by Mary Wesley
‘George Scoop, he’s a dentist, a dontologist,’ she corrected herself.
‘Scoops the tartar off your gnashers? Scoops you into bed, does he?’ Terry, his face close to Hannah, mocked. ‘What a name for a dentist!’ He leant across the tray which he held between them to kiss Hannah, his tongue flicking across her teeth.
‘Keep off.’ Hannah pushed. The tray slanted and the paperweights began to slide. ‘Watch it!’ she cried. ‘They’ll smash.’
Terry righted the tray. ‘I’ll take ’em to her, you telephone your fella.’
Hannah watched him leave. He had a beautiful back. As she dialled George’s number she compared it with George’s whitish lardy version.
‘Can I speak to Mr Scoop?’ she asked the receptionist called Jean.
‘Do you want an appointment?’ Jean recognised Hannah’s voice.
‘It’s Mrs Somerton. I want to talk to him.’
‘He’s busy, Mrs Somerton, can I take a message?’ Jean giggled.
‘Just see if he’s free.’
‘Well, Mrs Somerton—’ Jean’s impertinent voice set Hannah’s teeth on edge.
‘Just try, girl.’ She used asperity. ‘It’s important.’
‘Just a minute, Mrs Somerton.’ Hannah listened, heard the receptionist say, ‘Tell Mr Scoop, Evie, Hannah Somerton wants to speak to him, says it’s important—to her.’
‘Hallo?’ George came on the line, suspicious. ‘Who is it?’
‘George, my aunt’s flooded, oh, George, water all over the ground floor.’
‘Have you rung the Council?’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘Did they come?’
‘Yes, but it—’
‘They’ll take care of things. Look, I’m busy, Hannah.’
‘I thought you’d help, I thought you’d like to know.’
‘But you’ve got help, love, what could I do?’
‘I thought,’ Hannah cried, ‘that you—’
‘I’m a dentist, Hannah, not a labourer. Can’t the neighbours help? Your street’s full of idlers.’
‘Only because they can’t find work.’
‘But I can. Hannah, I have a difficult extraction to do. I can’t waste time rabbiting to you.’
‘I’m not rabbiting,’ Hannah shouted.
‘Yes, you are. I’m busy. I don’t like being interrupted when I’m in my surgery. I’ll ring you some time.’
‘Some time!’ Hannah yelled.
‘Look, love, I’m sorry, it’s a compacted wisdom tooth, it’s—’ but Hannah had replaced the receiver.
‘Not rushing to your aid, Scoop?’ Terry was back in the room. ‘Your auntie says she’d like a sandwich. Hey, you’re crying.’ He put his arms round her. Hannah laid her head against his shoulder. He smelt of warm flesh and fresh perspiration. Suddenly she hated George’s deodorants, his aseptic body. Terry tipped her head back and licked her tears away.
Eighteen
JIM HUXTABLE LEFT HIS car in the pub car park and went into the bar, ordered a pint of bitter and stood drinking it, glad to stretch his legs after the long drive. ‘Got any sandwiches?’ he asked the landlord.
‘Brown bread with crab, brown bread with beef, brown bread with turkey.’
As he ate he listened to the talk of the storm, the street up the hill flooded. He pricked his ears. So, Bernard’s friend of the paperweights was in trouble. As he finished his sandwich he watched a black youth and a white boy arguing with the barman.
‘Ya, ya, he’s under age. Beer’s not for him, it’s for the helpers,’ the youth was expostulating to the barman. ‘Council blokes who helped at Miss Tremayne’s. His ma wants to give them a beer.’
‘So long as you know under eighteens can’t be served.’
The youth burst out laughing. He nodded towards Jim. ‘He’s a dealer, not a copper. Come on, Giles.’ He loaded Giles with beer cans. ‘See you.’
‘Have to be careful,’ said the barman to no one in particular.
Jim walked up the street. The wind was drying the surface of the road. A magpie from a nearby park hopped beside the gutter, searching for titbits, flew off sideways. Jim stopped outside Hebe’s house, hesitated, rang the bell. If she came to the door he would get the pang of disappointment he had grown to expect. He pressed his thumb on the bell, saw a curtain move. Was she nervous? What was she afraid of? He turned his head. The curtain moved again. A tortoiseshell cat peered out, fixing him with a green stare. Jim gave up.
Across the street the door of the owner of the paperweights was propped open. Jim knocked. A weak voice from upstairs called. ‘Who is it?’
‘Jim Huxtable. I came to see you a while ago. Friend of Bernard’s.’
