Last Guests of the Season

by Sue Gee

  ‘Frances. Don’t play games, don’t try and be clever. This is serious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, thinking of the night’s events and the morning’s upheaval; thinking of the past five years. ‘It’s serious.’

  ‘Well, then. Answer me. You’re saying that you’ve wanted a love affair – yes? With all that that implies – yes?’

  Frances was looking at the ground again, at the grey drifts of pine cones, the dense brown carpet of needles, warm in the sun.

  ‘It’s the expression of everything, isn’t it?’ she said at last.

  ‘Can be.’

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘So. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Another pause. ‘I think I do, but if it came to it possibly not. Probably not. Certainly not with anyone else, I can tell you that. If it were anyone else I’d be ill.’

  ‘This is the end of the twentieth century,’ said Robert, ‘as you are probably aware. There has been a social revolution, and men are out of fashion. All this seems to have passed you by. I cannot believe that in the last however many years you could not have found what you wanted if you really wanted it. Mmm?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Sometimes I feel as if I don’t belong anywhere, sometimes as if there is the possibility of access to everything. It’s one thing to see other people’s liberation, and quite another to liberate yourself. Anyway, I’m not ruthless enough.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I think?’

  She looked at him, and smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’

  ‘I think what you want is some kind of substitute for religion, a kind of dreamy worshipping of someone who will never make real demands of you. And that’s one of the reasons I dislike religion so much – when it comes down to it, it’s easier to love God than another person. Don’t you think? Much easier to be the bride of Christ than the bride of a real man. Much easier to love at a distance than live with someone.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Frances, ‘I think that the way to God, if there is a God, is immensely stony and difficult and full of sacrifice. And reached by loving other people. As for loving at a distance – well, perhaps you’re right, but how dull. Loving at a distance can be inspirational.’

  ‘You said it was killing you.’

  She fell silent.

  They had come to the top of the slope; they were out on the road again, where the sun beat down.

  ‘So,’ said Robert. ‘Here you are. Agonising over what you might or might not want, or might or might not be able to have. You dream of this woman and you banish her. She has her own life. She may not want to be dreamed of –’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’

  ‘She may not want to be banished, either. Doesn’t she have something to say? If she is as nice as you believe, at the very least she deserves honesty. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I – yes.’

  They crossed to the shady side, and walked slowly downhill towards the house.

  ‘And meanwhile –’

  ‘I know. I know. Is that what you meant when you spoke about sin?’

  ‘An Alice word,’ he said again. ‘It means whatever you choose it to mean, neither more nor less.’ He raised his arm and threw the fir cone across the road: it bounced on the verge and rolled away down the hill. ‘Like God, now I come to think of it.’

  ‘Like love.’

  ‘I’m not quite so sure about that.’

  Claire, after lunch with the boys, made sure that Tom was asleep before she left them, Jack still slowly turning pages as she got up from the yellow chair in the corner of the bedroom and went to open the shutters a little, to let out a fly.

  ‘Go on, shoo, off you go.’ It soared away on a current of air, out above the floor of the threshing yard, and she quietly closed the shutters. It was cooler, just a bit. Where was Robert? Why hadn’t he come home?

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He put down the book and stretched his arms, yawning.

  ‘Hug?’

  She hugged him, smoothing his straight dark hair.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Coming back any minute. Go on, go to sleep now, I’ll see you at teatime.’ She disentangled herself and put his book down on the bedside chair; she went to the open door and blew him a kiss, and then, hearing noises, she went downstairs. The noises came from the back of the house: she went to the sitting-room.

  Footsteps up from the garden; Jessica in from the terrace.

  ‘You must be starving,’ said Claire, ‘you’ve been gone for ages.’

  Jessica walked straight past her and into her room.

  ‘Jess … where’s Oliver?’

  ‘Putting the dinghy away.’ The door of the bedroom swung to, and was closed with a click. From beneath the terrace Claire could indeed hear the dinghy being dragged across the stone flags and put in its corner, the paddles propped up against the wall. Footsteps up from the garden: Oliver came through the tall white doors.

  ‘I’m sorry we’re so terribly late – I hope you’ve eaten.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Claire. ‘I’ve eaten, so have the boys. They’re both asleep.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ He was putting his swimming bag down in the corner, carefully out of the way. An orderly approach to things, like Frances; not like her. ‘Where are the others?’ He straightened up again.

  ‘They’ve gone for a walk.’ She stood in the middle of the broad and open room which not two hours ago had felt as though it were going to explode with the sound of weeping and shouting and children’s footsteps, running away. She felt as though she were going to explode.

  ‘Is Frances all right?’ he asked.

  She wanted to say to him: No, she isn’t, and neither am I. I am not quite myself today. She wanted to say to him: What is the matter with Jessica? She couldn’t say anything, standing in the middle of the room with a man she knew she was a little afraid of, whom she didn’t begin to understand, didn’t know how to talk to, had never known how to talk to. Except in the ordinary run of things it was a very long time since she’d talked to any man except Robert, and where was Robert? Who cared for the ordinary run of things?

