Ostrich Country

Jane sighed.

‘I’m complicated,’ she said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Married, for one thing. And I’m complicated in myself, too.’

‘Well aren’t we all?’

He held her cheek firmly to his, and she shrank away a little, either from his breath or from the patronizing nature of his gesture. This was one of the things Paula had objected to. He had found it delightful and clever that she managed to catch the train, managed to select the right platform, managed to put one foot in front of the other, organized so successfully the circulation of her blood. Paula had resented this.

These things he must not do with Jane. Nor must he think of Paula.

‘In what way?’ he said.

‘I need careful handling.’

‘You’ll get it from me, darling,’ he said.

He fingered her breasts absent-mindedly.

‘I’m glad you came in that day,’ said Jane.

‘I hope you always will be,’ said Pegasus.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It sounded sinister. Like a premonition.’

‘You’re imagining things.’

‘Well there you are, you see. I need careful handling.’

Pegasus had been having a drink in the bar. They had gazed at each other and then they had realized that the gaze was a declaration of intent. Now here they were in bed.

‘What I meant,’ said Pegasus, ‘if I meant anything, is that so far we’ve only done the easy bit. To agree what you want out of sex is easier than agreeing what you want out of almost anything else — unless one of you is some kind of a pervert, of course.’ He ran his hand slowly up her slim, widening thigh, feeling an echo of his past desire. ‘I mean you’d be far more likely to argue over what to have for dinner than about sex.’

‘There’s more choice.’ Her sudden smile was warm, wide and white.

‘Sex only becomes a problem between you when you don’t want it. Then it suddenly seems unimportant what you have for dinner.’

‘You’re very talkative.’

‘I’ve never heard of any totally satisfactory way of behaving after making love. Smoking strikes me as repulsive, falling asleep as worse, kissing as an anti-climax. I become talkative.’

He ran his hands over her gently curved, almost boyish, hips.

‘Why have you been faithful for so long?’ he asked.

‘Well I kept hoping things would get better between us. You do. You don’t let yourself admit that it could possibly be permanent.’

He held her more tightly, as if by hurting her he could convince her of his power to help. Then he let go, sat back and looked at her. She drew her knees up like someone much younger and he held her right knee firmly, enjoying its knobble.

‘I’m frightened of running this place,’ she said.

‘But I think you do it very well.’

‘I’m too thin,’ she said.

‘You’re not thin. You’re slim.’

She was a little thin. Arms, legs, hips. Not thin, but on the thin side. Nice.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

As he kissed her he felt that she was a little stiff and distant. He wanted to get up, to walk outside, to drink fruit juice. He kissed her arm, and drew gently up his nose her particular range of scents, which reminded him of a tin full of broken biscuits and grass, not that he had ever smelt a tin full of broken biscuits and grass. He pulled the sheet over their heads to make a dark secret place, wanting as he did so to watch cricket, to loll against a gate, to drink fruit juice. Feeling as he wanted that he must seek an explanation of her sudden slight stiffness, of her withdrawal symptoms. And as he sought his explanation still wanting, wanting the sun, laughter, fruit juice.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Yes. Something is. Tell me.’

‘It’s just me, being me,’ said Jane.

‘Tell me.’

‘No. Quick. Talk about yourself. Tell me all about yourself.’

He was astonished at the urgency of her appeal. But he obeyed. It was nice to be told to talk about oneself.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m a fairly ordinary person.’

‘Rub me gently while you talk,’ she said.

While he talked he rubbed her gently. His eyes were looking at the soft white clouds. Part of his mind was thinking solely of fruit juice.

He told her about his Uxbridge childhood. School. University. Nostalgic trivia. Selected anecdotes. Humorous self-deprecation. Himself seeing his own life in a wry light. Paula, the only other woman he had ever slept with. A few snatches of self-truth.

‘Thank you. That’s better,’ she said when he had finished.

‘Good.’

She explained about her symptoms. Something about seeing herself as something outside herself, therefore being a void looking at herself. Undoubtedly true, yet difficult to believe in. Difficult to comprehend the experience.

‘You don’t mind?’ she asked.

‘Of course not.’

There was a knock on the door. They both sat up, alarmed.

‘Are you there, Mrs Hassett?’ came a comfortingly unconcerned voice.

‘Yes. What is it, Patsy?’

‘There’s been a bit of trouble, Mrs Hassett, over light bulbs. There’s two gone and we can’t find …’

‘Just a moment. I’ll come and see to it.’

