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Last Guests of the Season

Page 5

by Sue Gee


  At work, there were changes now and then, inevitably – people came and went in the office, sometimes in a flurry, and those who worked at the sharp end, running the sheltered homes, either left after six months or stayed for ever. On the whole, however, he did not have much to do with the sharp end, and on the whole life in the office went on much as usual: there were tensions, and sometimes rows, but they did not often involve him. That is to say, he did not allow them to.

  Robert was by nature easygoing, a conciliator, a defuser of tension. He liked men, but preferred women, and the women in the office felt safe with him, and from time to time came and wept on his desk. Sometimes this was because of the frustration of work, and sometimes because of the frustration of living with difficult men. He listened, and took them out for consoling drinks in the lunch hour.

  Across the table, a page in the folder was quietly turned. Robert, remembering the dinner party, the silences and irritations, thought that Oliver was probably difficult – and who knew about Frances? He also thought he was probably staring, drifting off in a steady gaze as he was apt to do on the tube, caught when the person opposite looked up and looked offended.

  Up on the mountainside, the church clock struck once: half-past eight. He turned, and gazed out towards the village, catching sight of a bat flitting between the grapefruit trees. Dogs barked, and on the path from the main road that ran down past the garden he could hear conversation: two old men, walking slowly. He heard something else too, a sound remembered from last year: a motor bike, screeching up the steep unlit road. At night, to relieve the boredom of the village, with its single bar, those few young men remaining came up the side of the mountain on their bikes as if there were no tomorrow. Their engines had no silencers, and sliced through the darkness like chain saws, headlights careering wildly. There came now another, and then another, at intervals that led you to believe it had all gone quiet, until the next one split the air. Robert laughed, because if the noise was infuriating the timing was comical, like a cartoon fly, and Oliver looked up from his reading and smiled.

  ‘Does this go on all night?’

  ‘Intermittently.’

  ‘Doesn’t anyone get killed?’

  ‘Probably.’ He reached for the bottle again, and nodded towards the folder. ‘Found anything interesting?’

  ‘I’ve just been reading about the winter of’seventy-six – it seems that half the village died of flu. Remember reading that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I should think winter here must be hell – it’s getting cold in the evenings even now. You warm enough?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Oliver put the folder back on the table. ‘It also seems that all this eucalyptus planting is destroying the land, and that someone in’eighty-seven sighted three solid pages of birds.’

  ‘Creeps,’ said Robert. ‘We’ve seen wagtails and sparrows. You’re supposed to see kingfishers down by the river, but we never have.’ He drank, wondering when the women were going to come out.

  They’d eaten out here early, en famille for this evening, and sent the children packing soon afterwards. Claire and Frances were supervising baths for the boys, Jessica had gone to her own room, with her Walkman and her book. He turned in his chair and saw her now through the open doors across the other side of the sitting-room, lying on her side, thick tawny hair hooked back behind her ear, wherein an earpiece nestled. Her fingers were drumming to the beat on the open book: how could she read and listen at the same time? Sometimes he came back in the evenings and found her doing her homework plugged in like this.

  ‘All right, Jess?’ he called, but she didn’t hear him. There were footsteps along the wooden corridor, and someone went into the dining-room, switching on the lights. At once, there was a violent fizzing from the fuse-box above the terrace doors.

  ‘Shit,’ said Claire distinctly.

  Robert pushed back his chair and got up. ‘What’s happened?’ He went inside: the fuse-box sounded as if it were about to explode. Across the room, Jessica, oblivious, did not even look up. In the dining-room, Claire snapped off the lights and at once the fizzing and crackling faded.

  ‘Phew.’ She came out of the dining-room and she and Robert peered up at the box, whose noises were now muted. But still there.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Oliver, from the terrace.

  ‘Think so,’ said Claire. ‘Must’ve overloaded it,’ she said to Robert. ‘We’ll have to be careful. I suppose this means we can only eat indoors by candlelight.’

  Robert looked cautiously up at the box. ‘Did it make this noise last year? This sort of buzzing?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I think so, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Have we got any candles, by the way?’

