The Peacock Summer

by Hannah Richell

  ‘All the things he loved about me were the things that kept me from him. He could never see that.’ Lillian gazes into the empty hearth. ‘But he was so wonderful with Helena that day.’

  Maggie frowns. She hasn’t heard Lillian mention her late sister in years.

  ‘I wish I had known then to be braver – to at least try.’

  ‘You are brave, Gran. One of the bravest people I know.’ It’s true, Maggie thinks. The only time she has ever seen her grandmother cry was on learning of Helena’s death. Lillian had always been the very definition of stoic.

  Lillian shakes her head. ‘We should have left that day. Left and never looked back.’

  Maggie doesn’t know what to say to this. She senses Lillian has wandered again into distant memories, so she waits with her a while longer, quietly tidying the room, lighting lamps and pulling the curtains shut. By the time she has finished, Lillian is close to sleep. ‘Good night,’ she says, leaning over to kiss her forehead. ‘Thank you for making me go to the show today.’

  Upstairs in her own room, the silence of the house settles around her. Maggie sits on the bed and looks around at the mess of her youth scattered about the room: the tangle of scarves draped over the dressing table, her favourite leather jacket hanging on the back of the door, a cluster of discarded boots and shoes spilling from the wardrobe, a basket of old lipsticks and eyeshadows on the windowsill, the photo montage tacked to a gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace.

  One image in particular draws her eye. Bonfire Night a few years ago. She and Gus stand together at the village tennis court, their faces pressed close, smiling into the camera lens. Maggie wears a red wool hat, her hair long and loose around her shoulders with Gus beside her, his arm around her, their noses and cheeks glowing in the cold air. It had been taken the autumn after she’d finished art college when she’d returned to Cloud Green for Lillian’s birthday – a quiet November day, with the two of them playing cards and sharing a slightly disastrous cake Maggie had baked herself. As the evening had drawn in, they’d switched on the television and Lillian had sat nodding off in her chair until Maggie’s phone had beeped.

  Why aren’t you at the fireworks? Get yourself down here. There’s free booze!

  Lillian hadn’t seemed to mind at all. ‘I do like those boys. Go and enjoy yourself.’

  Maggie had cycled to the tennis courts where the milling crowds awaited the display. She’d seen Gus almost straight away. ‘Hello, stranger,’ she’d said, pushing through the throng to get to him.

  Gus had wrapped her in a hug. ‘I knew the free booze would get you down here.’

  ‘No Will?’ she’d asked, looking around.

  ‘Not tonight. He’s got some big legal project on that’s keeping him in London.’

  She’d tried not to mind that she only had one of the Mortimer boys for the night, focusing instead on Gus and how lovely it was to see him again.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he’d asked. ‘You’re shivering.’ Before she could answer, he was pulling off his woollen scarf and tying it around her neck.

  ‘You’ll freeze,’ she’d protested.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  She’d buried her face in the scarf, breathing in the indefinable scent of Gus. ‘It’s nice. I might have to pinch it off you.’

  ‘It looks good on you,’ he’d said, and although he was smiling, there was a look in his eyes that had made her glance away.

  They’d stayed together for the fireworks, drinking warm cider and mingling with friends and neighbours. She’d insisted on giving the scarf back, but a little later, when he’d noticed her shivering again, he’d stood behind her, and wrapped her in his arms, drawing her close as they watched the fireworks explode across the night sky, Maggie acutely aware of him at her back, the pressure of him drawing her into him. It had felt good and safe.

  As the fireworks had built towards a final crescendo, as small children had laughed and squealed around them, writing their names with sparklers in the air, he’d spun her around, and though his face was cast in darkness, she’d seen his eyes fixed intently on hers. Her smile had faltered. Did this mean what she thought it did? Gus . . . and her? But then there was no more time for thinking because his face was leaning in towards hers, so close his features blurred and then his lips touched hers – warm and firm – their first kiss: soft and tentative, the taste of spiced cider mingling with the scent of smoke and autumn leaves.

