Harnessing Peacocks (14 page)

He cleaned the fish by what light was left, wrapped them in leaves and, walking through the garden, went round to the back entrance. He found the key Louisa kept hidden near the back door and let himself into the kitchen. Feeling for the light switch in the dark, he was aware of a delectable smell of cooking lingering in the warmth of the range and of tails thumping a greeting from the heap of mongrels lolling against the stove. He switched on the light.

‘You’re a fat lot of good as watchdogs.’ He crouched down to stroke friendly heads and pat silky flanks. ‘Suppose I’d come to mug Aunt Louisa? What about that, then?’ The dogs seemed mildly amused. The largest got up and went to sniff the fish Rory had put on the table.

Rory stepped out of his boots and padded to the dresser for a dish. He laid the fish neatly head to tail and took them to the refrigerator.

‘She in the drawing-room watching TV?’ The dogs looked at him brightly. ‘Or has she gone to bed?’ They wagged their tails, mouths slightly open. ‘I’ll go and see, you stay here.’ But as he opened the door into the hall one of the dogs, Rufus, pushed past him and ran ahead. Perforce he had to follow.

The hall was in darkness, a grandfather clock tic-tocked in the silence. Rory went to the drawing-room and found that dark also.

‘Hell, she must have gone to bed. Where’s that dog?’ He stood listening, not wishing to disturb the sleeping house. He could leave a note or ring up in the morning, but the dog had gone upstairs, presently it would scratch at Louisa’s door. The animal would wake her if she were asleep. Rory snapped his fingers, whistled softly. The dog did not wish to hear. Rory switched on a light at the foot of the stairs and made his way to his aunt’s bedroom. To his surprise the dog was not standing outside Louisa’s room or anywhere to be seen.

‘Curse it.’ Rory tiptoed past Louisa’s door and set off in search. No dog on the first floor. He climbed the next flight.

Outside a bedroom he considered his own, since he had spent many happy holidays in it, the dog sat, head raised in expectation. Rory snapped his fingers. Rufus wagged more briskly. Rory, seeing light under the door, knocked, opened, walked in behind Rufus.

In front of the cheval glass he had known all his life, a glass before which he had pranced, draped in his bathtowel pretending to be a Roman Emperor when he was eight, stood the girl he had given his Great-aunt Calypso’s hat. The girl was trying on the hat, posing in front of the mirror. She hadn’t a stitch on.

‘Oh, hullo,’ said Hebe, surprised.

‘I was trying to—’ Rory gasped. Gosh, what a girl!—‘to catch the—he ran ahead up—’ Wasn’t she going to cover herself? ‘I was afraid Aunt Louisa might have—’

‘What?’ Hebe removed the hat, reached for a slip which she slung round her waist.

‘A headache.’ Rory gazed, fascinated.

‘No, she hasn’t. She went to bed early. She’s been gardening all day.’ Hebe was putting the hat back into its striped bag. ‘She was tired. Do you want the hat back?’

‘Oh no!’

‘What are you doing here then?’

‘I’m only—I was fishing—I put some trout—’ Rory still stared in stupefaction.

‘Where?’

‘In the refrigerator.’ She was stroking that bloody Rufus. He watched her hands fondling the animal’s head.

‘Good.’ She watched him. Was he aware he was getting an erection?

‘Could you put that hat on again?’

‘Of course.’ She took the hat out of its bag and put it on. Rory watched her back, her raised arms putting on the hat, her reflection in the mirror. She turned round.

‘Why don’t we?’ With a gentle gesture she indicated the bed. Rory had no recollection later of taking off his trousers or Hebe taking off the hat. Rufus sniffed round the room then, finding an armchair, settled in it to sleep.

Waking with the sun shining through partly drawn curtains, Rory was aware of eyes watching an inch from his face.

‘I’m very short-sighted,’ said Hebe.

‘Oh, ahh, I’ve never ever been able to do—’ He tried to speak. ‘Not properly so that I—er—not like—’

‘Well, it’s lovely, isn’t it? And you can, can’t you?’

‘Yes, oh yes, it was simply—’

‘Once more then before I get up? How would that be?’ She was not laughing at him, not mocking him as others had.

‘Wonderful. Wonderful. Wonderful,’ he sang.

She gentled him. ‘Take it slow.’

‘I’ve never been able—then suddenly seeing you in the hat I—’

‘Did your great-aunt wear it in bed?’

Rory laughed, holding Hebe in his arms. ‘My great-aunt didn’t need hats to get her going.’

‘Nor will you now.’

Presently Rory asked, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘I’m a temporary cook, one of your aunt’s indulgences. Has she never told you?’

