Peacock Emporium

by Jojo Moyes

  Arturro moved a step closer to her. He ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I thought it only fair to let you know. I’ve been very touched, though. I wanted you to know that.’

  His voice, when it came, was thick, unwieldy. ‘I’m sorry, Liliane . . .’

  She raised a fluttering hand, her expression anguished. ‘Oh, no. I don’t want you to be sorry – I just . . .’

  ‘. . . but I don’t understand.’

  There was a lengthy silence.

  ‘The chocolates? All the gifts?’

  He kept looking at her expectantly.

  She studied his face now. ‘You left me chocolates? Outside my door?’ Her voice was insistent.

  He stared at the box in his hand. ‘They are from here . . . yes.’

  Liliane flushed. She glanced down at the box, then back at him. ‘It wasn’t you? You didn’t send any of these?’

  He shook his head slowly.

  Liliane’s hand had lifted unconsciously to her mouth. She gazed around the shop, then wheeled towards the door. ‘Oh! Forgive me. I’m . . . Just a misunderstanding. Do – please, please forget what I said—’ And then, her bag still clutched to her like a life-raft, she ran from the delicatessen, her heels clattering on the wooden floor.

  For some minutes Arturro stood in the middle of the empty shop, staring at the box of sugared almonds, the faintest remnant of her scent hanging in the air. He glanced at the nearly empty market square, across whose surface pigeons strutted through lengthening shadows, and the last of the delivery vans prepared to leave.

  Then he looked up at the three white aprons recently abandoned on the hook by the door, and his face darkened.

  A few hundred yards away, Suzanna was preparing to close the Peacock Emporium. Jessie had left almost half an hour previously, and she had been a little disconcerted to note that Alejandro, who did not appear to have worked that day, had not gone with her. He had written a series of postcards and now sat, reading a newspaper, occasionally gazing out into the lane, his thoughts apparently far from there.

  For some reason, his presence had made Suzanna even more accident-prone. She had dropped a coloured glass vase just as she was about to hand it over to a customer and been forced to replace it, free of charge, with another. She had tripped the last two steps into the cellar and half twisted her ankle, sitting on the floor and silently swearing at herself before she could recover enough to emerge into the shop. She had scalded herself twice on the coffee machine. If he had noticed this, he had said nothing. He sat, sipped at his coffee slowly, and said nothing.

  ‘Don’t you have anywhere to go to?’ she said, when there was nobody else left in the shop.

  ‘You would like me to leave?’

  Suzanna corrected herself, blushing at her transparency: ‘No – I’m sorry. I just wondered what was home for you.’

  He frowned at the window. ‘No place I want to spend much time in.’

  He had a woman’s eyelashes. Dark, silky, calligraphic. She hadn’t noticed until now how feminine his eyes were. ‘Does the hospital provide accommodation?’ Her voice was almost interrogative.

  ‘Not at first.’

  She waited.

  ‘Until they discovered that many of the landlords around here do not want “foreigners” as tenants.’ He smiled, raised an eyebrow at her concern, as if waiting for her to stumble over a long-held truth. ‘You, Suzanna, are one of the few people I have met here who is neither blonde nor blue-eyed.’

  The way he looked at her made her flush. She pushed herself back from the counter and began to align the jars that held coloured buttons, brightly coloured magnets, boxes of pins, into rigid lines. She felt suddenly defensive. ‘It’s hardly the Aryan Nation. I mean, not everyone here would react like that.’

  ‘It’s fine. I have accommodation at the hospital.’

  Outside, the town had settled into a late-afternoon torpor. Its mothers had shepherded small charges home, and were now tripping over them in kitchens, bracing themselves for the evening onslaught of tea, bath and bed. Pensioners were transporting string bags or shopping trolleys with vegetables in paper bags from the market, single portions of brisket or meat pie. Somewhere far from there teeming streets were gearing themselves up for rush hour, tube lines rumbling underfoot, bars and pubs filling, their stuffy confines injected with loose-collared City workers desperate for release and lubrication.

