Harry felt by Saturday lunchtime that he had shopped until fit to drop. Doreen swept him through every floor of Harvey Nichols, and Harrods, and all the way along Beauchamp Place, and asked his opinion on garments of all sorts, but mostly in a rising price range, smiling coyly at times, and pirouetting at others, whilst he signed another progression of credit slips. They lunched on kebabs at ‘Maroush, chunks of lamb interspersed with small onions and green pepper slices, with a glass apiece of a nice Lebanese white, and then he packed her and her purchases into a black cab, and walked up to the junction with the Old Brompton Road to have a post-prandial coffee and wait for his own hire car to drive him back to Tithing St. Mary. His feet felt as though they have been filed down with sandpaper.
He slept most of the way back to the Manor House, waking in fitful patches. He was decelerating after what must have been the busiest week of his life, and felt like a limp rag. He would be benevolent with Delia and her boys, but avoid all games that might be construed as exhausting, leaving them to their mother and grandmother, with James providing paternal back-up support. He would be patriarchal, and keep clear of close involvement. He would think of Doreen.
The car swept into the Manor House driveway, and he saw the Swantons’ big Chrysler already parked on the gravel. He sighed, as he always sighed at the sight. Heaven alone knew why Delia had to drive such a monster. She claimed to need a big car for school runs, and never walked her boys to school. Perhaps she was ageing. He felt a surge of secret excitement and superiority at the thought, because he knew he was growing younger with each passing day, and each passing night. Rejuvenating with sex. Changing places.
The Manor House was silent. Harry walked across the hall and on through the drawingroom to the French windows looking out onto the terrace. Some toys scattered on the drawingroom carpet signalled that the boys had dallied awhile and moved on. He made a mental note to have a word with Anthony, for he disliked untidiness. Then he heard shouts and laughter coming from the garden, and composed his face into a smile to cover his passing moment of irritation. Delia was an indulgent mother, and let her boys behave pretty much as they please. She seems to think that fighting and shouting came with the territory. Harry considered both boys atrociously spoiled. Sometimes, when they grew too boisterous, he raised his voice, because the house was his, or rather belonged jointly to Anne and himself, and not to his daughter. But Anne and Delia generally combined to counter him. Anne always argued that she and Harry employed the Bates to keep the Manor House tidy. Delia always argueed that boys needed to be boys. Harry generally felt that boys should above all be obedient, and behave themselves.
Delia was playing croquet on the lawn, with husband James watching benevolently, and both boys holding croquet mallets as tall as themselves, for all the world like two small sentries on guard. They turned to wave as he came out onto the terrace, and he raised his hand in reply. Anne had made herself comfortable on a thickly cushioned wrought-iron daybed, shaded by a big sun umbrella, both brought back from France. She smiled up at him with the comfortable lethargy that comes from being rich, and not having to worry about getting food ready for grandchildren.
‘You look tired, Harry.’ She shaded her eyes as he bent to kiss her perfunctorily. ‘You look as though you’ve been burning your candle at both ends.’ She laughed throatily. The weather had been humid and oppressive since dawn, bearing down on her. An unexpected Indian summer, after the damp rainy stretch that had washed out the Harrimans. Perhaps George and Hilary had done something to irritate heaven. The thought made her smile. Now the sky above them was blue and unclouded, and her blood flowed in her thick and langourous. She felt oppressed, and in need of relief. She smiled up at him. There would be time after dinner for him to be a good husband, and she would profit gluttonously. Anne was not often randy, generally considering surrender to baser instincts to be something rather downmarket. She was a strong-willed woman, and well able to manage herself. But sometimes, when the mood came on her, she felt a need to indulge, and wallow in her need, until it was all wholly slaked. For a moment she even wondered whether they might not profit more immediately, for it was still early afternoon. They would not be missed before tea-time. But she pushed the thought away. Lust was something to allay in comfort and at leisure. She knew she would be able to sate herself more easily when the house was in darkness, the children asleep, and Delia and James tucked up tidily on the other side of their bathroom. She would then take her due for having to spend a whole week on her own, and exact Harry’s tribute.
Harry caught the look in her eye, and smiled back at her. Anne would provide a nice proxy. ‘I kept the middle section for you. It’s the best.’