Thank God. It wasn’t him.

‘Time to get up anyway,’ said Jane. ‘And you’re due back on duty, aren’t you? I’m your employer, don’t forget.’

‘I hope I give every satisfaction, ma’am.’

She jumped out of bed, tip-toed rapidly to her clothes, shy now of her nudity, pale, a few veins showing, her breasts themselves light bulbs, her buttocks superb. She dressed rapidly, kissed him and left the room, locking the door behind her.

Ugh, the necessity for stealth.

This was their bedroom, hers and Tony’s. But he didn’t feel an intruder, perhaps because it was part of the hotel, or perhaps because there were no photos of smiling innocent children on the dressing table.

He began to dress, keeping well away from the window. Mrs Hassett! He repudiated the Hassett. Did this mean that he was repudiating her past life. ‘You won’t accept that my whole life before we met has actually happened,’ Paula had said. ‘You’re jealous of my having a past.’ Unfair. No, it was just that it was Hassett. Now if it was … but he couldn’t think of any name that he would have been happy to find her already bearing.

And he must stop thinking of Paula.

Well, Paula dear, we are free of each other and I see now that it is all for the best. Anyway, Paula, I’m sorry that I was such a bore, sending all those awful unfair letters, and visiting the seat in Kensington Gardens like that, though of course you didn’t know I was doing that. I only hope that you and Simon will be happy, and that his translations of Ogden Nash are coming along well. Correction — I hope that you and Simon will bust up and that he will find it impossible to continue with his translations of Ogden Nash, but that you will find someone else and be very happy. Thank you for everything, and good-bye.

Duck with honey? Jugged woodcock? You would need either a very large woodcock or a very small jug.

The key scraped in the lock and he had to resist the temptation to hide. The door opened. It was Jane.

‘You go downstairs first, looking natural,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow.’

‘It’s so sordid. Things are going to be a little awkward.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t really think my place is the answer. We shouldn’t broadcast the fact to Brenda,’ said Pegasus.

‘No.’

‘Besides, it wouldn’t exactly be the ideal love nest. Not with all those books and toys.’

‘Not with Wol and Piglet and Eeyore.’

‘Not to mention Major James Bigglesworth, better known to all his friends as Biggles.’

10

Mervyn arrived unexpectedly on the day before the picnic. He came unheralded as always, on the Ipswich bus, just in time to get the last room at the hotel. It was his half-term. He seemed surprised that Pegasus didn’t give up all his duties the moment he arrived. Mervyn was the most demanding of all his friends, and the closest. More a mutual need than a friendship.

Tony was present this week-end so Mervyn’s presence suited Pegasus and Jane. But it was a pity about the picnic. Mervyn was the last person you wanted on an occasion of that sort.

‘Your mind is not over the job,’ said Alphonse, noting Pegasus’s absent-minded attack on the unfreezing of some fresh spinach.

Pegasus made no reply. He was beginning to think less highly of Alphonse. He was uninspired. No finesse. And lazy. ‘Please to open for me a tin of pâté maison. Well, I am not making my own. They are not appreciating it, English pigs.’ Pegasus felt that he had drifted into catering simply because he was French, just as, if he was Panamanian, he’d be Sparks on some rusty coaster. He was just doing a job, rather than expressing his essential Alphonseness. But Pegasus remained outwardly respectful, not wanting to get in the man’s bad books, and be kept on this routine work for ever.

Steam rising, Tonio swearing, trout sizzling. Enter Jane, busy supervising. Hotel moving towards success. All comments favourable. A special smile from Jane, concealed in an ordinary smile. A rising leap in Pegasus, a salmon leaping, hollandaise sauce spawning. Spurt of water. Tiny pains of hot water alighting on face. Part of great band of men and women creating pleasure and sustenance for others. Romantic brotherhood. Three visits to her room now. Ripening summer, rain and sun. Time for a few pints before closing time. Mervyn in good form, happy in his work. Nostalgia. Sudden access of gloom, feverishly dispelled.

Careful feet on cottage steps, exaggerated care of the drunk. Falling into bed. Soon asleep.

Five hours later he awoke, suffering. He had been dreaming. His dreams had begun again.

The dream had been set at the Ministry of Insemination. The official in Room 511 was Cousin Percy. He was seated at the head of a large round table with twenty-four seats. Pegasus sat at the foot.

