Last Guests of the Season

by Sue Gee

  ‘I’m hungry too,’ said Jack.

  ‘And me,’ said Jessica, with a little laugh, as if it didn’t matter.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Frances. ‘I should have brought something – well, we should have left the river earlier, shouldn’t we?’

  None of the children answered; they walked on, their hands straying towards grapes on vines strung between the rows of maize.

  ‘They don’t belong to us,’ said Frances automatically, as Oliver, also, would have said, and their hands fell back to their sides.

  Oh, surely, said Dora, whose children were always provided for. Surely just a few …

  ‘Oh, go on,’ said Frances. ‘No one’s looking.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They tugged off little bunches, and crammed them into their mouths.

  ‘Will Mum and Dad be there when we get back?’ asked Jack, as they came at last to the soft and shady path.

  She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘What time do you think they will be?’ His voice sounded high.

  ‘Teatime at the latest,’ she said, and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to be kind, but he moved away.

  ‘What time do you think Oliver will get back?’ asked Jessica lightly.

  Frances sighed. ‘About the same time,’ she said, dropping her cigarette to the ground, and grinding it out with her heel. ‘I’m afraid it’s only me for now, you’ll just have to put up with it.’ The children fell into an uncomfortable silence, broken by Tom making noises. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, more warmly, making an effort, seeing the other two frowning. ‘We’ll have a nice lunch, and then we can rest. Come on, let’s speed up a bit.’

  The path came to an end; they walked up through the village, shuttered for the afternoon; they reached the house at last, and Frances took out the key from beneath its stone on the terrace, and opened the big double doors. The children followed her and she tried to make everything nice for them, quickly cutting easy children’s tuna sandwiches, nothing elaborate, nothing unfamiliar; but when they all sat down to eat in the shady dining-room she knew they felt strange and uneasy, in a quiet house suddenly much too large and much too empty without the other grown-ups, and she no substitute at all for any of them.

  He stood without moving a muscle, and the dogs stopped suddenly, too, in a half-circle just a few feet away from him, heaving, waiting. There were four, no, five of them, and one he recognised: the skeletal creature he had seen on the road one afternoon, following the old woman with her pile of ferns, snarling with hunger. His eyes gleamed yellow, his jaw hung open, drooling; he was small, no bigger than a whippet, but the others around him were huge, great black and tan mongrels whose bones stuck out beneath rough and matted coats. Their skin hung loose, their jaws were heavy; they growled low, tensed and ready to spring.

  Oliver did not move, but his heart was pounding, his body flooded with terror. He was liquid, powerless. Then one of the dogs, the largest, took a step forward.

  ‘No!’

  The dog growled, horribly, from the depths. Oliver, drenched in cold sweat, looked round, took in properly the scattered stones all round him, and edged towards the nearest. The dog growled again, and his lips drew back; they were all snarling and slobbering now, and then, as he bent down and grabbed a handful of stones, they began to bay, the sound echoing through the pines, and as he stood up and raised his arm they made for him, as a pack.

  ‘Grrrrr!’ He leapt into the air, roaring at them like an animal himself. ‘Grrrrr!’ He flung his handful of stones in a fury. Some of them landed on the ground and pine needles flew into the air, but one or two hit the dogs hard, striking jawbones or bony haunches, and one of them yelped, and skidded aside. He bent down again, scrabbling, grabbing more, bellowing at them.

  ‘Grrrrr! Go on, go away, to hell with you! Grrrrr!’

  He hurled the stones, moving towards them, daring them; more stones, more. He hit the big black one hard on the side of the face and it turned, and they all turned then, looking over their shoulders but racing away now, streaming back through the trees and up to the top of the mountain.

  When the sound of them had died away, Oliver sank to the ground. His legs were shaking – he was shaking all over, soaking. His throat rasped, and he fumbled with the strap of his bag, pulled out the water bottle and drank as if he were dying. Then he sat with his head between his knees, still trembling, still listening in case they came back.

