Harnessing Peacocks (25 page)

‘Hullo.’ Rory smiled cheerfully. ‘Good morning.’

There was nothing good about it. Mungo swung his legs off the bed and tottered to the bathroom. His head was throbbing, his mouth felt like a grouted roof, he felt dizzy. Rory joined him. ‘I’ll get some tea.’ They urinated together. Rory flushed the lavatory. Rory looked bright-eyed, alert, healthy. He said, ‘You look revolting.’ He appeared concerned.

‘I feel it,’ Mungo grunted.

‘Go back to bed while I dress, then I will get breakfast.’ Rory guided Mungo back to bed. ‘I’ll get you an aspirin.’ Mungo lay back with a groan. Rory brought a glass of water and aspirin. ‘Take two, come on, swallow.’ He had taken charge.

Mungo lay hoping the aspirin would work, listening in disgust to his cousin shave, shower, whistle, sing, clean his teeth, gargle. Rory had hit him the night before and now this. Mungo felt middle-aged, resentful, jealous. Rory brought strong Indian tea, sat beside the bed and persuaded him to drink two large cups. ‘You are dehydrated, you must—’

‘I must go to Louisa’s,’ Mungo muttered.

‘We will go together,’ said Rory firmly.

Mungo was too weak to protest.

‘There’s no hurry.’ Rory still looked concerned. ‘We will have something to eat and go to—er—gether. I won’t—er—I won’t sneak off without—’

‘Me?’

‘No.’

Mungo felt a vicious desire to do something unpleasant to Rory for playing so fair. Had he not had the intention of doing just that, reaching Hebe first? Drinking his tea he sneaked a look at Rory, who looked young and, oh God, spry in clean jeans and white T-shirt which flattered his hazel eyes. His freshly washed hair, though thinning in front, curled jauntily at the back. He looked what he was, young.

‘Take your time,’ said Rory, in the voice of one talking to an invalid. ‘Have a bath, borrow anything you want.’

‘My bag is in my car,’ said Mungo grumpily.

‘Give me your keys; I will get it for you. When you have had a bath and changed you will feel better.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ Mungo shouted.

‘No, no.’ Rory took the car keys and disappeared with the tea tray, presently returning with Mungo’s bag. ‘It’s a beautiful day. We will eat in the garden when you are ready. There is no hurry.’

How dare he be so nice? Mungo was consumed with self-pity. Trying to whip up his hatred he only succeeded in breaking into an alcoholic sweat. One way and another he had overdone the booze during the last few days. I am not a real drinker, he told himself.

When Mungo came downstairs Rory had laid a table under a tree in the garden. ‘Brunch,’ he said to Mungo heartily.

They sat down to orange juice, kidneys and bacon, fresh rolls, butter, bitter marmalade and strong coffee. They ate in silence, watched by a robin which ventured on to the table, helping itself to crumbs. Mungo felt a pang of envy for his cousin’s mode of life.

‘You live very comfortably,’ he said grudgingly. Rory looked at him, nervously cleared his throat and said:

‘Alone.’

‘But you do what you want.’

‘Within reason,’

They had finished their meal. Mungo felt almost human. They sat watching the robin hop among the plates, flash back into the tree, return when Rory crumbled a piece of toast.

‘Tell me,’ began Rory, ‘um, tell me about—’

‘Hebe?’

‘Yes.’ Rory blushed. Sure of himself with Mungo hungover, he was unsure with Mungo recovered. ‘Six years?’ He shied away from the thought.

‘Alison,’ began Mungo, ‘was looking for someone to cook for my ma when the dragon housekeeper has her hols. She found Hebe, recommended by an old girl who had worked for Aunt Louisa at one time. I met Hebe in her capacity of cook. I fell in love with her.’

‘Love.’ Could one in charity imagine Mungo in love? It seemed doubtful to Rory.

Mungo helped himself to more coffee. Rory waited.

‘I found,’ Mungo went on, ‘that she was willing to sleep with me if I paid, that her conditions were like any other tart.’

‘She isn’t a tart.’

‘She is. Conditions, money in advance. Fair enough, I said, to that, but the other conditions make her different. I don’t call her as I would any other call girl—’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Rory primly.

‘Actually I don’t either,’ Mungo admitted. ‘
She
would arrange dates.
She
found the flat we go to.
She
tells me when and for how long we may be together,
I
haven’t the foggiest idea where she lives, there’s only this Pakistani shop which forwards—’

‘She sounds as bossy as—’ Rory hesitated.

