The Peacock Summer

by Hannah Richell

  Lillian blushes furiously, grateful for the cover of darkness. ‘Well if that’s what they’re saying I suppose it must be true.’ She clears her throat. ‘So what is it that you do, Mister . . . ?’ she asks, hastily changing the subject, suddenly horrified at the thought of revealing herself.

  ‘Fincher,’ he says. ‘Jack Fincher. I’m an artist,’ he adds, a hint of apology in his voice.

  ‘An artist?’ Lillian has not expected this reply. ‘Are you any good?’

  The man gives a wry smile. ‘If I say “yes”, you will think me horribly conceited. And if I say “no”, you’ll probably vanish at the earliest possible opportunity and find someone far more interesting to talk to.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want me to vanish?’ she asks, once more surprised at her daring.

  ‘No,’ he says, holding her gaze. ‘I wouldn’t want you to vanish.’

  There is a loud splashing sound from somewhere behind them. Raucous whoops rise up into the air, the fountain claiming its first victim of the night; but Lillian doesn’t turn around. She can’t seem to pull her gaze from the man standing before her. ‘So are you?’ she asks again, after a long moment. ‘Any good?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ve enjoyed a little success.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Lillian toasts him with her champagne glass.

  The man leans in, lowering his voice. ‘My suspicion is that Charles Oberon has invited me here to undertake a family portrait. Something for the wife’s birthday, perhaps?’

  Lillian swallows. ‘Should I assume from your tone that you don’t like painting portraits?’

  ‘There aren’t many working artists who can afford to turn down a commission from a rich patron; but I prefer to paint what I feel – what inspires me. Painting portraits for the rich and privileged, so that they might hang another vanity object upon their walls . . . well, that sort of art doesn’t interest me much.’

  Lillian is still staring at him, surprised at the man’s honesty, when a figure appears beside them. ‘Aha!’ says Charles, making them both start with his booming voice. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding,’ he says, addressing Lillian. ‘I see you’ve met Mr Fincher?’

  Lillian takes a step towards her husband, her heart fluttering at Charles’s sudden interruption. ‘Not formally,’ she says, wishing she could avoid the awkward revelation that she knows is imminent.

  ‘In that case allow me.’ He gestures at the artist. ‘Meet Jack Fincher, touted by The Times as one of the most exciting young artists working in Britain today.’

  Jack shakes Charles’s outstretched hand, frowning. ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Oh come now, there’s no need for modesty. “A bold virtuoso of the new order”, isn’t that what the critics are calling you?’ Charles doesn’t seem to require an answer and carries on with the introductions. ‘Mr Fincher, allow me to introduce my wife, Lillian Oberon.’

  If Jack Fincher is alarmed to learn Lillian’s identity he hides it well; the only sign of surprise is the high arch of one eyebrow as he takes her hand in his and says, ‘Mrs Oberon. It’s a pleasure.’

  A smile plays on the artist’s lips. He holds her hand firmly, his fingers warm against her cool skin. At his touch, she feels the current of something pass between them and tries but fails to hold his gaze. She drops her hand.

  ‘I’m so glad you could join us this evening,’ continues Charles, his attention fixed on Fincher. ‘I’m a great admirer of your work. I’m already the proud owner of one of your earlier paintings. It hangs in pride of place in my study here.’ He turns to Lillian. ‘Somerset Glory. You know the one, don’t you, darling?’

  Lillian nods, although truthfully she has no idea which painting he is referring to. Charles is forever bringing home some new object or curiosity to display around the house and his study is not a room she frequents often.

  ‘You trained at the Slade,’ continues Charles, keen to impress his knowledge upon them both, ‘then worked as a war artist.’

  Jack Fincher nods, seemingly both flattered and a little embarrassed that his host should appear to know so much about him.

  ‘I served myself,’ says Charles. ‘Royal Artillery.’ He pauses for a moment then seems to gather himself. ‘I enjoy your work, Mr Fincher. There’s a playfulness to it . . . those glorious rural scenes with their hidden motifs . . . the dreamlike quality of your paintings. The trompe l’oeil. Very clever.’ Charles puffs contentedly on his cigar. ‘Yes, I enjoy it very much.’