  She’d pulled away, her eyes asking him the question she couldn’t quite say out loud and he’d shrugged and let out a soft laugh. ‘What can I say? I fancy the pants off you, Maggie Oberon. Have done for ages.’

  Beneath his smile there had been uncertainty. She could read it on his face. They both knew that with that one kiss everything was on the line: their friendship and their future hanging in the balance.

  She had wanted to stop the clocks, or better still, rewind them a minute or two. She’d wanted to pause everything and take a moment to think about the cliff’s edge they stood upon. With one kiss they would move their relationship into new territory. Their friendship of three could become a pairing of two. The comfortable dynamic they’d spent years building and nurturing would be destabilised, propelled onto new and uncertain ground. Surely there was too much to risk?

  But time hadn’t stopped. The clocks had kept ticking. Somewhere overhead a last firework had exploded and, faced with a split-second decision, Maggie had done what she did best in moments of uncertainty: she hadn’t thought at all but had leapt, both feet first, pulling him towards her by his lapels and kissing him back. Gus – sweet, funny Gus. The one who had been there for her over the years, when her mother had not been. The one who had picked her up every time her father had let her down. Gus who had been constant and present and dependable – unlike the family she was supposed to be able to rely upon. How could it not be right?

  The cardboard boxes stacked against the bedroom wall loom at her from the shadows. She could swear they are growing in size, the longer she ignores them. ‘Well all right then,’ she says to herself. Perhaps her present mood is exactly right for a little self-flagellation. With a heavy sigh, she stands and lifts the first box down.

  Gus has taped it well and it takes several attempts to wrestle it open. Inside, she finds the items a haphazard jumble, as if he couldn’t throw them into the carton fast enough. She pulls out books and jewellery, photos and ornaments, a favourite velvet cushion that had once sat on their sofa and the quirky collection of antique eggcups she’d taken from the kitchen at Cloudesley and displayed on a windowsill of their north London flat. He’s thrown in a couple of half-filled sketch pads and her box of charcoals. She feels a little stung at the inclusion of a framed watercolour of Primrose Hill, a gift she had painted and given him one birthday, the return of which only seems to emphasise his need to scour every trace of her from his life. At the very bottom, below a couple of her crumpled sweaters, lies a single red rose, a wooden stem and its petals glued pieces of shiny, red fabric. She pulls the artificial flower up into the light and stares at it.

  She can trace the moment she knew their relationship was doomed, to that one red rose and the night they’d gone to meet Gus’s best friend from school. She’d been fighting a headache and mild nausea all day and the last thing she’d felt like was a night of tacos and margaritas, but Gus had coaxed and cajoled her, telling her the night had been arranged specially so that they might meet his friend’s new girlfriend. In the end she’d rallied.

  The four had met at a noisy Mexican restaurant in Covent Garden and from the moment she and Gus had slid into their side of the padded booth, Maggie had known it was going to be a disaster. Her nausea had only grown as they’d listened to the happy new couple narrate, through irritating fits of giggles, how they’d met on a dating app, watching their overzealous displays of affection, their snuggling and whispers, their endless touching and kissing, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort of their dinner companions sitting opposite. They might as
well have not bothered to come for all the attention they were paying them, Maggie had thought, turning to Gus and rolling her eyes at him. He’d smiled back at her and reached for her hand, before pulling her in for a kiss. Instinctively she’d leaned back, not wanting to play that charade and as he’d frowned, the hurt evident in his eyes, she had known: it wasn’t right. They weren’t right.

  They had only been together a couple of years, but she didn’t feel giddy with butterflies every time he reached for her. She didn’t look forward to the moment he walked through the door in the evening. She didn’t even feel that bothered when he went away on his business trips. The truth was staring her right there in the face, cast in stark relief by the overbearing romance playing out opposite them: she and Gus were best mates. Best mates who found themselves living together and who once in a while shagged each other. It wasn’t breath-stealing, heart-pounding, passionate love. It was a mistake.