‘Alison. I know, but not the way she sets about it. It took me three years before I realised she had suggested, planted the seed if you like, of anything she wanted to do. When
she
wanted to go to Greece I found
I
wanted to take her there. My firm has connections so it’s easy. Same with Venice and Rome. She never suggests Paris for some reason. I have suggested Paris but no, she won’t.’ Mungo sighed. ‘I go to Paris alone or take Alison.’

‘Nice for Alison.’ Rory’s voice was downbeat.

‘Alison doesn’t really go for French food. Now Hebe, you can’t fault her on food.’

‘She is a cook, she—’

‘I know, I know, but she
knows
, she talks about food like a restaurateur.’

‘Perhaps she comes from a—’

‘No, no, Hebe’s what my ma calls a lady. One of us, you know what a snob she is.’

‘Almost as bad as mine.’

Rory, momentarily distracted, thought of their mothers. Mungo thought of the joys of Hebe in London, Rome, Venice, that island in Greece. He sighed. ‘I love the girl,’ he said heavily.

‘So do I.’ Rory stated his feelings obstinately.

‘We read aloud to each other,’ said Mungo. ‘We play backgammon.’

This piece of information disturbed Rory dreadfully, revealing a depth of intimacy infinitely more alarming than sex.

Mungo shifted his chair, disturbing the robin. ‘One doesn’t like to link money with love,’ he said, ‘but if one does I warn you, Rory, keeping Hebe is like having a third son at school. Six weeks a year. For that I could have another son.’

‘Do you want another son?’

‘God forbid.’

‘I have no sons. I’m not bothered. Besides, you say you charge her to expenses. That’s pretty sordid and morally wrong.’ Rory was on the attack.

‘Last night you were all for it.’

‘Last night I had a few drinks and last night you were suggesting your sons, your well educated sons, should join—’

‘The Syndicate? Does she really call it a Syndicate?’ Had Rory been pulling his leg?

‘Yes,’ Rory admitted sadly.

‘I wonder who the other members are?’

‘We may know them.’ Rory was not pleased with this thought.

‘Aren’t we wasting time? Are we not going to see the girl, was not that the idea last night?’

‘Last night we were both going to marry her, today you seem to be content to keep her as your mistress. I still want to marry her.’ Rory began clearing the breakfast table. ‘Help me with this,’ he said sharply to his cousin.

Mungo helped stack the remains of their meal on to a tray which Rory carried into the house.

‘Suppose I make you an offer, buy you out?’ Rory brought out the sentence in a rush. Could he borrow from the Bank perhaps, a sexual mortgage?

‘You must be joking,’ said Mungo haughtily.

‘She might be—er—she might be—’

‘What?’ Mungo snarled.

‘Pleased,’ Rory stacked the plates in the dishwasher, ‘to get rid of you.’

Mungo tried a sarcastic laugh. This was an awful thought not to be voiced.

‘What about the forty-six weeks a year she is not with you?’ Rory mustered courage. If only he could undermine Mungo’s self-confidence.

‘She cooks.’

‘Only occasionally for your ma and Aunt Louisa, Louisa told me. Six weeks with your ma, that leaves forty, and about three to four with Aunt Louisa, that leaves thirty-six for the rest of them.’

‘Who?’

‘The Syndicate, you fool,’ Rory shouted in exasperation. ‘Just think, she—’

‘She must be a millionaire,’ said Mungo in admiration.

‘All you think of is money.’ Rory, outraged, stared at his cousin.

‘All I think of,’ Mungo stared back at Rory, ‘all I think,’ he said quietly, ‘is what I may lose.’

The two men looked at one another, full of unvoiced thoughts of Hebe’s skin, eyes, mouth, hair, thighs, her laughter, her manner of giving, her voice, her talent for making them feel supermen.

‘Come on,’ said Mungo.

‘Right,’ said Rory.

They drove out of Salisbury in silence. To Mungo the unspeakable thought of his clumsy young cousin fucking Hebe was distracting. Never allowed to swear or use four-letter words by Alison, he habitually used them to himself and outside her ambience. To Rory the vision of Mungo lying on top of Hebe with his, with his, oh God, with his thing up her was an obscene vision which would not go away. As he drove he wondered vaguely whether it would be first-degree murder if he killed Mungo, if he had the guts to do so, how to set about it.

‘There’s a hell of a lot of traffic on this road,’ said Mungo, remarking on what was obvious, a heavily congested road.

‘The races. Salisbury races.’

‘More like an air-show. Anyway, can’t we get off this bloody road? You live here, you ought to know.’

