Foreigners (2 page)

“I do,” he said, struggling now to keep up his tone. “And I want to know what you think you're playing at?”

She did not reply, just dropped her head again into her hands.

He stood at the stove and heated a tin of beef stew, stirring it more than was necessary. She sat at the table behind him, hands wrapped tightly around her mug of tea, her face tipped forward into the rising steam. Every so often he moved to the sideboard on the pretense of arranging the crockery or cutting brea or setting out the salt and pepper so that he might steal another look at her. She still wore her dark blue anorak, wet with rain and dripping on the floor. Below that, black jeans and scruffy white trainers. She was, he decided, in her mid- to late thirties, possibly
even forty, but surely no older. Her hair was short, thick and dark; black almost as Duchess's coat, with no hint of grey. He thought it likely dyed, being that it was a shade or two darker than her eyebrows. Her skin contrasted sharply: pale; not alabaster, but ashen. Except for beneath her eyes, where it deepened almost to purple. At first he'd considered this a result of the smudged mascara, but the colour remained even after she'd dried her eyes. Then he recognized it to be the bruising of exhaustion. Pippa's complexion had taken on a similar aspect in her final months, when she began to fear sleep.

He finished buttering two thick slices of bakery bread and set them on a plate. Then he turned off the gas ring and removed the pot from the stove-top. As he portioned the stew into bowls, he made certain that the extra ladle went into his own. He placed a bowl before her, and she mumbled a thank you but did not look up from the table. She appeared wary of him, of his generosity, though he could see no good reason why. If anyone should be uncomfortable, he felt it should be himself. He was the one who had taken a stranger, a peeper, quite possibly a person bent on criminal intent, into his home. Who was to say she did not have a partner lurking about outside, awaiting the signal to burst through the door and batter him senseless? Though he had to admit, the likelihood seemed remote. To look at her, she seemed more apt to do harm to herself than to him.

“It's all right, is it?” he asked, sitting opposite her as she greedily spooned the stew into her mouth.

She glanced up quickly, somewhat embarrassed as she raised a hand to her lips to stifle a small belch.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, averting her eyes again. “I'm sorry. My manners. It's just that I'm so very hungry. I've not eaten since the day before yesterday.”

“That's quite a while,” he said, carefully lifting a spoonful of stew and blowing on it before eating.

“I'd a cheese and pickle sandwich,” she offered. “From a machine at Derby Station.”

“Derby's a long way from here.”

“Yes,” she said and continued eating.

Her name was Marion. She was married. Her husband was in London, but of that she would say no more. She'd left two weeks before. A coach from Victoria Station had taken her to Torquay, where she'd stayed in a small seaside hotel until her money ran short. With her remaining pounds, she purchased a one-way rail ticket as far as Derby. After Derby, she walked. As for reasons, she did not offer any, and he did not press. One further piece of information did, however, come to light, though she remained unaware of it. He perceived it in her voice; it was not the words she spoke, but the manner in which they were spoken. There was a sharpness to her vowels that she could not quite hide. Her borrowed English inflections could not completely conceal her original accent. In her voice he recognized himself: that slow progression in his speech patterns that over time made his tongue all but indistinguishable from those he lived among. Only a keen ear could discern his foreignness any more, as his keen ear had discerned hers. But he said nothing to her of this, not wishing to establish a confidence.

When she finished eating, he gathered their bowls and rinsed them in the sink. Outside the skies had opened and heavy raindrops streaked the kitchen window. He began to consider how he might broach the subject of her leaving. Her presence unsettled him and he distrusted her story. That she'd so easily admitted to having no money made him suspicious. But when he turned back to the table he found that she'd fallen asleep, sitting upright in the chair. Her head drooped forward; she was snoring softly. He looked out the window again. Already the rain was forming into puddles on the drive.

He walked around the table and gently nudged her shoulder. She looked up at him in alarm.

“You seem rather worn out,” he said, trying not to sound too concerned. “If you'd like, you can rest here a while before carrying on your way.”

“That's very kind of you,” she said, smiling for the first time. “Only if it's not too much trouble.”

He led her upstairs to the guest room. It was the room in which Pippa's mother had stayed until he and Pippa moved her into the nursing home. At one time they'd imagined it would become a nursery.