  Lillian stands silently at her husband’s side, feeling like a spare part. She wonders if she should slip away and leave them to their conversation, but as if sensing her discomfort, Charles reaches out and takes her hand, fixing her there.

  The artist clears his throat. ‘Thank you. I haven’t been in your charming home long but I can see you’re quite a collector. Not just paintings but some . . . interesting antiques too?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ laughs Charles. ‘Porcelain, birds, furs, insects, furniture . . .’ he lets go of Lillian’s hand and slings his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, ‘. . . women. I can’t seem to help myself. I’m a fool for beauty. A family weakness. Would you believe,’ continues Charles, warming to his subject, ‘that my father started Oberon & Son with just two thousand pounds, leasing one small shop front on Bond Street? Others laughed at his ambition to create a fanciful “bazaar” right there in the capital, but he soon proved them wrong. I can still remember the day he sat me on his knee and told me, “Charles, my boy, in this life you have to set the fashions, not follow them.” He filled the shop with the weird and the wonderful – ornaments and fabrics, clothes and furnishings – and London couldn’t get enough of it. My father was a self-made man, and aren’t we all glad of it?’ he says, looking around with obvious satisfaction at the party unfolding around them.

  Lillian tunes out of Charles’s soliloquy. She has heard his potted history of the late Max Oberon’s business success many times before. Instead, she watches the artist as he listens to her husband. In the dim light of the swaying Chinese lanterns, it’s hard to read his expression but once, as Charles’s gaze drifts out across the lawn, she sees his dark eyes slide across to her and wonders if she imagines the slightest twitch of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘. . . Of course we now occupy premises five times the size. My father bought this house as his country retreat – a playground, he liked to call it.’ He twirls his moustache thoughtfully between his fingers. ‘We’ve been through some difficult times; the wars hit us hard, and my father’s passing was a terrible blow. But business is bouncing back. There’s an undeniable feeling of optimism, wouldn’t you say? The end of rationing . . . the rebuilding of the city . . . a young queen and a new prime minister. Here we are, 1955, and finally it feels as though we’re a country on the up again.’

  ‘I only have to look around at the evening you have so generously laid on to know that you’re right,’ says the artist.

  Charles smiles, pleased by the compliment. ‘I’m glad you came, Mr Fincher,’ he continues, rubbing his hands together briskly, suddenly business-like. ‘You see, I’ve had a rather good idea and I think you might be just the man to help me with it.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ says Jack, turning to Lillian, as if to draw her back into the conversation; but Lillian remains silent. She has no idea what Charles is planning. This is her husband’s stage.

  A waiter appears with champagne. Charles thrusts fresh glasses into their hands. Lillian can see the excitement building in his face – a little boy with a secret to spill. This, she knows, is her husband at his most appealing: Charles throwing his ideas out onto the breeze like paper planes, confident they will take flight.

  ‘My father had always intended for Cloudesley to be a home where we might store and enjoy our own private treasures,’ he continues. ‘And of course, what every great collection needs is the right space for display. I need a room dedicated to my most valuable artefacts, a place to show them off to the
ir full advantage – perhaps even to the public.’

  Jack is nodding politely, although Lillian can see he is confused. ‘It’s a good idea,’ he says, ‘though I’m not sure how I . . .’

  ‘The more I thought about it,’ says Charles, interrupting, ‘the more I realised just how wonderful the opportunity was. I want this collection room at Cloudesley to be as beautiful as the objects themselves. And,’ says Charles, pausing for dramatic effect, ‘I think you’re just the artist to create it for me.’ Charles leans back against the stone balustrade, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘You’d like me to paint a room here at Cloudesley?’

  ‘Please,’ says Charles, waving his cigar, ‘I wouldn’t insult an artist of your talent with such a suggestion. I’d call in the decorators if this were about a change of wallpaper or a new coat of paint.’ Seeing Jack’s confusion, he tries again. ‘You’re familiar, I assume, with the Elizabethan fashion for painted rooms?’

  Jack nods slowly.