‘Hello, Daddy.’ Delia joined them, swooping on Harry like a large raven-haired bird. She was still a good-looking woman, though two pregnancies had filled out her figure to a point where she might have been classed as buxom. She attempted to diminish her curves by wearing flouncy peasant fashions, and liked to think of herself as sweet-natured and generous.
She eyed her father appraisingly, noting the shadows under his eyes. She knew that he was busy negotiating some big deal, and the shadows, and a certain air of exhaustion, coupled with an aura of well-nigh overweening self-satisfaction, might well be signalling a proximate business victory. But Delia also knew how men could look after behaving like gamecocks, and she might have thought, with anyone else, that she was looking at a man who had spent a great deal of time holding horizontal discussions.
She hoped, rather hard, that his self-satisfaction did stem from business success, rather than any other cause, because she needed to talk to him seriously. She really had to get out of London, and needed a trophy house to tempt James into leaving, because she had spent Friday night discussing the idea of moving with her husband, and James had been difficult. He liked living half an hour from his banking job. A country house might clinch it, if they could raise three to four million: if Daddy stumped up three to four million.
She had already spent her morning briefing in depth. Both boys were under strict orders to behave themselves, with James keeping them obedient, and then charming her mother after dinner, whilst she worked on Daddy. He mind turned back to Harry’s aura of self-satisfaction, and she felt a twinge of something akin to fear. Might she find herself competing with a mistress? The flat at Canary Wharf provided too much opportunity. Harry was rich, and rich men tended to attract predatory women. He could also be charming, when he wished, and was not bad-looking for a man of his age, with a reasonably trim shape. The thought made Delia breath in rather tightly. She hoped she was just painting dark shadows on a wall. But fear could be self-feeding. She must charm hard, and secure a quick commitment.
‘Come and play croquet.’ She held out her hand. ‘The boys will love it.’
Harry followed her across the lawn, and shook hands with James Swanton, Delia’s husband. He liked James well enough, but found him a little dull. James was climbing fast in one of the big banks, and cared most of all about being respectable. He also spent a great deal of his free time playing golf. Harry preferred success, and had never played golf at all. He prefers cutting deals across restaurant tables. Cutting deals, and holding horizontal discussions.
Delia’s two boys clustered around him, both first swooping on him like their mother, before halting a little way distant and hovering questingly, like two small hawks. He smiled an approving grandfatherly smile.
‘Who’s winning?’
‘I am, grandpa.’ Joe Swanton beamed proudly. He was a stocky boy, with his father’s seriousness. Tom, Delia’s second boy, pretended to be patting imaginary croquet balls. Harry thought he preferred Tom of the two. Tom possessed a mischievous streak, and was ever willing to take a chance. He felt Tom might have some of his blood, and might well find a useful place at Dreamstone, sixteen or eighteen years down the road.
‘I’m five points ahead, grandpa.’ Joe liked being ahead, he felt it his due as an eldest son. Tom grinned at Harry. It was plain Tom did not greatly care. Joe and his father played for points, and for winning. Tom played for fun. Harry felt he might well go rather further in life.
Tom took his hand, tugging him towards the lawn, and he hesitated. Perhaps he was being a little churlish to eschew thoughts of games. Croquet could never be classed as energetic. ‘Can I join in?’
Both boys turned to their father. James hesitated, and looked away. Delia’s briefing had been most explicit. She wanted her father all to herself.
Joe knew he must explain. There were times when grandfathers were not of the brightest. He shook his head, speaking with great seriousness. ‘I’m sorry, Grandpa, but we’re half way round the course.’
Tom smiled sympathetically. But it was plain from the way that he kept patting at imaginary croquet balls that he just wanted to get on with his game.
Harry knew when he was beaten. He could feel Delia hovering again, and judged that she wanted money: probably help with buying a house, for she had talked much of late of moving out of London. He guessed she would take after her mother, and think big. He reached out to take his daughter’s hand. ‘Let’s go and look at the flowers.’
Delia pitched her bid carefully. She spoke glowingly of the benefits of fresh country air, and getting the boys away from the debilitating influence of living in London, not to mention the dangers of passing cars and prowling paedophiles. She waxed lyrical on growing and nurturing.