‘What’s your complaint, Baines?’ said Cousin Percy.

Pegasus felt instantly servile.

‘Well, sir, fifteen years ago I ordered a son.’

‘What sort of a son, Baines?’

‘A test cricketer, sir.’

Cousin Percy consulted a form. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Quite correct. You ordered a test cricketer, who would go in number six, bowl a well-concealed Chinaman, and win the Nobel Prize for left-arm bowling. What is a well-concealed Chinaman?’

‘It’s the left-arm bowler’s off-break, sir.’

‘I see. And what went wrong?’

‘He isn’t what I ordered, sir.’

‘You mean he isn’t a test cricketer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Fourteen, sir.’

Cousin Percy leant forward, his face stern, his eyes flashing orbs of controlled fury. The room stretched huge and dark in all directions. Pegasus was afraid.

‘You’re not giving him much time, are you, Baines?’ said Cousin Percy.

‘He’ll never be a test cricketer, sir. He isn’t the sort.’

‘What sort is he?’

‘He’s non-co-operative, sir.’

Non-co-operative! Nothing could describe the agony of being a parent to such a child.

‘In what way?’

‘He throws things, sir.’

‘What things, Baines?’

‘Anything, sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir, just anything.’

‘I meant does he do anything else apart from throw things?’ Cousin Percy was getting annoyed.

‘Yes, sir. He says “sweet and sour pork”.’

‘I don’t see anything so terrible in that,’ said Cousin Percy.

Pegasus felt that he wasn’t explaining it very well.

‘But he says it all the time, sir,’ he said.

‘Oh.’

‘And he’s Chinese.’

‘What’s his cricket like?’

‘He refuses to play. He just throws all the stumps at the umpire and says “sweet and sour pork”. He’s not the sort of thing we had in mind at all, sir.’

‘Fetch him in.’

His wife walked listlessly, her spirit broken. Johnny looked so nice in his school uniform, a round jolly contented Chinese face. He sat on Pegasus’s right, with his mother beyond him.

‘What’s your name?’ said Cousin Percy, not unkindly.

Pegasus had a wild hope that the boy would tell him.

‘Sweet and sour pork,’ said Johnny.

‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘Sweet and sour pork,’ said Johnny.

‘What’s your favourite meal?’

‘Sweet and sour pork,’ said Johnny.

‘You see,’ said Cousin Percy. ‘He answers sensibly enough in the end, if you just show a bit of patience.’

Johnny jumped up, picked up his chair, and threw it across the table towards Cousin Percy. It didn’t reach him.

‘Why did you do that?’ said Cousin Percy.

‘Sweet and sour pork,’ said Johnny.

‘Take him away,’ said Cousin Percy.

The mother led the boy from the room, an innocent smile on his chubby little Chinese face.

‘Johnny Chinaman doesn’t always take to cricket all that easily. You haven’t been forcing it down his throat, have you?’ said Cousin Percy to Pegasus.

‘No, sir.’

‘On balance, Baines, I am inclined to think that this is just a phase he’s going through — a phase of being Chinese and throwing things and only saying “sweet and sour pork”.’

‘But, sir …’

‘Yes?’

‘I wanted an English boy.’

‘You aren’t a racialist, are you?’

‘No, sir, I’ve got nothing against the Chinese as a race. Only as my son. It seems so inconvenient.’

‘Are you suggesting that the Ministry has made a mistake?’

Courage, Pegasus.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, it’s possible. Computers are only machines.’

‘I was wondering, sir …’

‘Yes?’

‘I was wondering if the word Chinaman had confused the computer.’

Cousin Percy sat in thoughtful silence for some minutes. His eyes were dark pools, in which his thoughts leapt like trout at dusk. Pegasus could hear a clock ticking high up in the dark, endless room.

‘We’re always ready to admit our mistakes,’ said Cousin Percy at length. ‘But we must be sure. I think we ought to wait and see, and if after another twenty years he still isn’t a test cricketer, file a PXC 138b/9/7c/X3a/111359R for compensation.’

‘But, sir …’

‘If he stops being Chinese, or shows any sign of going in number six, let us know.’

‘But, sir …’

‘Yes, Baines?’

‘Don’t you remember me?’

‘Remember you? What do you mean?’

‘It doesn’t matter, sir.’

‘The week-end is a very good time for sporting activities and you should consider a business proposition very carefully.’

Pegasus knew that he was dismissed.