  Charles takes a long drag on his cigar and lets the smoke drift from his half-open mouth. ‘I want to give you a room here at Cloudesley and I’d like you to treat the walls, the ceiling, the entire room as your canvas. I want you to create a visual experience . . . a gilded chamber. I want a jewellery box of a room. A space fit for my finest treasures. No expense to be spared.’

  Jack Fincher is shaking his head, clearly bewildered. ‘And what exactly would you want this room to look like?’

  ‘Well that, my dear chap, will be entirely up to you. You’ll have free rein. Let your imagination run wild.’

  Lillian can see the artist’s frown but Charles ploughs on regardless. ‘I thought you might like to lodge here for the summer. Treat it like a residence. I’ll be your benevolent patron; isn’t that what you bohemian types call it?’ Charles looks around at them both, smiling, willing them to indulge him in his vision.

  Lillian glances from Charles to the artist again. A whole summer with this man lodging at Cloudesley? The thought is unsettling. It feels as though the blood is moving too fast through her veins.

  ‘The Chilterns are beautiful in the summer – quite the welcome breath of fresh air after London,’ he continues.

  Jack clears his throat. ‘I don’t know what to say . . .’

  ‘I will pay you, of course. Generously.’ He lets the last word hang in the air with pointed emphasis.

  ‘This is all rather surprising.’

  ‘You’ll find, Mr Fincher, that I like to think a little bigger than most. But if that’s not enough for you, we can always throw in a portrait or two of the good wife here? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Lillian?’ says Charles, squeezing her arm. ‘Something to hang in your room, perhaps, for us to enjoy when your beauty has faded?’

  Lillian feels the blood rise in her cheeks and can’t help glancing across at the artist. She assumes from the way he doesn’t quite meet her eye that he too is remembering the dismissive manner in which he’d spoken of a portrait.

  ‘There’s no need to decide now,’ Charles adds quickly. ‘Enjoy the party. Lillian will open the room for you in the morning.’

  Lillian glances at Charles in surprise. ‘I had intended to visit Helena—’

  Charles doesn’t appear to hear her. ‘It’s a charming space over in the west wing,’ he continues.

  ‘The west wing?’ asks Lillian. ‘But we hardly use those rooms.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Lillian studies Charles. ‘Which room were you thinking of?’

  ‘The old nursery,’ says Charles.

  Lillian continues to stare at Charles, a rush of emotion rising up from the pit of her stomach; but her husband, oblivious, remains focused on Jack. ‘Just promise me you’ll take a look? The room enjoys the most wonderful morning light.’

  Jack nods, seemingly out of excuses. ‘Of course.’

  Bentham has arrived while they’ve been talking, hovering discreetly at Charles’s shoulder. Lillian sees him lean in and speak to her husband in a low voice. Charles smiles and claps his hands together. ‘Wonderful! Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Eden has arrived and I really must go and say hello to our dashing new PM. Please,’ he says, taking Lillian by the arm and beginning to guide her away from the stone balustrade, ‘enjoy the party, Mr Fincher. Tonight, my home is a playground for you all.’

  Lillian casts a backwards glance at the artist as Charles leads her away. Her last glimpse is of him standing in the shadows, his eyes, dark and unreadable, following her back into the fray. She turns to Charles when they are a safe distance away. ‘The nursery?’ she asks, the steadiness of her voice belying the ache building at the back of her throat.

  ‘Yes,’ says Charles, looking out over her head and waving a greeting at a guest by the bar. ‘Doctor May has made it quite clear that we have no use for such a room anymore. You saw to that.’ His fingers tighten a little on her arm.

  ‘I saw to that?’ she asks, aghast.

  Charles smiles benignly as he increases the pressure on her arm, his fingers pinching tight enough to make her wince. ‘Now, now, darling. This is hardly the time or place for a scene.’

  Before she can reply, he has let her go, following Bentham through the French doors into the dining room, leaving Lillian alone in the centre of the terrace, rubbing her arm as the guests mill about her and the band plays on.

  It’s gone two in the morning when she eventually escapes, leaving the hardier guests swaying to the slow waltzes of the band and the most dutiful waiters offering cigars and nightcaps, gathering up empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. Passing the open door to the library, she sees Charles sitting with a group of men sprawled in the leather armchairs, the top buttons of their shirts undone, bowties hanging limply around their necks, a bottle of port between them and a low cloud of cigar smoke hanging in a veil above their heads. They talk in loud, overlapping voices and every so often a burst of boisterous laughter erupts into the air. There is no sign of Mr Fincher. She hopes, for both their sakes, that he has made his escape into the night.