  But they did not come back, and after a few minutes he checked the map and got up to his feet again, beginning the long walk home. The prospect of the house, and his return, did feel now more as though he were, indeed, going home. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing grew steadier, he pulled out an apple from the bag and ate it, chucking away the core. He did not feel plagued by questions, he did not feel as though he had to find answers; he felt as though, in that terrible encounter – with the dogs, with fear itself – he had, indeed, cast out demons. I have been saved from death, he thought – no, I have saved myself. I have found my own salvation.

  The children didn’t want to rest after lunch, they wanted to play a game, but Frances had had enough, and sent them to their rooms. They went off, subdued, while she took coffee and cigarettes out to the terrace and lay on the swing-seat, dreaming.

  Time passed. The water poured ceaselessly into the water tank, a lizard ran along the parapet and disappeared into a hole beneath it. On the upper path the hungry cat lay in her warm safe place in the bushes, and down in the garden the hens went scratch, scratch, scratch, over bare dusty ground. Frances finished her coffee and cigarette and swung gently back and forth. Dora, she wrote, I have written you another letter, another kind of letter, but I don’t know if … It was very hot, and very comfortable here; soon she was fast asleep.

  Time passed. Jack heard Tom making noises. He followed them.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Tom jumped. He came out of the walk-in cupboard backwards, closing the door with his foot, leaning against it.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why are you standing there like that, then? Why don’t you open the door?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘There must be something in there.’

  Tom scuffed at the floor, making a line through the dust. ‘It’s private.’

  ‘Private? How can it be private? This isn’t your house.’

  ‘It isn’t yours, either,’ he muttered.

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ It was stuffy down here, not hot but stuffy, shut in, shut away. He didn’t like being trapped like this – this was his place, his secret place, how had Jack known he was here? Last time he saw him he had been asleep, like everyone else.

  ‘Open that door.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on – I dare you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Coward.’

  Tom didn’t answer.

  ‘You wet the bed,’ said Jack. ‘You make funny noises.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You play with yourself.’

  He felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck, like a thin cold animal. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You sleepwalk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you keep saying “What?” all the time? Didn’t you know? You walk in your sleep, that’s how you knocked over that thing.’ He nodded back towards the figure in the corner; it was watching them angrily: whose side was it on? Tom could hear himself begin to breathe faster, as if he were panicking or something, as if he couldn’t control it.

  ‘You’re peculiar,’ said Jack, and at the sound of that bit of the word, that sound like a twisting knife going into something, opening something, the lid in his head lifted open and banged shut again so hard that he felt himself reeling, and he reached out, clutching the air. He had gone. No, he was back again. He sank to the floor.

  ‘Now what’s the matter?’

 
He couldn’t answer.

  ‘What are you doing down there?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He was going to wet himself, no, please no. He pulled himself to his feet and made for the stairs, leaving the cupboard door to swing open, leaving Jack to go in, and find his secret house and the people all starving to death inside it.

  Time passed. Jessica went out on the terrace.

  ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘Upstairs, I expect. I haven’t heard them.’ Frances, still sleepy, smiled at her, wanting to make amends for an unsatisfactory morning. ‘Had a good rest?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Jessica pulled out a chair and sat down at the round white table, her chin in her hands, her hair tousled. It wasn’t so hot now, but she felt thirsty. ‘What’s the time?’

  Frances looked at her watch. ‘Just after half-past four,’ – and as she spoke the church clock struck six, and they both smiled. ‘Your parents will be back any minute, I should think.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jessica got up again. ‘I think I’ll go and look for them.’ She went back to the open doors, then stopped on the threshold, asking politely, as Oliver would like her to ask: ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Frances shook her head. ‘That’s kind. But I’m all right, thanks, I’ll wait for the boys.’

