by Mary Wesley
Silas had never been in an inflatable boat and enjoyed the crossing; the wind made his eyes water. When they reached the boat in which they were to sail he clambered in after Michael and sat down where Julian told him, out of harm’s way. Michael, Alistair and Ian busied themselves about the boat, obeying Julian’s orders. Silas surreptitiously put on Hebe’s sweater over his own and flexed his toes in the too large boots to keep warm while he readjusted his life jacket.
Julian and the boys exchanged shouted greetings with people on shore. Silas sat hoping his ignorance of sailing would not show, wondering if he would ever learn which rope did what. He wondered belatedly whether he had the guts to say he would rather stay on shore and watch birds and as he wondered Michael cast off and they moved out into open water.
From time to time Julian shouted at Silas, pointing out to him St Agnes. ‘That’s St Agnes. Splits in two at low tide,’ and ‘Shags, d’you know the difference between a cormorant and a shag?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interested in birds, are you?’
‘Quite.’
‘Like to take the tiller?’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Silas felt tremulous pleasure. Was he now responsible for all their lives?
Pleasure was succeeded by anxiety. Suppose somebody shouted ‘Port’ or ‘Starboard’, what was he supposed to do? ‘Port on the right is never left,’ he remembered. Julian had gone below. He could see him putting on another sweater, balancing with his legs apart. Alistair and Michael were further up the boat near the mast, Ian right in the bows. The boat was crashing along on her side. Ian shouted something and pointed. Silas looked up. Coming in from Penzance was the Scillonian, a familiar friend moored in Penzance harbour but out here doing a chopping roll, sending up a steep wave at her bow, menacing. Silas watched with interest as she drew nearer. ‘Watch out, you shitty idiot!’ Julian snatched the tiller, tipping Silas off balance so that he sprawled backwards. Julian, white and furious, altered course, ignoring angry shouts from the Scillonian.
‘What d’you want to give him the tiller for? He’s never sailed in his life,’ Michael yelled. ‘Ma would have a fit,’ he raged at his father. Julian shouted ‘Shut up!’ and chopped at his son. Michael dodged. It began to rain viciously, coldly, cruelly. Silas, on his feet again, wondered where he could go to be out of the way. He felt futile, ashamed, small.
‘Why don’t you go below?’ Michael suggested, but Silas shook his head. He was supposed to be enjoying this. He would not ask how far to the Bishop’s Rock, how long before we get there. He stared at the sea and braced himself against the movement of the boat, wishing his feet in the two big boots were not so terribly cold.
When they reached it the Bishop’s Rock was scary in its defiant loneliness. Julian, who had been silent after his spat with his son, laughed as he steered. Silas, watching Michael, guessed that they were far too close for safety and that Julian was punishing Michael as he drove the boat close in where the sea surged and sucked at the black rocks.
It was Ian who suggested lunch and fetched up the basket of pasties. They were now tacking for home. Silas had seen boats tack in Mounts Bay but had never realised how much work it entailed. It seemed crazy for Julian, Michael, Alistair and Ian to be trying to eat pasties as they worked the boat, dodging and ducking the boom. The wind had increased and Julian yelled that they must shorten sail. Silas caught snatches of incomprehensible jargon and admired the boys as they nimbly obeyed. They looked serious now and Silas saw Julian look up at the sky, frowning.
Clouds bulging with rain were surging in from the west. A black mass suddenly sheeted rods of water, as he remembered seeing in a Rembrandt print in a book of Hebe’s. The squall hit the boat, drenching them in the few minutes it took to pass. In his fear, Silas gulped and gobbled his pasty, noticing with one cell of his brain that the pasty was greasy, had been made with fat meat, was in no way comparable to the pasties made for him by his mother when he went picnicking with Giles, nor had Mrs Thing put in any turnip.
The sensation that he had a stone in his stomach, that he would never be warm again, that he was going deaf, assailed Silas so suddenly that he barely had time to reach the side to be sick. To compound his misery the wind blew the vomit back on to his chest, splattering Hebe’s jersey, and down into Michael’s boots. Pasty, porridge, bacon, egg and tea in a greasy agonising rush. Oh God! I wish I could die.
