by Mary Wesley
‘Adultery, of course.’
‘With whom?’
‘Um, both I suppose. Oh, come on, Mother, why not desertion, incompatibility? There are all sorts of causes for divorce these days.’
‘Who will care for the boys?’ A deadly sentence. Mungo felt a shiver of fear. ‘You will help me, Mother?’
‘No.’
‘Good God, Mother, you are their grandmother, you—’
‘I know I am.’
‘So you will—’
‘Won’t.’
‘Mother!’ Mungo was aghast, his joy dissipated, alarm rushing into the vacuum. There was a long pause while mother and son confronted each other. Mungo was the first to look away.
‘Alison is your wife,’ said Lucy. ‘We may neither of us be particularly fond of her—’
‘Mother!’ He was shocked by her honesty. It was all right for him to be disloyal, not for her.
‘After your reaction to my news just now, I think you had better listen. As I was saying, we may not be fond, but my word, dear boy, she is useful. She looks after you and the boys faultlessly. You are fed, exercised, have your holidays arranged, your bills paid. She arranges the servicing of your cars, she plans your social life and that of the boys, she sees that they go to the right schools, spend their holidays with the right people.’
‘She’s a dreadful snob.’
‘So am I, so are you. If that pretty girl who comes to cook for me were not a lady do you suppose you would pursue her so briskly?’
‘How do you know?’ Mungo shouted furiously.
‘Don’t be silly, Mungo. You may think it secret, so perhaps does she. There is such a thing as the grapevine. Maggie Cook-Popham’s boy saw you with her twice.’
‘Does Alison know?’
‘Probably. Anyway it wouldn’t bother her, she would not care.’
‘Oh.’ Mungo felt his mother had kicked him in the teeth. ‘When did all this happen?’ he asked weakly.
‘Quite suddenly. Alison telephoned me. She has also written. She had never been unfaithful to you before, by the way. This is an arrangement arrived at in the ‘plane going over. Alison telephoned me on arrival. Her letter came yesterday, dotting the “i”s. She used the word “finalised”.’ Lucy sniffed.
‘She must have been drunk or drugged.’
‘I gather neither. She has been contemplating some such move for a long time and it happens this American couple are offering her exactly the life she has always longed for.’
‘What utter rubbish.’
‘Read her letter.’ Lucy handed Alison’s letter to her son. A practical, lucid deposition. Alistair and Ian’s holidays over, Mungo was to assume responsibility. Alison would, if necessary, advise from Santa Barbara, otherwise it was up to Mungo. Her lawyer, who was also Eli and Patsy’s lawyer, would be in touch shortly. Lawyer’s address attached.
‘My God, my God!’ Mungo felt like weeping. ‘She cannot know what she is doing. She cannot have made up her mind so quickly.’
‘She went snap when she clapped eyes on you,’ said Lucy drily. ‘Your father said he’d never seen such a fast worker. She saw you and, as I say, went snap.’
‘I thought it was me.’
‘You were supposed to, darling.’
Some people love their mothers, thought Mungo.
‘Are these people, Eli and Patsy, rich?’ asked Lucy.
‘Seem to be rolling.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘I shall have to make the best of it.’ Mungo did a rapid rethink. He would get Jennifer Reeves to help with the boys. She was an able woman with a boy of her own; two more wouldn’t matter one way or the other. He could still marry Hebe, still live happy ever after. His mother was talking. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said we had better get to work at once.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Getting her back of course.’
‘Why, for God’s sake?’
‘For mine if not for yours and the boys. I cannot possibly do without her.’
Mungo stared at his mother. When she spoke in the deadly tone she had just used resistance was sheer waste of breath.
Noticing her son’s alarm, Lucy explained. ‘Dearest, some day I shall get cancer or some such nuisance and need looking after.’ Mungo winced. ‘Who other than Alison do we know capable of coping? Not you, dear boy. Some day I may have a financial worry or two, need to move house, be too old to manage. Who do we know other than Alison capable of taking charge of me?’
Mungo buried his face in his hands. His mother was a horrible old bitch, he loathed her. How could people be so utterly selfish? It was damnable.
