William Boyd - Stars and bars

“Well, actually,” Henderson began, then decided that it might be as well to leave the reverend in his ignorance. Cardew leant over.

“I understand too that she’s a very attractive teenager.”

Henderson didn’t know how to respond. “Takes after her mother,” he commented edgily.

“Oh, yes?”

“How is Patch?” Henderson said.

“Who?”

“Patch. Your dog. Scratching on heaven’s door, with no fear.”

“I’m sorry?”

“In your sermon. On the radio. I listened to it.”

“I don’t own a dog, Henderson. I’m allergic to fur.”

“But you—”

“What you might call poetic licence.”

“Some more Goat?” It was Gage dispensing bourbon.

“Please,” Henderson offered his empty glass. He was getting used to its virulence.

Gage seemed in a good mood. His plump face was flushed, his dense hair a little tousled.

“The man who made this stuff in the old days was called Henry Stewart. A Scotchman. He had his own still in back of his house and he also had a prize billy goat. And the good ole boys, when they wanted a refill, would take their nanny goats along to be sired. If they were asked where they were going they would say they were going round for Henry’s goat. And the name stuck.”

“Fascinating story.”

Gage sat down on the arm of Henderson’s chair.

“In fact that’s how I met Hem and Scotty in Paris. In the twenties. I was in the American bar at the Ritz and these two guys came in. They’d already had one too many, I could see. Then this one guy — Hem — says, “You got any Henry’s Goat?” I couldn’t believe it. I went right on over and introduced myself. Seems Hem got a taste for it when he was working on the Texas Star Bugle .”

“You mean the Kansas City Star ,” Henderson said politely.

“No, no. It was the Texas Star Bugle .”

“And you got to know them?”

“Sure. I knew them all — Hem, Scott, Gertie, Alice, Pablo. Hell, I was rich in those days. I don’t pretend it wasn’t me picking up the tabs that they liked, but,” he paused, “it was good, as Hem used to say. And I wanted to buy some paintings and they told me what to buy. Good paintings.”

“Ah, yes, the paintings.”

“I’ll show you after dinner.” Gage squeezed his shoulder affectionately. Henderson felt a sensation of calm spread through his body for the first time since he had arrived in Luxora Beach. He felt suddenly fond of Loomis Gage and his patchwork memories. Or maybe it was simply the Goat going to work.

“Let me freshen that for you.”

Cora came round with a silver casket filled with cigarettes. Henderson noticed that Beckman and Bryant had arrived. Bryant and Shanda were engaged in a serious intimate conversation.

“Cigarette, Mr Dores?” Cora asked.

“No thanks,” He kept his eyes on her right shoulder.

“Are you enjoying your visit to the South?”

“Very much.”

“You don’t mean that, do you? You can’t wait to leave.”

“Hardly. Well—”

“But you’ve got perfect manners.”

He was beginning to find her constant irony intensely wearying.

“It so happens that one of the things I happen to believe in very strongly,” he said, in a low voice, a little more forcefully than he had intended, “is that there are certain decencies, certain social routines that we should observe whatever the cost. Otherwise it…” he shrugged, he hadn’t really considered the consequences. “It all falls apart.”

“And you wouldn’t see that as typical British hypocrisy? Say one thing when you mean the other?”

“Not at all. We all have duties and obligations that bore us. Total honesty doesn’t work in society—” he was encouraged by his fluency—“The alternative to that is a sort of, a sort of ghastly Californian candour where everything in the garden is lovely no matter what the evidence to the contrary is. No, that is, disrespect intended,” he added, his confusion returning.

“Mmm,” was all the reply she made, as if she had just had some thesis confirmed. “Excuse me.”

Henderson felt himself panting slightly as if he’d just run upstairs.

“I find Cora a fascinating girl, Henderson, don’t you?” Cardew whispered into his ear. “Very intellectual. She was a very promising student in medical school. Dropped out, just like that. No reason. No one knew why. But that…impulsiveness adds to her attraction.” They both looked at her, then she turned round and looked at them. Cardew raised his glass.

“Why does she wear those sunglasses all the time?”

“I really don’t know, Henderson,” Cardew said. “As far as I’m aware there’s nothing wrong with her eyes. She rarely removes them. They give her a — heh! — mysterious allure, don’t you think?”

Henderson sipped his Goat.

“Will we be seeing you and your lovely daughter in our church this Sunday, Henderson?”

“Well, reverend—” he blinked fiercely. The Goat had brought on a sudden attack of double vision.

“T.J., please.”

“I’m afraid we will be gone by then.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Loomis told me you’d be here at least two weeks.”

Henderson almost dropped his glass. “There must be some misunderstanding.”

“No doubt, no doubt. We have a strong and loyal congregation here in Luxora Beach, Henderson. I think you would enjoy our service.”

“Alas, reverend.” Henderson spread his hands apologetically, observing a social routine.

“T.J., please. All my flock know me as T.J. I don’t stand on ceremony. Would you pass me a cigarette, Henderson?”

Alma-May came in. “It’s ready,” she said, and left.

Henderson drained his glass with relief and stood up, only to find the room had acquired a gradient which he hadn’t noticed before. He adjusted his stance to compensate. Three glasses of Goat were clearly enough.

The guests filed across the loud hall into the dining room. Henderson heard Beckman telling Monika about a fire fight in Due Pho province. Shanda waded over towards Henderson.

“Evening, Mr Dores.”

“Howdy,” Henderson said. “Y’all doin’ fine?”

“Oh yeah. I guess.”

Cora’s head snapped round at his words. Everyone had to raise their voices over the rumble of Duane’s music.

“Can’t you hush that moron up for an hour or two?” Freeborn demanded angrily of his father.

“It’s the boy’s only pleasure,” Gage called back amicably. “We won’t hear it in the dining room.”

“I’ll get that baboon,” Freeborn muttered and set off up the stairs.

“That’s why we moved into the trailer,” Shanda said. “Freeborn and Duane kept beatin’ up on each other. They just don’t get along.”

They went into the dining room. Henderson had glanced into it briefly on his furtive patrol of the house the day before. A dull crystal chandelier hung above a long polished table. The room was panelled and the panels had been painted a creamy pale green. On the walls were family portraits, done by local artists, he assumed. He recognized the Gage children: slim beardless Freeborn, Beckman, and Cora, as a young girl of about twelve, minus her sunglasses. On an end wall was an older Victorian oil of a plump bearded man in a navy blue military uniform.

“My father,” Gage said, noticing him looking at it. “It’s not for sale,” he added with a smile. “He died when I was two. In the Philippines. The gu-gus—”

“Daddy,” Cora said, “I don’t think we want that story before dinner.”

They all sat down under Gage’s direction. He placed himself at the head of the table, Henderson on his right, Monika Cardew on his left. Beside Henderson was Shanda and beyond, Cardew and Cora. Across the table were Beckman, Bryant and an empty seat for Freeborn who, Henderson assumed, must still have been remonstrating with Duane.