Last Guests of the Season

by Sue Gee

  ‘You weren’t foul. Anyway, let’s forget it now.’

  She gave him a look, as last night. ‘Robert – you can’t always just skate over everything, you know.’

  He looked back at her. ‘That’s enough. Stop telling me how to behave.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘For now. Please.’

  She took a breath. ‘All right. Let’s deal with today, then. Do you think we should try and go somewhere? On an outing, or something.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well …’ She cast about. ‘We could go to the cathedral …’ She tailed off, seeing his face.

  ‘A carload of over-emotional people in the heat. Tom throwing up. Jessica sulking. Oliver and Frances –’

  ‘No. You’re right. Not today.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Keep it simple. For Christ’s sake keep it simple. Let them unwind. Let us all unwind.’

  ‘Where’s Oliver?’ asked Jessica, returning, her towel round her shoulders.

  ‘Gone for a walk.’ Claire stretched out her hand. ‘We’re going to have a quiet day, after – well, after the fiesta, and everything.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sounded indifferent.

  ‘Right.’ Robert got to his feet as the boys appeared. ‘See you all up at the pool.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I’m going to see a man about a dog.’

  ‘What?’ He turned to Claire. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘It’s just an expression.’ Claire looked at Robert. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘Go on, off you go.’

  ‘Stop bossing me about,’ she said; but they went, down the steps to the garden, freckled with sunlight, where the hens, let out by Guida on her arrival, were wandering hopefully, scratching the earth. Robert stood watching as Claire and Jack, Tom trailing behind, slowly crossed to the other flight of steps, climbing to the upper path to the pool. Glimpses of bare shoulder moved along the vines, voices grew fainter; after a few moments he heard the first splash. He went back into the house.

  Guida had washed up the breakfast things and was sweeping the sitting-room. The coarse yellow broom went back and forth, crossing enormous slabs of sun from the open doors, moving into the shadows; dust and sand and breadcumbs lay in soft heaps on the boards. She looked up at Robert and smiled; they both began to laugh.

  ‘Good dancing,’ she said.

  ‘Very good.’

  The door to the dining-room was half open; he could see Frances, sitting at the table, smoking. A Dutch interior, he thought, remembering a print in the hall of his mother’s house in Maidenhead. Give or take a cigarette, give or take a mood. The little servant girl in a broad cool room, a woman glimpsed deeper, through a further door, tranquil, alone. But this woman wasn’t tranquil.

  He knocked on the door. Guida, behind him, moved out on to the terrace and began to sweep there. Swish swish swish in the sun over the tiles.

  ‘Frances?’

  ‘Yes?’ She looked up, elbows on the check cotton tablecloth, coffee and cigarettes beside her. This early in the day the shutters were open, and the window, too, at the top; smoke rose into the air and went drifting out through the gap.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘All right.’ She looked away again, sitting more still than any painting.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘No.’ There was a pause, then she began to smoke again.

  ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Up at the pool with the others. With Claire.’

  ‘Okay.’ Another pause. ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Oliver isn’t back yet,’ he said. ‘Well … See you later.’

  ‘See you,’ said Frances, and did not move.

  Tom who had returned, and was listening by the coat-stand, heard Robert coming towards the door again. He went quickly out to the terrace.

  Jessica sat on the edge of the pool, watching the mountain road. The bullock cart creaked past, carrying pine logs; a bike went up and a van came down, and apart from that there was no traffic at all. It grew hotter; Claire went indoors for drinks, telling her to watch the boys; she came out again with a tray and called them all down to the table on the path beneath the vines for lemonade with ice in it, but Jessica stayed where she was, with her sunhat on.

  And at last she saw him, coming out of the gap between the bushes a bit further down the road, where there was a path leading up to the mountain. That was where the hungry stray dog had come from, chasing after the old woman the afternoon soon after they’d arrived. They’d had the whole pool to themselves then, the whole afternoon.