‘So what?’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘So what or just so.’ That was what Alistair and Ian said when they wished to be annoying. ‘So?’ Never, of course, to Alison; they wouldn’t dare.
‘So we get to work,’ said Lucy calmly. ‘You grovel, I blackmail. We use the telephone and spare no expense. We begin, let’s see—’ she looked at her watch, ‘in half an hour. Catch her asleep. You will talk to Alison and I will talk to this Eli and Patsy.’
‘I thought they were just rather boring Americans who were into intensive sightseeing.’
‘My poor innocent.’ Lucy laughed at Mungo as though he were ten years old. ‘Come now, let us try and enjoy this. Grovel, grovel, grovel, tongue in cheek.’ She was enjoying the situation.
Mungo made a last desperate appeal. ‘Mother, please, there must be some other way.’
‘I am not changing at my age and nor are you at yours. Do you imagine I would ever have had a child if it had not been certain I would have a Nanny who would take charge of you, if you had not been certain to go away to boarding school when you left the nursery?’
‘I was miserable at my prep school,’ Mungo muttered sulkily.
‘I notice you send your boys to the same one. People like us did not put up with the horrors of having children at home, which even quite nice people do these days.’
People like us, nice people, must she? Mungo writhed.
‘And you,’ Lucy fixed Mungo with her clear eyes, ‘are just like me. If you had not had Alison to manage, direct and bring up your boys you would not have embarked on having a family.’
Mungo made a choking sound of protest.
‘I do not mean, darling, that I do not love you. I do very much. I might not if I had had to change your nappies and nurse you through mumps. In principle I also love my grandsons.’
‘I am not sure I do.’
‘Nonsense, of course you do. They have not had mumps yet, have they?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. Alison—’
‘There you are, you don’t know. Measles? Chickenpox? Athlete’s foot? Those little mites that burrow into your—er—your, you know what I mean.’
‘Crabs. Mother, must you?’
‘Are you prepared to tackle all that on your own?’
Mungo was silent, thinking of Hebe. He did not want Hebe tackling the care of Alistair and Ian, dealing with their crabs. He wanted Hebe to himself, her undiluted attention. Tears came to his eyes. He gulped.
Perhaps he loves Alison, thought Lucy. No, he can’t, it’s the shock.
‘When do we start? What do we do?’ Mungo gave in.
Twelve
SILAS, CATCHING A FORESHORTENED glimpse of his mother from the helicopter as it swung away towards the Scillies, wondered what a Hermaphrodite could be; whether Giles, who liked useless bits of information, had discovered some new religious sect—whether Hermaphrodite was an esoteric dish like Moussaka, or an autonomous republic of the USSR. Giles particularly treasured gems such as ‘It takes three years to digest black pepper’, and had eagerly taken note of Bernard’s information about the pig scratching. Silas promised himself a trip to the Public Library to rummage among the dictionaries.
He settled in his seat to watch Land’s End disappear and peered ahead to catch a glimpse of the islands. He looked forward to meetin
g Michael and wearing the denim shorts Hebe had bought him. They had never seen one another in anything other than their school uniforms. He wondered what his friend would be wearing. Looking down at the choppy sea, he hoped the weather would clear and that the sun would show more enthusiasm than it had during the last fortnight. His fellow travellers in the helicopter seemed to be prepared for the worst, carrying yellow oilies and rubber boots. Arrived, Silas shook his head to free his ears of the din of the helicopter, followed the other passengers on to the tarmac and looked around for Michael. A female voice hailed him. Mrs Reeves waved. Silas waved back and went to meet her carrying his duffle bag.
‘Hello, Silas.’ She had large teeth and showed her gums when she smiled, which she was doing now. She was tall, with thick fair hair pulled back in a bun, which made the sou’wester she wore look peculiar. Her face was red from the wind, her eyes blue. She wore a yellow oilskin with a velvet collar, an old Guernsey jersey, a denim skirt. Her legs were bare. She wore blue ankle socks and trainers. Her handshake was firm.
‘Nice to see you, Silas.’ She was not as he remembered at the school sports, he must have confused her with some other boy’s mother.
‘How do you do, er, hullo.’ Silas looked around for Michael.
