Last Guests of the Season

by Sue Gee

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  And that, thought Claire, watching Tom drop down beside his father and carefully settle his rough thatched head on his stomach, must be the first time I’ve ever seen them in any kind of intimacy at all. It can’t be, but I think it is. Well. The holiday must be doing some good to someone, then. And she yawned, as Jessica lay down too, on her front with her feet in the air, opening her book.

  And what about Frances, Claire wondered, seeing her sitting beside her here this morning, smoking, talking at last.

  She makes me complete … When I met him I thought he was God …

  No doubt a few disappointments there.

  Tom was making noises.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Silence fell, pages were turned, the noises began again.

  ‘I said stop it. What’s the matter with you?’

  Tom rolled over.

  ‘Tom …’

  ‘Sorry.’

  More noises, more wriggling about.

  ‘Oh, get off,’ said Oliver. ‘Go on, please. I can’t take it, not in this heat.’

  Tom sat up, picking off stray bits of grass.

  ‘Find a place to settle.’

  Jess turned another page, yawning.

  ‘Do you want to come here?’ asked Claire.

  Tom stood, hot and undecided. Then: ‘I’m going for a pee.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Oliver. ‘Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with you. And then come back and rest.’

  ‘All right.’

  He wandered away from them, out of the shade, into the dense heat of the meadow, taking the direction Robert had taken, through the long grass towards the bushes where the path began.

  ‘Don’t get lost,’ called Claire. ‘Come straight back.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll keep an eye.’

  And Claire, by now almost overcome with the effort of keeping awake, closed her eyes, thinking: well, of course he will, it’s his child, after all.

  Jessica looked at him. ‘Can I do what Jack’s doing?’ she said, mimicking.

  ‘What?’ Oliver lowered his sunglasses, making her laugh.

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so. Get on with your book.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Oh, go on, don’t be so stuffy.’

  ‘Jessica,’ said Claire. ‘Stop pestering.’

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘I am. Mothers sleep with their eyes open, didn’t you know?’

  Jessica made faces, and went back to her book.

  Claire looked towards Oliver, for a brief adult exchange of glances, but he was already reading again, and she sank back on to the towel. Tom was out of sight, the air was full of the sounds of crickets, bees, birdsong down by the river. Where was Frances, who had gone down there such a long time ago? Was Oliver so used to her wandering off that he no longer noticed?

  I want him, I want Dora, I want the moon …

  She wants a good smack bottom, she could hear her father say in his comfortable Derbyshire tones, and she smiled to herself and fell asleep, just as Robert, halfway along the shady path beneath the village, came upon Frances, walking towards him, weeping.

  ‘Hey …’

  She stopped, rigid with embarrassment.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked her. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’ A cloud of midges danced in the sun in front of her; she waved them away. ‘I was just coming back.’

  ‘Yes, so I see. And I’ve come back for the dinghy …’ He smiled at her, feeling she needed a smile. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘You haven’t.’ She was looking away from him, wiping her eyes.

  ‘Women weep on me all the time for some reason,’ he said, keeping it light. ‘At the office, I mean. You can tell me if you want.’

  But she didn’t smile back, and moved to pass him. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I was just thinking, that’s all … I expect it’s the heat.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it’s very hot, isn’t it?’ He drew to the side, pressing into the thick hedge and tall lush weeds, to let her pass. ‘Frances –’ he said, on impulse, and touched her arm. ‘I’m not going to interfere. But I’m here if you need me, okay?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but she did not meet his eyes. They walked past each other and away, in opposite directions, and neither of them saw Tom, who, looking for Robert, had taken a detour through some bushes alongside the broad, straw-littered path which led to this one, and then heard voices, and stopped, seeing his mother in tears and Jack’s father touch her, as if he were her husband or something.