  He was walking up the road towards her: she waved and called. He looked at her, and she knew he could see her, but he didn’t wave back, he just came on, with his lovely walk. She waved again, and this time he moved his hand, but that wasn’t a wave, it was more as if he was flicking something away. She swallowed. Surely he couldn’t mean to wave like that, surely he couldn’t. She didn’t know what to do; her hand dropped to the hot surface of the poolside and she sat picking at loose crumbs of concrete, her feet in the water, the sun beating down upon her legs.

  He drew nearer, coming on towards her, still on the other side of the road, the shady side.

  ‘Hello.’ She turned her face towards him, trying to smile as she usually smiled, but it felt stiff, and her stomach was full of butterflies.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied, as if he was talking to a stranger, just someone he happened to pass. He walked on, along to the upper gate, pushing it open. She heard him come down the first flight of steps, past the water tank, and then stop, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next, and then he must have seen her mother and the boys; she could hear his footsteps along the path between the vines, and she willed him to come on, to nod curtly to the others and come to her, the one he was looking for, but he didn’t, he stopped at the table. She heard him pull out a chair and sit down; she could hear the boring rise and fall of adult voices, his and her mother’s, who surely had nothing to say to him, and she wanted to get up and go there, just to be with him, but she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she’d wait and see.

  Somehow they got through the day.

  Guida stayed: that helped. She swept and dusted, and washed the kitchen floor and cleaned the cooker; she piled up books and papers, put clothes to soak in the water tank and went home for lunch, leaving the house looking fresh and cared for. The families had their lunch in the dining-room, with the shutters closed. No one talked much, but everyone made an effort, solicitously passing bread and cheese and wine, making sure the children had what they wanted, rallying when Robert suggested memory games.

  ‘I went on holiday and packed my bag, and in my bag I put …’

  ‘A toothbrush,’ said Claire.

  ‘A toothbrush and a pair of pyjamas,’ said Robert.

  ‘A toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas and a chess set,’ said Jessica, looking at Oliver.

  ‘A toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas, a chess set and a book,’ said Oliver, slicing more bread.

  ‘A toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas, a chess set, a … a book? A book, and a bucket and spade,’ said Jack.

  ‘Frances?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Sorry. I went on holiday and packed my bag, and in my bag I put … a toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas, a chess set, a bucket and spade – no, a book, and a bucket and spade, and a letter.’

  ‘A letter,’ said Robert, wondering.

  She picked up her cigarettes.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What did you pack in your bag?’ asked Claire.

  ‘What bag?’

  Afterwards, clearing away, Jessica said to Oliver: ‘Will you play chess with me later?’

  ‘I’ll see,’ said Oliver, and her heart lifted: he hadn’t said no, he’d said he’d see. She carried the tray to the kitchen and started the washing-up, to save Guida, because she thought it was the
kind of thing he’d approve of. The door was open; afternoon sun fell on to the freshly washed floor, the bubbles in the sink shone in the light. She put clean plates in the wooden rack, feeling like her mother, trying to feel like herself. Had Oliver seen her, helping? Where had he gone?

  Guida returned, and climbed the stairs to the landing. She set up the ironing-board and plugged in the iron; the house was filled with the smell of clean clothes being pressed, with the hiss and cloudy puffs of steam. Everyone went to rest, in an atmosphere which felt calmer, soothed: Claire and Robert in their room, the boys in theirs, Frances in hers, where she lay on top of the freshly made bed and went through her letter, line by line. Jessica, down in her own room, did not close the shutters, because the creeper at the window made the room shady and dark already. She lay watching the shadows of the leaves on the wall, listening to her tape, wondering how long she could leave it before she went out to the terrace, where Oliver was on the swing-seat, looking at maps, rocking, lying stretched out. She had set up the chessboard on the desk in the corner of the sitting-room because that was a cool place, near the tall window, away from everyone, so they could concentrate. Every piece was in its right place, all ready to play.

  I’ll send you all my dreams, every day in a le-etter …

  She yawned. Perhaps, when the holiday was over, they would write to each other. Perhaps it was easier to write things than say them. Dear Oliver … What should she say?

