The Peacock Emporium

by Jojo Moyes

  Cath stared at her outstretched hand.

  'Financially. It's not much. But I thought if there was a trust fund or something . . . for Emma, I mean . . .'

  Cath's hand reached for the little gold cross round her neck. Her expression seemed to harden. 'We don't need anyone's money, thank you,' she said crisply. 'Emma and I will do just fine.'

  'I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend.' Suzanna stuffed the envelope into her pocket, scolding herself for her tactlessness.

  'You haven't offended me.' Cath stood up, and Suzanna wondered if she was about to be told to leave, but the older woman moved over to the serving hatch at the end of the room, reached through and flicked the switch on the kettle. 'There is one thing you could do,' she said, her back to the room. 'We're making Emma a memory box. Her teacher suggested it. You get people to write their memories of Jessie . . . nice things, you know. Nice things that happened. Good days. So that when she gets older Emma can still have . . . a full picture of what her mum was like. What everyone thought of her.'

  'It's a lovely idea.' Suzanna thought of the shelf in the shop that bore a small shrine of Jessie's things.

  'I thought so.'

  'A bit like our displays, I suppose.'

  'Yes. Jess was good at those, wasn't she?'

  'Better than I was. I don't suppose you'll be short of those sorts of memories. Good ones, I mean.'

  Cath Carter said nothing.

  'I . . . I'll try to do something that matches up, that does her justice.'

  The older woman turned. 'Jess did everything to the full, you know,' she said. 'It wasn't much of a life, a pretty small life to some. I know she didn't really do anything, or go anywhere. But she loved people, and she loved her family, and she was true to herself. She didn't hold back.' Cath was staring at the picture above the mantelpiece.

  Suzanna sat, motionless.

  'No . . . she never held back. She used to divide people into drains and radiators. Did you know that? Drains are the type that are always miserable, that want to tell you their problems, suck the life out of you . . . Radiators are what Jess was. She warmed us all up.'

  Suzanna realised with some discomfort where she had probably sat in the equation. Cath no longer seemed to be speaking to her: she was addressing the picture, her face softened. 'Despite that fool I'm going to teach Emma to do the same. I won't have her growing up frightened, cautious of everything, just because of what happened. I want her to be strong, and brave and . . . like her mother.' She adjusted the frame, moving it a fraction along the shelf. 'That's what I want. Like her mother.'

  She brushed non-existent fluff from her skirt. 'Now,' she said, 'about that tea.'

  Alejandro stood up suddenly in the little boat, making it rock dangerously, and threw down his rod in disgust. At the other end, his father looked up at him in incomprehension. 'What's the matter? You'll frighten the fish!'

  'Nothing is biting. Nothing.'

  'Have you tried one of these damsel nymphs?' Jorge held up one of the brightly coloured flies. 'They seem to be biting better on the smaller lures.'

  'I tried them.'

  'Then a sinking line. I don't think your floating one is any good.'

  'It's not the line. Or the lure. I just can't do it today.'

  Jorge pushed back his hat. 'I hate to remind you, son, but it's the only day I have.'

  'I can't fish any more.'

  'That's because you are fidgeting like a dog with fleas.' Jorge leant over and made Alejandro's rod secure within the boat, then laid his own next to his landing net of stunned, glistening fish. He was nearly up to his ticket allowance of six. He was going to have to eat into his son's soon.

  He shifted on his seat and reached into the hamper for a beer, holding it up like a peace-offering. 'What's going on? You were always a better fisherman than me. You're like a five-year-old today. Where's your patience?'

  Alejandro sat down, shoulders hunched. His formerly languid air had vanished over the past days as surely as the ripples he had sent spiralling outwards on the lake.

  'Come,' said Jorge, with a hand on his shoulder. 'Come. Have something to eat. Another beer . . . Or something stronger?' He tapped the whisky flask in the pocket of his fishing vest. 'You've hardly touched this food.'

  'I'm not hungry.'

  'Well, I am. And if you keep thrashing about like you have been, there will be nothing left in the water for miles.'