  Frances found a tissue in the pocket of her shorts and blew her nose; she lit a cigarette and walked on, the cool damp ditch on one side, the luxuriant growth of hedge and weed on the other. Above her, the village was silent, sleeping; she came to the turning, the ruined house and the sweet-smelling piles of straw beneath the vines and, sitting on the low wall in the cobbled square, Dora turned towards her, smiling in welcome.

  ‘No,’ said Frances aloud, and started to cry again. The path was yellow with sun and straw, her footsteps slowed in the heat. She came to the bushes, the opening into the meadow, the stillness of the long grass and the quivering butterflies, pale blue, pale brown, creamy yellow; she saw ahead the clump of trees, and everyone flat out beneath them, though from here, through her tears and in the dazzling brightness, she couldn’t tell which child lay on Claire’s lap, nor see Jessica’s head on Oliver’s chest, her glorious hair spread out like a faery queen as she slept contentedly upon him.

  After that, he didn’t feel like following Robert any more, and he waited until he was out of sight and then came out of the bushes, stepping over the wicked dark ditch and squatting down beside it, looking for creatures. Water-boatmen darted, midges hovered round his head. He tried, over and over, to catch a boatman, but they were too quick; he lifted the weeds hanging down at the side of the ditch and peered beneath, to see if there were any more frogs or anything, but there weren’t. He lay down on his stomach, reaching across, raising the dangling weed on the other side; he imagined a particular creature waiting in there, a bit like a chameleon, or a watery lizard, something with legs, anyway, hunched and still, green within the murky green of the ditch’s edge, with a bright yellow eye and enormous black pupil, watching him. And as he imagined it, the lid in his head unhinged itself, swinging up and open, and for a moment, once again, he wasn’t there at all, it was as if his brain had done a kind of blink. Then he came back, and the lid closed up again, fitting nicely.

  Tom got to his feet, and went wandering along the path. He found a stick and swished at the tall weeds, breaking tops off, breaking stems. The air was full of midges, but everything else was still; he walked past gardens and houses all quiet, with the shutters closed. He rounded the corner of the last garden wall, finding himself at the foot of the long flight of steps they had come down this morning. He stood looking at it, winding up and away in the shade above him, like the beanstalk that led to the giant’s castle in the clouds, and the lid in his head went click, just once.

  Long-legged insects in the grass crawled over the bare limbs of those at rest beneath the trees, leaving little hot pinpricks, like a rash. Jessica, feeling something ticklish make its way over her face, stirred, brushed it away, and woke; she lay for a moment or two and sat up, scratching her legs. Beside her, Oliver was still asleep, as she was almost sure he had been when she crept alongside and put her head on his chest. A few feet away Claire and Jack were beginning to waken; beyond them, she could see Frances, coming across the meadow. She was wearing her sunglasses, walking slowly. Jessica waved.

  ‘Hello.’ Frances moved into the shade and stood looking down at them all. ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Didn’t you see him?’ said Claire
, moving Jack off her, lifting her shirt up and down to cool her skin. ‘He just went off to have a pee.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well … over there in the bushes, I think. He can’t have been far behind Robert – he’s gone back to the house for the dinghy.’

  ‘Yes, I know. We met on the path.’ Frances spoke distantly, as if to someone with whom she had only recently become acquainted and with whom she had no intention of spending longer than she had to. ‘Well … how strange. I wonder where he’s got to.’

  Oliver, hearing their voices, woke, and stretched. He rubbed his forehead, sitting up, taking in Frances’s arrival with a nod.

  ‘We’re wondering where Tom is,’ she said.

  He frowned.

  ‘Claire says he went for a pee – he hasn’t come back.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Oliver, ‘I imagine he’s looking for you. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Walking.’ Frances addressed him, too, as if she barely knew him. ‘I left Tom with you.’

  You didn’t, actually, leave him with anyone, thought Claire. You just left him. ‘Well,’ she said soothingly, ‘perhaps he’s with Robert, do you think? Let’s hang on for a few minutes until he gets back. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Frances stood looking across to where the bushes grew and the path began. ‘I suppose he’s all right,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Perhaps I should go and –’

  ‘Please don’t go and do anything,’ said Oliver. ‘He’s probably with Robert and if he isn’t I don’t want to have to look for you too. For God’s sake stay in one place for a minute.’