‘No short cuts, only very—’

‘Very what?’ How can Hebe consider this ass? It’s crazy, I must tell her it’s madness, he can’t churn out a single sentence.

‘Only very long cuts. You know, narrow and—er—winding.’

‘Are they full of traffic?’

‘No—nothing because you can’t—’

‘Can we get to Louisa that way?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then get us off this road. Can’t you see, it’s jammed for miles. We will never get cracking along here.’

‘You can’t pass anything on the narrow—’

‘You said there was no traffic on them. There will be nothing to pass.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Rory swung the car into a narrow lane which wound charmingly along a flattish valley. The lane ran back and forth, crossing and re-crossing a graceful chalk stream. Cows looked up in ruminative surprise, Rory slowed to let a pheasant pass. It was a lane unchanged since the era of the horse and cart.

‘What shall we say to Aunt Louisa? I usually only turn up in the—er—’

‘What?’

‘Evening, to fish.’

‘No good fishing in full sunlight, any fool knows that. Old Louisa’s no fool.’

‘She’ll—er—smell—’

‘She’s already smelt it,’ snarled Mungo. ‘Don’t be an oaf. She sided with Hebe last night, practically saw us off, treated us as though we’d come to rape the girl.’

‘Wasn’t that what you, what you—’ Rory who was driving swivelled hare’s eyes to look at Mungo.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ yelled Mungo. Rory braked and stopped the car. The lane was blocked by a shiny Rover, its wings jammed into the mudguards of a Land Rover, the machines interlocked like fighting dogs.

‘Accident,’ said Mungo, stating the obvious. He opened the door of the car and got out. Rory followed.

The Land Rover contained some bales of hay, bags of fertiliser and a pitchfork. There was no sign of a driver. By the side of the road, sitting on the grass, an ancient couple and a Labrador dog. The Labrador wore the customary expression of such dogs—just say what you want and I will try to oblige if it is within my humble capacity. The couple stood up, expunging from their faces exasperation, anger and impatience, to greet Mungo and Rory with the reserved half-smiles of country gentry. They were dressed for a function. The woman wore a longish dress of flowered silk, over it a thick silk coat of navy blue, white shoes, white gloves and a hat which made Rory flinch. If there was one thing which upset his sensibilities it was plastic cherries. She wore a double row of pearls, a diamond brooch and good rings. Her husband wore morning dress of dated cut.

‘See you have had a bit of a smash,’ Mungo suggested, moving towards them.

On hearing Mungo’s impeccable vowels the elderly couple smiled with less reserve.

‘Driving too fast, always in a hurry these fellows,’ said the elderly man.

‘I see. Anybody gone for help?’

‘A—er—a young woman went for help,’ said the man. His hands trembled as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, then smoothed his trousers which had grown uncomfortable as he sat. Mungo wondered whether the old-fashioned expression ‘adjusting his dress’, which was what the man was doing, was still used. He noted with interest that the old fellow’s trousers had fly buttons, not a zip.

‘Where’s the driver of this?’ Rory slapped the Land Rover with a comradely hand.

‘We have waited hours.’ The elderly lady looked at her watch. ‘We have been here since dawn.’

‘They won’t want to know how long we’ve been here,’ snapped her husband, putting her in her place.

‘The driver of that thing got tired of waiting,’ said his wife, her voice tremulous.

‘She said she would tell the AA to come,’ said the husband. ‘They are usually reliable.’

‘But
she
never was,’ said his wife bitterly.

‘So a friend went for help?’ Rory brightened.

‘She said she would tell the AA.’

‘Well, someone will be along soon.’ Mungo was impatient to get on.

‘I told you nothing can pass along this lane,’ Rory shouted at Mungo in exasperation.

‘So only locals use it. I suppose the Land Rover’s local?’ Realisation was dawning.

‘Yes,’ they spoke in unison. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘I shall have to back all the way to the main road.’ Rory was furious. Then, remembering his manners, he said, ‘We will tell the AA to rescue you.’

‘We’d better write down the car numbers,’ said Mungo, making an attempt to be practical, ‘although your friend will have told them already.’ He found a pencil and walked round the car and the Land Rover, writing their numbers on the back of an envelope.

‘I expect your dog wants his dinner.’ Rory made a feeble try at amiability.

‘She drove away and left us on purpose.’ The woman spoke through clenched teeth. Rory was startled to see tears in her eyes. ‘She will not have told the AA.’ Then, recovering, she said, ‘He has his dinner at night.’ Her smile was socially pure. ‘I have it for him in the car. It is we who shall miss our luncheon. My husband was to have made a speech.’