‘No, well, yes. I’ve heard she sometimes—’

‘I’m also—’ Hebe paused.

‘What? Tell me. Also what?’ Sudden gloom seized him.

‘I’m also a prostitute. I do this for money.’ He would now leap out of bed, causing a draught, and flee. Hebe sighed, turning away, but Rory said, ‘I like the word courtesan better.’

‘Oh.’ She was surprised by his tone.

‘I can pay you. I’m quite well off.’

‘Let’s discuss that later if you want to. I have to get up and get breakfast. We could have trout. Does your aunt like trout?’

‘She says so, when I bring them.’

‘Come and talk to me while I bath.’ Hebe slid out of bed and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, an old-fashioned room, once a dressing-room converted at some pre Great War period. The bath had a mahogany surround; the lavatory also. The walls were papered with an exuberant pattern of roses. There was a small fireplace in a corner, an ottoman and an armchair covered in cretonne to match the walls; a marvellous background for Hebe, filling the bath, feeling the temperature, stepping in, lying back.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ She indicated the armchair. Rory, a bathtowel round his loins, sat.

The dog Rufus came and leaned on the mahogany surround and stared at Hebe’s face through the steam, his intention to lick, if possible, taste soap. Hebe stroked his nose with soapy fingers.

‘You spoil him.’ Rory felt a pang of envy for the dog’s proximity, his casual acceptance of Hebe’s kindness.

‘He’s a dear good dog, I like him.’

Rory sat, watching her soap her neck, sponge her face, lift feet from the water, soap her toes.

‘How did you get in?’ she asked.

‘I’m Louisa’s nephew, I know where she hides the key.’

‘I see.’

‘She lets me fish her water whenever I feel low. My name is Rory Grant.’

‘I know, it’s on the bag the hat was in.’

‘Of course, how silly of—’

‘Why do you never finish your sentences?’

‘I suppose they are not worth finishing.’

‘It could become a very irritating habit.’

‘I hadn’t—’

‘Thought. Say “thought”. Say it.’

‘You are mocking me. Thought.’

‘Good. My name is Hebe.’

‘Hebe, a pretty bush, I mean—’ Rory floundered.

‘What?’

‘Shrub, I meant shrub.’

‘You didn’t.’ Hebe stood up in the bath. ‘Could you pass me my towel. You’ve got it wrapped round you.’ She held out her hand.

‘Oh, sorry.’ He divested himself. ‘I’d better dress.’ He backed towards the door.

‘Okay. See you downstairs. I’ll give you breakfast.’

In the doorway Rory looked back at Hebe vigorously towelling. ‘So beautiful.’

‘Take Rufus down, he must be pining to pee.’

Rory pulled on his clothes, snapped his fingers at the dog and hurried downstairs. The dogs in the kitchen greeted him and Rufus with much wagging, yawns, chortling whines and growls. Rory let them out into the garden where they disappeared in the mist rising from the river, a bank of cotton wool with the sun’s shafts angling through. He stood staring, unseeing, exhilarated.

In the house Louisa switched on the seven o’clock news, quickly dousing the volume.

The dogs came back full of jollity, jostling each other, prepared for another happy day. Rory groaned in disbelief. Was this event true? Behind him in the kitchen Hebe switched on the coffee grinder, a discordant screech.

‘Ghastly noise.’ She wore a pink cotton dress and a white apron, her hair demurely brushed in its shoulder-length bob. She wore no make-up.

‘Sit down, Rory, don’t get in my way.’

‘Can’t I help?’

‘No. Just sit while I get us breakfast.’ She was terrifyingly efficient, setting the coffee to percolate, choosing a fish to cook, spreading a tablecloth, laying three places, forks, knives, spoons, cups, saucers, salt, pepper, butter, marmalade, all placed swiftly on the table, loading the toaster.

‘When you said that—’ Rory’s sentence was strangled by his nervous throat.

‘What?’

‘That you are—that you—er—that—’

‘That I’m a tart?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘I sleep with people for money. Got that? I have to earn my living. I have certain commitments like gas bills to pay.’ And, she thought, school bills. ‘The only things I’m good at, Rory, are cooking, so I take temporary cooking jobs and, as you’ve found out, fucking.’

Rory muttered in protest, ‘Lovemaking.’

‘No, Rory, not lovemaking. It’s not lovemaking, it’s—’ Hebe paused, searching for a word which would suit him.

‘What is it, if it’s not lovemaking? You’ve made me love you.’

‘This is not nineteen thirty.’ Hebe poured him coffee. ‘Milk, sugar?’

‘Both, please. What was last night, then?’