  Upstairs, she finds Albie sprawled across his bed, still dressed in his shirt and trousers. The bedside lamp spills a pool of light onto the boy’s sleeping face. She spots the folded piece of paper on the table, with ‘For Lillian’ written in a childish scrawl. Tucked inside is a long peacock feather. Her something beautiful.

  She takes her treasure, then brushes the damp hair from Albie’s forehead, her eyes tracing the familiar curve of his cheekbone, the scattered freckles across the bridge of his nose, the long sweep of his eyelashes. Her heart aches with a deep and protective love. Not her son – not her flesh and blood – but a boy she loves as fiercely as any mother could. Lying there, he looks younger than his eight years; softer and somehow more vulnerable, the little-boy rough-and-tumble erased in sleep. She knows the world he faces can be hard and cruel. ‘Stay soft,’ she wills him. ‘Stay gentle.’

  Albie, sensing her presence, stirs and half-opens his eyes. ‘Lillie,’ he murmurs.

  She smiles and pulls the sheet over him. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she says and switches off the bedside lamp.

  Back in the corridor a couple stagger ahead of her – one of Charles’s business associates clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and the waist of a shapely brunette – definitely not his wife – in the other. She hangs back in the doorway, watching them weave down the hall and disappear into a bedroom, their laughter muffled by the closing door. When she reaches her own room she locks the door behind her with a sigh.

  The lead-paned window beside her dressing table is still open, a soft breeze billowing the pale gauze curtain and carrying with it the faint, melancholic strains of ‘Blue Moon’. She shrugs off her heels and dress and stands naked, allowing the night air to move over her bare skin. She closes her eyes and wraps her arms around her body; tries to imagine being held by someone, being led around a dance floor, a cheek pressed tenderly to her own. With the thought, a pale face comes unexpectedly to mind.

&nbs
p; Her memory is hazy with champagne and the many people that have drifted before her all night, but if she concentrates she can still conjure his dark eyes and that wry smile. How foolish she had been to hide her identity and allow them to stumble into such awkward territory. And how lucky that Charles hadn’t discovered the silly charade that had played out between them; two strangers enjoying a mild flirtation – for that was all it was; yet she knows Charles wouldn’t have liked it.

  The music ends. Silence descends. She pulls on a silk robe and slumps at her dressing table, unclasping the pearl choker from around her neck and returning it to its velvet box. She reaches for a pot of cold cream and removes her make-up, leaning in to study her reflection in the mirror. She looks pale. There are dark shadows under her eyes and when she lifts her chin, she sees the damage the choker has concealed all night: a fading ring of violet bruises encircling her throat, each one the size of a man’s fingertip, imprinted on her skin.

  She’s still sitting there, staring at her reflection, when the scream rings out: a loud, unearthly cry breaking the silence. Aaaaaiiiiooo. Aaaaaiiiiooo.

  Lillian shudders. Those damn peacocks. Charles’s pride and joy – an ostentatious symbol of his success and, Lillian can’t help thinking privately, his vanity. All part of the showmanship Charles so excels at – the staging of their perfect life. Of course, Charles has never seemed to mind their night calling, but no matter how many times she hears the birds’ mournful cries, the sound always makes her shiver.

  She pulls her robe more tightly around her body and tries to ignore the prickling sensation on her skin; but she is still hearing their screams as she slips between the sheets of her own bed and closes her eyes.

  Lillian makes her way to the dining room at ten the following morning, hoping for tea and a moment of peace. Her head is dusty from too much champagne and too little sleep, but it’s a lovely day and she intends to escape the house and visit Helena just as soon as she can.

  By some miraculous sleight of hand, the dining room has been restored to its former incarnation. No trace of the previous night’s party remains, except for Jack Fincher seated at the table in a pool of spring sunshine. He is drinking coffee and reading the morning paper, alone but for Monty, Charles’s Irish wolfhound, lying sprawled at his feet.