Last Guests of the Season (19 page)

‘So what sort of things did you do last year?' he asked her.

‘Oh, I don't know. Swam and mucked about, I can't remember. The dinghy was the best, it's really nice.'

‘Can your row?'

‘Of course.'

‘Perhaps you can take me out in it later, then.'

‘All right.'

They were out on the road.

She nodded down towards a letter-box in a wall, a metal icecream sign on a stand. ‘That's it. Do you want to get your stamps?'

‘First I want to buy you an ice-cream,' said Oliver. The bullock cart, piled high with timber, swayed towards them, the animals yoked by a leather harness stained with sweat. Their eyes were gentle and dark and enormous; their mouths foamed.

He touched Jessica lightly on the shoulder. ‘Lead on.' Inside the little post office, hung about with pots and pans and toys, a doorway on the left led straight into a tiny café-bar: a jukebox, three spindle-legged tables, a dozen cheap chairs and a counter. More chairs and tables stood outside, beneath an awning of vines. Using his phrase book Oliver purchased his stamps from a diminutive woman in a print overall and spectacles. He flicked through the book for ice cream, but Jessica knew it already.
‘Gelado,'
she said to the little woman, who smilingly lifted the counter and led them through the doorway to the café. They bought cylinders of strawberry and vanilla wrapped in paper.

‘We used to have ices a little like this when I was a child,' he told Jessica as they came out into the sun.

‘Was that before the Flood?' she asked innocently, licking round the top of hers.

He looked at her, and laughed. ‘What a nerve.' A car was coming up the road behind them: he shepherded her on to the verge. ‘Now. To the river. Yes?'

‘Yes,' she said, peeling away a little of the paper at the edge. The bullock cart was out of sight; they turned down the cobbled street, retracing their steps with less effort, though the sun had risen high.

‘Your father was saying it rained quite a bit last year.'

‘Yes,' she said again, ‘but it was okay. We played lots of games.'

‘But not chess.'

‘No.' They walked on. ‘Actually,' she said, as they came to the fork in the road again, ‘this year's better than last.'

‘Is it really?' He turned to her, surprised. ‘Why's that?'

She looked down at her ice cream.

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘It just is.'

‘Here you are,' said Claire, looking up from her book. ‘I was beginning to wonder. God, you look hot.'

‘It's
boiling
,' said Jessica. ‘Where's the dinghy?'

‘Dad's taken the boys out – don't look so cross, I'm sure they'll be back soon. Come and have a drink.' She unscrewed the Thermos. ‘Oliver?'

‘Please.' He lowered himself on to the sand. ‘Where's Frances?'

‘Still swimming – she went on past the island. She's good, isn't she?'

He nodded, taking the cup. ‘Stronger than I am.' He drank thirstily, brushing an insect off his bare arm. ‘That's better. I think I'll have a swim while we're waiting. Jessica has kindly offered to take me out in the dinghy.'

‘Have you, Jess?'

‘Unless,' he added quickly, ‘you and Robert –'

‘No, no, you go ahead, there's plenty of time.' But how interesting, she thought, pouring Jess more squash, that she should be the one to get through to Oliver, so formal, so withdrawn. So dangerous, she thought suddenly, recalling his explosion at Tom in the blinding heat of the maize fields, on their first walk down here – and then she dismissed it. Everyone had been a little on edge then, their first full day together, Tom overtired and overwrought, and everyone, after all, shouted at their children sometimes.

‘I'll swim, too.' Jess was pulling her shirt off over her head to reveal the shiny green swimsuit. She shook out her hair, in a gesture long habitual, but which was, Claire realised, beginning to look different: she was not just older, but more self-aware.

Beside her, Oliver, too, had peeled off to his swimming trunks; he and Jessica were treading the warm sand down to the water's edge. And here was Frances, returning, swimming across from the hayfield on the far side towards them.

Oliver raised his hand in greeting. ‘I've got your cigarettes. And stamps.'

‘Well done.' Frances came into the shallows; she stood up, dripping, panting a little from the exertion. ‘Are the others still out in the dinghy? They must have gone for miles.'

‘So must you,' said Claire.