  ‘I think I saw one in a cupboard. Did you pack the torch?’

  ‘Does that mean you didn’t?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no, I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, well. I expect it’s okay as long as we remember. How’re the boys?’

  ‘Fine. Frances is just saying goodnight – d’you want to go up? I’m going to make coffee.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked out on to the terrace again. ‘Oliver? Coming up to say goodnight to Tom?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘Frances is up there, isn’t she? We usually take it in turns.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ Robert withdrew, a little taken aback. Turns? Even to say goodnight? He wandered off towards the corridor leading to the stairs, stopping at Jessica’s open door. Her head was swaying from side to side; she looked up, saw him, and continued to sway. Might as well not be here at all, really, he thought, I’m just part of the furniture these days. He remembered, all of a sudden, Jessica at one and a bit, in a little blue sleeping suit with ducks on, staggering across the kitchen floor in their old flat, laughing, falling into his open arms to be scooped up and kissed all over, and he sighed. Oh well. He raised a hand, and she nodded almost imperceptibly; he left her to it, and went off to see the boys.

  Frances was just approaching the top of the stairs as he rounded the corner; she was wearing the grey cotton trousers she’d worn at supper, but had pulled on a cardigan over her pale striped shirt. He saw, as she stood above him, that she was wearing earrings – perhaps she’d worn them at supper, but he hadn’t noticed. They were silver, long and slender, and they swung in the light beneath her straight fair hair. She smiled down at him, waiting, and he smiled back, coming up the wooden treads, and forgot about Jess and the sudden pang.

  ‘Boys all right?’

  ‘Yes, they’re just waiting for you.’ She hesitated, her hand on a packet of cigarettes in her pocket. ‘I think Tom’s pretty tired still.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Robert; he had reached the landing, and stood aside for her. ‘I’m not about to stir them up. Goodnight, lights out, that’s it.’

  ‘Well – see you downstairs, then.’

  ‘Claire’s making coffee.’

  ‘Lovely.’ She went lightly down the stairs in her canvas shoes, and he walked along the corridor, feeling lingering doubts about the holiday begin to evaporate. He stopped at the boys’room and put his head round the door.

  ‘Evening all.’

  They were both lying on their pillows, Jack neatly on his side, facing the door, Tom on his back, his legs drawn up; he was looking at the ceiling, making little trilling sounds.

  ‘Everything to your satisfaction so far?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Jack was yawning, his eyes already beginning to close. Robert went over and kissed him. ‘Night, Jack, sleep tight.’ He crossed to Tom. ‘Am I allowed to kiss you, too?’

  Tom nodded, absently. ‘There’s a spider up there.’

  ‘Is there?’ Robert peered. ‘So there is, just a little chap. You’re a good spotter.’ He bent down and kissed him on rather wild hair. ‘I saw a bat just now.’

  ‘A bat?’ Tom shot upright, and his head met Robert’s chin with a crack. ‘Ouch! Ouch.’ He rubbed his head; tears smarted in Robert
’s eyes. ‘A bat? Where? Why didn’t you call us?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Robert stepped back, his hand on his chin. ‘It was out by the terrace – I expect he’ll come back. Settle down now, see you in the morning.’

  But Tom was already out of bed. ‘Can I come down and see him? Please. Please?’

  ‘Well, I …’ Robert floundered; then, mindful of both Frances and his chin – who knew what part of the body might come next in Tom’s orbit? – he said firmly: ‘No. Not tonight. Stay up and look for him tomorrow – it’s been a long day.’

  ‘Oh.’ Two long-drawn-out notes of dissatisfaction.

  Robert gently moved him towards the bed again. ‘Go on, in you go.’ He switched off the light. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘Leave the light on in the corridor, Dad,’ said Jack.

  ‘I will.’ He pulled the door to a little, and left them, crossing the rag runner to fetch a sweater. The bedroom was shadowy, dimly lit through the open shutters by the distant blueish-green of the village street lights and the stars. Quiet voices drifted up from the terrace. He rummaged on a chair, found and pulled on a sweater, and stepped out on to the balcony.

