IN AMY’S HOUSE THEY gathered to question Giles. Had Silas sent him a message? No. Had Silas said anything before he left to suggest that he was worried? No. Had Silas—
‘Look, Mum, I’m hungry. Can I have some tea?’ Giles felt oppressed by the torrent of questions. Should he protect Silas? Was there something Silas would not want told?
‘I’ll get the boy some tea.’ Amy busied herself producing a meal, trying hard not to look anxious. She felt unwell, had felt wretched since the morning of the flood. There was no time for that now. It had been nothing, she told herself, she’d taken fright being alone. It had been all right when Terry appeared; the pain had eased off when she took her pill.
‘He was looking forward to going. Sounded okay to me.’ Giles filled his mouth with bread and butter, spread jam lavishly.
Hannah stood over him, hoping to extract some crumb of information. Terry, leaning against the wall, watched her appreciatively. Some girl. Lovely rhythm. Quite different to Hebe. Couldn’t compare them, really. He liked the way her eyes grew dark when she came. Poor old Hebe was looking blotched with worry.
‘You were with him the day before he went away, did anything happen?’ Hannah stood over her son.
‘We got wet.’ Giles, munching, recollected the field of kale and Silas hitting him so that he fell back in the mud and got wetter. One couldn’t tell her that, not in front of this crowd. ‘No, Mum.’
‘Did you have a row?’
‘No.’ Giles shook his head. His conception of a row was plates flying as Hannah hurled them at his father. He remembered sheltering under tables and behind chairs until the storm spent itself.
‘No row? You sure?’
Giles remembered Silas last seen waving across the street. ‘He called me a litterbug.’ Can’t do any harm to tell them that.
‘You were having a row.’ Hannah pounced.
‘It was a joke.’ Giles helped himself to cake. ‘He was laughing when I last saw him.’
‘Nothing to do with the Scillies, anyway,’ said Terry, hoping to get back to the point.
‘I am going to try to telephone again.’ Hebe went out. ‘She may be back by now.’
As Hebe left the house she brushed past George Scoop in search of Hannah.
‘Anyone home?’ he sang. ‘Hullo, Amy.’ He walked in uninvited.
‘Hullo, Mr Scoop,’ said Amy, not wishing to call him George. ‘Sit down. Cup of tea?’
‘Thank you, I’d love a cup. Thought you might be here.’ George addressed Hannah who, answering without her usual gusto, merely said, ‘Yes’.
‘Hebe’s son Silas is missing.’ Terry looked George up and down. So this was George. ‘I am Terry.’ He held out his hand, smiling. George shook hands, took note of Terry’s lovely teeth, regular, not a single stopping. Often the case with blacks.
‘Are the police informed?’ George looked round the room. He had not been to Amy’s house before. He noticed that it showed few signs of the flood. Hannah must have exaggerated the damage. It had been a ploy to get him involved.
‘It’s hardly a police matter—’ said Hannah.
‘Let’s listen to the local news.’ Without asking Amy’s permission George switched on her television. ‘Might hear something on the news.’ He sat down opposite the set. Amy drew in her breath.
‘You want the football results,’ said Giles, guessing correctly, feeling hostile.
George registered a sensation he had had before. It would be dicey to be Giles’ stepfather. He watched the announcer. ‘I know that man’s dentist,’ he said. ‘He has a practice in Wimpole Street.’
Amy watched George, sizing him up to his disadvantage. Terry smiled broadly.
The national news finished, the local announcer took over. ‘Now he is a patient of mine. Gets troublesome plaque. I stopped three of his teeth last month,’ said George. ‘Saved a molar.’
Terry caught Hannah’s eye. She grinned. Amy said, ‘Well,’ non-committally, then again ‘Well’, on a downbeat.
‘If I get it right and Silas sent the message, then it’s not a police—’ began Terry.
‘No, no, Hebe got a message. We don’t know that it was Silas that sent it,’ said Hannah.
‘My God, I wish I could get at him.’ George leant forward to stare at a man being interviewed on a fishing boat. ‘One could do a lot for that chap.’
Hannah burst out laughing. ‘You don’t watch telly, you watch their teeth. What did the man say, George, bet you didn’t hear.’ She crowed with laughter, catching Terry’s eye, turning to Amy, who suppressed a smile. One should not make fun of visitors even when self-invited in one’s own house. George looked discomfited, began seriously to doubt any future with Hannah, though in bed she was terrific. Who was this bloke Terry? A bit young for Hannah, and coloured, black, not to put too fine a point on it. A friend of Giles? Not exactly suitable. There were other things in marriage besides bed. He turned to look at Hannah. No, dammit, from the way she was grinning at Terry she and Terry had a thing going. Tricky bitch, how could she?
Giles, passing his cup for a refill, thought, None of them are concentrating on Silas. George is bothered by Terry. Mum is teasing George. Terry feels pleased with himself for some reason. Oh, high oop, Mum’s switched to Terry, that’s it, and Amy’s just watching. They didn’t notice when Giles left the room and crossed the street to Hebe’s house. Hebe, sitting by the telephone, looked up. ‘Giles.’