Harry looked at her. ‘You want a big house.’
‘True, Daddy.’ Delia’s gaze was frank. ‘I want to be like you.’
He grinned. ‘I’ve got money.’
Delia nodded slowly. She knew she had forsworn glamorous, daredevil men in marrying James, but he was dependable. A trustworthy man, and a good father. She smiled. ‘I’m your daughter.’
Harry wondered how she might react to Doreen. He thought that they might conflict. ‘Have you found somewhere?’
‘I thought around Guildford.’
‘Pricey.’
‘Mum says you’re doing a big deal.’
‘And you want a slice?’
Delia smiled again. She knew how to work on her father, and she had sown her seed. She would leave it for now, to germinate, and start buying Country Life, and scan every promising ad to him by email.
Harry wondered about housing Doreen. He needed her close to Dreamstone, but probably out of the flat. Something nice, but nothing too fancy.
Father and daughter were thinking along parallel paths, and neither entertained any idea of convergence.
Doreen wondered how she should spend Saturday night. A small voice of conscience told to stay in the Canary Wharf flat and watch television, but her new wardrobe set quite another agenda. She had just the right things for a real night out clubbing. She paced up and down across Harry’s thick carpet, tramping places not long since crumpled, and sought for ways to turn an excursion into a creditable outing. She needed company for going out, a companion, somebody trustworthy. She thought of Jason. She had not spoken to her brother in all of a week, and she wondered how he might be faring. She began to punch his number out on her mobile, and then stopped. Was she doing the right thing? She began to pace up and down again. But she was bored, and she grew more and more bored every moment that she thought about it, and her boredom became an escalating, expanding thing. She could take him out, and then bring him back to the flat, and send him back to Tithing in the morning. It would be a good deed in a naughty world.
Jason sat in the saloon bar at The Yeoman’s Arms feeling confused. He felt like getting drunk, but disliked drinking alone. He had come a long way in a week, but was still confused, and had nobody to whom he could turn, now that Doreen has gone off to London. Bill Grant wanted to take him over, body and soul, and was starting to make life increasingly difficult. He had begun, after Doreen’s departure, by filling him with beers and scotch chasers as they sat side by side on Bill’s settee, watching some crummy soap. He had felt lonely and isolated, all on his own, and had crashed into a stupor. Then he had woken, in the early hours, to find himself in Bill’s bed, with Bill naked at his side, stroking his thigh. The experience might, at any other time, have been interesting, but his head had been thick, and his mouth as rough as sandpaper, and he had pushed Bill away. He had woken again, in the morning, to the same touch, and had lain still. Bill had caressed his thighs, and moved his hand down over his stomach, and he had felt the start of a swelling, and been curious. Bill had stroked him, and then raised himself on the bed to bend over him, and he had felt a warm, wet stroking softness move along him, and enclose him. He had felt it was not the right way to be, but it had been an excitement, a thing that demanded continuation, and he had waited, knowing in his waiting that the excitement would build in him. Bill had wanted him to reciprocate, but he had refused, because he had not felt ready for such a thing. It was the first time that anyone had touched him in such a way, though he had occasionally played with himself, and knew how the excitement would continue growing, until it was fit only for bursting, and afterwards he had felt a little ashamed, because he knew now what it was to be a nancy. But then, that evening, and each evening since, Bill had sat beside him, stroking him again, and Bill’s touch had become a habit, and they had lain together naked each night in Bill’s bed before sleeping, and he had learned to pay Bill in the same coin, and Bill had kissed him full on his mouth like a man might kiss a girl, darting in his tongue in a french kiss, and then they had gone on to lie on each other in turn, each penetrating the other. The penetration had been hard work at first, though Bill had greased them both liberally with Vaseline, but then it had grown easier, and it had in some way freed him on each occasion. But their coming together had also grown into an embarrassment, because Bill had hinted that they might extend their unions to include friends, and Ron, Bill’s other mechanic, had begun to treat him strangely, and make funny cracks. Jason knew that word would soon spread round the village. Perhaps Ron was jealous. Jason suspected that matters would soon start building towards a head, and feared that he might then find himself facing a choice between being Bill’s pet, or else out of a bed, and out of a job, with nowhere to go, and nothing to do.
