Ostrich Country

‘I hope you’re doing the right thing, Pegasus,’ she said.

‘Food isn’t wrong, you know, mother.’

‘Well there you are, you see. We saw the depression. And your father’s very set on your being a scientist.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, mother.’

‘Your father’s a good, sincere man, Pegasus. And good at his job, too. What he doesn’t know about warm fronts isn’t worth knowing.’

‘I’m sure.’

He saw her sniffing, from habit, to see if he was changing his socks often enough. She always did this. Not that he had antisocial feet.

‘If your father couldn’t forecast this rain, nobody could.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I don’t want him hurt, that’s all,’ said his mother. ‘We want success for you, Pegasus.’

He looked her straight in the face and what he saw there was love.

After tea he drove Morley to St Pancras. They hardly spoke.

He was longing to see Morley off on to his train. There would just be time to go down to Kensington Gardens before it got dark.

‘There’s no need to come on to the platform,’ said Morley.

‘I insist,’ said Pegasus.

He was irritated with Morley. He was irritated with his parents. He was irritated with Diana for not returning before he left. He was irritated with himself. And the showers had given way now to a soft, remorseless rain.

George Baines watched the rain morosely. They’d be returning now, wet and sad and bedraggled, from Brighton and Worthing and Bognor. George Baines saw their reproachful faces as they stood at the bottom of the garden. ‘You were wrong,’ they said. ‘You, with all your scientific apparatus, you were wrong.’

‘Come away from the window, dear,’ said his wife Margaret. ‘You won’t make it stop, you know.’

George Baines came away from the window and sat down opposite his wife.

‘Never mind,’ he said, and then he added, as if he was speaking about some modern phenomenon that he didn’t understand. ‘Food’s on the up and up, you know.’

‘I suppose so.’

George Baines stared at the Constable over the mantelpiece. Looked like a settled spell down there in Flatford.

‘Diana’s late,’ said his wife Margaret.

Diana was kissing Stephen in the back room of number 11, Honiton Drive. Stephen’s parents were in Paris, on business. They were often in Paris, on business. When his elder brother Peter had been left at home alone he had invited no less than sixty-three people to a party. Several of them had been drug addicts. Many had stayed all night, getting to know each other better in various parts of the house and garden. A Vlaminck lithograph had been pressed into service as a drinks tray, with deleterious results, and the crocuses had been trampled beyond recognition. Stephen’s parents believed that you had a moral obligation to trust your children, especially when cancelling a trip to Paris was the alternative.

Diana kissed Stephen’s gorgeous, angelic face. She loved boys with gorgeous, angelic faces.

The rain fell on Tarragon Clump’s bonnet as he drove home along the wet, dreary Sunday roads. He had been to see his family, the Clumps of Gloucestershire. He stopped off at Oxford and went to see a film in a huge, half empty cinema. It was a rotten film but it had Pamela Blossom in it, in scanty attire.

The rain fell on Pegasus as he sat on the seat in Kensington Gardens and watched the light beginning to fade from a dismal, featureless sky. In the distance, beyond the Round Pond, there was a woman. It could be Paula. She was coming nearer, a figure from the fieldcraft manual. At 800 yards Paula was a blur. At 700 yards Paula’s face was a blob, her legs matchsticks. At 500 yards, Paula’s attractive, slightly fleshy legs began to be visible. At 400 yards it was possible to make out Paula’s biteable narrow nose. At 300 yards it wasn’t Paula at all, but an elderly woman in thick, brown stockings.

He closed his eyes and tried to construct a half-dressed Paula in her suspenders. In vain. He tried to feel the old misery, the betrayal, the silent tears. Nothing.

He looked round the park, his oasis even in the rain. Here he was at dusk, drinking at his waterhole, leaving his Saxone hoof-prints in the wet grass. But this scene too aroused no emotion in him any more. He was cured. How sad life was.

He began to walk away, a little ashamed. You wouldn’t catch the Nawab of Pataudi hanging around a seat in Kensington Gardens.

He went into a pub and bought himself a pint of bitter. He didn’t feel like going back to Hampstead yet, if ever.

His flatlet was full of purple-sprouting broccoli. He had meant to devote the evening to it. He had bought three cookery books and had promised himself three hours’ practice a night.

His landlord, Mr Lal, had been furious. ‘What are all these good vegetables doing in my dustbins?’ he had said. ‘Don’t you know that in my country there is famine?’

So the next evening Pegasus had taken plate after plate of cooked vegetables to Mr Lal. Later that evening he had seen Mr Lal taking them to the dustbin.

He’d tried throwing them down the lavatory. It had blocked. The water had failed to run out properly after Miss Yarnold’s Thursday bath. Mr Waller had used the plunger on it, there had been a loud prolonged gurgle, and several pieces of diced parsnip had floated up into the bath. Miss Yarnold had looked embarrassed, as though she felt responsible for them. The plumber, coming to unblock the lavatory, and seeing all the vegetables, had said in surprise: ‘These haven’t hardly been digested at all.’ Mr Lal had gone steadily berserk.

It had all served to dampen Pegasus’s enthusiasm. He was beginning to fall behind. He would persist, but not tonight. He wouldn’t do his three hours tonight.

He took a large draught of beer, as if defying the world.

Simon was giving Paula dinner in his flat. He liked to give her dinner in his flat, after evensong.

‘I wish you’d let me cook for you,’ said Paula.

‘Plenty of time for that when we’re married,’ he said.

Four months. Four months before she was in his fine, manly, hairy arms. Simon knew that she wasn’t a virgin. He had forgiven her.

‘Lovely pâté, darling.’

‘A trifle coarse?’

‘I don’t think so.’

He didn’t like going to her flat and he didn’t like going out too often. Only occasionally did she manage to drag him to the pictures. He didn’t mind the films but he hated the intermissions. He was a merchant banker. Paula had rarely been to church before, but funnily enough she quite enjoyed it. Dark. Cool. Colour high up. Earl Grey Tea and Simon’s dark face bent over a sheet of paper. Small precise writing. Ink, of course.

‘Why Ogden Nash?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well I mean the whole point of Ogden Nash is the funny length of his lines. Isn’t all that lost when you put them in hexameters?’

‘But that’s the challenge. That’s the whole fun of it.’

‘I’m not criticizing. I’m just trying to get your point of view.’