‘He’s thrown up into my boots,’ yelled Michael, and Ian, who never became a friend, laughed.
Sixteen
WITH THE COURAGE MANY timid men acquire behind the driving wheel, Rory found himself able to speak to Hebe sitting beside him in a butcher blue cotton dress, her shoulder-length hair tousled by the air from the open window. Her legs were long and bare. He noted with relief that she had not painted her toenails and that her rather large feet were beautifully shaped.
‘When last night I came into your room,’ he began.
‘Yes?’ She looked at the road ahead.
‘When I came into your room, were you surprised?’
‘Of course.’
‘What puzzles me is that you didn’t scream.’
‘What good would that have done?’
‘You didn’t cover yourself up.’
‘I had nothing to hide.’ Hebe looked at the road. Soon they would see the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, the tallest in England.
‘You—er—the words you used—I—’
‘Would you rather have me say I saw something stirring in the undergrowth of your trousers? That it?’
‘No, it’s just—’
‘Too well brought up? What about your aunt and her library books? She isn’t afraid to use four letter words.’
‘She shocks my father and mother.’
‘You needn’t.’ Hebe turned to look at him. ‘You needn’t, if I shock you, have anything more to do with me. It’s no skin off my nose.’
‘Hebe, you know I—’
‘What?’
‘I want to. I—er—want—I—’
‘Do you never finish a sentence?’
‘Only short ones.’
‘Tell me what you want, then?’
‘You. That short enough?’ Rory said with a burst of spirit.
‘You want to join the Syndicate?’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘For want of a better word.’
Rory was silent. He was both excited and horrified. Presently he said, ‘It sounds so cold.’
Hebe sniffed and said, ‘Businesslike.’
‘How can you?’ Rory protested in anguish.
‘Look,’ she was growing impatient. ‘My body is my business. Business is buying and selling—right? You sell hats.’
‘Not many,’ he sighed.
‘Don’t interrupt. I sell. If you want to buy, you buy. There’s no obligation.’
‘Oh—I—’
‘I enjoy my business. Surely you noticed that last night?’
‘Oh, I did.’ Rory’s cry was heartfelt.
‘Well, then.’ She was smiling now.
‘How do I set about it? How do I join?’ Rory capitulated, looking sideways at Hebe, trying to see the eyes he had woken to find watching him at close range.
‘Keep your eye on the road, love, you nearly had us in the ditch.’
‘Oh.’ His eyes swivelled back to the road. ‘Sorry.’
‘This is how it works.’ Her voice was dry. Inwardly she cringed, loathing this part of the transaction. ‘I tell you when I am free. We decide a place to meet and I meet you there for a weekend or a week.’
‘Not longer?’
‘Not longer. We decide in advance how much you will pay, you give me a cheque or cash if you’d rather, and it’s up to me to tell you when I will come.’
‘You decide that, why can’t I?’
‘I should think that’s pretty obvious.’
‘Fitting me in with the rest of the Syndicate.’ Rory bristled with jealousy.
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you sack them and marry me?’
‘Marriage is not on the menu, that’s one thing you must get into your head.’
‘Are you married already?’ Rory was appalled by the thought. Hebe married to some brute, forced to make pin money as a cook, as a, ah me, he groaned inwardly, a tart.
‘No.’
Rory felt the conversation coming to an end, that Hebe sitting beside him was some sort of female oyster clammed shut. He mixed metaphors in his muddled mind.
‘Do I have a choice of venue?’ he asked.
‘Yes, you can have that,’ she conceded.
Driving the last three miles into the city, Rory wondered whether to have Hebe to stay in his house behind the shop; he was happy there and had a garden which was pretty and not overlooked. Or whether he dared take her to a cottage his Great-aunt Calypso occasionally lent him in the middle of her wood famous for its flowering cherries, daffodils and bluebells. He steered the car thoughtfully through the maze of streets, with their infuriating one-way system, to the place he parked his car. Beside him he noticed with baffled rage Hebe was calmly checking her shopping list.