  Suzanna gazed around the interior of her shop, and felt weighed down by its carefully contrived perfection, its stasis. ‘How can you stand it here?’ she asked.

  ‘How can I stand what?’ He had looked at her then, his head tilted to one side.

  ‘After Buenos Aires. The small-townism. Like you say, landlords afraid of you because you’re different.’

  He frowned, trying to understand.

  ‘The way everyone has an opinion on everything. The way everyone feels entitled to know your business. Like they need to pigeonhole you, shove you into a neat category in order to feel comfortable. Don’t you miss the city? Don’t you miss the freedom of it?’

  Alejandro put down his empty coffee-cup. ‘I think perhaps you and I have different ideas about freedom.’

  She felt suddenly self-conscious and naïve. She knew nothing about Argentina, except the vague snippets she remembered from the television news; some riots, some financial crisis. Madonna as Eva Perón. God, she thought bitterly. And I accuse everyone else of not looking outward.

  In front of her, Alejandro stooped to pick up his kit-bag from under his table. He glanced out of the window, which was still glowing with refracted evening sun, parallelograms of light creeping gradually across the display, bathing its components in pale gold.

  Something welled inside Suzanna. ‘She lives with someone, you know.’

  ‘Who?’ He was still stooped over his bag.

  ‘Jessie.’

  He hardly missed a beat. ‘I know.’

  She turned and started scrubbing the sink, furious and ashamed.

  ‘I am no threat to Jessie.’

  It was a strange thing to say, made more so by the emphatic way in which he said it, as if he was trying to convince himself.

  ‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry.’ Her head dipped towards the sink. She fought the urge then to tell him about Jason, to explain, to try to redress the childish jealousy she’d shown. She didn’t want him to see her as everyone else seemed to. But to explain Jessie’s relationship would put her among the very people she’d been criticising – those who traded each other’s domestic secrets as a kind of social currency.

  ‘I hated living here until I got this shop.’ She had spoken suddenly, polishing the taps. ‘I was a city girl, you see? I like noise, bustle, anonymity. It’s too hard to live in the place where you grew up – a small town like this. Everyone knows everything about you – your parents, where you went to school, where you’ve worked, who you’ve been out with. How you fell off the piano stool in your school recital.’

  She could feel him watching her, and the words had tumbled out, unstoppable, while in some distant, sane part of her mind she wondered why she felt this desperate need to fill the silence.

  ‘And, you see, because they know the things that have happened to you – some of them, at least – it means that people think they know you. They think they know who you are. There’s no room for you to be someone else. Around here, I’m the same person I was at twelve, thirteen, sixteen. Set in aspic. That’s who they have me down as. And the funny thing is, I know I’m someone else entirely.’

  She stopped, her hands resting on the sides of the sink, and shook her head slightly, like someone trying to clear a buzzing noise from their ears. She breathed out, and tried to collect her thoughts. She had sounded ridiculous, even to herself.

  ‘Anyway. The shop has changed all that,’ she said. ‘Because even if I can’t be someone else, the shop can. It can be anything I want it to be. Nobody has any expectations of it. I know it’s not everyone’s idea of a
– a commercial venture. I know a lot of people around here think it’s daft. But it’s got – it’s got a—’ She wasn’t sure what she was trying to say.

  A car reversed slowly up the lane.

  ‘I have seen her at the hospital,’ said Alejandro, standing still, his bag raised over his shoulder. ‘Sometimes I go down and pick the mothers up from outside A and E in a wheelchair. The ones who can no longer walk. I have seen her . . . waiting.’

  In the stainless steel of the taps Suzanna could make out her reflection – twisted, inverted. ‘You know . . . that she loves Jason, then.’ She spoke into her chest. Then, when no reply was forthcoming, she faced him . . .

  He had been watching her. Now he moved his chair neatly under the table. ‘I only know what I see.’ He shrugged. ‘It is not my kind of love.’