  An elderly woman had approached the booth with a basket of red fabric roses. ‘Don’t waste your money,’ she’d warned Gus under her breath, but seeming to have something to prove in the face of his friends’ amorous display, Gus had reached into his wallet and given the grateful woman ten pounds.

  ‘It’s not a waste,’ he’d said, presenting her with the tacky rose. ‘Not for you.’

  Later that night, she’d turned away from him in bed. ‘Sorry. I’m not in the mood. I still don’t feel well.’ In the morning, she’d called in sick from her waitressing shift at the restaurant. ‘A day at home won’t hurt,’ Gus had said, regarding her with concern from the bedroom door as he’d adjusted his tie. ‘You don’t seem yourself and they won’t thank you for dragging yourself in and making their customers ill.’

  He’d left for work and Maggie had remained in bed all morning, nagging doubts about her relationship with Gus merging confusingly with the low-lying nausea gripping her. At one point she’d raced to the bathroom and hung her head over the toilet bowl and it was only as she’d stood again, her gaze fixing on an unopened box of tampons in the medicine cupboard, that a worrying thought had come to her: when exactly had her last period been?

  She’d dragged herself to the pharmacy round the corner from the flat and half an hour later she was staring at two thin blue lines on the white plastic stick. Half an hour after that, she was throwing a hastily packed bag into the boot of her car and driving, in a state of blind panic, to the only person she knew she could turn to.

  Lillian had been exactly as she had hoped she would be: calm, clear-headed and compassionate. ‘This is not the end of the world, my dear girl. It’s not how it was back in my day. You have choices.’

  ‘I’m not ready for this, Lillian. I can’t do it.’

  Lillian had sat at the kitchen table with Maggie, pushing a cup of tea into her hands and offering her the box of tissues. ‘And what about Gus? What does he want?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet. I can’t tell him. I’m not even sure we’re right for each other. To keep this baby would tie us together for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘The baby . . . Gus. Perhaps they are two separate issues?’ Lillian had suggested gently.

  Maggie had sat for a moment, thinking. ‘I’m terrified by the idea of motherhood. It’s not something I think I know how to do . . . not something I think I’m capable of.’

  ‘And why would you say that?’

  Maggie had looked out of the kitchen window, watching a single magpie flittering through the branches of a tall beech tree. When she had turned back to Lillian, she had said something she’d never thought she’d say out loud. ‘I think I need to see her. I think I need to find my mum.’

  Lillian had given Maggie a steady look, before reaching out and patting her hand. ‘I imagine it’s very hard to know who you are or what you want to be when you’ve never had the full picture of where you’ve come from.’

  Downstairs, the sound of the bell ringing outside the oak front door pulls Maggie from her thoughts and back into the present. She sits very still on the edge of the bed. It is late for unexpected visitors. She is tempted to ignore it, but the bell chimes again and, worried that it will wake Lillian, she heads downstairs and opens the door a crack.

  Gus stands on the top step, half-turned away from her as he stares up into the night sky. ‘There’s a huge bat out here,’ he says. ‘Over there above the trees.’ He points. ‘Can you see it?’

  Maggie peers out into the darkness but the only thing she can see is the pale crescent moon filtering its milky light behind the swaying beech trees. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says, turning back to her. ‘We should talk.’

  ‘Now?’

  He shrugs. ‘Fancy a pint?’

  She casts a glance back into the house. ‘Let me check on Lillian first. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  She stands at the door to Lillian’s darkened room listening to her grandmother’s slow breathing, then heads upstairs to retrieve a cardigan. By the time she has returned to the front door she half-expects Gus to have disappeared.

  ‘There’s only an hour or so before last orders,’ he says. ‘Do you mind if we go to the Swan?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says lightly, ‘whatever you want.’

  It’s a relief to find the pub surprisingly quiet, the sunburned crowds from the flower show having died away, just a few stalwarts propping up the bar. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Cloud Green’s champion sponge-thrower,’ says Gregory, greeting them from behind the bar. ‘You’ve got quite an arm on you, young lady. We’ll have to get you to try out for the cricket team.’