Rory had never before found shopping fun. They went first to the fishmonger, where Hebe discovered grouse flown from Scotland. ‘Why not buy grouse?’ She felt the breasts of the dead birds, murmuring, ‘These had pitifully short lives.’ Rory volunteered to pay, since he felt this might repay Louisa’s hospitality. They stood discussing the matter, annoying the fishmonger, holding up a queue of people. Hebe explained that she always bought extra for Louisa’s deep freeze, which she filled with pates and preserves. The birds were piled into the shopping basket. They went to the delicatessen, argued over cheeses and bought German mustard and a bottle of Greek olive oil. They carried their shopping back to Rory’s shop before returning to the market to buy vegetables and fruit. Rory watched Hebe choose, setting aside the unripe or slightly off, regardless of the fury of the stallholders. ‘In France they don’t respect you if you just take what you’re given. Look at that peach, a Saturday night bruise, and that banana’s lame.’ Her shopping done, she turned to Rory. ‘Shall we do the library before lunch?’ They fetched Louisa’s books from the car.
In the library Rory took over, collecting armfuls of crime from the shelves, sitting on a bench to look them through. ‘You help,’ he said to Hebe. ‘She used to get home and find she’d taken out a book she’d already read. She puts a little sign, look, here’s one, a dot in a circle. Discard that, check for the purely American, she can’t read the language, and lastly for other people’s breakfasts.’
‘What about the rude words crossed out?’
‘That, too.’ Rory laughed.
The librarian from her desk pointed to the sign which said ‘Silence’. Hebe whispered to Rory, ‘I am enjoying my day’, filling him with joy.
They chose four books and added them to their pile of shopping.
‘Why don’t we have lunch here? What have you got in your fridge?’ Hebe peered into the refrigerator.
‘Don’t you want to go to a restaurant?’
‘Not particularly. Here’s a nice wine.’ She held up a bottle of Muscadet. ‘Why don’t you run to the fishmonger and buy prawns or something. There’s brown bread and butter here.’
Rory came back with a lobster and a lettuce. Watching Hebe make mayonnaise, he knew he had never been happier.
During lunch he told Hebe of his life, his parents, his schools, his stand against going, as his father wished, into the Army, his sudden declaration that all he had ever wanted was a hat shop, an inspiration based on his resemblance to the March Hare, about which his family teased him.
‘I bet that floored them.’
‘It did. Then I had to have one. That’s how I started. I had never really considered such a thing.’
‘And your Aunt Louisa backed you up?’
‘Yes. She doesn’t like my father, and my Great-aunt Calypso helped me too.’
‘The aunt who gave you my hat? That aunt?’
‘Yes. Her husband planted the wood where I want to take you when—er—when it’s my turn. There’s a cottage.’
‘What a long sentence, Rory. You finished it and several others.’
‘You are mocking.’
‘Only a little. Let’s go to bed and you tell me about your great-aunt’s wood.’
‘Oh, I will.’ Rory got up from the table. As they went upstairs he said, ‘I hope you’ll find—er—find the bed—’
‘Comfortable?’
‘Yes and er—’
‘And you can tell me about your other girls.’
‘I’m not much good with girls. They—er—’
‘Don’t know what they’re missing.’ Hebe caught her dress by the skirt and whooshed it up and over her head in what seemed to Rory one waving movement. ‘Come on,’ she said, climbing into his bed, ‘let’s enjoy ourselves.’
Should he enjoy himself? Should he not feel the puritan shame his parents had instilled?
‘Work up an appetite for dinner,’ urged Hebe cheerfully.
‘You are so prosaic,’ he cried. ‘So—’
‘Practical.’
‘Perfect.’ He was delighted.
‘Not that.’ Suddenly she held him. He sensed fear in her and feeling her vulnerable held her close. When she slept he watched her until she woke. ‘We should be getting back if I am to cook dinner. This has been quite a long day off and a lovely siesta.’
Rory wanted to ask how it came about that she was a tart, guessed she would not tell him. Standing under the shower, watching her dress through the open door of the bathroom, he realised she had told him nothing about herself.
‘Rory,’ Hebe called, ‘you still haven’t shaved. What will your aunt think?’