  ‘Okay.’ And she went inside, walking towards the kitchen for a drink, hearing the flush of the loo from the bathroom and then Tom making squelching sounds with his tongue. Yuk. He came out and almost bumped into her.

  ‘Where’s Mum, I mean Frances?’

  ‘On the swing-seat.’

  He went off, clicking. God, he was peculiar, no wonder Oliver got cross. Oliver would be back any minute, she could hardly bear to wait any longer, perhaps she should brush her hair, and put on a necklace or something – no, never mind, leave it. She hurried through the kitchen and tugged at the stiff door, seeing that mangy half-starved cat leap away as it opened and then come crawling back again, yowling. ‘Go away,’ said Jessica. ‘Shoo!’ She climbed up the steps to the iron gate, two at a time, and stopped to drink from the tap at the green-tiled tank. Dark trails of ivy hung from the wall above it, the sound of the pouring water beneath was beautiful, romantic. Perhaps this evening they could come and sit out here, in the dusk. She would listen as he described his walk, and the water would pour on and on as a beautiful background and then she would tell him.

  ‘I don’t feel well,’ said Tom, out on the terrace.

  Frances frowned. ‘Do you think you’ve got a temperature? Does it hurt anywhere?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just feel sort of funny.’

  She swung her legs off the swing-seat. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

  He came and stood before her, and she felt his forehead. It was cool, perhaps a bit clammy, but nothing dramatic. He looked a bit tired, but then he often looked tired.

  ‘You’ll live,’ she said. ‘I expect it’s the heat. Where’s Jack?’

  ‘Down in the – I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Well, I expect he’s somewhere. And Claire and Robert will be back soon – do you want to help me get tea ready?’

  He nodded, and followed her into the house. Oliver will be back soon, too, thought Frances in the kitchen, filling the kettle, lighting the gas. She blew out the match and stood for a moment watching Tom put biscuits on a flowery plate, carefully, one by one. He tried, he did try, though she knew that at any moment the packet was likely to drop to the floor and he, bending to pick it up, would probably tread on it and crush all the biscuits to pieces. She thought of herself in here yesterday morning, dropping the matches, scrabbling on the floor to pick them up again as Oliver raged above her. No more of that. Please, no more of that. Perhaps the walk would have done him good, perhaps they could draw a veil.

  Jessica pulled open the gate, and went out on to the road. Any minute now. Twenty miles! She could hear a car, climbing up from the village. Oh God, it was probably them. She wanted Oliver to come back before them, before all the fuss. It was them. The long blue car rounded the bend and came up towards her, hooting. Well, it was quite nice, she supposed, and they might have brought something. She raised her hand and waved, and then Jack came racing up the steps behind her, shouting.

  ‘Is that them? Is it?’

  ‘Keep your hair on.’

  ‘It is them!’ He burst out through the gate, bellowing. ‘Mummy!’ The car drew up with a crunch on the loose stones at the roadside, and he dashed round to the passenger door and flung himself into Claire’s arms. ‘Mummy!’

  ‘Well, well. Have you been waiting there all day?’ She hugged him, pulling him on to her lap. ‘Miss me?’

  ‘Miss you?’ He covered her with kisses.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone missed me,’ said Robert drily, switching off the engine. He looked at Jess through the open window as she came slowly down towards them.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hi. Had a good day?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘It was awful,’ said Jack. ‘It was awful.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Oh, we went to the river, and came back late, and it was boiling, and I missed you –’

  Claire smoothed his hair. ‘Okay, that’s enough, let me go, Jack. Where are the others?’

  ‘Oliver’s not back,’ said Jessica casually. ‘I was just going to look for him, actually.’

  ‘Were you now?’ Robert climbed out of the car and went round to the boot for the shopping.

