Ostrich Country. David Nobbs
‘Aren’t you a bit of a fool to give all that up?’
‘Mad,’ said Morley.
‘Shut up!’ said Diana.
‘I found it grotesque,’ said Pegasus.
He longed to pass overhead in one of those planes.
‘But the catering trade,’ said his mother, wrinkling the nose of her voice in disgust.
‘You make it sound so sordid,’ said Pegasus.
‘I think food’s a jolly good thing to go into,’ said Diana.
‘You aren’t as old as he is,’ said their mother.
‘And you’re a girl,’ said their father.
It began to pour, a sharp gusty shower. There was a general rush indoors with rapidly folded deck-chairs. The business section of the Sunday Times floated off towards Hillingdon. The rain, which George Baines had not forecast, had saved the situation.
They all disappeared, his father to finish some graphs, his mother to bake a cake, Morley to pack, Diana to go over to Ursula’s to do some French. Pegasus recognized this ploy. He was now expected to do the rounds and be lectured by each in turn. If he didn’t, they would all come to him.
He followed Diana up to her room.
‘Thanks, Di, for backing me up,’ he said. ‘You know it’s rather nice in here.’
‘Naturally.’
She was busy with her face.
‘You like to be at your loveliest when you do your French, do you?’
‘Of course.’
She came up to him with swift movements and kissed him on the lips with her round rather jolly face.
‘You’re a sweetie,’ she said, and then slapped him hard on the bottom and left the room without turning round. He watched her swinging aggressively up the road with her broad hips and slightly muscular white-stockinged Sunday afternoon in Uxbridge legs.
He went out into the corridor.
‘Is that you, Pegasus?’ called Morley.
He went into the bedroom which he shared with Morley when they were both at home.
‘You aren’t doing this on the spur of the moment, are you?’
‘You’re off duty now, Morley. I’m your brother, not a public issue.’
He slammed Morley’s door behind him.
‘Is that you, Pegasus?’ his father called.
His father was at the bedroom window, watching the rain.
‘Have you really thought this out, old chap?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ said Pegasus.
‘I wouldn’t like to feel you were wasting your life.’
‘Food isn’t wrong, you know, father.’
‘Well there you are, you see. Times change. Your mother and I can’t quite share your attitude to that. And it’s your mother I’m thinking of, Pegasus. This is a difficult time for her.’
‘Why?’
‘It just is. Take my word for it. Look at this dreadful rain, Pegasus.’
‘M’m.’
‘Well I’m sorry to be such a bore but that’s what parents are like. You’ll be one yourself one day.’
Pegasus went out on to the stairs without asking his father how he knew.
‘Is that you, Pegasus?’ said his mother.
She was busy in the kitchen with her mixture.
‘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