‘Any luck?’ He sat beside her.
‘She must be out. I am ringing every five minutes. I know what she is doing, she is gardening. She will come in when she is tired. I must be patient.’
Trip peered round the door and walked in, pressing her flank sensuously against its edge. She strolled across to Hebe, leapt on to her lap, pressing her head up under Hebe’s chin with hard little jerks, purring.
‘She wouldn’t talk to me when I got home.’ Hebe stroked Trip.
‘Cats get affronted. We had one in the States. Very unforgiving.’ Giles looked at the clock. ‘When is the five minutes up?’
Hebe watched the second hand. ‘About now.’ She dialled. ‘Try, try and try again.’ She listened to the telephone pealing in Louisa’s drawing-room in Wiltshire. ‘Still out.’ She put the receiver down. ‘Oh, Giles.’ She began to weep. ‘What on earth can have happened to him?’
‘Shall I get Mum?’ Giles was near tears himself.
‘No, I must just keep on trying until Louisa answers. Then, when she tells me who sent the message, I may get some idea of where he can be.’
Giles fetched a roll of paper towel from the kitchen and handed a strip to Hebe. Hebe mopped her eyes, loving Giles for his action, thinking, Small wonder Silas is such friends with him. Giles blew his nose, while outside on the rooftops the sea gulls shrieked and quarrelled.
‘I must pull myself together,’ she said, and remembered that when she was a small child she had heard her grandfather tell a man who had lost both legs to pull his socks up.
‘It’s pretty difficult,’ she said, taking another piece of paper towel from Giles. ‘I feel I am going mad.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Giles, catching his breath.
‘Do you think he is dead?’
‘Of course not,’ said Giles stoutly. ‘He may be anywhere. He has no idea of time.’
‘You know that’s untrue.’
‘What do you think of Mum and Terry?’ Could he distract her?
‘What do you think? It’s you that matters.’
‘I’m pleased.’ Giles grinned, thinking, Nobody can call Terry boring. ‘Try that number again,’ he suggested.
‘I must not be hysterical.’ She started dialling.
Louisa, sitting on her garden seat, watched Mungo and Rory snipping dead heads off her roses. She was amused by their visit, their transparent show of solicitude and affection. Enjoying the late afternoon sun she laid bets with herself as to how long the two would stay.
They had arrived in Rory’s car. They had been clearly disconcerted at not finding Hebe. Bound to secrecy by Bernard, Louisa was unable to tell them that Hebe had hurried to care for her child. Neither Mungo nor Rory knew she had a child. It had become obvious that they both thought Hebe had either gone out to avoid them or that Louisa, in spite of her denial when asked by Rory, knew where Hebe lived and could be tricked into giving her address. Since she only knew by accident through Bernard, Louisa would only say, ‘She has a forwarding address in London, but it is she who telephones when she is free and might like to come. I can give you the address.’ From the way they hedged and hesitated, Louisa guessed that Mungo at least knew of this address and knew it to be a dead end.
Since they showed no inclination to leave, Louisa set them to work in the garden. Rory had done some ineffective weeding and Mungo had tied back some prickly ramblers. Now she watched them snipping away with secateurs. Lying with her feet up, her dogs lolling around her, Louisa enjoyed the spectacle of them spinning out the day as their hopes faded, unwilling to give up, suspiciously watching each other. She rehearsed what she would tell Bernard when next he telephoned. ‘Neither dared let the other out of his sight,’ she would say, hoping to amuse him. Rory came and sat on the grass beside her.
‘I thought Mungo had to go and meet Alison,’ he grumbled. ‘What can Hebe see in him? He is far too old for her, nearly fifty.’
‘Forty-five, nice-looking, rich,’ Louisa murmured.
Rory muttered under his breath, watching Mungo. Then, looking up, he hissed in a whisper, ‘He says she’s a—well, she says so, too, but I can’t—it’s not possible, it’s—’
‘What isn’t possible?’ Poor fellow, he looks so distressed. Louisa felt pity for Rory.
‘What he says—what she—that she’s a tart,’ Rory whispered.
Louisa raised her eyebrows. ‘I only know her in her cooking capacity,’ she said delicately. ‘That’s what she does here.’ Louisa hesitated, recollecting that Hebe had done other than cook with Rory.
‘Could it possibly be—’
‘True?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘That she is, but I—I can’t—’
‘You had better believe it.’ Louisa raised her head, watching Mungo approach. ‘What are you doing about Alison?’ she asked him.
‘I am going to telephone. I said I would meet her at Heathrow but she may have arrived by now. All this made me forget.’
‘All this being Hebe?’ Louisa pried.
‘All this being Hebe, yes,’ Mungo shouted in exasperation. ‘Oh, bugger it!’
‘Temper, temp—’ Rory crowed.
‘Shut up, you little jerk,’ shouted Mungo.