  They ate the sandwiches Alejandro had made in silence, letting the boat drift in the middle of the lake. It was not a bad flat, Jorge told him. Spacious. Light. Secure. Lots of pretty young nurses going past. (He hadn't actually said the last bit.) Yes, he had been pretty taken with the area, the rolling countryside, the quaint cottages, the low-ceilinged English pubs. He liked the tranquillity of this lake, the fact that the English were considerate enough to restock it with fish every year. England seemed to stay the same, he said. It was reassuring, when you could see a once-proud country like Argentina going to the dogs, to know that there were some places where civilised standards, a little dignity, still mattered. Alejandro had told him then of the landlords who had rejected him for being 'dark', and Jorge, spluttering, had said the place was obviously full of half-wits and ignorants. 'Calls itself a civilised country,' he muttered. 'And half the women wearing men's shoes . . .'

  Alejandro stared into the water for some time, then turned to him. 'You can tell Mama,' he said, and let out a deep sigh, 'that I'm coming home.'

  'What is wrong with a nice woman's shoe? Why do the women here feel they have to look like men?' Jorge stopped, and swallowed the last of his sandwich. 'What?'

  'I've handed in my notice. I'm coming back in three weeks.'

  Jorge wondered if he had heard him correctly. 'Your mother will be pleased,' he said carefully. Then he wiped his moustache and put his handkerchief back into his pocket. 'What happened? The pay is no good?'

  'The pay is okay.'

  'You don't like the work?'

  'The work is fine. It's pretty universal, you know.' Alejandro did not smile.

  'You can't settle? Is it your mother? Is she plaguing you? She told me about the lock of hair - I'm so sorry, son. She doesn't understand, you know. She doesn't see it like other people. It's because she doesn't get out enough, you know? She thinks too much about things . . .' Jorge was suddenly swamped by guilt. This was why he was more comfortable with reticence. Conversation inevitably led to awkwardness. 'You shouldn't let her trouble you.'

  'It's a woman, Pa. She's killing me.'

  The fact that they were in the middle of a thirty acre lake meant that no one saw Jorge's eyes widen slightly, then raise to heaven as he uttered a near-silent 'Thank God!'

  'A woman!' he said, trying to keep his voice free of blatant joy. 'A woman!'

  Alejandro's head dropped on to his knees.

  Jorge straightened his face. 'And this is a problem?'

  Alejandro spoke into his knees: 'She's married.'

  'So?'

  Alejandro looked up, his expression bewildered.

  Words bubbled out of Jorge. 'You're getting older, son. You're not likely to find any that don't have a little . . . history.' He was still fighting the urge to dance a little jig round his son. A woman!

  'History? That's only part of it.'

  A woman. He could have sung it, let the sound burst forth from his lungs. Carry across the lake and bounce back at him off the shore. A woman!

  Alejandro's face was hidden, his back bent as if he were in acute pain. Jorge composed himself, tried to focus on his son's misery, to introduce a more sombre timbre to his voice.

  'So. This woman.'

  'Suzanna.'

  'Suzanna.' Jorge said the name reverentially. Suzanna. 'You - you care for her?'

  It was a stupid question. Alejandro lifted his head and Jorge remembered what it was like to be a young man, the agony, the certainty and uncertainty of love.

  His son's voice was halting, broken: 'She - she's everything. I can't se
e anything but her, you know? Even when I'm with her. I don't even want to blink when I'm near her in case I miss . . .'

  Perhaps if he had been someone else, Jorge might have uttered a few platitudes about first love, about how these things became easier, about how there were plenty more fish in the sea - and some, he knew, with breasts like ripe melons and you couldn't even see the scars. But this was his son, and Jorge, still struggling to contain his relief, knew better.

  'Papa? What do I do?' He looked like he was about to erupt with frustration and misery, as if the act of spilling out the cause of his unhappiness had not brought him relief but made his suffering more acute.

  Jorge de Marenas straightened himself up, his shoulders a little squarer, his expression dignified and paternal. 'You have told her how you feel?'

  Alejandro nodded miserably.

  'And do you know how she feels?'

  The young man looked out across the water. Eventually he turned back to his father, and shrugged.

  'She wants to stay?'

  Alejandro made as if to speak, but his mouth closed before it had the chance to form words.

