Peacock Emporium (23 page)

You’re lucky, Vivi told the invisible mother in the photograph, feeling suddenly envious, thinking of how Douglas had waved her away when she had attempted once again to bring up the subject of Rosemary and her laundry. It’s easier to be a ghost. You can be romanticised, adored, can grow in the memory instead of diminish in reality. Then, pushing herself out of the chair, and noting the time, she scolded herself for the fanciful indulgence of envying the dead.

Alejandro arrived at a quarter past nine. He came in most days now but always at different times, according to the apparently random timetable of his shifts. He didn’t speak much. He didn’t even look at a newspaper. He just sat in the corner and sipped his coffee, occasionally smiling in response to Jessie’s cheerful chatter.

Jessie, never slow in striking up a conversation, had made it her mission to find out all about the man she termed ‘the Gaucho Gynae’, asking him questions in a manner that occasionally made Suzanna wince. Had he always wanted to be a midwife? Only since he realised he was not going to make the national football team. Did he like delivering babies? Yes. Did the women mind having a male midwife? Mostly no. He backed out gracefully when they did. He had found, he said, that if he wore a white coat no one batted an eyelid. Did he have a girlfriend? No. Suzanna had looked away when he answered that one, furious with herself for her faint but definite blush.

He didn’t seem to mind Jessie’s questions, although he often managed not to answer them directly. He sat close enough to the counter, Suzanna had noted, to express some degree of comfort with them. Suzanna herself made sure she was rarely close to him. He already felt, somehow, as if he were Jessie’s. As if Suzanna attempting to be equally friendly with him would make everyone uncomfortable.

‘How many babies did you deliver today?’

‘Only one.’

‘Any complications?’

‘Just a fainting father.’

‘Fantastic. What did you do?’

Alejandro had glanced down at his hands. ‘It was not very good timing. We only had time to move him out of the way.’

‘What – drag him?’

Alejandro had seemed faintly embarrassed. ‘We needed our hands. We had to push him with our feet.’

Jessie loved to hear these stories. Suzanna, more squeamishly, often had to turn up the volume of the music or invent some task in the cellar. It was all a little too close to home. But she frequently found herself staring at him, albeit surreptitiously: while his exotic appearance would have failed to hook her attention in London (in fact, it might have rendered him invisible: she would probably have assumed he was a low-paid immigrant), in the environs of the frighteningly Caucasian Suffolk town, and in the close confines of her little shop, he was a welcome breath of exoticism, a reminder of a wider world outside.

‘Did he miss the birth?’

‘Not quite. But I think he was a bit confused.’ He smiled to himself. ‘He tried to punch me when he came round, and then he called me “Mother”.’

He had told them another story, of a man who, while his wife screamed in pain, had sat at the end of the bed, calmly reading his newspaper. Alejandro had buckled under the weight of the woman, had wiped her brow, blotted her tears, while all the while her husband failed to glance up from his reading. By the time the baby was born, Alejandro said calmly, he had wanted to hit the man. But his wife, peculiarly, seemed to bear him no resentment. As the baby was placed in her arms, the husband had stood up, gazed at them both, kissed his wife’s forehead, where the sweat still cooled, and left the room. Alejandro, shocked and furious, had asked her, as tactfully as he could, whether she had been happy with her husband’s response. ‘She looked at me,’ he said, ‘and smiled a big smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. My confusion must have shown on my face, so she explained. Her husband, he had a deep terror of hospitals. But she needed him with her. They struck a deal that if he could make it into the room, just so she knew he was there, she could cope. Because he loved her, he forced himself to do it.’

‘So the moral of the story is . . .’ said Jessie.

‘Don’t judge a man by his newspaper,’ said Father Lenny, looking up from his crossword.

Jessie had wanted to do a display on him, had wanted a story about some miracle of birth (‘It kind of fits, being a newish shop and all’), but Alejandro had been reticent. He didn’t think, he said, in his quiet, courteous voice, that he could yet lay claim to being one of the shop’s regulars. There was something decisive enough in his tone for Jessie to back off. And despite her compelling charm – Suzanna thought she could probably have flirted with a brick – Alejandro had failed to fulfil any of their expectations about Latin men. He neither swaggered, nor eyed them with a swarthy intent. He didn’t even seem to have inbuilt rhythm.

‘Probably gay,’ said Jessie as, with a polite goodbye, he left for work.