  ‘No,’ said Suzanna.

  They stood finally facing each other. His hands rested on the back of the chair. His face was in shadow so she could barely make out his expression.

  A van’s rear doors banged outside, breaking the frail threads of the atmosphere. Alejandro looked out of the window, then towards her, his eyes locked onto hers for several seconds before he turned back towards the door. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Suzanna Peacock,’ he said.

  Sixteen

  Douglas closed the door behind him, and stared at his wife’s dog in frustration. He had been looking for Vivi, had walked the animal round the formal gardens in the hope that it would find her, had continued on round the new offices and down to the dairy yard, and even through the woodland at the back of the grain sheds. The dog had failed to pick up a bloody thing.

  Perhaps I need a sniffer dog, he thought, and let out a sigh at the irony. I need a sniffer dog to locate my wife. She had been so busy lately, had left his meals with polite notes, retired late to bed having discovered a multitude of urgent tasks in underused parts of the house. He was never sure any more where she would be. Or what mood she would be in when he found her. He felt unbalanced by the wrongness of it all.

  The dog got under his feet and yelped as he tripped over it. His mother, from behind the annexe door, called out twice to see if it was him. Feeling mean, he pretended he hadn’t heard: he didn’t want to be sent on some other errand. He was weary from having to drive Rosemary into town twice this morning – the third time he had had to do so in a week. His mother, still smarting from Vivi’s outburst a week earlier, no longer asked where she was, as if her daughter-in-law’s verbal insurrection had breached some unspoken rule, had made her in some way invisible. If he wasn’t feeling so sorry for himself it might have made him laugh. This, he understood, uncomfortably, was what his wife had been complaining of these last months. That, and the faint, but distinctively unpleasant aroma that now lingered in the passenger seat of the Range Rover.

  Douglas ignored the dog, who was seated in obedience to some non-existent command, silently begging for scraps, and picked up the note on the kitchen table. It had not been there when he left the house this morning, or an hour earlier when he had returned to deliver Rosemary home, and the sight of it made him both annoyed and sad, as if his marriage had been requisitioned by two childish strangers.

  Vivi, the note informed in neat handwriting, would be out for a while. His and Ben’s lunch was in the oven, and needed only twenty minutes’ reheating. She could not, apparently, guarantee the same punctuality for herself.

  He reread the note, then screwed it up in his broad hand and hurled it across the kitchen, so that the dog went scurrying after it across the flagstones.

  Then, noting that her car keys were on the peg, he glanced out of the window, rammed his cap on his head and left the house via the kitchen door, ignoring the imperious muffled voice calling his name behind him.

  Alejandro pulled the airmail letter from his pigeonhole, registered the familiar stamp, and stuffed it into his pocket as he walked wearily across the hospital grounds to his bed, some twenty-two hours since he had last seen it. He might still be relegated to the ‘graveyard shifts’, as they were known, but while the hospital was assiduous in noting, at every opportunity, that it was an equal-opportunities organisation, he had, by virtue of his sex, struck lucky in his accommodation. It had been agreed that the nurses and midwives would not feel comfortable sharing their quarters with a man, no matter how polite. When it became apparent that finding him local lodgings was going to be a problem (most landlords seemed to expect something different when the word ‘midwife’ was mentioned), someone had hit upon the solution of giving him what would have been the caretaker’s flat, had the hospital still employed one for the upkeep of the nurses’ block. He might have to unblock the odd sink, or change the odd fuse, joked the accommodation manager, and Alejandro had shrugged. He hadn’t been able to afford his own flat at home. He hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived, but two bedrooms and a kitchen big enough to house a table seemed fair exchange for a few odd jobs.