  If they had been seated side by side, Jorge would have put his arm round his son. A comforting, offhand, heterosexual-man-to-heterosexual-man sort of hug. Instead he leant forward, and laid his hand on his son's knee. 'Then you're right,' he said. 'It's time to go home.'

  The water lapped against the side of the boat. Jorge adjusted the oars, opened another beer and handed it to his son. 'I meant to tell you. This Sofia Guichane . . . the one who asked to be remembered to you.' He leant back in the boat, blessing God silently for the joy of fishing. 'Gente says she and Eduardo Guichane are to split.'

  As Suzanna left, she bumped into Father Lenny. He was walking along the pavement, holding a bag under his arm, his robe swinging. 'How is she?' he said, nodding at Cath's house.

  Suzanna grimaced, unable to convey what she felt.

  'I'm glad you came,' he said. 'Not enough do. Shame, really.'

  'I don't know if I was any help,' she said.

  'What's happening with the shop? Are you headed off there now? I notice you've been shut a lot lately.'

  'It's been . . . difficult.'

  'Hang on in there,' he said. 'You might find things easier after the inquest.'

  She felt the familiar clench of discomfort. She was not looking forward to giving evidence.

  'I've done a few,' he said, closing the gate behind him. 'They're not so bad. Really.'

  She forced a smile, braver than she felt.

  'I don't think your man was too keen either, from what he told me.'

  'What?'

  'Alejandro. Told me he was off to Argentina.'

  'He's going back?'

  'Shame, isn't it? Nice guy. Still, can't say I blame him. It's not the easiest town to settle in. And he's had a bumpier ride than most.'

  Suzanna lay awake for most of the night. She thought of Cath Carter, and of Jessie, and of her broken, empty shop. She watched as the dawn broke, the blue light filtering through the gap in the curtains that she had never liked, and watched the silver trail of the jet planes silently dissecting the sky.

  Then, as Neil sat in the kitchen cramming toast into his mouth while he searched the worksurfaces for his cufflinks, she told him she was leaving.

  He seemed not to hear her. Then, 'What?' he said.

  'I'm leaving. I'm sorry, Neil.'

  He stood very still, a piece of toast protruding from his mouth. She felt rather embarrassed for him.

  Eventually he removed it. 'Is this a joke?'

  She shook her head.

  They stared at each other for some minutes. Then he turned, and began to pack things into his briefcase. 'I'm not going to discuss it now, Suzanna. I've got a train to catch, and an important meeting this morning. We'll talk this evening.'

  'I won't be here,' she said quietly.

  'What's this about?' he said, incredulity on his face. 'Is this because of your mother? Look, I know it's all been a shock to you, but you've got to look on the bright side. You don't have to live with all that guilt any more. I thought you all understood each other better now. You told me you thought things might improve.'

  'I do.'

  'Then what? Is this about having children? Because I've backed off, you know I have. Don't start making me feel bad about that.'

  'It's not--'

  'It's just stupid to make life-changing decisions when you're not thinking straight.'

  'I'm not.'

  'Look, I know you're still upset about your friend. I feel sad about her too. She was a nice girl. But you will feel better after a while, I promise.' He nodded to himself, as if affirming his words. 'We've had a tough few months. The shop is a drain on you, I know that. It must be depressing having to work with it looking . . . well, with all that still in the air. But the windows are going in - when?'

  'Tuesday.'

  'Tuesday. I know you're unhappy, Suzanna, but just don't overreact, okay? Let's just get it all in proportion. It's not just Jessie you're grieving for, it's what you thought was your family history, probably your mother, even. It's your shop. It's your way of life.'

  'Neil . . . it's not the shop I wanted.'

  'You did want the shop. You went on and on about it. You can't tell me now you didn't want it.'

  She had heard an edge of panic in his voice. Her own was almost unnaturally calm as she said, 'It was always about something else. I know that now. It was about . . . filling a hole.'

  'Filling a bole?'

  'Neil, I'm really sorry. But we're kidding ourselves. We've been kidding ourselves for years.'

  Finally he was taking her seriously. He sat down heavily on the kitchen chair. 'Is there someone else?'

  Her hesitation was just brief enough for her answer to be convincing. 'No.'

