In the King's Arms (10 page)

The light was on. Julian was reading.

“So?”

“Apologize. And stop it.”

“Stop what?” Julian turned toward his brother slowly. “Why should I?”

He arched a brow. “You’re not in love with her, are you?”

“I told you what I found objectionable. I invited her. It seemed the kind thing to do. She’s my guest, not yours. She’s mine. I discovered her. Don’t you see how it how it mocks me to have the two of you bouncing about each night, doing heaven knows what?”

“Yeah, heaven knows. Heaven must have invented it.” Julian leaned back luxuriously against his pillows. Mmmm . . .” he murmured. “Soft. Soft as a bosom.”

Peter could see that sexy black hair of his, streaming across the starched white cotton. It really wasn’t fair that one of them had all the charms.

“Mum’s rather cross about this, too, I can tell you,” he said. “She’s heard you traipsing about. Thumping on the floorboards.
She’s complained to Archibald. We all know. You’re making fools of yourselves. Idiots.”

“Are we? How embarrassing!”

“Yes. You are. Go ahead and laugh.”

Julian got out of bed, walked over to Peter’s, and sat down by his bony knees.

“Let me tell you something, darling.”

“What?” said Peter coolly, though he felt slightly threatened by his brother’s looming heft.

“I am besotted by this girl. I don’t know why. And luckily, she seems to feel something too.”

Peter’s eyes turned very cold.

“You must teach me some of your Byronic techniques, brother,” he said. “Wait until the heat dies down and she sees what a cretin you are.”

Julian spat out, “You never want me to have anything, do you, Peter? Well here’s something I have, and it’s beyond all your clever words. Why don’t you ask some Oxford chappies what’s in here,” he shouted, jabbing at his chest. “You’ll never know it. Go choke on that!”

“Oh, no, Julian, I won’t choke on that. You will!”

He leapt up and seized his brother’s neck. Julian slapped away at his hand. He was larger; Julian, stronger, taller. He smacked Peter in the face, slowly and almost lazily. Peter loosened his grip to protect his sensitive nose. Then Peter grabbed a huge hunk of Julian’s hair and gave it a violent wrench, screaming “SOD!!” Julian leapt at his brother in a mad fury; they fell, crashing, to the floor. The handsome boy scrambled over his brother, pinned him down, and straddled him firmly.

“Now, look,” he said. “Stop squirming. You’re truly so stupid.”

“God, you’ve made me bleed!” screeched Peter. “Look at this! What is this? It’s BLOOD!”

“It’s just a little drip from your idiotic nostrils. Don’t be such a baby. It’s hardly bleeding at all. Does it hurt?”

“Of course it hurts, you prat! You berk! Stop tapping at my nose with your clumsy fingers!”

“I think you’ll live.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m very, very hurt by all this. I mean, I thought I’d have some time with you during the vac. I hardly ever see you. We’re brothers, you know: brothers should band together. And instead I find you consumed by whatever it is and no time for me at all.

“Now get off my stomach. I must tend to my injuries.”

Julian dismounted, then turned his head. Lily stood in the doorway, wearing a pale blue flannel nightgown. “It’s funny,” she said. “It’s funny how Helena and Archibald don’t get up to see what you two are shouting about. You two could wake the dead.”

She looked very pretty and rosy.

“Well, perhaps dear Hell and Arch are making the beast with two backs. That’s a scholarly allusion, Julian. Perhaps Lily will show you the reference some day.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Lily said.

Peter lay on the floor, inhaling and exhaling. He dabbed tentatively at his nose. A fight with one’s brother was rather nice, in a way. Old times.

“Peter, what happened to your face?”

There was dried blood on his cheek and upper lip.

“I was fighting for your honor, you inhuman whore!!” said Peter. “Because I know what’s going on under my . . . . “

“Your bleedin’ nose?” said Julian.

“Right. Oh, you’re so very witty!”

Lily felt mildly betrayed at being the center of this slapstick. Of course, Peter would eventually speak up about her and Julian. But she assumed he’d speak up to her. Now, she felt outnumbered by the brothers. Even though they’d fought. Perhaps because they’d fought. There was now a private sibling energy between them.

“I sort of wish you’d included me in this conversation,” she said.

“It’s an Aiken family matter,” said Peter, primly. “This sort of thing has been going on for years. We have sorted things out. I’ve decided that he may have you, so long as you give me your firstborn. Done?”