  ‘Claire? Has something happened?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said coldly. ‘You tell me. What is the matter with Jessica?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘She’s been crying –’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because –’

  ‘What have you done to her?’

  ‘I – nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Claire. Please. Please don’t think –’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. About anything. Why was she crying?’

  ‘Because,’ he said slowly, ‘because, as they say, I was blind.’

  And so was I, she thought, seeing, like holiday snaps in an album, Jess and Oliver swimming together, playing endless games of chess together, talking, laughing, seeking each other out, rowing away down the river together, round past the island of fallen branches, and out of sight. What have I been thinking of, all this time? I’ve been thinking of Frances. I’ve been thinking of Tom. What about my own child?

  They stood stock-still in the middle of the room in silence.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I thought of her as a daughterly companion, and she … I’m afraid I have hurt her. But not in the way you might think. Claire? I do assure you. I give you my word.’

  They looked at each other: two people with little, when it came down to it, to say to each other at all. Except now. Except over this.

  ‘I give you my word,’ he said again. ‘You must believe me. For her sake as much as anyone’s. Please.’

  ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘I believe you. I had to ask.’ ‘Of course.’

  Noises came from the side of the house: the kitchen door opening, footsteps, Robert and Frances, talking – />
  ‘I except they’re all resting,’ said Frances.

  ‘Probably.’ Robert was opening the fridge. ‘Let’s have something to eat. I’m starving.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Oliver, hearing them. ‘I’ll go and join them, if I may. Can I get you anything? Or did you say you had eaten?’

  ‘I said I had eaten. I don’t want anything, thank you.’

  Plates and glasses were clattering in the kitchen; she turned towards Jessica’s room as he left her, and knocked at the door.

  ‘Jess?’

  No answer.

  ‘Jess?’ She turned the handle and went inside. The shutters were closed, and Jessica lay on the bed, on her tummy, her head buried in the pillows.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Claire asked. ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘No, go away.’ Her voice was thick. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Claire went, closing the door behind her. Voices came from the kitchen, polite but friendly. She waited to see if Robert would come to look for her, but he didn’t, and she climbed the stairs again, slowly slowly, walking across the brilliant sunny landing, stopping to fold up the ironing-board in case, God forbid, Tom should go sleepwalking again and bang into it. She walked along to the bedroom, bending to straighten the rucked-up rag runner, and she thought: I have been thinking of Frances and Tom. What about Jessica? What about me?

  ‘Frances?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘Now?’

  She stood at the door of the dining-room with the trayful of things from their lunch, about to follow Robert, who had gone to the kitchen to make them all coffee. She nodded down at the blue and white plates piled up, the half-finished bowl of salad.

  ‘I’ll just –’

  ‘Leave it. Please.’

  She came back, and put the tray on the sideboard. The shutters were half open, and a fly buzzed between them and the window-pane; outside, a ripe peach fell to the ground with a thump. Frances pulled out her chair and sat down, taking her cigarettes out of her pocket. The seersucker tablecloth was covered in crumbs; Oliver ran a fork up and down, up and down, over the bubbles of check.

  ‘Claire?’

  He closed the door behind him, and pulled off his shoes. The shutters were closed and the bedroom was shadowy and warm. Sunbeams fell here and there on the scatter of Tshirts and summer shoes, on the chaos on top of the chest of drawers, on the paperback books and on Claire, who did not answer.

  ‘You asleep?’

  She was turned away from him, her face, turned to the shuttered balcony window, hidden by thick dark hair. He went across to the low double bed and lay down behind her, kissing her neck through the hair.

  ‘Sure you’re asleep?’

  He could feel her smiling. No, no he couldn’t.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Doesn’t feel quite like nothing.’ He propped himself up, and leaned over, looking down into her face, eyes closed, suntanned, faintly lined. Quite a few lines. ‘Mmm?’

  Her eyes stayed shut. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Sitting in silence in the dining-room, with coffee I made for them, quietly tiptoeing out again.’

  She smiled.

  ‘That’s better. Look at me.’

  She looked. He rolled her towards him, on to her back. His hand moved under her black and white skirt; he touched her, in just the right place. She began to cry.

  ‘Not more tears, surely. Surely there’ve been enough tears for one day.’

  ‘It’s my turn.’

  ‘Yes. What is it, then? Why are you crying, my own true darling?’

  She held him and held him; his shirt was soaked.

  ‘If anything happened to us, I’d die –’

  ‘Sssh,’ he said, rocking her, holding her close. ‘Nothing’s going to happen.’

  Across the landing the door was opened; one of the boys came out.

  ‘I love you, I love you –’

  ‘I know,’ he said simply. ‘I love you, too. We are built upon a rock.’

  ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She sipped at her coffee, blacker than black, much too strong. What had Robert done to it? She tapped ash into a saucer; old china, green and white, English, brought out by the owners of the house, probably with a cup, once. The sort of thing Dora might like. Who were they, these owners? She pictured a woman out on the terrace in the early morning, drinking her coffee, watching the mist clear, watching the village wake up. She pictured Dora doing these things, standing by the parapet with her back to the doors as Frances came out of them, hearing a cock crow, starting the day.