‘No,’ said Suzanna, who wasn’t sure whether wishful thinking had made her say it.

Jessie had injured her hand. Suzanna hadn’t noticed it, but Arturro did when he came in for his morning espresso. ‘You hurt yourself?’ He had lifted her hand from the counter with the tenderness of one used to treating food with reverence, and turned it to the light to reveal a large purplish-brown bruise across three fingers.

‘Car door shut on me,’ said Jessie, and pulled it back with a smile. ‘Daft, aren’t I?’

There was an unexpected embarrassed silence in the shop. The bruise was awful, a livid reminder of some extreme hurt. Suzanna had glanced at Arturro’s face, noted that Jessie refused to look directly at either of them, and was ashamed that she had not noticed it. She was going to ask, thought perhaps that, if the subj ect were pursued tactfully, Jessie might confide in her, but as she ran through the possible questions in her head, she became aware that every possible variation sounded not only intrusive but crass, and possibly patronising too. ‘Arnica cream,’ she said eventually. ‘Seems to bring out the bruising quicker.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve done that. We’ve got loads of it at home.’

‘Are you sure your fingers aren’t broken?’ Arturro was still eyeing Jessie’s hand. ‘They look a bit swollen to me.’

‘No, I can move them. Look.’ She gave a gay wave of her fingers, then turned back towards the wall. ‘Who shall we put in the first display, then? I really wanted to do Alejandro, but I think that story about the baby who got given up would make everyone cry.’

‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ said Suzanna, much later, when they were alone.

‘Who?’ Jessie was working on her display after all: she had targeted Father Lenny, who had conceded with some amusement, but only if she would mention that currently he had almost two hundred battery-operated back-massagers for sale. (‘They don’t look much like back-massagers to me,’ Jessie had said, dubiously holding one up. ‘I’m a priest,’ Father Lenny had exclaimed. ‘What else would they be?’)

‘Your boyfriend. Hurt your fingers.’ She had felt it between them all afternoon – was increasingly consumed by the need for them at least to acknowledge that understanding, even if it meant Jessie would take it badly.

‘I shut them in the car door,’ said Jessie.

There was a short delay before Suzanna spoke: ‘You mean he did.’

Jessie had been in the window. She got up off her knees, and backed out of the space, careful not to dislodge any of the items on display. She lifted her hand and examined it, as if for the first time. ‘It’s really difficult to explain,’ she said.

‘Try me.’

‘He liked it when I was just at home with Emma. This all started when I did my night school. He just loses his temper because he gets insecure.’

‘Why don’t you leave?’

‘Leave?’ She looked genuinely surprised, even, perhaps, offended. ‘He’s not some wife-beater, Suzanna.’

Suzanna raised her eyebrows.

‘Look, I know him, and this isn’t really him. He just feels threatened because I’m getting an education and he thinks that means I’m going to bugger off. And now there’s this place, and that’s something new as well. I probably don’t help matters – you know I’m a terrible one for talking to everyone. Sometimes I probably don’t consider how it looks to him . . .’ She gazed meditatively at her half-finished window display. ‘Look, once he sees nothing’s going to change, he’ll go back to how he was. Don’t forget, Suzanna, I know him. We’ve been together ten years. This is not the Jason I know.’

‘I just don’t see that there’s ever an excuse for it.’

‘I’m not making excuses. I’m explaining. There’s a difference. Look, he knows he’s done wrong. Don’t think I’m some cowering little victim. We just fight, and when we fight sometimes we fight nasty. I give as good as I get, you know.’

In the long silence, the atmosphere in the shop seemed to contract. Suzanna said nothing, fearful of how it might sound, conscious that even in her silence she was making some kind of judgement.

Jessie leant back against one of the tables, and looked squarely at her. ‘Okay, what is it that really bothers you about this?’

Suzanna’s voice, when it came out, was small. ‘The effect it might have on Emma? What it’s teaching her?’

‘You think I’d let anyone lay a hand on Emma? You think I’d stay in the house if I thought Jason might lay a hand on her?’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘That – that . . . I don’t know . . . I’m just uncomfortable with any kind of violence,’ said Suzanna.

‘Violence? Or passion?’

‘What?’