‘Come up.’
She was in bed, the paperweights on a table beside her. She looked frail.
‘I see you’ve had a flood.’
‘The boys and Hannah mopped up. I’m waiting for something to eat. Sit down.’
Jim sat by the bed. ‘Still not for sale.’ He eyed the paperweights.
‘Not for sale.’ She smiled, observing him.
‘Know me the next time,’ he said. ‘Are you ill?’ It seemed strange that with her ground floor in a mess she should lie so calmly in bed.
‘Just a bit. Better now. The chocolate boy climbed in and saved me. A little bit of heart trouble, that’s all.’
‘Is the doctor coming?’
‘Don’t want him, my niece—’
‘The dark girl?’
‘No, Hannah, the fair girl. Do you know Hebe, then?’ Amy’s voice was suddenly sharp.
‘No, I don’t. I just wondered whether she had any antiques to sell. I called at all the other houses. I thought I’d—’
‘Hebe has no antiques. She wouldn’t sell antiques, not now.’ Amy was weakly aggressive.
‘Did she once?’
‘Sandwich coming up, Auntie.’ Feet on the stairs, Giles hurrying into the room. ‘Mum says would you like anything else.’ Giles caught sight of Jim. ‘Hullo, saw you in the pub.’ He put the plate of sandwiches beside Amy. ‘She’ll be over soon. This enough?’
‘So she’s called Hebe,’ Jim reminded Amy, ignoring Giles.
Amy answered Giles. ‘Yes, love, that’s plenty, tell her, and thank her.’
Giles stood poised to leave. ‘You okay, then?’ He watched Jim with suspicion.
‘Yes, love.’ Amy reassured him.
‘Some of us are going to the beach for driftwood, it’s low tide.’
‘Have fun.’
‘Bye, then.’ Giles sprang away, his trainers going thud thud thud on the stairs.
‘So Hebe was selling things at one time.’ Jim tried to place her. Camden Passage? Some antique shop in the provinces? Portobello Road?
Amy munched her sandwich. ‘She sold some things to an old scoundrel, that’s all.’ Why was she telling him this, she wondered, champing on her sandwich. Because I like the looks of him, that’s why. ‘Give him his due, he gave her a good price.’
‘Bernard?’ Jim hazarded. ‘D’you know him?’
‘Hebe’s a cook.’ Amy ignored Jim’s question. ‘Cordon Bleu. Hannah, who made this sandwich, isn’t Cordon Bleu but she’s a good cook too. I saw you talking to her.’
‘Yes, very pretty. Green eyes.’
‘That’s right, Hannah Somerton. Her name was Krull but she changed it. Changed her teeth, too.’ Amy snorted.
‘Beautiful teeth, I remember.’ Jim was polite. How did one get her back to the dark girl?
‘They were,’ Amy leant forward staring at Jim, ‘snaggle every which way.’
‘Oh.’
‘Didn’t prevent her catching Krull. He’s rich. She wants someone else now, though.’
‘I’m not rich.’ Jim drew back from the old woman blowing crumbs.
‘You’re safe, then. Take this tray down when you go, there’s a dear. I’m now going to have a nap.’ She looked old, ill, wanted him to leave.
Jim took the tray. ‘Put it in the bac
k kitchen. Nice of you to call. Goodbye.’ She drew the sheet up, pursing her lips, the movement matching the folds of the sheet, dismissing him, slipping away into old age.
Jim took the tray down. He could report the safety of the paperweights and, if Bernard was interested, come again. In the street he wondered whether to renew acquaintance with Hannah, glanced at her door, decided against and went back to his car. The old woman had choked him off. Why?
‘Now then.’ Terry drew the curtains of Hannah’s bedroom. ‘Let’s get down to business.’ He cleared his throat, pushing Hannah gently back on to the bed. ‘D’you like it under the quilt or on top of the quilt?’ His voice was husky. He cleared his throat again. ‘Suppose you take off your panties and I’ll take off mine.’
‘Panties!’ Hannah gasped. ‘Do you wear—’
‘Nice, ain’t they, and this,’ he was on top of her, ‘is nice too.’
‘I didn’t know men wore them.’ She was interested.
‘Real silk. I’ll buy you a pair. Now pay attention.’
She was half amused, feeling the silk. ‘Are they satin?’ This was unusual, exciting.
‘I am.’
‘You are.’ She touched him. There was something about a very young man. Now George, she forgot what she had been about to think of George. ‘I don’t usually—’ she began.