He stumbled into the door in his confusion. The shock woke him. He was lying on the floor, unable at first to account for the little room in which he found himself. Then he realized that he was at Rose Lodge, that he had been dreaming, that he had fallen out of bed. 6.25 a.m. A fine morning. Birds singing, none of them with hangovers. He sat in the easy chair, feeling sick. They mustn’t begin again, those dreams. There was no need for them, down here.

He began his recovery programme, cold water on the head, liver salts, gradual dressing, one garment at a time, with rests in between, and then some fresh air. With these aids he managed to eat his breakfast without being sick. Bill gave him comics to read, and he felt obliged to glance at them. Bang. Cra-a-ck. Filthy Boche. Stinking Viet Cong. Kids’ stuff. Mustn’t offend Bill, though, not with the unspoken shadow always inside the house, however much the sun shone in.

‘You were late last night,’ said Bill.

‘A little.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to bring your friend with you on the picnic,’ said Brenda. She looked like an air hostess and a hangover was an aphrodisiac.

Oh God, the picnic. Why couldn’t it rain, today of all days?

Before going on lunch duty Pegasus walked in the sun with Mervyn. Insects were humming insectily, larks were singing larkily, and Pegasus said to Mervyn: ‘I’ve got to go on a picnic with my landlord and landlady this afternoon. I sort of promised.’

‘Oh.’

‘There’s no need for you to come.’

‘Oh.’

‘It won’t be much fun. Don’t feel obliged to come if there’s anything you’d rather do.’

‘I’ll come,’ said Mervyn.

They took the picnic things out of the boot and went down a path where the cliffs fell away towards the estuary. Pegasus looked across towards the river winding up its broad, empty valley, white sails in the distance. Beyond the river lay the village and the Goat and Thistle and he longed to be back there now, saw a mirage of himself there. Mervyn made no effort to carry anything.

First they bathed. This raised no serious problems. The water was cold, hard, North Sea water. Then they played French cricket. Bill and Brenda ran around with astonishing verve, falling in the sand, laughing at their own wild incompetence, ungainly, unnatural, urging Pegasus and Mervyn to show similar high spirits.

Then they sank into the sand, exhausted. Pegasus gazed at the long, gradual curve of the sea, the sandy cliffs, fishing boats dotted over the sea, two coasters further out. Suddenly a fistful of sand was hurled over him. Bill and Brenda roared with laughter. Then tea began, slowly at first with tomato and egg sandwiches, gathering pace with sticky buns and chocolate cake, finally overflowing in a riot of jelly and bottles of pop.

‘O’oh. Jelly and bananas. Pegasus’s favourite,’ said Mervyn sarcastically.

‘Jolly good,’ said Bill.

‘Jelly good,’ said Mervyn, and Bill and Brenda laughed.

Pegasus kicked out at Mervyn when no one was looking.

‘Ow,’ said Mervyn, looking accusingly at Pegasus.

‘That’s no way to treat your friend,’ said Bill to Pegasus.

Mervyn grinned. Pegasus fumed.

‘Yum yum,’ said Bill, of the jelly.

Pegasus mumbled.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ said Brenda.

Pegasus looked helplessly at Mervyn, but there was no help from that quarter.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, Mervyn?’ said Brenda.

‘I’m having the time of my life,’ said Mervyn.

‘Jolly good,’ said Bill, measuring his length on the sand and yawning contentedly.

They all measured their lengths on the sand and yawned contentedly. Above them the sky was blue, with white lines where aeroplanes had been. And the great sea teeming with fish. And beyond it the Baltic. And boats rocking gently on the summer breeze in the Baltic, with the rhythmic waters lapping against their hulls, and the long-legged summer girls. Another fistful of sand landed in Pegasus’s face.

‘Let’s go and dam up a stream,’ said Bill. ‘That’s always fun.’

A quick search revealed a complete absence of streams. They played ducks and drakes instead. Neither Pegasus nor Mervyn could equal the flair shown by their host and hostess.

Then they drove home.

‘Look,’ said Mervyn with mock excitement. ‘Cows.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Bill and Brenda.

‘Horses,’ said Mervyn.

‘Oh yes.’

‘Look, a traction engine.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Look, an Early English church tower.’

Pegasus felt drained by the nervous tension. Silence was even worse than conversation, because it made him fear what would be said next. But at last they were back. The ordeal was over.