  Behind the ridge of mountain facing him the moon had begun to rise. He leaned on the stone ledge and looked down. Claire, Frances and Oliver were drinking coffee companionably, Claire stretched out on the swing-seat in her full black and white skirt, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Oliver was reading again; he said to Frances, sitting opposite Claire at the marble table, ‘Do you realise it’s only twenty-five years since the last wolf was seen up here? In the mountain villages the dogs still wear spiked collars, just in case.’

  He spoke in a tone which sounded to Robert as formal as if he were speaking to someone recently introduced, and he thought: it must be because they’re with us, surely they can’t go on like this all the time.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Frances. She was leaning on the table, her chin resting on one hand, smoking thoughtfully. She looked, in profile, neater than ever, smoke rising thinly into the air above her. And watching them all – not, for some reason, announcing his presence – Robert saw on her face, as she watched Claire, an expression which he found unfathomable.

  Chapter Three

  ‘What’s this?’ called Tom.

  ‘What’s what?’ Robert came out of the dining-room, where morning sunlight lit the cotton tablecloth, the packets of English cereal and glazed brown dish of crumbling yellow maize bread. They were breakfasting late, planning a morning by the river, all rather quiet this morning, feeling their way a little still; except for Tom, who had fidgeted, and kept leaning back in his chair despite repeated requests from Oliver not to do so.

  ‘Well, can I get down, then?’

  ‘We haven’t finished. Sit still.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Robert had said easily, reaching for the honey jar. ‘Don’t you think? They can all get down.’

  But Jack stayed where he was, next to Claire, slowly finishing his milk, and Jessica affected not to have heard, smiling loftily as Tom got off his chair, catching the edge of the tablecloth as he swung round. Claire reached out just in time to prevent his plate from falling, and Tom, oblivious, went out into the sitting-room. They could hear his bare feet on the wooden floorboards, and a series of clicking sounds. And Robert, coming out after a few minutes with a loaded tray, found him gazing up at the enormous straw cloak which hung on a wooden stand near the dining-room door. A hat surmounted it, a kind of vast straw sombrero; at the base, the ends of a pair of wide trousers were visible, thick and feathery, like shire horses‘ feet. On its stand, the outfit towered above them, taller than Robert by a good few inches, taller even than Oliver, who had brushed past it on his way to bed last night, going up first, earlier than the rest of them.

  ‘That,’ Robert said now, ‘is a shepherd’s cloak.’

  Tom frowned, reaching out to touch it. Layers of dense combed straw were sewn in bands from shoulder to mid-calf on a coarse fabric backing; he ran his hand downwards, and again. The wooden stand rocked a little.

  ‘Careful.’

  ‘It feels nice. The hens would like it.’

  Robert smiled. ‘They would.’ He thought how Jack, by now, would have been – had been, last year – asking questions: why was it made of straw? Did shepherds really used to wear things like this? Did they still? Tom asked nothing. He moved closer, and put his face against it, smelling it, his fingers rustling the layers. Again, the wooden stand began to rock.

  ‘Tom, it’s very heavy – come away from there. Do you want me to tell you about it?’

  ‘All right.’ Tom moved reluctantly, and Robert made for the kitchen, saying: ‘It’s made of all that thick straw to keep the rain out.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tom followed him, running his hands along the panelling in the passage.

  ‘It must have been very uncomfortable, even so,’ Robert went on, putting the tray on the table by the window shaded with creeper. ‘Don’t you think? Tramping about over the mountains with all that heavy wet straw hanging off you, and rain dripping off your hat brim.’

  ‘A bit like a sheep,’ said Tom, who had opened the fridge door.

  Robert pictured wet Portuguese sheep in hats. ‘True. What are you looking for?’

  ‘Oh, just something for the cat.’

  ‘I don’t think you should encourage that cat, quite honestly.’ Robert carried the breakfast things over to the sink. ‘She’ll become a bit of a pest.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ Tom turned round, leaving the fridge door open. ‘She’ll die if we don’t feed her. She’ll die.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He reached out and shut the door. ‘We’ll die if flies get in the fridge and crap all over the food.’