Frances wiped the water from her face. ‘I feel much better.' She came out, smiling at Oliver and Jessica. ‘You two look hot. I like that swimsuit.'

‘Thanks.' Jessica moved past, wrapping her arms round herself as the chill of the water rose around her knees.

‘We saw a kingfisher!' A cry came from the bend downriver, and there was the dinghy, with Robert rowing much more slowly now, and the boys shouting and waving.

‘You didn't.'

‘We
did
– it was brilliant!'

Claire stood up to greet them, ready to help pull the dinghy ashore, but Oliver and Jess were already plunging in, swimming towards it.

‘Our turn!' called Jess. ‘Our turn now.'

Robert rested the oars and let the dinghy drift, blue and yellow reflections dancing brokenly at their approach. Claire and Frances stood next to each other, watching.

‘I've changed my mind,' Frances said quietly.

Claire turned to look at her. ‘What?'

‘I mean I want to talk. I think. If you don't mind. I don't mean now, I mean sometime.'

‘Of course. Yes, of course. Whenever.' Claire turned back to the river, shading her eyes. Robert was laughing, trying to fend off Jessica, scrambling in, no mean feat from the water. ‘You'll have us over!'

‘Good,' said Jessica, laughing too.

‘Careful!' called Claire. ‘Don't be silly, Jess, let them come ashore.'

But the boys were loving it. ‘We're being attacked! Pirates – abandon ship!'

Oliver held on to the rocking side. They heard him say, ‘Come on, Tom, out you get,' and Frances said suddenly:

‘He can't swim that far. It's too deep for him there.'

Claire cupped her hands. ‘Robert!' she shouted. ‘Robert! Stop mucking about – bring it ashore!'

She was too late. With four people lurching about inside and a big man pulling at it, the dinghy reared up, slow but unstoppable, tipping everyone into the water with a splash that seemed to go on for ever.

For a moment Frances and Claire just stood there, unable to move. Then, as they raced down over the sand, they saw that no one was trapped beneath it, that they all had hold of it, and that everyone was laughing still, Tom clinging on to Robert's shoulders and Jack shrieking with excitement: ‘Wicked! Wicked! Do it again!'

By evening the village, after the long hot afternoon, was cool again, coming to life. Carrying the dinghy, carrying bags and baskets, the two families, minus Claire, who had gone on ahead, made their way out of the maize fields. They walked along the soft earth path beneath the vines and up through the cobbled streets again, greeting familiar faces.

‘Bo tar'.'

‘Bo tar'.'
The women in their flowery overalls, the toothless old men in shirtsleeves, nodded as they passed, leaning on sticks, tearing off bits of bread as they ate out on balconies, amongst the geraniums.

‘There's Guida,' said Robert, suddenly recognising, in a group of young people ahead, the girl in jeans and broderie anglaise blouse. She was wearing lipstick, something he didn't remember noticing before, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail.

‘Bo tar'
, Guida,' they chorused, as they drew near, and Guida nodded, turning from her conversation with a boy with slicked-back hair, flickering a smile at Robert and turning back again, clearly not wishing to prolong the encounter.

‘Seems funny, seeing her here,' said Jack.

‘Yes.' Robert eased the weight of the paddles on to the other arm and promised himself a long drink out on the terrace when they got home. Claire was up there already, doing something about supper; they had picnicked down by the river today, no one inclined to make the trek up to the house in the heat, everyone in a good mood, relaxing, falling asleep beneath the trees at select points along the river-bank. Even the boys had slept, something he'd thought impossible out of doors. But now, despite the rest, he was tired from too much fresh air, beginning to yawn.

They were approaching the intersection with the threshing barn high on their right, where the children were playing out in the yard, and the street to their left, running downhill again, curving round to the shop. Crisps, Robert thought idly; lunch felt a long time ago, and they'd need something to go with the drink. Crisps, as usual, were disappearing out of the cupboard by the sackful. He stopped, and turned to the others.

‘I'm just nipping down to the shop. Anyone want anything?'

‘Crisps,' said Jack. He had one end of the dinghy, and Tom the other. They looked sunburned and tousled, as if they'd sleep well tonight.

‘Apart from crisps.'