‘Shush. Come on, get cracking, it takes two.’
Presently Hannah, watching Terry asleep, breathing silently through his nose, remembered George who had been known to snore. George had money. She shook Terry gently.
‘What do you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m self-employed.’
‘Doing what?’ But Terry wanted sleep. She remembered she must scrub Amy’s filthy floor. She lay for a few more minutes considering George. Would he or would he not come and help her? Like hell he would. He would say that his hands were precious. Rubbish, she thought resentfully, he could wear gloves. The expression ‘rabbiting’ rankled. She turned to reach for Terry’s hand, smooth, firm, nice nails. George, under stress, bit his.
‘Terry?’
‘Yes?’ Terry woke, glinting a dark eye at her. ‘Hullo, goosegogs.’
‘Say “regatta”.’
‘Regattah.’ He was smiling. ‘Received pronunciation suit you? I regattah, you regattah, she begat her. You on the pill?’ A flick of anxiety.
‘Yes.’ She blushed at the admission. George had insisted.
‘Ah—Ah—’ He stroked her face gently.
‘I have to scrub auntie’s floor.’
‘I’ll help you.’ He sprang up. ‘Where’s me knicks, then?’
‘On the floor.’
She watched him put them on. They really suited him. Much nicer than George’s baggy boxers.
Nineteen
WALKING LOUISA’S DOGS ALONG the river after dinner, Hebe felt pleased with life. She was enjoying her work for Louisa, revelling in the countryside so different from the dark brick street in which she lived. If Silas were with her it would be perfect, she thought, but if he were it would not be possible to arrange the addition of Rory to her troupe. She considered Rory. He was endearing but against this he was Louisa’s nephew, a potentially embarrassing connection. She liked to keep her cooking and tarting separate. It might be difficult, with Rory living so close to Louisa, to manage this. But why not, she encouraged herself. My old home is not far away and they, my grandparents with their new dog, don’t know I am here. Amy would approve of Rory. Hebe smiled to herself. Rory was unmarried, belonged to the strata of society Amy envisaged as Hebe’s. Amy, a romantic, would see Rory as the Mr Right she secretly hoped for her. Thinking of Amy, she felt a surge of love and gratitude. It was ungrateful to hate the hideous street. Amy had provided a loving home in it. In the street she had found refuge when filled with apprehension, waiting for Silas, experienced exuberant joy when he was born, reshaped her life, destroying the person she had been brought up to be, plotted her survival, planned her cooking career, found friendship with Bernard and through him discovered Hippolyte and the formula for survival she had carefully planned. Strolling by the river, pausing to throw sticks for the dogs, hearing a water vole plop, watching it swim close to the bank then vanish, seeing the swirl and rise of secret trout in the bottle green water, Hebe counted herself fortunate, congratulated herself on the profitable career which with balanced planning was so enjoyable a way of keeping herself amused while educating Silas. She dismissed a tiny cloud of whingeing doubt which occasionally assailed her as to whether she had truly chosen the right education for her child.
Hebe peered at her reflection and that of Rufus in the darkly waving water. Hippolyte, founder member of the Syndicate, had urged her to put a high price on herself, had taught her about bed. It was after learning ‘The Soufflé System’ that she had enlarged her horizon when occasion arose and became a tart as well as a cook. Mungo was the most profitable of her lovers, Hippolyte both friend and lover, constant. Latterly there had been Terry, a delightful novelty, and now Rory. She stroked Rufus’ wet head. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said to the dog, whose reflection in the water wagged its tail. ‘I like my work. I am giving Silas the chance to be whatever he likes. A few more pleasurable working years, Rufus, old dog, and I can retire.’ She leant forward to watch a trout sliding under the weed, its movement so beautiful she held her breath. ‘It’s a wonderful evening,’ she said to the dogs. ‘Run, run, you must get dry, run.’ Hebe ran with the dogs along the river, fleet and happy, for she would soon be home with Silas for the rest of the holidays.
The sun had set. From the French windows of Louisa’s drawing-room yellow light streamed into the garden, alive with moths, the sound of the news on the television, jasmine and tobacco plants scenting the air.
‘What a perfect evening,’ said Hebe, coming into the drawing-room from the garden, carrying flowers, accompanied by the dogs.
Louisa, sitting on her sofa opposite the fire, where a log glowed even though it was August, looked up, smiling.
‘We are just listening to the news,’ she said.
In armchairs on either side of the fire sat Mungo on Louisa’s left and Rory on Louisa’s right. Both looked at Hebe expectantly.