“It might be a little musty,” he said. “You may want to open a window.”

“I'm sure it will be fine,” she replied. She closed the door behind her.

He spent that afternoon as he spent most afternoons. First it was a nature documentary on BBC2, followed by the
One O'Clock News.
An arts program on Radio Four filled the
silence while he fitted pieces into a jigsaw of Westminster Abbey; it was the third time he'd done the puzzle. If he managed to finish it before the end of the week he would allow himself to purchase a new one from the newsagent's in the village.

At half three he gathered up the loose tiles and returned them to the box. After which he sat himself in his armchair beside the window in the lounge to read. But when he picked up the book from the side table, he discovered that he'd neglected to mark the page, and try as he might, he could not find where he'd left off the previous afternoon. So he set the novel aside and gazed out the window.

He saw the smudge on the pane: the greasy stain left behind when she pressed her nose and forehead to the glass. He looked toward the ceiling. Not a sound had come from upstairs since she'd closed the door on him. She'd been so quiet that he had half forgotten he was not alone in the house. He found the thought of this disconcerting.

She must be made to leave, he decided, and the sooner the better. He realized, however, that it was now more than simply a question of turning her out, though in all honesty he knew that he had already done far more than was to be expected. After some consideration, he resolved to give her thirty quid and pay for a taxi to take her to the village. If she liked, she could use the money for a bed and breakfast or to buy a coach ticket to Derby or London, or wherever it was she needed to get to. It made no difference to him, just as long as she was gone.

He left her to sleep while he arranged things. He found the number of a minicab company in the telephone directory and wrote it down on a pad of paper. Then, as a gesture of added
generosity, he retrieved two twenty-pound notes from the jar on the countertop and laid them on the table beside the telephone.

When the hour came that he usually sat down in front of the television to have his tea, he climbed the stairs to wake her. At the door to the bedroom he felt a flutter of nervousness and had to wait a moment before knocking. When no answer came, he tapped a little louder. Still receiving no reply, he turned the handle and gently pushed open the door.

The first thing he noticed was that she had laid her clothes out over the floor. It was almost as if as she'd shed her wet layers as she made her way across the room. But the garments were not strewn haphazardly. Instead, they were neatly stretched out so as to avoid wrinkling as they dried. He was careful not to tread on anything as he walked over to the bed.

She stirred as he approached, rolling onto her side. As she did, the duvet fell away and revealed to him a naked breast. For a moment he was transfixed. The soft, pale flesh; the blue faintness of veins around the brown bruise of her nipple. She murmured something he could not understand; moaned softly.

Slowly he reached out and took hold of a corner of the duvet and covered her again. Then he turned and left the room.

He was disappointed to find her sitting at the kitchen table when he came downstairs the following morning. She'd made herself a cup of tea and was smoking a cigarette, the ashes of which she flicked into a saucer.

“I'm sorry,” she said, extinguishing the cigarette. “I couldn't find an ashtray.”

“I haven't any,” he replied, picking up the saucer and depositing her fag-ends in the bin before rinsing the plate clean. “Got rid of them years ago.”

“You gave up smoking, then,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

“I've never smoked.”

He turned and faced her. She looked different to him: healthier, less fraught. He felt strangely guilty for having been harsh.

“My wife did, though,” he added. “When she was still alive.”

“I see,” she said.

He wondered if she did. He'd not been trying to imply that cigarette smoking had caused Pippa's death; he'd simply said it for the sake of saying something. Although now he wondered why he had bothered. For the remark seemed to be having a wounding effect, and the slight trace of colour he'd seen in her cheeks a moment earlier drained away. An awkward silence descended. He thought now might be the time to bring up her leaving, but she spoke before he had the chance.

“It was awfully kind of you to take me in like that,” she said, trying to muster a smile again. “I can't believe I slept so long.”

“You must have been quite tired.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I was.” Her voice brightened and she sat forward in her chair. “I didn't know it myself, but I truly was. I think I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. I didn't move a muscle until I woke up this morning.”

He looked past her to the telephone table. The two twenty-pound notes and the paper with the number of the minicab company lay undisturbed.

“It's the fresh air,” he said. “It tires one out.”