‘They are all sailing. I had some shopping to do in St Mary’s so I said I’d meet you.’ Her voice had carrying quality.
‘Oh, thank you.’
‘They will be back for supper. Come and help me load my stuff in the boat. Alistair and Ian only arrived yesterday and were keen to get cracking. They knew you wouldn’t want them to wait.’
‘Oh, oh no.’ Bugger Michael, thought Silas. It’s not lunch time yet, what am I supposed to do stuck with his mother till supper? ‘Of course not.’
‘D’you know Alistair and Ian, Silas?’
‘No, no, I don’t. Who are—’
‘You wouldn’t, I suppose. They are at a different school. But you might have met them in the holidays.’ She looked brightly enquiring.
‘I don’t think so.’ Where was he supposed to have met them? Silas followed his hostess. Who were they, anyway?
‘Hadn’t you better put on a mac?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He unzipped his duffle bag and found his parka.
‘Does nothing but rain here,’ she said.
She seemed frighteningly competent, guiding him to a mountain of shopping, getting him to stow it in large baskets. ‘There’s a fantastic basket-maker in Totnes who makes these. I can’t stand plastic bags, can you?’
‘Er, no I can’t.’ Silas had never thought about it.
‘D’you know Totnes? Delightful place. These baskets come from there. He makes every conceivable European shape. No Eastern rubbish.’
‘Rather heavy,’ Silas ventured.
‘But last for ever. Their being heavy shouldn’t worry a strong boy like you.’
‘Of course not.’ They had reached the quay.
‘That’s right, stow them. Not like that, not all on the same side, the boat will sink. Here, like this.’ She rearranged the baskets, grouping them in the middle of the boat.
‘Sorry.’ Silas felt foolish.
‘Done a lot of sailing, Silas?’
‘Er, no.’ Ask a silly question.
‘Alistair and Ian make a useful crew, Julian says. Julian is my husband.’
‘Oh.’
‘My name is Jennifer. Call me Jennifer, everybody does.’
‘Thanks.’ I shall call her ‘You’, he mutinied.
She had the boat stowed to her satisfaction. ‘Sit on that thwart.’
What’s a thwart? he asked himself.
‘Cast off, can you?’
Silas managed that.
Jennifer Reeves started the engine and steered the boat into the rain, phut-phutting over the waves. ‘Soon be there.’
Silas kept silent. They were apparently going to another island.
‘When you’ve helped me get all this to the cottage I expect you’d like lunch and then you can explore the island.’
‘Thanks, yes.’
‘Know the islands well?’
‘I’ve never been here.’
‘Goodness, and you live so near.’
‘Well.’ He felt put down.
‘Lots to do on the mainland, of course. Didn’t Michael say you live in the town?’ She sounded unconvinced.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ She savoured this. ‘Like it?’
‘Yes. We live in a street.’
‘Really?’ It sounded ‘reahly’.
‘It was built by a crazy old man who hated Cornish granite so he imported these dark red bricks from Devon and built a street of brick houses, dark brick with yellow bricks round the windows.’
‘Yuk!’
‘That’s what my mother thinks, but it’s so ugly I love it. It’s hideous and frowning and secret and built up a very steep hill.’
‘Reahly.’ He could see her uvula.
‘All the houses have nylon curtains and gardens at the back, and there’s an alleyway between the gardens and the backs of the houses in the next street, which is built of granite like the rest of town. Ours is called Wilson Street.’
‘Reahly,’ said Mrs Reeves, sitting at the tiller, steering the boat across the water to Tresco.
Silas sat quiet after his outburst, listening to the snap and crunch of the boat on the water, rather enjoying the bouncy movement but disliking the smell of stale fish. He wondered whether the oily, smelly bilge would slop up as it threatened to and wet his hostess’s feet. It did not.
‘Here we are,’ she said, quelling the engine.
Silas helped carry the baskets to the cottage which the Reeves had rented for the holidays. Jennifer Reeves moored the boat and carried her share of baskets without showing any strain. Silas followed her into the cottage, deciding she was a good ten years older than Hebe.