The news announcer was saying, ‘—to be unveiled by Her Majesty—happily the rain—informality mixed with pomp—the umbrellas have come down—generations represented here today—now the Queen—one might almost say—pulse of history—roll of Gotha—inspiration—pride—the Queen’s walkabout—adversity—hope—affection—great man—Prince and Princess of Wales—great—’
‘Great philanderer, had a lot of affairs, they say. I don’t call that much of a likeness.’ On the screen Her Majesty had pulled the string and the statesman was revealed in bronze. Louisa went on talking. ‘You’ve met Rory, of course, and I believe you know Mungo.’ She was enjoying the situation.
‘Yes, of course. How do you do. Hi!’ said Hebe, who never said ‘Hi’. ‘Is there anything you’d like?’ she asked Louisa. ‘I am on my way to bed.’
‘No, thank you, my dear.’
Mungo and Rory had risen to their feet.
‘I thought I’d take Rufus to sleep in my room tonight,’ said Hebe, looking her employer in the eye. ‘He was very noisy last night.’
Rory gasped.
‘So he was. A good idea. Goodnight, my dear.’ Louisa exaggerated cheerfulness.
‘Goodnight, then. Come along, dogs.’ Hebe left the room, followed by the dogs.
‘Switch off the television, Mungo. Would you draw the curtains, Rory, as you are on your feet?’ Louisa turned to Mungo. ‘Now tell me how dear Lucy is. Your mother, Mungo. Do pay attention.’
Mungo stopped staring at the door which had closed behind Hebe. ‘My mother’s all right,’ he muttered.
‘And Alison, how is dear Alison, hasn’t she gone to America or something?’
‘Or something,’ said Mungo heavily. ‘She eloped to form a troika.’
‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Louisa. ‘B
ut you will get her back?’ she teased.
‘Unfortunately yes,’ cried Mungo. ‘My mother—’ He stared at the door. Why the hell had Hebe gone off like that, taking a pack of dogs with her as though she needed protection? He knew the dog Rufus, it had once bitten him. Did she imagine he would rush up and rape her in front of this crowd of people? Of course he wanted to rape her, wasn’t that what he’d come for? What the hell was that fool Rory doing here, anyway? Why was Louisa acting so funny?
‘Your mother, you were saying?’ Louisa pried.
‘She’s said something, implied something. Oh, I don’t know but Alison is coming back.’ In his fury and pain Mungo was almost shouting. ‘Coming back on the first flight she can get.’
‘What did your mother say to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mungo moaned weakly.
‘I expect she told her the man had AIDS. Alison wouldn’t like that.’
‘Christ! Do you think he has?’ Mungo was shocked.
‘I should be surprised if he has, but I cannot see your mother managing without Alison. She depends on her.’ Louisa grinned. She did not add, ‘And so do you.’
Rory, who had arrived at the house simultaneously with Mungo, and was a-bubble with suppressed rage at the advent of his cousin, let out a loud guffaw. He had never liked Mungo, who was ten years older, had the advantage of a richer background than his own and had been held up to him as an example by his father. ‘Your cousin Mungo fits into the family business, follows in his father’s footsteps. Why cannot you join the Army? You would be made welcome in the old regiment.’ Rory’s hesitation over joining the Army had been welded into determination by Mungo’s willingness to join his father’s firm. If he had not been in such a rage with Mungo he would have felt grateful for this negative influence. As it was, watching Mungo’s behaviour since arriving in Louisa’s house, the way his eyes wandered in obvious search, a feeble excuse to fetch water from the kitchen, his restless inattention to Louisa’s small talk, he had guessed that Mungo was a member of Hebe’s Syndicate. When Hebe came in through the French windows, surrounded by dogs, carrying flowers, looking in her light cotton dress like some latterday Diana, Rory’s heart had leapt, and so, quite obviously, had Mungo’s. Hebe had barely glanced at either of them but with a barefaced lie about feeling tired had swept out of sight to lock herself no doubt into the bedroom he considered his, where so lately he had lain in her arms and she brown, soft, warm had Rory closed his eyes in an effort to blot out the intruding vision of Hebe in Mungo’s arms. Oh, God, Oh, God! Rory cried to his maker, I cannot bear it. His fury switched from Mungo to Louisa. She was tormenting Mungo about Alison, his mother and his schoolboy sons Ian and Alistair. Rory overheard odd words which did not make much sense but, forcing himself to pay attention, became alert.