  I don’t want to say goodbye for the summer/but I’ll fill the emptiness…

  She closed her eyes, and began to go through every moment they had spent together, starting at the beginning, with the first day, when she had come up the steps to the terrace and seen them all standing there, just arrived, with their luggage everywhere, and he smiling at her as Claire introduced them all, holding out his hand as if meeting a grown-up, saying ‘How do you do’in his beautiful voice. Had she known, even then? It felt as if she had always known, though she didn’t understand how someone who could be so nice could be so frightening, too. What had happened yesterday? Why had he been like that?

  Darling, I promise you this …

  The song was growing louder, as music sometimes did before you fell asleep, as the voices of her parents used to in the car, when she was small and going to sleep in the back. She yawned again, pulling her hair, which felt all warm, across her face, and fell asleep, as Oliver, out on the terrace, traced with his fingers the outline of contours on the map, and worked out where he should go.

  Guida went home, leaving piles of neatly pressed and sorted clothes on the deep landing window-sill.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Claire, over tea on the upper path, ‘Robert and I thought we’d go into town again – we’re getting rather low in the larder.’ She handed out mugs and glasses. ‘Anyone else like to come?’

  ‘I’d planned to go walking,’ said Oliver, ‘if no one objects.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Jessica, fiddling with her beads.

  ‘As far as the eye can see,’ he said, sounding more friendly again. He indicated the ridge beyond the village. ‘There are other villages, there’s another valley. I need to see a bit more, I need the exercise …’

  ‘Do you need to be by yourself?’ asked Jack. ‘Mum says people do, sometimes.’

  ‘All right, Jack.’ Claire looked at Frances, lighting a cigarette. ‘Would you look after the children?’ she asked her. ‘If they don’t want to come into town.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t want to come,’ said Jessica. ‘Oliver? After tea will you play chess with me?’

  ‘I’ll see.’

  But he didn’t, though she sat by the board and waited, pretending to work out moves.

  ‘How do you play?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Go away. Please, Jack. Please.’

  She sat there after tea, and she sat there after supper, hoping and hoping, but he didn’t come, he stayed out talking to her father, looking at the boring boring map, while Frances and Claire put the boys to bed and she was left all by herself.

  Oliver left next morning at eight, wanting to get going before the heat. Trying to feel like a proper group, almost succeeding, they all went to see him off at the garden gate, watching and waving as he walked away down the road. He was going to make a circle, crossing the river at a bridge a mile or so further on, climbing the first ridge of mountains on the far side, down into the next valley, then up again and round, walking along the top of the ridge that ran to the right of the house. He would come home through the pine woods and down by the path from where Jessica had seen him emerge yesterday morning.

  He was going to walk for miles and miles, about twenty, he said. She couldn’t imagine anyone walking so far, or even wanting to, when it was so hot. Why did he have to go? She didn’t know what to say, except goodbye.

  ‘Goodbye, then,’ he said to them all, not to anyone in particular, not to her. He was wearing his straw hat, old cotton trousers and a T-shirt, carrying a canvas shoulderbag with drink and map and apples. He looked wonderful, tall and fit, and she wanted to run after him, ask if she could come too, to have them all watch her going away with him, jealous because it was she whom he had chosen, but instead it wasn’t at all like that, it was miserable, going back into the garden with everyone else and a pointless empty day ahead.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come with us?’ Claire asked, as they went up into the house for breakfast, and Robert and Jack went to let out the hens. For a moment Jessica hesitated, thinking perhaps that would fill up the time, and be better than hanging around with the boys, but then she thought Oliver might change his mind, or get tired, and come back early, and she didn’t want to be stuck with her parents doing boring shopping when he might want to talk to her, so she shook her head.

  ‘No thanks.’ Beside them, Tom was making his noises. ‘Oh, do stop it,’ she said crossly.

