Harnessing Peacocks (24 page)

What else? What would block out her need to see Silas’ brown eyes, arched nose, russet hair, to hold him close, to hug him. I shall have a crash if I don’t think of something else. She was near tears.

Deliberately she set herself to think of her grandparents—her childhood, her upbringing. Forcing herself she recollected the intolerable boredom of long meals, wondering what to talk about, what subject would be neutral and not cause an argument. No politics other than Tory; literature tricky, too many writers were Left Wing or not nice in their private lives or wrote about people who were not nice; gardening safe but might lead to one being asked to weed or plant out the Canterbury bells, so boringly tedious. She had not been horsey. Horses. Her sisters, before they married, had talked almost exclusively of horses, hunting, eventing, racing or point to points through those meals. Dogs, tennis, golf, bridge all safe but wrapped in a pall of platitudes. Parties? Okay if they were nice people’s parties where one met the right sort, the euphemism for a marriageable man, the benefit acquired from a nice upbringing. So I suggested the Cordon Bleu cookery school when I failed my O-levels, suggested I would meet nice girls. It never occurred to them that I saw cooking as an escape. It was good of them to send me; I should be grateful. Why did someone not tell him he got cabbage stuck in his teeth? Hebe, driving as fast as was safe, perhaps too fast, muttered, And the relations! Who was related to who, through whom, by whom, and always they were potentially nice, or related to the right sort. Failing the gentry bit, titled. Hebe grinned, pressing her foot on the accelerator. So why the surprise when they exploded about dirty nails, beards, guitars, bare feet, blacks, earrings, Communists, long hair? Why the surprise, Hebe wondered as she drove. Were they not terrified by the Permissive Society? How naive she had been at sixteen and what a prig, Hebe mocked herself. I thought they were fond of me. Not as fond as of my sisters, but fond enough to stand by when I became pregnant. I had thought I would be original, I would keep my virginity. Oh, the irony. Talking to herself she fretted, caught in a long line of cars, held up behind three lorries all impossible to pass, just as many cars travelling east as west, the traffic crawling to a halt. She drummed her fingers on the driving wheel chanting, ‘Virginity, Virginity, when, where, how did I lose it?’ The traffic going east had halted also. Hebe sang, ‘Virginity, where did I lose you? You don’t lose it like dropping a purse, for God’s sake.’

‘Did it hurt?’ A man driving a Ford Cortina towards London asked across the gap between their cars.

Hebe wound up her window. That’s all I need, a pick-up. I shall get myself arrested. The traffic moved on. He called me a whore, she thought, he called me that. Perhaps he remembers, sitting by the roadside in his morning coat and top hat, perhaps he remembers what he said, perhaps she in her flowered dress remembers too. They were not nice that day. Remembering her grandparents, Hebe’s tears coursed down salt as she caught them with her tongue. The traffic increased speed, it was possible to overtake the lorries. There was the respite of a dual carriageway. She hurried on; it was imperative to reach home and Silas.

As she sped down the A30 Hebe was glad she had made herself think of her grandparents. She had bottled them away too long. I should have had the guts to tell them they have a beautiful bastard great-grandson. Then later she thought I am a fool, I am educating him in the way they educated me. I too am a snob. I despise Hannah’s vowels; I didn’t want Silas to talk like Giles. I sent him to a school where he makes friends with the right sort of people, who invite him to stay in the Scillies and something has happened to him, something not nice. During the long drive she experienced the catharsis which left her weak but with a clear mind. She even recovered enough to think wryly of Mungo and Rory as the right sort of nice men to have in her Syndicate, and of Lucy Duffs and Louisa Fox’s houses as the right sort of houses in which to work.

Tired and anxious, impatience overwhelmed her on the last stretch into Penzance, but she felt relief as she left the traffic to swing uphill into the steep and hideous dark brick street, roar up to her house, jam on the brakes and jump out. She let herself in, calling, ‘Silas, I am back, darling.’

Trip looked up from an armchair, showing displeasure at being disturbed. No sign of Silas. The house was slightly dusty, everything exactly as she had left it, in her bedroom an indentation on the bed where Trip had slept. Silas’ room was neat, empty. She opened windows, letting in the August air. He would be with Amy. She filled the cat’s bowl with fresh water, bent to stroke her. Trip moved into the garden with a preoccupied air. Hebe ran across the street to Amy’s house and walked in.

‘Hullo, Amy.’ Amy was resting in her armchair.

‘You are back early.’ Amy kissed her, reaching up to hold her.

‘Is Silas not with you?’ Hebe drew back.

‘Silas?’

‘Staying with Hannah, is he?’

‘He is in the Scilly Isles, not due back. Why have you left Louisa so soon?’ Amy got up from her chair. ‘I expect you’d like a cuppa.’ Then, looking closely at Hebe, ‘Something wrong?’

‘You telephoned. I rushed back. Is he with Hannah and Giles?’

‘I never telephoned.’

‘Then it must have been Hannah, he must be there. I will go round to her.’

Amy caught Hebe’s hand. ‘What am I supposed to have telephoned about? What was the message? What’s wrong?’

‘The message was that Silas had come back and wanted me. Naturally I thought it was you. He must be with Hannah.’ Hebe was filled with incipient panic.

‘Hannah doesn’t know where you were. Unless she has second sight.’

‘I will go and ask her.’ Hebe ran out of the house leaving Amy’s door open, raced up the street to Hannah, anxiety treacherously transforming itself into blind fear. She let herself into Hannah’s house. Empty sitting-room, kitchen and garden. She took the stairs two at a time, sounds of Bach from Hannah’s bedroom. ‘Hannah!’ Hebe burst into the room. Curtains drawn across open windows, the joyous sound of Bach, Hannah and Terry lying contentedly in bed listening to the radio.

‘Is he with Giles?’

‘Is who with Giles?’ Hannah switched off the radio.

‘Hi, Hebe.’ Terry, lying with his head cushioned on pillows, an arm round Hannah’s shoulders, smiled up at Hebe. She scarcely noticed their happy faces, their nakedness, the clothes scattered on the floor. ‘You are standing on me best knickers.’ Hebe kicked away the knickers and in so doing caught her heel and tore the garment. ‘There now, you’ve torn ’em.’

‘Where is Silas?’ Hebe stood over them. ‘You sent me a message. I’ve come back. He needs me.’

‘Sit down.’ Terry reached out and pulled Hebe down on to the bed. ‘You look as though you’d lost your marbles.’

‘I’ve got to find him. You sent a message,’ she pleaded with Hannah.

‘No, love,’ said Hannah, sitting up, beginning to worry.

‘Then who?’ Hebe’s voice rose.

Terry held her wrist. ‘Why not tell us what this is in aid of?’

Hebe told them of the message and her drive.

‘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.

M
UNGO 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.