  'Then what? What are you saying?'

  She took a deep breath. 'I'm not happy, Neil, and I'm not making you happy.'

  'Ah,' he said, sarcastically. 'The great it's-not-you-it's-me conversation. So this is what we're reduced to.'

  'It's both of us,' she said. 'We - we don't fit any more.'

  'What?'

  'Neil, can you say you're happy? Really?'

  'Not this again. What are you expecting, Suzanna ? We've had a tough time. It's been a tough year. People have been committed to asylums on less stress than we've had to deal with. You can't expect to be happy the whole time.'

  'I'm not talking about gaiety. Not happy-happy.'

  'Then what?'

  'I'm talking about . . . I don't know, a kind of contentment, a sense that things are right.'

  'Suzanna, things are right. But we're married - it's not always going to be hearts and flowers.' He stood up, began pacing The room. 'You can't just throw everything up in the air, keep shopping around, just because you're not waking up singing every morning. You've got to work at something, to stick at something in your life. Life is like that, Suze, it's about persistence. About sticking with each other. And waiting for the happy times to come back. We've had happy times, Suzanna, and we will again. You've just got to have a little faith. Be realistic in your expectations.'

  When she didn't speak, he sat down again, and they were silent for some time. Outside, one of the neighbours slammed a car door and shouted an instruction at a child, then drove off.

  'You'll have your family, Neil,' she said quietly. 'You've got loads of time, even if you think you don't.'

  Neil got up and walked over to her. He squatted down and took her hands in his. 'Don't do this, Suze. Please.' His brown eyes were pained and anxious. 'Suze.'

  She kept staring at her shoes.

  'I love you. Doesn't that mean anything? Twelve years together?' He dipped his head, trying to see her face. 'Suzanna?'

  She lifted her face to his, her eyes steady, and not regretful enough. She shook her head. 'It's not enough, Neil.'

  He looked back at her, evidently hearing the certainty in her voice and seeing somet
hing final in her expression, and dropped her hands. 'Then nothing's going to be enough for you, Suzanna.' His words were bitter, spat out in the realisation that this really was it. That she had meant what she said. 'Real life is never going to be enough. What you're after is a fairy story. And it's going to make you very unhappy.'

  He got up and wrenched open the door. 'And you know what? When you realise it, don't come running to me because I've had enough. Okay? I've really had enough.'

  She had hurt him enough so she didn't say it. That she would rather take that risk than live with what she already knew, had finally realised, would be a lifetime of disappointment.

  Twenty-Six

  Suzanna lay on the bed she had slept in as a child, as the sounds that had echoed through her childhood resonated through the wall. She could hear her mother's dog whining, claws scrabbling on the flagstone floor downstairs, its flurry of staccato yelps proclaiming some unseen outrage. She absorbed the muffled sound of Rosemary's television, turned up as she watched the morning news. The FTSE up four points, grey with scattered showers, she noted, smiling wryly at the inability of plaster and lath to offer any resistance to the evidence of Rosemary's faded hearing. Outside, on the front drive, she could hear her father talking to one of the men, discussing some problem with a grain chute. Sounds that, until now, had only ever told her she was alien in this environment. For the first time, Suzanna was comforted by them.

  She had arrived late two evenings previously, having packed her belongings while Neil was at work. Despite his words, he had hoped, she knew, that she would change her mind while he was gone. That what she said had been perhaps an unhappy side-effect of grief. But she knew. And she thought, in his heart of hearts that he probably knew too, that the grief had delayed the decision, clouded her certainty that it had to be taken.

  Vivi had met her at the door, had listened without saying a word when Suzanna announced tearfully (she had thought she would leave the cottage without a second glance, had been surprised by how emotional she felt at packing her clothes) why she was there. Surprisingly Vivi hadn't pleaded with her to give it another go, or told her what a wonderful man Neil was - even when Neil turned up, as she'd known he probably would, drunk and incoherent later that night. Vivi had made him coffee and let him rant, ramble and sob. She had told him, Vivi said afterwards, that she was so sorry, that not only was he welcome to stay in the cottage, but that he would be part of their family for as long as he wanted. Then she had driven him home.