“Done,” she laughed.

“I do so love a family matter.” Peter had gotten off the floor and back into bed, drawing up the quilt so that only his head popped out. It looked like a twin- handled jug, with flax sticking out from the top.

“Can I give you a slap, too?” she said, wistfully. “I’ve always really wanted to.”

Julian sat on Peter’s bed again. He had taken hold of his brother’s calf, through the spread, and was trying to take a bite out of it.

“OUCH! Stop it instantly!” shouted Peter.

“Lily,” said Julian, after he’d tired of his game, “you don’t know how much Peter deserves to be jealous of me and you. If you only knew the victories he’s had! ‘Peter’s so responsible.’ ‘Peter’s such a scholar.’ ‘Peter’s sure to get a double-first.’ ‘Peter’s sure to become a don.’ He was head boy at Harrow as well. Head boy! At Harrow!

“By the way, Peter, do you know what Dad said when I saw him in Cannes?”

“Don’t tease me. What?”

“I told him you were doing a bit of acting, and he was amazingly
proud of you. I’ve never seen him so proud. Kept rattling on about his acting days, and OUDS, and how he’d done
The Canterbury Tales
, and
Volpone
, and Moliere’s
Don Juan
, and Shakespeare under the stars in the Worcester College Gardens. Wanted me to tell him if you had talent.”

“Really?” Peter’s face glowed. “Gosh!”

“I told him you didn’t, of course. Didn’t seem to believe me. Kept grinning sort of stupidly, the way you are now. Said he might even pop over to Oxford and see you in a play sometime. If you can keep Mummy away long enough!”

“You’re making the whole thing up! I can tell!”

“I’m not.”

“Gosh!”

“Do you forgive me for being so much more lovable to
les demoiselles
?”

“I’ll think about it,” grumbled Peter.

Julian began tickling him; then he tickled Julian. They broke down into helpless wheezing brays.

“Say,” said Lily, “D’you want to go downstairs and get something to eat? I’m ravenous.”

They were hugging each other, shaking with laughter; “Haaaah!” “Haaaah!”

“Hey!” she said. “You guys, get a grip!”

They ignored her for a minute. She was relieved and very happy when their arms opened up to take her into their circle.

T
HE KENDALLS had been invited to a New Year’s Eve Ball benefiting the parish. Plans had been fixed long ago, so now it was impossible to have Lily come along with the rest of the grown-ups. She would stay behind and watch Timothy. Lily said she didn’t mind. There was no choice.

The family now readied itself. Archibald was rubbing a thin gel into his sparse grey hair to make it go flat above his ears. Then he combed it with a fine-toothed comb. Then he wiped the excess gel off the comb with a handkerchief, crumpled the handkerchief, and buried it in his baggy pocket. He wore a heavy black suit, a white shirt, and a frisky bowtie of Highland plaid. His shoes were spiffily buffed, and sported fresh laces.

Helena’s stockings would not ride smoothly up her leg. Her nails had been freshly manicured and lacquered; she held her fingers stiffly so as not to ruin the polish, but could not thus manipulate the wrinkles from her nylon.

“Archibald, help me, dear.”

He was slapping “Eau Sauvage” on his jowls, a present from her. “Smack, smack,” went his face, like a naughty boy’s bottom. He mischievously pretended not to hear her, so cheery and vain did he feel.

“Baldy!” she shouted, annoyed. (He hated any nickname, this one in particular.) “Now I’ve snagged it!”

Julian knocked on the door. “J-just a minute!” panted his mother, as she ran about searching for her dressing gown. A moment later, he stepped in, awash in Lily’s rose essence. Archibald wrinkled his fleshy nose but said jovially: “Roses in winter, eh? Heh heh!”

“But why haven’t you dressed yet?” said Helena anxiously, pulling her dressing gown closer together.

“Archibald, you wouldn’t mind lending me a pair of cufflinks, would you?”

This request charmed the man. He looked at Julian and saw, perhaps for the first time, his own Timothy grown to be a man. Humble and strapping was Julian, sheepish and ripe. Archibald blushed with pleasure at the sight of this handsome stepson of his.

He pulled open a drawer with great ceremony and extracted a small velvet box. Inside the box were two identical pairs of golden cufflinks, each engraved with a Gothic “K.”

“One pair is mine,” said Archibald, his voice rich and portentous. “The other is to be Timothy’s, when he’s a man. You may wear it tonight, if you like.”