  And yet, several months into his tenancy, Alejandro found the place depressed him, even on a day like today when the sun flooded it with light. He had never understood the ability, so often seen among women, to imprint their own character on a space and, in a living situation that might be temporary, he lacked the will to try. Its bland beige décor and hard-wearing furniture made it feel unloved and sterile. Its emptiness was constantly highlighted by the sound of thumping feet and chatting, giggling women coming and going on the stairs outside. Only two other people had seen its interior: the nurse whom he had unwisely brought home in his first weeks (and who had ignored him whenever they passed each other since) and, more recently, a Spanish girl from the local language school whom he had met on a train, and who had informed him, at a moment when he might normally have forgotten where he was, that she had a boyfriend, and subsequently wept for almost three-quarters of an hour. The money he had paid for her taxi home, he mused, would have fed an Argentinian family of four for a month.

  When I left, he thought, more frequently than he liked, I only thought about what I was escaping.

  He poured himself a glass of iced tea and lay down on the sofa, propping a cushion under his neck, conscious of the smell of stale perspiration on his clothes. His bones ached with tiredness: the second mother of his shift had been grossly overweight, and had thrown herself around the room like a maddened elephant while he clung on – supposedly her support. As always, he had felt nothing but relief at the moment of birth. It was only now, several hours later, that the aches and bruises were revealing themselves. He pulled the letter from his pocket and studied the address. He received few, and the sight of his own name against these unfamiliar English words still had the power to jar.

  Son, I was going to write that all is fine here, but I realise, with sincerity, that this is only true for a select few. Your father, God willing, is still among them. There is talk of a new government, but I cannot see how things will be any different. There are now two ‘neighbourhood councils’ near us, and many of our neighbours have been on the new protests – waving keys at the government buildings. I fail to see what good this will do, but Vicente Trezza, who used to have the offices next to mine, is out there day in and day out with keys, pots, anything that will make a noise. I fear for his hearing. Your mother has refused to leave the house since our local supermarket was robbed by a mob from the shanty towns. Don’t misunderstand my report, son. I am pleased to be able to say you are doing well in England. I look forward to our salmon fishing trip.

  Your father

  PS I am booked in to do a lady who asks to be remembered to you: Sofia Guichane. She is married to that rogue Eduardo Guichane, the one on television. She wanted liposuction and a breast augmentation. I agreed only to the liposuction for now as she thinks she may get pregnant soon. Plus she had a fantastic pair. Don’t tell your mother I said this.

  Baby Boy, My own dear mother (God rest her soul) used to say: ‘In Argentina, you spit on the ground, and a flower grows and blooms.’ Now, I tell Milagros, it packs its cas
es and disappears. I cry for you every day. Santiago Lozano has managed to get a job with a Swiss bank and sends his father money every month in dollars. Ana Laura, the Duhalde’s girl, is going to the US to live with her father’s sister. I don’t suppose you remember her. Soon I think there will be no young people left.

  Milagros’s daughter-in-law is expecting twins. I pray that when you return to Argentina you will make me a grandmother. There is little love left in my life, all I ask is something to make my existence worthwhile.

  I will send on some packets of Mate, as you asked (I sent Milagros to the supermarket but she said the shelves were empty). In the meantime, across the oceans that separate us, I send you a precious gift. So that you can remember your family. Be safe. And be wary of English women. With love

  Your Mama

  Alejandro wondered whether his mother was becoming forgetful. He tried to remember whether there had been any packages in his pigeonhole but, sleep-deprived as he was, he was sure that there had been only this lightweight letter. He half hoped she had forgotten: it made him feel guilty when she sent him gifts, even the cheap packets of his favourite drink. He turned the letter in his hands, and rubbed at gritty eyes. Then he reached for the envelope and, almost as an afterthought, pulled it open.

  There, nestling in the corner, light as a feather, so insubstantial he had missed it. Wrapped round with a tiny thread of pink ribbon. A lock of Estela’s hair.

  Alejandro closed the envelope and put it back on the table, his heart racing. His fatigue forgotten, he stood up, sat down, then stood again and walked over to the television, swearing under his breath. He stared at the screen for several minutes, then glanced around the room, as if for signs he might have missed. Then, grabbing his keys, he pushed his way out of the flat.