It was the first time Jessie’s face had darkened. ‘You don’t like passion, Suzanna. You like things neatly packaged. You like to keep things buttoned up. And that’s fine. That’s your choice. But me and Jason, we’re just honest about what we feel – when we love, we really love. But when we fight, we really fight. There aren’t any half-measures. And do you know what? I’m more comfortable with this – even with the odd busted hand,’ here she held up her wrist, ‘than the opposite, which is feeling so not bothered by someone that you lead this sort of cool, polite,
parallel life
with each other. Have sex once a week. Hell, once a month. Fight quietly so you don’t wake the kids. What’s that teaching anyone about life?’

‘The two things don’t necessarily . . .’ Suzanna tailed off, mid-sentence. Intellectually, she knew she could have disputed the sense in what Jessie had said, however forcefully it had been put, but even though it had not been meant maliciously, there was something so profoundly discomfiting about it that Suzanna could hardly speak. In Jessie’s description of the relationship she didn’t want, the relationship she found more frightening than violence, than a busted hand, Suzanna had clearly seen herself and Neil.

It had been almost a relief that afternoon when Vivi appeared: Suzanna and Jessie, while outwardly polite, had lost a certain spontaneity in their dealings with each other, as if the conversation had been too premature for their infant friendship to survive its honesty. Arturro had drunk his coffee unusually quickly and, with a nervous thank-you, had left. Two other customers had talked loudly in the corner, oblivious, temporarily masking the long silences. But now that they were gone it had become painfully apparent that Jessie’s normal chattiness had been deadened, replaced by the sense that she was measuring everything she said. Suzanna, making an uncharacteristic effort to talk to her customers as an attempt to bypass the strained atmosphere, found herself greeting Vivi with an unusual warmth, which Vivi, flushed with pleasure at being hugged, had eagerly returned.

‘So, this is it!’ she exclaimed, several times, in the doorway. ‘Aren’t you clever?’

‘Hardly,’ said Suzanna. ‘It’s only a few chairs and tables.’

‘But look at your lovely colours! All these pretty things!’ She bent and examined the shelves. ‘They’re all exquisite. And so nicely arranged. I did want to come by – but I know you don’t like to feel we’re all breathing down your neck. And the couple of times I did come past you looked like you were busy . . . anyway. The Peacock Emporium,’ she said, slowly reading a label. ‘Oh, Suzanna, I’m so proud of you. It really is like nothing else around.’

It was as if, Suzanna thought, her burst of warmth evaporating, Vivi could never gauge the correct level of emotion: her over-enthusiasm left the recipient unable to accept it gracefully. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ She motioned to the blackboard listing, in an attempt to disguise her feelings.

‘I’d love one. Do you make them all yourself?’

Suzanna fought the urge to raise her eyebrows. ‘Well. Yes.’

Vivi sat carefully on one of the blue chairs and gazed over at the cushions on the pew. ‘You’ve used that fabric I gave you from the attic’

‘Oh, that. Yes.’

‘It looks much better here. It could be almost contemporary, couldn’t it, that print? You’d never think it was over thirty years old. An old boyfriend gave it to me. Am I all right here? Not in anyone’s way?’ She was holding her handbag in front of her with both hands, in the manner of a nervous elderly lady.

‘It’s a shop, Mum. You’re allowed to sit anywhere. Oh, Jessie, this is my mum, Vivi. Mum, Jessie.’

‘Nice to meet you. I’ll do your coffee,’ said Jessie, who was behind the machine. ‘What would you like?’

‘What would you recommend?’

Oh, for God’s sake, thought Suzanna.

‘The
latte
is nice, if you don’t like it too strong. Or we do a mocha, with chocolate in it.’

‘A mocha, I think. I’ll treat myself.’

‘We’ll need to top up on the chocolate flakes, Suzanna. Would you like me to get some more?’

‘It’s okay,’ she said, acutely conscious of Jessie’s new formality. ‘I’ll get some.’

‘No problem. I can go now.’

‘No, really. I’ll get them.’ Her own voice sounded wrong, too insistent – like someone’s boss.

‘It really is stunning. You’ve completely changed the look of it. And you’ve got such an individual eye!’ Vivi was gazing around her. ‘I love the smells, the coffee and the – what is it? Oh, soap. And perfume. Aren’t they beautiful? I shall tell all my friends to get their soaps here.’

Normally, Suzanna noted, Jessie would already have seated herself with Vivi, would be bombarding her with questions. She was instead focused on the coffee machine, her bruised hand now hidden under an overlong sleeve.