  Frances flushed, and felt for her cigarettes.

  ‘Perhaps he’s been kidnapped,’ said Jack.

  ‘Oh, do stop saying that.’ Claire was scanning the meadow.

  ‘I don’t keep saying it.’

  ‘I wish Dad would hurry up.’ Jessica, hot and prickly, pushed back her hair. ‘It’s boiling.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and have another dip while we’re waiting?’

  She shook her head. ‘I just want to go out in the dinghy.’

  ‘Well you might not be able to.’ Claire was suddenly impatient. ‘We might have to look for Tom. And please take that sulky expression off your face.’

  Jessica turned away, and a silence it felt quite impossible to break with a light remark fell on the group and stayed there.

  ‘There he is!’ said Jack. ‘There’s Dad!’

  And they all looked across in relief to where Robert, the dinghy carried by a nylon rope in one hand, the paddles slung over his shoulder with the other, had emerged from the bushes and was walking towards them.

  ‘Is Tom with you?’ called Claire, getting to her feet.

  ‘No.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘He was with you lot when I left.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Claire stood beside Frances, waiting for him. ‘We’d better go and have a search,’ she said. ‘I don’t want Robert wandering about in this heat any more.’

  ‘No. No, of course not. But there’s no reason why you –’ Frances broke off, and turned to Oliver. ‘Will you come and help me look?’

  ‘No,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ve been in charge of him all morning. I’m pretty sure he’s hiding quite close, and I’m sure it’s you he wants to find him, don’t you think? He’s been fidgeting about ever since you disappeared.’ His tone was casual, his words not entirely unreasonable, but Claire, shading her eyes as Robert came up to them all, felt chilled.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said to Frances, and wanting to lighten the atmosphere for Jack’s sake she held out her hand to him. ‘Come on, you can help.’

  Robert dropped the dinghy and paddles and wiped his forehead. ‘We’re in Portugal,’ he said. ‘Don’t flap. He’s safer here on his own than in London, wouldn’t you say? Somebody give me a drink.’

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ Frances said to Claire, her voice tight, as they set out.

  Claire held Jack’s hand. ‘Of course I’ll come.’

  He’d just go and see how the pig was getting on, then he’d go back to the others. He began to climb, counting, panting: eleven steps, twelve, thirteen … rounding the bend … twenty-one, twenty-two … they went on for ever. Twenty-nine, thirty … thirty-four. He had reached the top, and come to the gap between the houses: he rattled his stick along the wall and came out into the silent cobbled street, frowning, trying to work out where he was. It was boiling up here, much hotter than down on the path, and he was sweating and thirsty from the climb. But he couldn’t see a tap anywhere and after a moment or two he remembered where the pig was, somewhere near the shop, off to the left, and set off slowly, passing curled up brown dogs asleep in the sun, and mangy cats.

  ‘Pig!’ he called. ‘Pi-ig!’

  Someone moved on a balcony above him: a fat old woman with rotten teeth, staring down at him.

  ‘I’m looking for the pig,’ said Tom, and walked on.

  But when he came to the rough wooden door set in the wall, with its peeling black paint and gap at the bottom, he couldn’t hear a sound. He knelt on the worn step, peering in, screwing up his eyes to see through the smelly darkness. He saw churned-up wet straw, and then, right at the back, the huge pale hairy shape of the pig, on its side, not moving a muscle, as if it was dead.

  Tom rattled his stick all along under the door. ‘Pi-ig!’

  There was a snort, and the animal raised its head. He could just make out a whitish-pink eye and white lashes; then it moved, awkwardly, grunting, heaving its enormous bulk, getting up on small, filthy feet, coming towards him.