  ‘Will we really?’

  ‘No. But don’t leave it open, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tom leaned up against the draining-board, watching Robert squirt in violently coloured washing-up liquid and turn on the taps. The pipes banged and shook.

  Through the open door to the passage Robert could hear the others wandering away from the breakfast table; he saw Jessica going into her room to get her swimming things, followed by her brother. ‘Why don’t you go and play with the others?’ he suggested, rinsing cereal bowls.

  Tom ignored him, twisting a worn tea towel on a hook. ‘Please can I feed the cat? Is there any milk?’

  Robert looked at him. ‘Are you always this persistent?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He nodded towards the breakfast tray. ‘I expect there’s some milk left in the jug.’

  Together they went to the back door and Robert pulled it open. Immediately there was a swift movement: the cat, who had been waiting, slunk down the stone steps and looked up at them.

  ‘I told you she was hungry.’ Tom made eating noises. ‘Come on, puss, here you are, don’t be frightened.’

  Robert poured milk and stepped back into the doorway; he stood watching the cat’s cautious approach up the steps again, and her eager lapping. Tom, squatting beside her, knocked the saucer and reached out to stroke the staring fur.

  ‘I really wouldn’t,’ said Robert, automatically.

  Footsteps came lightly along the passage: he turned to see Frances, in stone-coloured shorts and pale blue shirt, move towards the stairs. How had this woman, formal to the point of primness, produced this clumsy and eccentric child? He thought again of the curious expression on her face last night when she looked at Claire, and shook his head, musing, as she climbed the stairs.

  More footsteps, brisker and heavier.

  ‘How are we getting on?’ Claire came into the kitchen, carrying a rucksack. ‘We’ll take fruit and crisps, shall we? And I’ll make up a bottle of squash.’ She looked at the unfinished bowl of washing-up, and the open door, and raised an eyebrow. Robert nodded towards Tom; she came to look.

  ‘Oh, Tom – that mangy animal! I don’t think you should touch her.’

  ‘If you succeed in
stopping him, you’re a better man than I.’ Robert returned to the sink, hearing Tom say fiercely: ‘She’s not mangy,’ and Claire, as he had done, sigh and accept defeat.

  ‘What about the dinghy?’ she asked, pouring concentrated squash into an empty plastic bottle.

  ‘Do we know where the foot pump is?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I can look.’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Robert. He tipped up the bowl and let the water drain, with painful slowness, down the plughole. ‘There’s plenty of time. I haven’t even seen the river yet, what with drives to the airport and all that. Let’s just get down there, for God’s sake.’

  The path to the river led through maize fields, reached by walking down the hill and along the cobbled streets through the village. It was after half-past ten by the time they set out, the air hot and still, the sky without a cloud. They all wore sunhats; their sandals slapped on the stones. From the hillside the erratic church bell now rang steadily for mass; coming down the hill towards the intersection of streets they saw, ahead, one or two families walking slowly towards the main road in their Sunday best, the men and boys in open-necked white shirts and shiny flares, the women in brightly patterned frocks. Two old ladies in black, on sticks, followed slowly.

  ‘Did you go to a service last year?’ Oliver asked Claire.

  ‘No, never. We went inside to have a look, of course, but not to an actual service.’ She turned to look at him. He was wearing loose cotton trousers, a faded blue T-shirt and cream cotton jacket; with his Panama hat and glasses, carrying his book, he looked, she thought, like something out of Bloomsbury, the family bag of swimming things in his other hand almost as incongruous as it would have looked on Strachey, or Duncan Grant. She hadn’t given much thought to Bloomsbury for a while. It was years since she’d taught The Waves at A level, and even then, she realised, she had connected it with life at university and the kind of intensity she used to associate with Frances, not life as it had since become: pleasurably ordinary, filled with children. Brilliant, neurotic Bloomsbury had produced, as far as she could remember, few children.

 

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