Free Julia by Peter Straub Page A

pond. But that one’s open to things. He’s receptive. Maybe too open. Pretty men are like that. He needs special care, he does.”
    “Does that mean you won’t do it?” said Julia. She was charmed by Mrs. Fludd.
    “Did I say I wouldn’t? I said, no transcendences, no transformations, no interpenetrations, and no consummations. You couldn’t follow them proper anyhow, being skeptic. But
he
could—he’s open. He wants to be filled, like a bottle.”
    Mark laughed delightedly and said, “Mrs. Fludd, you’re a genius. You’re worth twice your fee.”
    “Don’t take money,” said Mrs. Fludd, unbuttoning the single button and permitting the front of the tweed overcoat to spring apart. “Money soils the gift. I take tea, though. PG Tips is my drink.” She moved unhesitatingly toward the couch. “Mr. Piggot makes a wonderful cup of tea.” She sat, exposing thick white calves and a pair of tight, black policeman’s boots, and looked expectantly at Julia.
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” Julia said, “but I don’t have any tea. I bought coffee, thinking.…” She looked again at Lily, who merely shrugged, still distressed by Mark’s presence. She had moved far across the room from him, and after her gesture to Julia, pretended to examine the garden through the long dining-room windows.
    “Can’t drink that muck,” said Mrs. Fludd. “Sometimes I take a little Ribena. Smashing for the upper regions, Ribena is.”
    “I don’t have any Ribena either,” Julia said, nearly wailing.
    “Humph.”
    “Sherry?”
    Mrs. Fludd cocked her head and considered. “Well, as there’s to be no special tricks tonight, I could accept a tiny amount of sherry, yes. Next time, you want PG Tips, love. We all drink tea here. Miss Pinner and Miss Tooth dote on Mr. Piggot’s tea. Here’s my coat, love.”
    When Julia was going toward the kitchen for the sherry the doorbell rang, and she asked Lily to open it for her. When she returned to the living room, a tall spindly man in his sixties with a severe long face and a little Hitler mustache was regarding Mark with an expression of grave disquiet.“Two will never do, Miss Lofting,” he was saying. The man had thrust his hands into the pockets of his long tan canvas coat—a coat like a park attendant’s or a movie IRA man’s—and showed no inclination to remove it or his large-brimmed hat of the same color. Mark, perfectly at ease, merely smiled back at the man.
    “Now, Mr. Piggot,” Lily coaxed, “Mrs. Fludd is willing to go ahead, and so.… And here is Mrs. Lofting, our hostess. Mr. Piggot, Julia.”
    Mr. Piggot glanced sharply at Julia, softened a bit, and removed his hat. His hair grew in a graying mousy fringe above his ears, leaving a high, mottled bald scalp which looked as fragile as an eggshell. “Well,” he said. “Looks like she makes a good cup of tea.”
    “Have a nice glass of sherry, Mr. Piggot,” Julia said, trying desperately to win over the old scarecrow.
    “Sherry, is it? We generally imbibe tea at these gatherings. PG Tips, I use. Mrs. Fludd fancies it, don’t you, Mrs. Fludd? But I won’t say no to a nice sherry, not from your hands. British, is it?”
    “Uh, Spanish,” Julia said. “Manzanilla.”
    Mr. Piggot’s face contracted. “Well, it’ll wet the whistle. I feel a bit dry after cycling over here from Shepherd’s Bush. We generally have these sessions at my place, you know. Expect your—aunt?—has told you that. But Mrs. Fludd won’t go into a place that’s been painted too recently. Distorts the reverberations.”
    “Something horrible,” Mrs. Fludd cheerfully agreed, accepting her sherry. “Throws me whole system off.”
    “There’s Mr. Arkwright,” said Mr. Piggot when the bell rang again. “Punctual as the Irish Guards is Mr. Arkwright.”
    Julia said, “Will you let him in, Lily?” She took a third glass of sherry to Mark, who said something sardonic about filling up his bottle and moved over to sit beside Mrs. Fludd.