  ‘Hello.’ Tom pressed his face to the gap, looking up at dirty pink chest and swaying belly, and the pig, reaching the door, lowered its head and began to nose about, hopeful, grunting again. ‘Oh, dear. Sorry.’ He should’ve thought. You couldn’t just come and visit without bringing anything, that was mean.

  ‘I’ll go and get the apples,’ he told it. ‘I shan’t be long. You stay there, all right?’ The pig snorted, moving its wet bristly nose all along the gap: you couldn’t help laughing, even though you felt sorry for it. Poor thing. Poor thing, all shut away. How could they shut it away down here? It should be out in the sun, out in a nice sunny field, with turnips. He scrambled to his feet and hurried up the hill to the house, wondering if Robert was there, hoping he wasn’t.

  He wasn’t. The house was shut up, the double doors on the terrace locked, the door to the kitchen locked. Tom stood outside it wondering what to do. People would start looking for him and getting cross.

  Behind him, water poured into the green-tiled tank. He didn’t know if it was drinking water, but no one had said it wasn’t, and anyway he didn’t care. He climbed the steps and stood beneath the line of clean clothes drying in the sun, and dunked his face in the water, getting his hair wet, splashing his neck and arms. He cupped his hands beneath the brass tap in the wall and drank and drank, and then, feeling much better, he went down the steps to the garden and up the next steps to the terrace again.

  Out across the valley grey smoke rose from the pines. Beneath, the faraway river looked like a river in a dream. He turned away, sinking on to the swing-seat, feeling it sway, stretching out, yawning. Shadows of the leaves of the lemon trees played on the canopy as he swung; after a while his hand went down inside his shorts again, finding it waiting for him, stiff and smooth. There was no one to see him, no one to know, and he did it and did it and did it, as much as he wanted, until he stopped wanting, and fell asleep.

  Jessica lay back, one hand trailing in the water, her straw hat slipping down a little on to the broad rim of the dinghy, warm in the afternoon sun. The water was like greeny-brown silk, deep and still beneath the cliffs on the far side, holding the shady reflections of the trees, breaking in a rippling rise and fall against the silver paddles as Oliver rowed slowly upriver, leaving the flowery meadow behind. Robert was resting now, flat out in the shade with a drink and his book, beginning to drop off.

  ‘It’s lik
e a film,’ she said, as they drew further away from him and rounded a bend. Tall reeds grew at the water’s edge; soundless fish broke the surface and disappeared.

  ‘Yes.’ Oliver looked at her and smiled, and then he lowered the paddles and they drifted for a while, carried by the sleepy current, listening to the birds.

  ‘We’re going backwards,’ said Jessica.

  ‘You’re going backwards. I’m going the right way.’ He reached for the paddles again, looked up for a moment and frowned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a fire, can you see? Almost at the top of the mountain – it’s spreading quite fast.’

  Jessica turned, craning her neck. Dark clouds billowed angrily from pines along the ridge of a mountain she recognised as one they could see from their house; the smoke rose towards the pale haze of the sky, became diffuse, disappeared, was followed by more.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I expect it’ll go on spreading and ruin half the plantation. They’ll probably send beaters up when they can, but there’s not much they can do really, is there?’

  ‘Try water, dear Henry.’ Jessica began to giggle.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you know that? We’re always singing it in the car – “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza …”’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course. “Then mend it, dear Henry, dear Henry…”‘

  ‘You be Henry,’ said Jessica, as they rowed on, approaching more maize fields, leaving the fire behind. ‘Go on, you start, and I’ll be Liza.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘God, you’re a pest.’

  ‘Go on.‘

  Oliver cleared his throat, began and stopped. ‘I can’t sing.’

  ‘Of course you can. Anyway, who’s going to hear?’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza …’

  His voice grew stronger; Jessica took up the next verse, and the song, after a couple more, rang out over the water so that anyone passing, though no one passed, would have smiled to see a father and daughter so clearly enjoying themselves.