‘A free sample. If you enjoyed it and want repeats you’ll have to pay.’ Much better, thought Hebe, to get the financial bit over fast, then one could relax and enjoy. ‘Them’s my terms,’ she said lightly. ‘No money, no fuck.’

‘Don’t call it that!’ He winced.

‘Precious.’ Hebe laughed, but her mockery was not hurtful. ‘I feel very friendly,’ she said, observing Rory’s long upper lip and hare’s eyes over the rim of her cup.

‘Are there other—er—other men?’

‘Yes.’

‘Many?’

‘That’s my business. You are not likely to meet them and what you and I do has nothing to do with them, right?’

‘Right,’ said Rory bravely. ‘So what—er—what happens?’

‘I fit you in when I can.’

‘Like a dentist’s appointment.’

‘More or less.’

They both were laughing when Louisa came into the kitchen. ‘Hullo, Rory.’ She kissed him as he stood up. ‘You’re up early. Any luck on the river? Oh, I see you’ve had a good morning.’ She eyed the fish Hebe had ready in the pan. ‘How delicious, trout for breakfast. I see you’ve met Hebe. Am I not lucky to have Hebe for a couple of weeks? All the glorious food without the bother of travelling to France.’ Her quick eyes skimmed Rory’s unshaven face. ‘What time did you get here? The dogs didn’t bark.’

‘No, they didn’t.’ He looked embarrassed.

‘Coffee?’ Hebe held the pot aloft.

‘Yes, please,’ Louisa accepted. ‘Someone at the door, I think.’ Rufus growled and the other dogs set up a loud cacophony.

‘Quiet!’ shouted Louisa. ‘Quiet, you beasts.’

Hebe went to the back door. A uniformed constable stood outside.

‘Anybody here got a Volvo registration, er—’ He consulted his notebook.

‘Yes, it’s mine,’ said Rory, standing up.

‘Parked in a rather dodgy place, if I may say so. Morning, Mrs Fox.’ He saluted Louisa.

‘Good morning, Constable. Like a cup of coffee?’

‘No, thank you all the same.’

‘I’ll move it.’ Rory pushed past the policeman.

‘Quite a lot of traffic along that road, people going to work. You left the window down; the night dew won’t have done it any good.’

‘Or harm, either,’ Rory shouted over his shoulder.

‘Come back for your breakfast when you’ve moved it,’ Louisa called after him. ‘Goodbye, Constable.’ She watched his retreating back then turned back into the kitchen. ‘Well, now we can have breakfast in peace.’ She smiled at Hebe, cooking the trout. She did not expect Hebe to answer and Hebe was obligingly silent, thereby rising several notches in Louisa’s esteem, one of her beloved husband’s maxims having been ‘Never explain, never apologise’.

‘I
WAS WONDERING’—LOUISA
put down her napkin—‘whether I could ask you to do my shopping, Hebe. I do so hate Salisbury when it is full of tourists. Would it be very selfish to ask you to do it?’

‘Of course not.’ Hebe, who had been silent through breakfast, wondering whether her new acquaintance with Louisa’s nephew would endanger her job, met Louisa’s eyes. ‘Have you much to be done?’

‘One or two things I have ordered and my library books changed.’

‘Could I do—that? I hardly know your taste in reading.’

‘I read thrillers,’ Louisa answered. ‘Crimies—the more complex the better. I never understand the plots but find them excellent soporifics, better than Mogadon. You will be more than able to choose for me. Not American, though.’

‘And not bacon and egg.’ Rory, who had reached the erroneous conclusion that his aunt believed he had got up early, spoke with the knowledge of years. ‘Louisa objects to traces of other people’s breakfasts in library books, bits of egg, tea stains, crumbs.’ His eyes swivelled from Hebe to Louisa.

‘I also object to the prudes who cross out four-letter words like “shit” and “fuck,”’ said Louisa primly, ‘and those who correct grammatical errors and write in the margins.’

‘Tell you what,’ exclaimed Rory, ‘I could—’

‘What could you?’ Louisa watched Rory’s surprise at his own temerity. He is going to offer to drive her.

‘I could drive—er—Hebe in and—er—give her a lift back when I come back to fish.’

‘Shall you be fishing this evening?’ Louisa affected surprise.

‘Yes,’ said Rory. ‘The weather’s—er—propitious.’

‘Splendid. How glad I am that I have a deep freeze. Would that arrangement suit you, Hebe?’

Hebe nodded. ‘I might find something special for dinner,’ she said.

‘So you might.’ Louisa stood up. ‘I shall spend an uninterrupted day in the garden. Have a good time. No need to hurry back.’ She left the kitchen followed by her dogs.

‘I could give you—’

‘What?’

‘Lunch.’ Rory forced the word out as though it were dangerous.