The Peacock Emporium(61)
* * *
—
Vivi walked up the hallway, puffing under the combined weight of her shopping bags, musing that her son was never in when she needed him. Reaching the kitchen, she allowed them to drop and held up her hands in the fading light to examine the red welts the handles had carved into her fleshy palms.
Douglas and Ben had failed to move their empty tea mugs from the table to the sink, so Vivi, who no longer sighed in resignation at the sight of their mess, did it for them. She swept up the crumby souvenirs of their lunch, stuck the plates in the dishwasher, and tidied scattered papers into piles. When she was unpacking the groceries on the kitchen table, she made out Rosemary’s imperious tones in the drawing room, where she was in muffled conversation with Douglas. She considered popping her head around the door to say hello, but realized, guiltily, that she would rather have the extra five minutes by herself. She glanced up at the clock and noted, with a small stab of pleasure, that she could still catch the last few minutes of The Archers. “We’ll just enjoy a bit of peace, won’t we, Mungo?”
The terrier, hearing its name, trembled in stillness as it gazed intently at her, waiting in a state of permanent anticipation for some culinary scrap to fall.
“No luck, darling boy,” said Vivi, placing the various meat products in the freezer. “I happen to know you’ve had yours.”
When The Archers finished, Vivi stood for a moment, gazing out of the window as she had while she listened. The kitchen garden was at its best at this time of year, the herbs sending dusty waves of fragrance into the house, the lavender, campanula, and lobelia bulging from the old raised-brick beds, the creepers and climbers, dead brown skeletons in winter, now a riot of vigorous green. Rosemary had built this garden when she was first married: it was one of the few things for which Vivi felt uncomplicatedly grateful to her. For a while, she had thought Suzanna would take an interest in it: she had the same eye as Rosemary, a skill for arranging things so they were at their most beautiful.
She was inhaling the scent of the evening primrose and listening to the lazy drone of the bees when she detected that, over the gentle sounds of approaching evening, Rosemary’s voice had taken on an unusually combative note. Douglas’s was softer, as if he was reasoning with her. Vivi wondered, in vague discomfort, whether they were discussing her. Perhaps Rosemary had still not been forgiven for the aborted visit of the Incontinence Lady.
She turned from the window and placed the chops on the stovetop. She rubbed her hands on her apron and, with a heavy heart, walked toward the door.
* * *
—
“I can’t believe you’re even considering it.”
Rosemary was seated on the nursing chair, even though she often had trouble getting out of it. Her hands were folded stiffly in her lap, and her face, set in anger, was turned away from her son as if she was refusing physically to acknowledge what he had to say. As she closed the door behind her, Vivi noted that her mother-in-law had buttoned her blouse lopsidedly, and was grieved that she could not mention it to her.
Douglas was standing by the piano, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. To the left of him, the grandfather clock that had been in the family since Cyril Fairley-Hulme’s birth offered up a discreetly regular quarter-chime. “I have given this plenty of thought, Mother.”
“That may well be, Douglas, but I’ve said this to you before, you do not necessarily know what’s best for this estate.”
A faint smile played about his lips. “The last time we had this conversation, Mother, I was twenty-seven years old.”
“I’m well aware of that. And you had a head full of foolish ideas then too.”
“I just don’t think it makes financial sense for Ben to inherit the entire estate. It’s not just about tradition, it’s about finance.”
“Would somebody like to fill me in as to what’s going on?” Vivi’s gaze flicked from her husband to her mother-in-law, who was still gazing mulishly toward the French windows. She tried to smile, but stopped when she realized no one else was.
“I had a few ideas I thought I should discuss with Mother—”
“And while I’m alive, Douglas, and I have a say in the running of this estate, then things will stay exactly as they are.”
“I’m only suggesting that some—”
“I know very well what you’re suggesting. You’ve said it enough times. And I’m telling you the answer is no.”
“The answer to what?” Vivi moved closer to her husband.
“I refuse even to discuss this further, Douglas. You know very well your father had firm views on these things.”
“And I’m sure Father would not have wanted to see anyone in this family made unhappy by—”
“No. No, I will not have it.” Rosemary placed her hands on her knees. “Now, Vivi, when is supper? I thought we were eating at seven thirty, and I’m sure it’s past that already.”
“Will one of you please tell me what you are discussing?”
Douglas placed his glass on the top of the piano. “I had some thoughts. About changing my will. About perhaps setting up some sort of trust that gives the children equal say in the running of the estate. Perhaps even before my death. But . . .”—his voice lowered— “. . . Mother is unhappy about the idea of it.”