  Not love, but obsession … You are on the brink of madness …

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing. No, sorry. That isn’t true.’

  ‘I know it’s not true. Look at me. Look at me!’

  She looked. ‘Please don’t be angry.’

  Footsteps, the bathroom door closing.

  ‘I’m trying,’ he said. ‘I really am trying.’

  ‘I know. I know you are. It’s my fault.’

  ‘Well, then. Talk to me. Please.’

  She put down the cigarette; it burned and burned. Dora, in long grey skirt, turned from the parapet, holding her coffee cup, calmly regarding her, smiling.

  Frances said slowly: ‘I cannot relinquish a dream.’

  ‘What?’

  Water flowed in the bathroom; the door was opened; more footsteps.

  Do you really want what you think you want?

  Does anyone?

  ‘One day I’ll try to. Not yet. I can’t.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  At the very least she deserves honesty …

  I shall tell her, I shall tell her –

  ‘Frances!’

  He deserves honesty, too. I can’t. I can’t.

  ‘Frances!’

  The door swung open.

  ‘Mum?’

  In unison they turned on him.

  ‘Just a minute –’

  ‘Please! Not now!’

  He fled.

  Early evening, a little cooler.

  ‘Jessie?’ Claire knocked on the door. No answer. ‘May I come in?’ No answer.

  She turned the handle and looked inside. Just before dusk, the sitting-room, with its tall casement windows and doors wide open, was filled with shadows, but there was still light enough to see by. In here, with the dense green bushes and creeper outside, the room was almost in darkness.

  ‘Jess? May I put the light on?’

  She was lying on her back with her eyes shut, wearing the Walkman; her fingers moved slowly up and down on the quilt. Claire went over and gently touched her. Jessica jumped, and frowned. Claire made gestures; she removed one side of the Walkman.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said may I put the light on?’

  ‘No.’

  Claire sat down on the edge of the bed, hearing Frank Sinatra through the headphones. Her tape. Never mind. She took Jess’s hand.

  ‘Please turn it down. Or off. Just for a minute.’

  Jessica looked at her, and then away.

  ‘Please.’ Claire made to remove the headset herself; Jessica took it off, her beautiful hair trailing after it, clinging with static to the earpiece. Sinatra sang into the crumpled quilt; muffled strangers wondered what chance they had. Jessica switched them off.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just –’ Claire hesitated, wanting to get it right. ‘Just that I’m here, that’s all. And I’m sorry you’re sad.’

  Jessica looked at the window.

  ‘Do you want to talk to me? Mmm? I won’t tell a soul, I promise.’

  She shut her eyes, and tears rolled on to the pillow.

  ‘Poor little Jess. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy –’

  She cried and cried; Claire rocked her, holding her close.

  ‘It
hurts.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Not very much. Just that you … well, had a crush …’

  ‘A crush?’ Jessica raised her head in fury. ‘Is that what he called it?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think so, not exactly –’

  ‘Don’t you dare call it a crush!’ She was weeping all over again. ‘How can you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Claire, drawing her back into her arms, stroking wet hair off her face. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’

  And after all, she thought, as Jessica, at last, had no more tears left and got up to look for a hankie, what is the difference? Everyone talks of a crush when they mean you’ve built up something from nothing, idealised it, made someone something they’re not. Well. Perhaps she saw things in him none of us saw. It doesn’t mean they weren’t there.

  She got up and kissed her.

  ‘May I suggest,’ she said, ‘that you have a bath before supper? They do help, for some reason.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jessica had found a handkerchief in the top drawer; she blew her nose and switched on the light.

  ‘And when we get back to London I’ll buy you something nice.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  ‘Well.’ Claire opened the door. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  When she had gone, Jessica looked in the mirror, propped on the chest of drawers. Her eyes were sore with crying, her skin had patches of red all over it. Awful. She picked up her hairbrush from the midst of the little boxes and necklaces and sun tan creams, and brushed her hair, over and over; she put on her nightshirt, and bundled her hair through a sweatband, rolling it tight. Then she picked up her sponge bag and quietly opened the door.

  There was no one in the sitting-room, and no had one switched on the lamps; the last of the light came in through the windows and voices came in from the terrace. They were all out there, drinking and talking and eating crisps. Were they talking about her? Had everyone guessed? She went softly along to the bathroom and turned on the taps, she brushed her teeth and washed her face, and went out again, yawning, waiting for the bath to fill, and along to the sitting-room again. She stood in the half-light, listening to them all: they were talking about the weather. The weather!

  In the corner of the room where the books were, she could see the chess set where she had left it on the desk, all ready and waiting, all set up on the board. All those pieces, all those lovely games. She went over. For a moment she felt like sweeping the lot off, watching them fall and roll about on the floorboards, but she didn’t. She stood for a moment; she picked up the black queen, tapping it against her lips. Then she cleared everything off, but carefully, on to the desk; she turned the board over, so it was a box again, and she put in all the pieces, one by one: the brave little pawn, the swooping bishop, mighty castle and prancing knight, the lonely king, the omnipotent queen. She put every piece in the box, and then she closed it, fastening the catch at the side, hearing the bath fill, turning on the lamp.