‘If you unpack the baskets I will put everything away.’ Gosh, what efficiency. Not that Hebe wasn’t efficient, Silas told himself, she just didn’t make it so obvious.
‘Put the baskets in the porch. I shall have a drink and get us some lunch. That be nice?’
‘Thank you very much.’ He stacked the baskets in the porch.
‘Not there, silly, everybody will trip over them. Up on the shelf.’
‘Sorry.’ He stacked them on the shelf. Why hadn’t she said ‘shelf’ in the first place.
Jennifer dripped drops of angostura and poured herself a generous gin.
‘My father was in the Navy,’ she said,
Silas looked blank.
‘Pink gin, Silas, pink gin.’
He watched her take a swallow, wondering what she was talking about.
‘That’s better. Now for lunch. There’s a stew—baked pots and fruit. Do you?’
‘Lovely.’
‘Shocking of me. Didn’t offer you. Would you like a Coke?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘The boys always help themselves. Want to go to the loo? Like to see your room?’
‘Thank you. Yes please.’
‘I’ll show you.’ She led the way. ‘You’re all in this big room together, you won’t mind that, will you?’
‘Of course not.’ Just like school, he thought. Hope I like them. He looked doubtfully at the four beds.
‘When you’re ready come and eat. Here’s the bathroom. Mercifully there’s another loo downstairs. I’m not keen on people peeing in the garden, one might sit—kills the grass, too.’
Silas rejoined her. In silence they ate a very good stew, baked potatoes and fresh fruit. He helped her clear the table, stack the dirty plates in the dishwasher.
‘All mod cons in these cottages.’
‘Yes,’ he said, putting in the last plate.
‘Right, then. You unpack and explore. I’m going to have my rest. They will be home for supper, if not before. You’ll be all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Jennifer Reeves went upstairs. H
e heard her drop her shoes, gentle thuds on the floor and her voice saying ‘Aah’ in relieved tones. She turned on a radio for Woman’s Hour. Silas crept upstairs into the assigned bedroom. Three beds were rumpled. He put his duffle bag on the fourth, searched for a jersey and trainers, put them on. He looked out of the window. It was still raining and he debated whether to keep on his jeans or change into shorts. He changed.
He followed a path uphill from the shore to find some sort of view. The path was bordered with tamarisk and fuchsia, the air soft and salty. He began to enjoy himself.
He explored, finding Trescoe Abbey Gardens, wandering dazed by the exotica, loving the surprises, avoiding other people. Presently he left the gardens and, after a long tramp, found a sickle-shaped beach empty except for birds. He sat on a rock and watched the water, a blue-green he had not seen in Cornwall. A boat rowed by a girl came slowly into view. A man sat in the stern with a fishing rod, casting a fly. Silas watched as the man caught and played mackerel as though he were on a lake fishing for trout. The man and the girl talked in low voices. Silas was not the only watcher, for seals’ heads bobbed inquisitively quite close to the boat. Silas had never seen seals. The boat went slowly out of sight, the man and the girl still talking in quiet voices. Silas watched the seals watch them go. The rain had stopped. He undressed and walked down to the water and waded in. He did not want to splash and alarm the seals, who might still be close. He swam out from the beach, then turned to look back at the white sand, grey rocks and the low cliffs ornate with purple heather. Near the shore there were overhanging clumps of thrift, their grey seed heads like the woolly heads of pantomime footmen. The water was cold; he swam for the shore. He had no towel and liked the way his clothes clung stickily to his body. Carrying his shoes he walked inland. Presently the sun came out. He lay in the heather listening to the gulls, watching a kestrel hover. Lulled by the sound of gulls and breakers thudding on rocks round the headland, he fell asleep. When he woke the sun was hot on his face and the salt from his bathe drew the skin tight. He rubbed his hands on his cheeks, making a small dry noise, echoed close by; beside him on a flat rock was an adder. Silas lay watching the beautiful creature as it moved away into the heather, making a thin papery sound. He closed his eyes. The ecstasy of the adder on top of the sighting of seals was almost too much. Feeling hungry, he got up to walk back to the cottage. He had come further than he thought; the sun was slanting from the horizon and gulls flew towards their evening haunts.