  ‘Jess …’ Claire looked at her reproachfully. Whatever else this holiday, Jess had not been bothered by Tom, it was only Jack who needed watching. Well – Jess had hardly been around the boys anyway, had she?

  ‘It gets on my nerves,’ she said now, as Tom went wandering into the dining-room, where Frances was putting out cereal bowls. ‘Why does he make those noises?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Claire, ‘but if it really gets on your nerves do come with us – we’d love to have you.’

  ‘I’ve said.’ Jessica looked stubborn. ‘I’ve said I don’t want to.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Through the open dining-room door Claire could see Tom following Frances round the table, putting out a handful of spoons she had given him, one by one. How nice. How nice and companionable and ordinary for him, and how rare. Well – perhaps it would be a good day for them all, Frances clearly more at ease now Oliver had gone. And now there were hours for her and Robert to be by themselves for once, to take their time in the market, to have lunch together and make it up. All the anxiety she had grown used to feeling fell away at the prospect: what a treat.

  ‘I want to come with you,’ said Jack, coming in from the terrace.

  ‘Oh, Jack …’

  He pulled at her, whispering. ‘I don’t want to stay here with her.’

  ‘Oh, Jack …’ Oh, dear. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Here,’ said Robert, coming in too.

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  In the end they persuaded Jack to stay, feeling a mixture of guilt and relief as they drove away, waving, soon after ten.

  ‘After all,’ said Claire, turning from the window, ‘it really won’t do him any harm to be away from Mummy’s side for a little while. Sometimes I do worry that he’s too attached.’ She turned for a last look through the back as they rounded the bend by the butcher’s shop, seeing the little group up by the gate in the beating sun, still waving, Tom holding his mother’s hand, Jessica standing well apart, Jack visibly saddened. Well, it was only a few hours.

  ‘Can you see Oliver anywhere?’ Robert ask
ed, as they came out of the village and crossed the bridge. They scanned the view, but could not see him, only the great stretch of valley and mountain beneath the burning sky.

  Already the river – not their river, but a tributary – was a long way below him, a gently winding thread of blue, intermittently obscured by trees. This valley was of a different nature to the one they had grown familiar with: he was looking down now not on pine and eucalyptus woods but upon a sweeping corrugation of terraces, bordered with drystone walls. The mountain road had been cut a few hundred yards above the lowest terrace; clumps of oak trees had been planted at intervals all the way down the slope below. This, he knew from one of the books he had found in the house, was cork oak, functional, like the eucalyptus, but less erosive. The terraces themselves were mostly bare and uncultivated: where once crops had grown there was now only grazing down near the river and here, halfway up the ridge, parched earth. A few were still planted, with pumpkins and damson trees, but mostly what he was looking at was evidence of a retreat from the land.

  He thought of the young couples who appeared now and then in the village, coming to visit the place of their childhood in their shiny suits and shiny cars, driving all the way back to Oporto, even as far south as Lisbon. Whereas in Ireland they would have gone across the water, here they were emigrants in their own country, working as chemists, lawyers, teachers, anything but farmers. It was only the old who remained on the land, working on their tiny squares of maize and on the vines, fattening a pig, subsisting.

  It was growing very hot; the map showed a stream near here, and a path. He was making for a hamlet, perched beneath the summit, powered, he had read, like most of the dwellings high up the mountain, by solar panels. He wanted to have a look at them; was curious to see what it might be like to live up here. More than either of these reasons for coming, he wanted distraction.

  The heat, in itself, was that: already he had taken off his shirt, and hung it across his shoulders as protection. Sweat ran into his eyes; he wiped his face every few yards, searching for the stream, and here at last it was, bubbling from rocks above, coursing down towards him. He stopped gratefully, splashing himself, drinking, letting it run over his face and head, standing up again, dripping and refreshed. A baptism. He ran his hands through his soaking hair. Baptism cleansed and washed away sin, which Robert had so curiously said he believed in. And so do I, thought Oliver, but that is less curious: a fucked-up Catholic would.