Louisa’s dogs began to bark, the barking started as usual by Rufus, seconded by the higher yapping of the smaller dogs. Louisa shouted, ‘Quiet!’ Dogs and men fell silent. When the cacophony died down Louisa said, ‘I think, dears, you had better give up. Hebe has gone and you, Mungo, must sort yourself out with Alison.’
‘Oh my God!’ Mungo’s reluctance was tangible.
‘Go on, Mungo, get it done. You have your boys to consider. Stop chasing shadows.’
‘Hebe’s no shadow,’ Mungo blurted in protest.
‘Go on, telephone. Take Rory with you as moral support.’
‘God forbid!’ Outraged by this frivolous suggestion, Mungo shambled away into the house.
Dialling Louisa’s number Hebe listened to the engaged signal.
‘Perhaps it’s out of order,’ Giles suggested. ‘Ask the operator.’ The operator checked and said, ‘The line is engaged. Do you want me to break in? Is it urgent?’
‘I will wait.’ She felt despair. She had often known Louisa, regardless of her telephone bill, gossip for hours with Lucy Duff, Maggie Cook-Popham, whom she professed not to like, or other old ladies referred to as girl friends.
When Hebe’s doorbell rang it was Giles who answered the door to Jim Huxtable, but Hannah arriving at a run brushed him aside.
‘Quick, Hebe, come. Aunt Amy’s collapsed, I think it’s her heart. Terry’s ringing the doctor.’
Jim watched the two women race to Amy Tremayne’s house. Soon a doctor’s car braked to a stop. The doctor, met by George, hurried into the house. The boy who had opened Hebe’s door came out to stand on the pavement looking irresolute. Ill at ease in this hideous street, Jim walked up to the seat erected in memory of aged parents too puffed to climb the hill in one go. He sat leaning back against a lovingly carved obscene inscription. He wished he had the dog Feathers with him. He waited, watching the houses.
The doctor came out after twenty minutes, pausing for a last word with the girl with green eyes before driving off. Almost immediately George got into his car and drove away. The boy on the pavement made a two-finger gesture. George did not look back. Still Jim waited. A black and tan dog with curling tail came busily down the street, paused, sniffed the seat, lifted its leg, caught Jim’s eye, looked doubtful.
‘Hallo.’ Jim held out a hand. The dog dropped its ears, allowed itself to be patted, looked up with a conniving expression, went its way with jaunty step. Feathers, had he been there, would have started a fight. Jim watched the street, taking in its remarkable ugliness, snatching at what he saw to steady his mind, attempting to come to terms with what he had seen. Should he go down the hundred yards which separated him from Amy’s house, go in, introduce himself to Hebe? Did he want to? What should he say? Would she recognise him, would she think him mad?
‘Her name is Hebe,’ he said out loud in the horrible street. It made the situation no better. Could he say, ‘I am the man you met in Lucca. I made love to you.’ By candlelight in Lucca he had been able to talk to her. He tried to remember what they had talked about. They hadn’t said much, there had been too much noise, too much doing. He shivered, sitting on the hard bench, its slats cutting into his thighs. Suppose it was not the girl? Suppose he was wrong, after all? She had not lived with a dream for—how long? Thirteen years. ‘Sod it, bugger it, what am I to do?’ Jim muttered. The suspicion that he was opposed to reality, wanted to keep his search unresolved, niggled at him. He had lived with it for so long he feared its ending. It was a part of his life; to end it was a terrible risk.
From Amy Tremayne’s house came the fair girl, a slim black youth holding her hand, then Hebe. The boy who belonged to the group joined them. They walked along the pavement to Hannah’s house. Jim stood up. The black and tan dog was coming back up the hill. Jim walked towards it. They met outside Amy Tremayne’s door. Would she be able to help? ‘I wish I knew what to do, ‘Jim said to the dog, who looked sure of himself. The dog wagged its curled tail, flattened its ears. On impulse Jim tried the door, telling himself she had invited him to come again. The door opened, he went in. He listened in the narrow hall with the dog beside him, walked slowly to the back kitchen where not so long ago they had talked. There were remains of tea on the table, chairs pushed back. With the dog Jim climbed the stairs and went into Amy’s bedroom. She lay stretched on the bed, eyes closed in a waxen face.
The dog went close to the bed lifting its inquisitive nose. Jim noted the paperweights on the windowsill, twinkling and glinting in the afternoon sun, delightfully alive. He was overcome with embarrassment. He crossed himself. ‘It’s just a gesture,’ he said to the dog, fighting the panic and surprise. I cross myself when I see a magpie. He remembered a woman with whom he had had an affair mocking him in Normandy, where there are many magpies. The dog farted. The noisome smell reached Jim’s nostrils. ‘Come on,’ he said to the dog, ‘we have no business here. She’s dead.’ The dog followed him down the stairs and went up the street without a backward glance.
Jim ran down the dark red brick street to the car park. He felt dazed. It was not until he was back in Bernard’s house and saw Silas that he realised he had not fulfilled his mission.