Doreen’s call proved a godsend.
‘Life’s closing in on me, Sparkle.’ Jason used his sister’s chosen name to spell out his allegiance. ‘Bill has pulled me into a relationship, but I’ve got nowhere else to go.’
Doreen swallowed. Now she understood why Susan had never succeeded in scoring. ‘You better come up, so we can talk about it.’
She wondered for a moment whether her brother might be heading along a path leading towards cross-dressing, and an interest in raiding her new wardrobe, but pushed the thought from her mind as ignoble. Bill Grant plainly wanted to lead him astray, and it was her sisterly duty to reclaim him. ‘You can kip up here tonight, and I’ll lend you some money, if you want.’
They met at Paddington Station. Doreen felt a little uneasy as they embraced. Jason seemed to have changed in some subtle way. He was no longer a teenage boy, but he was not a man either. It was as though he had gone off along some path midway between, and in some strange way he seemed almost feminine. She noted the way a couple of men eyed him, as they waited to catch a tube, and it was almost as though the men were lusting after him.
They talked together in low voices on the train as Jason explained his dilemma. ‘He’s got a hold on me, Sparkle.’
‘You think he’s going to be trouble?’
‘I do.’
Doreen took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got some money.’
Jason shook his head. ‘I’ve got some as well, but I don’t think that’s the problem. I’ve got to get away.’
‘Where can you go?’
He stretched his legs and looked down at his feet. ‘I thought of signing up.’
Doreen sat bolt upright. ‘Signing up?’ She echoed his words. ‘Signing up for what?’
‘The army, the RAF. I’m a good mechanic.’
‘The navy?’
Jason grinned. ‘They’d loved to have me, wouldn’t they?’ He leaned back, raising one shoulder, sketching a dandyish gesture. ‘Do you think I’d make a good sailor?’
Doreen stuck out her tongue rather rudely.
Canary Wharf has many pubs and bars, and Doreen thought next morning she must have cruised the lot. The evening was good fun, and produced some interesting encounters, for there was something both protective and liberating about going out with your brother. He was a man, and therefore a bodyguard, but he had no ideas about getting into your pants. They both drank, but not too much, and danced a great deal, both fast and slow. A couple of men tried to cut in, but Doreen shook her head politely, and Jason made a face at one with baser intentions. A couple of strangers whispered to him in the toilets, but he realised that they were more intent on selling him cocaine than trying to unzip his flies, and he felt no need to fly high, because he was enjoying himself.
Finally they staggered back to Harry’s flat, to collapse together into Harry’s bed. Doreen had drunk a bit more than her brother and toyed for a moment with the idea of enticing him into reasserting his masculinity, because he had stripped down to his underpants at the side of the bed, and she could see that he had kept himself fit. But a moment later she was snoring.
Her idea returned the following morning, and she rolled over half asleep to look at him. But he was gone. She sat up in alarm, and heard the shower running.
They sat facing each at the kitchen table after cleaning themselves up, eating hot buttered toasts spread thick with marmalade and drinking strong black coffee. Jason was full of admiration.
‘You’ve done well, haven’t you?’
Doreen stretched herself, raising her arms above her head. She was dressed in a shirt and jeans, with her shirt fastened on a single button, and the movement pulled her shirt open, exposing her breasts. She eyed Jason thoughtfully, but could see that he was not interested.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever want to go with a woman.’ It was almost as though he was apologising. ‘I saw Len having it away with Marje once, about a year ago. I came in the back door, and they were doing it on the livingroom carpet. I thought they were disgusting.’
Doreen thought of Harry and herself on Harry’s carpet. She had felt no disgust at all, in fact she had enjoyed it. No doubt it took all sorts to make the world go round. ‘Do you want some money?’
‘You got it from him?’
She did not look at her brother. She guessed he must consider it tainted.
‘I’m all right.’ He was silent for a long moment, then he lowered his voice. ‘He had a whole roll of cash under his mattress.’
Doreen stared at him. ‘You didn’t nick it?’
‘I’m not going back.’ Jason snorted defiantly. ‘I reckoned he owed it me, for services rendered.’
Doreen felt herself blush. Some things just could not be answered.