Julian dropped his eyes and gazed into the soft dark box. Helena watched with pride.

“Which pair shall I take, then?” he quietly asked.

“Either one,” said his stepfather. “They are as like as twins.”

Julian plucked up one pair and closed his fingers around it. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s lovely. Peter will be green.” This flattered Archibald.

“Well, hurry up,” said Helena, as her son left the room. “Heavens, look at the time.”

Helena’s head got lost inside her billowing blue chiffon as she slipped it on. A clever quiver popped it out, and another slithered her slender arms through the long sleeves. The pale gown floated
elegantly about her body now. She saw that she was still young; peering into the looking-glass, she was not disappointed. Helena sprayed herself thoughtfully with scent, stroking her earlobes, neck, her knees, and the valley between her breasts. Then she wiggled her hips at her husband, laughing at his surprise.

“Let me kiss you, Archie,” she prettily said.

He lowered his cheek to her mouth genially; she planted a kiss on it, laughing.

“Oops, I’ve left a mark,” she said happily.

It was a beautiful red bow on his clean-shaven jowl. Catching a glimpse of his reflection, he joined in her mirth, chuckling as he wiped his cheek with the heel of his hand.

“We’re silly tonight, aren’t we, dear?” he said.

“I so love a New Year,” said Helena, looking up at his face, still a bit marked.

Later, as her feet obeyed the rhythm of her husband’s in a dance, Helena thought worriedly of that girl, Lily, prowling around her home, her bedroom, opening her jars and vials, trying on her clothes, sniffing about where she had no right to be. She did not share these thoughts with Archibald. Apart from the fact that Julian (unencumbered at last by her company) seemed to be thriving on the village maidenhood, she bitterly regretted having left the audacious girl to her own devices. That one needs watching, she thought. That one needs minding. I’ll bet she’s twisting on my sheets this very moment, dreaming of my boy.

She watched Julian whirl across the dance floor, a garland of daisies (Nicola) in his arms. Nicola was throwing her head back, blond hair flying, face hectic with pleasure. Just dream, Lily, thought Helena, excitedly cruel. While here’s the very flesh and blood you dream of, dancing away from you, at a party, under my watchful eyes.

T
IMOTHY, in his yellow flannel pajamas, lounged in the sitting room by the fire, with Whisk plumply perched at his feet. Archibald had set the radio station to BBC3 before leaving; this was their favorite. Classic after graceful classic, punctuated by the basso profundo of the learned moderator. Timothy, lolling sensuously on his back and lost in melodies, waggled his toes. He pulled at his thumb with his lips and caressed it with his tongue; the music cascaded over him. His eyes were open but he did not look at the ceiling at which they were aimed. Nor did he seem to take notice of Lily’s footsteps overhead.

Lily paced between her own room and the master bedroom. She was tired of brooding on her bed about the party at which she had not been welcome. The pillager’s thrill that the house now provided diminished her sense of deprivation; now it was all hers. It took her a short while to work up the courage, but in the end, she lay on the Kendall bed, rollicking in the heady warmth of someone else’s parents. She felt uncannily at home there, as though she had been conceived and born on that bed; the mattress sprang from time to time under her weight as though nudging her in friendly recognition.

She ran to Helena’s armoire, buried her head in the diaphanous pastels that sighed out perfume, and prayed to be adopted by safe, lovely people. What a sensation a mother’s touch was: the frocks felt like cool hands on her brow.

Helena had been a beauty, a heartbreaking beauty. Lily found a photograph of her in a drawer: long fair hair, blown by a breeze, a strand licking the shadowy space between her lips. The hem of her filmy dress seemed to be dancing in the wind. She was waving and smiling, wistfully hoping for joy. Her smile was the smile of the ocean-faring, posing shakily as engines rumble below. Helena was actually standing on grass, her slender feet encased in Grecian sandals. A handsome man with a black mustache held her fast around the waist, grinning rakishly at the camera. The waist tilted into the arm that grabbed it; there was a charge there. He bore a devilish resemblance to Julian; he had the same presumptuous expression, the same chin erotically cleft and hoist aloft, the same pale eyes. Behind them stood the boys, Peter and Julian, one a fair and gap-toothed little boy, the other a plump toddler of about Timothy’s age. Julian leaned heavily on his father’s muscular leg, his arm gripped about the shin. He was looking up at his father adoringly.