  ‘Yes. I’ll just go down to the path, okay?’ She was already leaving them, walking down the road with her hands in her pockets. ‘Frances and Tom are out on the terrace,’ she said over her shoulder, as if it were really important, as if in telling them that she was excused from further conversation for the rest of the day, and then she quickened her step, and it was clearly too late to suggest that perhaps she might help with the shopping, or indeed have anything more to do with them. Whereas to go and meet Oliver, of course … Robert sighed, and drew the cardboard box of tins towards him.

  For a moment, as he carried it down to the house, he caught himself wondering. Was it really just a better or more desirable father that Jessica saw in Oliver? What was it Oliver saw in her?

  ‘Claire,’ he said questioningly, as she came into the kitchen behind him, with the box of fruit and veg. ‘Do you think –’

  But Jack had followed her, and then there was Frances, coming in to greet them and say that tea was ready, and then there was Tom, saying that he had helped get it and where was the cat. Somehow the moment passed.

  Jessica went hurrying on down the road – quick, before they could stop her, before she got asked lots of boring questions, and had to be nice. She’d be the first to see him, she would greet him casually, very ordinarily, as if she just happened to be passing, and they would go back to the house together, joining the others then but sitting a little apart, making it clear they were different, not exactly better or anything, just different. She went through it all again. She would wait at the entrance to the path, she would greet him casually …

  Hello, Oliver. Did you have a good walk?

  Very good, thanks. How nice to see you.

  Oh, he had such a beautiful, beautiful voice. Then what would they say? She began to worry – she never used to think about what they might talk about, they just talked, it was easy, that was what was so nice. But since he’d gone so strange and funny, after that terrible night she didn’t want to remember, it felt all difficult, and awkward, and she was scared of saying the wrong thing, of making it all worse.

  Hello, Oliver. Did you have a good walk? Surely there was nothing wrong with that. Surely it was okay to come down to meet him. It was, wasn’t it? Hello, Oliver …

  ‘Hello, Jessica.’

  She jumped six feet in the air and went scarlet. He was here! She’d been walking along looking at the ground, muttering probably – God, how stupid – when all the time he was walking up towards her, watching her mak
e a fool of herself.

  ‘Hello.’ She raised her head diffidently, feeling her heart racing. He looked exhausted, absolutely exhausted, hot and sweaty and much much older than she remembered, but still it was so wonderful to see him again, to have him here again, as if everything was falling back into place.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked her, smiling:

  ‘I – I came to look for you.’ Well, she had, hadn’t she, why not say so? Why not say everything, why not, when all she wanted to do was fling herself into his arms, like Jack had done with Claire, only different.

  ‘Did you?’ he said, and they began to walk up the hill together. ‘That’s nice.’

  It was nice! He said it was nice! He hadn’t gone off her, everything was going to be all right.

  ‘Did you have a good walk?’ she asked him, just as she’d planned.

  ‘Very good, thanks. But guess what happened?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I met a pack of wolves.’

  ‘Wolves!’

  ‘Well, almost wolves.’ He told her about it, walking slowly because he was so tired, and she slowed down to keep in step with him, listening in absolute and utter silence. ‘So,’ he said, finishing. ‘That was my day. How was yours? Any wolves?’

  ‘No.’ They had come to the gate, which stood open from where the others had gone trooping in with the shopping. The kitchen door at the bottom of the steps was open too, and they were all doing things and talking; this might be her last chance to be alone with him for the rest of the day. She said, not looking at him: ‘I’m glad you’re all right.’

  ‘Thank you. So am I.’ He gestured towards the gate for her to go through, but she didn’t move. She wanted to say: ‘I’d die if anything happened to you,’ but she didn’t, she couldn’t, she just stood there.

  ‘Go on,’ he said kindly, and put his hand on her shoulder, ushering her through, down the first steps to the upper path. ‘I’m going to get straight in the pool. Will you tell the others? I shan’t be long.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, and stood watching him walk away between the trailing vines, tall and tired and wonderful, and she shut her eyes, seeing him up in those distant woods all alone, conquering wild dogs, hurling stones, a hero. And he had told her first.