considering the time of year there were surprisingly few people about. Derek had noticed Charles’s silver-grey Lancia outside the village shop but they weren’t inside. He propped the bicycle against the churchyard wall and walked down to the harbour. No sign of them there. Out to sea he could see a returning fishing-boat pursued by a clamouring cloud of gulls. In the harbour itself there were more yachts and motor boats than fishing-craft. He walked back up a worn flight of stone steps to the centre of the village. The pub wasn’t open yet. Derek decided to try the church.
He heard their voices as soon as he entered the porch. They were obviously up at the east end because he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly he had a childish urge to give them a shock. He peered round the edge of the half-open door. They were examining the carvings on the pulpit. Derek saw a small arch with stairs leading up from it, probably to the belfry. He moved quickly behind the font and managed to reach the steps without being seen. Breathing heavily, he started climbing. From an internal window in the belfry he could look down on the nave. Now he could hear them clearly. Charles was pointing to a bench-end.
‘Pretty crudely done really,’ he was saying.
‘I think she’s rather fun,’ replied Diana.
‘As mermaids go I suppose she’s not bad,’ Charles conceded.
‘Are there lots of them in Cornish churches?’
‘Not that I know of. No, the story is that a young choir-boy here in fifteen something had a lovely voice and used to sing down on the rocks near the harbour. Anyway this mermaid took such a fancy to his voice that she lured him into the sea and that was that. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Usually mermaids are the ones with lovely voices.’