‘Thank you very much indeed for a lovely time,’ said Pegasus.

‘Simply super,’ drawled Mervyn, crooking his hand. ‘I haven’t you know, let myself go so much in years.’

‘It was fun, wasn’t it?’ said Bill.

Brenda rushed over to the hotel to serve dinner. Pegasus, whose evening off it was, went for a drink with Mervyn. They drove away from the village, into the heart of agricultural Suffolk, away from the sea.

At first they didn’t mention the picnic. Then Pegasus said: ‘I’d say I was sorry I let you in for it, except that you didn’t do much to make things any better.’

‘Can’t you move?’ said Mervyn.

Pegasus hesitated. ‘I don’t like to,’ he said.

‘You mean you like it there?’

‘It’s not that. But, you know, I’m all they’ve got.’

Mervyn bought another round of drinks. The bar was shady and cool. The beer was hoppy, woody, a country beer. Not so many left. The beer at least they could enjoy.

‘By the way,’ said Mervyn. ‘I saw Paula.’

‘Good God, where?’

‘Kensington Gardens.’

Despite everything Pegasus felt a flicker of excitement.

‘With her Simon?’

‘She wasn’t with anyone.’

‘Did she see you?’

‘No. I turned away, for some reason.’

‘How did she look?’

‘I had the impression she was sad. But I’m no judge of women.’

‘No.’

‘I gather you’re having an affair with the landlady,’ said Mervyn.

‘What makes you think that?’ said Pegasus.

‘You,’ said Mervyn.

‘Well yes I am,’ said Pegasus. ‘In a way.’

‘I think I’ll hang around till tomorrow afternoon, if that’s all right,’ said Mervyn.

‘That’s fine,’ said Pegasus. ‘In what way did you think she was sad?’

Mervyn grinned.

Bill and Brenda were still up when Pegasus got home.

‘You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’ said Bill.

‘Well?’

‘It’s becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve got a friend down here, haven’t I?’

Bill and Brenda gave each other meaningful looks.

‘You think he’s a bad example, is that it?’ said Pegasus.

Brenda nodded, blushing in her blotchy way.

‘I’m not a bloody child, you know,’ said Pegasus.

He ran up the stairs and slammed his door behind him. Downstairs he could hear tears. He picked up Biggles Sweeps The Desert and flung it into the garden.

11

The next fortnight was glorious. Summer burst into flower ready to welcome its longest day. Mr Thomas sang in Welsh as he delivered the milk and remembered the hills. There were bags under his eyes, from too much drinking too late at night. He sang softly as he delivered three pints at Rose Lodge, that great milk-drinking household. Bill was up, shaving, tetchily, bags under his eyes too, off in a few moments to check on those lazy, stupid pheasants, many of whom he talked to by name.

Soon Jane’s mother got up too and complained that it was Wimbledon weather a fortnight too early. Jane’s father grunted, and she went downstairs to prepare breakfast for Jane’s father. It had really been rather unfair of Jane to dislike tennis, thought Jane’s mother. Jane’s father read the Daily Telegraph, while Jane’s mother opened Jane’s letter and commented: ‘Reading between the lines, Jane’s marriage is on the rocks.’ Jane had made a bad marriage. If only she had persisted with her analysis. Angela Curvis had persisted with her analysis, and she had married a barrister. Jane’s mother sighed, and Jane’s father, hearing the sigh, grunted.

Each day the sun rose higher, and twice Mr Thomas had punctures. Each time he found sharp nails in his tyres. The Baineses breakfasted at 8.30 in their Cotswold Guest House, and planned which villages they would visit. Alone in Uxbridge Diana luxuriated in a series of ludicrously eccentric breakfasts. Cousin Percy and his friend Boris ate honey with their rolls on the terrace of their Bavarian hotel. Tarragon Clump rolled back his sleeves and began to operate. He was the master here.

Morley Baines sat in the hot dusty newspaper office with the typewriters clacking and wrestled with his feature. Are dogs intelligent? Morley Baines conducts an enquiry into the canine mind. Stacks of letters from readers.

‘The moment the TV comes on our West Highland Terrier goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up until the end of the epilogue. If that isn’t intelligence I don’t know what is.’

Hot. Pity he hadn’t a car. Holidays soon, to Norway with Tim. Pity he couldn’t go down to see Pegasus this week-end. Pain that Pegasus had not written, nor invited him. Much love in this relationship, well hidden.