  Maggie manages a weak smile, grateful to see that if anyone is surprised to see her and Gus having a drink together, they are keeping it to themselves. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Why don’t you find us a seat back there,’ Gus suggests.

  She nods and heads for one of the more discreet tables tucked into a nook beside the unlit fire. It is all disconcertingly familiar – the low-beamed ceiling, the wide stone fireplace, the horseshoes hanging on the walls, the sweet scent of beer and fermented apples in the air. She reaches for a beer mat and rips shreds off its corners until Gus returns with two pints. They clink glasses out of habit. Just like old times, she thinks, except neither one of them can quite meet the other’s eye.

  ‘What made you change your mind?’ she asks, placing her drink back onto the table, picking up the torn beer mat again and flipping it over in her hands.

  ‘Camilla. She thinks we have unfinished business. She thinks I need to “work through my resentment” if I’m going to move on with her.’

  ‘Right.’ Maggie swallows. Of course he does. It all sounds perfectly logical. ‘She seems nice,’ she says lightly.

  ‘She is.’

  ‘How long have you two been dating?’

  ‘A few months.’ There’s a defensive note in his voice, a slight tilt to his chin.

  ‘Great.’ It sounds insincere and Maggie wishes she could just shut up and let him speak.

  ‘Are you with anyone?’ he asks, studying her over his glass.

  ‘No. No, I’m not.’

  The silence opens up between them again. Maggie shifts on her chair. ‘I owe you an apology,’ she begins. ‘I’m so sorry about what happened. I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry for the way I left. You deserved so much better. I’m so ashamed of the way I handled things.’ Gus stares down into his pint. ‘Running away like that . . . I can see how that must have been for you and I’m sorry.’

  Gus has been listening quietly, but at this he lifts his head and stares at her, the incredulity written on his face. ‘You know, Maggie, I don’t think you do know how it was for me.’ He glowers at her over his pint and Maggie braces herself.

  ‘I wasn’t a total idiot, you know. I knew something was wrong. I’d felt you withdrawing from me for weeks, before you took off like that. But when I came home from work and found you gone – not even a no
te . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t understand it. I phoned Cloudesley and Lillian told me – thank God – that you were there, that you were safe. I wanted to hear your voice. I just needed to know you were OK, but she said you couldn’t speak to me. She told me that you “needed some time”.’ He shakes his head. ‘She was exasperatingly stubborn.’

  Maggie nods. ‘I asked her to tell you that. It wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t understand it. None of it made any sense . . . not until I found the empty pregnancy-test box in the rubbish bin at home.’ Gus is looking at her keenly across the table but Maggie looks away, suddenly unable to hold his eye.

  ‘As soon as I saw it, I knew I had to return to Cloud Green to fight for you. I rearranged all my work for the week and headed back as soon as I could. I chatted things through with Mum and I asked her for my grandmother’s engagement ring. Everything was so clear in my head.’

  Maggie nods, remembering Gus’s surprise arrival at Cloudesley, opening the door to him standing there, hope and expectation written all over his face, a small black jewellery box in his hands.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me. I thought my reassurances, my promise to love you and the baby, would be all you’d need to see that we could make it work – that it wasn’t an accident but actually something wonderful – something that would bring us closer together. Instead . . . your face when you saw me . . . I should have known then. You treated my proposal like . . . like . . .’

  ‘Like an ambush,’ she finishes for him.

  Gus stares at her. ‘An ambush? Was that how it felt?’

  She nods.

  Gus looks at her, aghast. ‘It wasn’t a throwaway gesture. It wasn’t me knee-jerking at the sight of the positive pregnancy test, thinking I should make an honest woman of you. I wanted to marry you. I wanted to start a family.’

  Gus slumps into his chair. ‘Jesus, Maggie! It tore me up. You said you’d think about it – sleep on it. You said you’d give me your answer the next morning.’ He gives a bitter laugh. ‘And I suppose you did. Leaving the ring on the porch like that, and just taking off? I guess that was one way to give me your answer.’