‘My aunt,’ said Rory thoughtfully, ‘may not—er—may not—’
‘What may she not?’ Hebe came to sit on the edge of the bath to watch him shave.
‘May not expect me to stay.’
‘You mustn’t stay.’
‘But last night—er—’
‘Last night was exceptional. Really, Rory, it was. I never mix my cooking commitments with my tarting.’
‘Don’t say—’
‘All right, but it’s true I never mix the two. Today’s a day off.’
‘You mean I’ve got to wait?’ Rory, with his face covered in lather, looked slightly mad.
‘I shall have to see when I can fit you in.’
‘When do you leave Louisa?’
‘On the twenty-first.’
‘So then we can—’
‘I have other commitments.’ In Hebe’s mind a vision of Silas coming to greet her off the train. Only this time he would be getting off the helicopter, his wonderful visit over. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently. ‘I really do have other things to do.’
Disappointed, Rory shaved, his anxious eyes trying to catch sight of Hebe in the glass.
‘I could drive you.’
‘I have my own car.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘I never tell anyone where I live.’
‘Blast!’ shouted Rory. ‘Blast you!’
‘That’s the way it is. That’s the only way I can manage. You must put up with it.’
‘You give, then take it all away,’ he wailed.
‘If it’s any comfort to you, none of my clients knows where I live. Your aunt doesn’t.’
‘Even she?’
‘Even she. I ring her and suggest dates. You will just have to trust me and if you find someone better, well and good.’
‘But I want to be able to telephone—er—talk to you, write to you.’
‘Sorry, Rory, you can’t. I have an address in London which forwards my mail. I’ll give you that. I don’t mind if you write.’
‘I can’t bear it!’ Rory shouted through the lather. ‘I really don’t—’ Clumsily he mopped his face.
‘Then stop now. No need to go on. Forget the whole idea.’ Stu
pid of me, thought Hebe, to think this man could take Terry’s place. This is a dinger.
‘But I—I—want—’ Rory cried like a deprived child. ‘I do so want.’
‘Think about it. No need to hurry. There’s no rush. I don’t blame you if you don’t want to go on. I see your point of view. It’s just that I pay more attention to mine.’
In silence they collected the parcels, in silence they drove back to Louisa’s house. He grew sulky, almost surly. Hebe felt oppressed, her cheerfulness left her. She reproached herself for encouraging him, for enjoying herself, for accepting the hat, for inviting him into her bed. She felt sad.
Louisa’s dogs greeted them with barks and yelps, leaping up on Hebe as she stood with her arms full of parcels, Rufus jumping up to her face, bumping her with his wet nose.
‘Down!’ shouted Louisa, coming out of the house, ‘Down, you beasts.’ She took one of the baskets from Hebe. ‘You clever girl, grouse. Shall we have a grouse for dinner? Quiet!’ she shouted at the dogs. She followed Hebe into the kitchen where she was putting her parcels on to the table.
‘What’s the—’ Hebe sniffed the air. ‘There’s a—’
Louisa looked at Hebe; she seemed odd. Rory, catching sight of her face, saw her as he had first seen her in his shop and wondered whether she was about to faint.
‘Here.’ He pushed her into a chair. ‘I’ll get a glass of—put your head between—’
‘It’s all right.’ Hebe took his hand. ‘I’m not going to faint, just for a moment I imagined I smelt something that,’ she buried her face in his sleeve, ‘reminded me.’
‘Of what?’ whispered Rory.
Oh dear, he’s fallen in love with her, thought Louisa, watching them. Poor dear Rory.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what it reminds me of, that’s what worries me.’ She tried to laugh. ‘I’m just being silly. It’s like coffee or wood smoke, something of that sort.’ She let go of Rory. ‘I feel a fool, like when you can’t remember a word which you know really well.’
‘I’m often at a loss for a word,’ Rory comforted.
‘I had a visitor today. He made coffee after lunch, perhaps that is it,’ Louisa volunteered. ‘A friend of a friend of mine brought me a packet I was expecting. He made the coffee. It was even better than yours, Hebe.’