‘What else is there?' said Tom. ‘Can I come with you?'

‘Sure.' He glanced at Oliver and Frances, walking with Jess between them. They looked contained, well-matched, the kind of well-educated family of three you might see walking through an art gallery, at ease, talking companionably. A daughter did suit them, it was true.

‘Help Jack with the dinghy then,' he said to Jess. ‘Go on, it's only two steps up the hill, it won't kill you. Right, Tom, off we go.'

The evening sunshine mellowed the cobbles; they walked hand in hand down the hill, past dogs waking up, scratching themselves, past toddlers with pushcarts, bumping up and down. There was a sudden, extraordinary noise by their feet.

‘Hey!' said Tom, laughing. ‘What was
that?
'

They stopped, seeing what looked like a stable door set in the wall beneath the house beside them. Grunts and snuffles came from behind it.

‘It's a pig!'

‘Well, well. I'd forgotten about him.'

They approached the door, seeing, at the base, a gap of some several inches above the step; Tom crouched down, peering. Beside him, Robert saw a moist pink snout, and bristles. The grunting grew louder and more encouraging.

‘It's pitch
dark
in there.' Tom pressed his face to the gap.

‘Careful.'

‘Why?'

‘He might bite.' Did pigs bite?

‘He's sweet. Can we give him something?'

‘Well …'

‘Just an apple or something.'

‘Perhaps. On the way back.'

The shop was quite full, doing a brisk trade in tinned vegetables and washing-powder. As last year, Robert noted that he was the only English person there. They might flock down to the Algarve, but here, praise be, they had not discovered. The shopkeeper made broken pleasantries of recognition; they shook hands. Robert bought enormous red bags of crisps and, for the pig, a bag of wrinkled yellow apples no bigger than eggs. They walked back up the street through lengthening shadows.

‘Here we are!' Tom called, as they approached the stable door and the grunting began again. He knelt on the step and pushed through an apple: it disappeared in a flurry of snorts. ‘Another one? Here you are.'

‘Not too many, he might get tummy-ache.' Robert nodded to one or two passers-by, who smiled indulgently at the English boy, and yawned again.

‘Come on, Tom,' he said. ‘We'll see him again another day.'

Tom got up reluctantly. ‘Do you think he's always lived in there?' he asked, as they climbed the hill.

‘Probably. I think he belongs to Guida's uncle. I seem to remember something about pigs from last year.' Ahead, through the fruit trees, Robert could see Oliver and Frances out on the terrace; he could hear the clink of bottle and glass. Thank God. They reached the big gates and walked past the car just inside, through the garden.

‘Hello.' Frances, changed into a summery green skirt, her hair freshly washed, was leaning over the parapet, cool and relaxed.

‘Mum! Frances! There's a pig! We found a pig!' Tom broke away from Robert and dashed across to the steps, racing up towards her, completely happy.

Dusk fell; the children were sent to bed. Frances, after supper, sat in the library corner of the sitting-room, deep in an armchair, deep in a book. So much swimming had left her susceptible to the sudden chill of the evening. The others were still out on the terrace, where they had lit a candle, but she, coming indoors for a sweater, had felt cold even with it on, and stopped to browse along the shelves.

Letters and journals and biographies: for old times' sake, she pulled out Quentin Bell on Virginia Woolf, dipping here and there into a prose as clear, direct and intimate as if he were addressing her alone, as if he had known her for years. Well, she and Virginia had known each other quite well in Bristol, they'd spent hours together in the library. She turned the pages, she sat down. She came upon a relationship she hadn't known about at all then, concentrating as she had – as you were supposed to in those days – upon the works. Frances began to read these particular pages, their speculations on the nature of a particular friendship.

Virginia was fond of Vita. She enjoyed her interest and admiration, she found what she could to admire in Vita's own writing, though ‘In brain and insight she is not as highly organised as I am.' The prospect of her coming to lunch was a great amusement and pleasure'. But more?

‘Her being “in love” (it must be comma'd thus) with me, excites and flatters and interests …' That was all? So it seemed, close as the two women became. ‘What is this “love”?' Virginia had demanded of her journal, marbled pen in febrile fingers racing across the page.