Last Guests of the Season (23 page)

He moved, unprotesting, his own back damp with sweat, and she put her head on a rolled-up towel and he put his head on her stomach, settling down.

‘I can hear your lunch,' he said, with interest.

‘Sssh.'

And he was quiet, his dark head rising and falling as her stomach rose and fell, soon asleep, and she lay listening to the crickets all around them in the grass, and the buzz of bees, watching Oliver and Jessica clearing away the remains of the picnic, brushing off crumbs, stacking up the plastic cups. Jessica was being much more helpful than at home; perhaps she and Robert, in their easygoing muddle, had made her lazy, perhaps she needed someone like Oliver, who had and expected high standards, to help her grow up. He was organising Tom, now, to put all the leftovers in a bag.

‘Thank you,' she said sleepily.

Oliver smiled at her. ‘Not at all.' His face, which could look so sombre and withdrawn, was altered utterly by that smile: she thought so every time she saw it, remembering now the outing to the market, and the charm with which he had offered to do the shopping. She remembered, also, the moments of coldness or irritation which threatened to become fury – with Frances, with Tom.

Tom had done as he was asked, and was clumsily stuffing the bag of crusts and orange peel back in the picnic bag.

‘Well done.' Oliver shook out his towel, spread it out on the grass, and lay down, reaching for his book. Larkin again, Claire saw. Larkin had come and gone intermittently ever since their arrival, interspersed with books on Portugal borrowed from the house. Tom hovered, watching, making noises. Oliver looked at him. ‘Where's your book?'

‘What?'

‘Your book. Have you brought it?'

‘Dunno.'

Oliver gave a sigh.

‘Perhaps it's with mine,' said Jessica kindly, rummaging in Claire's cotton shoulder-bag, bought on a long ago childless holiday in Greece. ‘Mum? Did you pack our books?'

‘Possibly,' said Claire, who had gathered up a pile from the table as usual, just as they left the house.

But Tom's Enid Blyton was not with her Nina Bawden and Jessica's Judy Blume, not that he seemed to care. It's Oliver who wants to see him reading, thought Claire, watching all this; Tom himself looks in need of a rest. He stood beside Oliver looking down at him.

‘Can I do what Jack's doing?'

‘What's Jack doing?' Oliver looked up from his book and across to where Jack lay, his head on Claire's full stomach, fast asleep.

‘It's not so bad,' said Claire. ‘Quite nice, really.'

‘It depends,' said Oliver, ‘on the level of fidget.' He looked up at Tom. ‘Promise not to wriggle or fidget or twitch?'

Tom nodded.

‘Come on, then.'

And that, thought Claire, watching Tom drop down beside his father and carefully settle his rough thatched head on his stomach, must be the first time I've ever seen them in any kind of intimacy at all. It can't be, but I think it is. Well. The holiday must be doing some good to someone, then. And she yawned, as Jessica lay down too, on her front with her feet in the air, opening her book.

And what about Frances, Claire wondered, seeing her sitting beside her here this morning, smoking, talking at last.

She makes me complete … When I met him I thought he was God
…

No doubt a few disappointments there.

Tom was making noises.

‘Stop it,' said Oliver.

‘Sorry.'

Silence fell, pages were turned, the noises began again.

‘I said stop it. What's the matter with you?'

Tom rolled over.

‘Tom …'

‘Sorry.'

More noises, more wriggling about.

‘Oh, get off,' said Oliver. ‘Go on, please. I can't take it, not in this heat.'

Tom sat up, picking off stray bits of grass.

‘Find a place to settle.'

Jess turned another page, yawning.

‘Do you want to come here?' asked Claire.

Tom stood, hot and undecided. Then: ‘I'm going for a pee.'

‘Go on, then,' said Oliver. ‘Perhaps that's what's wrong with you. And then come back and rest.'

‘All right.'

He wandered away from them, out of the shade, into the dense heat of the meadow, taking the direction Robert had taken, through the long grass towards the bushes where the path began.

‘Don't get lost,' called Claire. ‘Come straight back.'

‘Don't worry,' said Oliver. ‘I'll keep an eye.'

And Claire, by now almost overcome with the effort of keeping awake, closed her eyes, thinking: well, of course he will, it's his child, after all.

Jessica looked at him. ‘Can I do what Jack's doing?' she said, mimicking.

‘What?' Oliver lowered his sunglasses, making her laugh.

‘Can I?'

‘No.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I say so. Get on with your book.'

‘Please.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘Oh, go on, don't be so stuffy.'

‘Jessica,' said Claire. ‘Stop pestering.'

‘I thought you were asleep.'

‘I am. Mothers sleep with their eyes open, didn't you know?'

Jessica made faces, and went back to her book.

Claire looked towards Oliver, for a brief adult exchange of glances, but he was already reading again, and she sank back on to the towel. Tom was out of sight, the air was full of the sounds of crickets, bees, birdsong down by the river. Where was Frances, who had gone down there such a long time ago? Was Oliver so used to her wandering off that he no longer noticed?

I want him, I want Dora, I want the moon
…

She wants a good smack bottom, she could hear her father say in his comfortable Derbyshire tones, and she smiled to herself and fell asleep, just as Robert, halfway along the shady path beneath the village, came upon Frances, walking towards him, weeping.

‘Hey …'

She stopped, rigid with embarrassment.

‘What is it?' he asked her. ‘What's happened?'

‘Nothing. Nothing.' A cloud of midges danced in the sun in front of her; she waved them away. ‘I was just coming back.'

‘Yes, so I see. And I've come back for the dinghy …' He smiled at her, feeling she needed a smile. ‘I'm sorry to have disturbed you.'

‘You haven't.' She was looking away from him, wiping her eyes.

‘Women weep on me all the time for some reason,' he said, keeping it light. ‘At the office, I mean. You can tell me if you want.'

But she didn't smile back, and moved to pass him. ‘It's nothing,' she said. ‘I was just thinking, that's all … I expect it's the heat.'

‘Yes. Yes, it's very hot, isn't it?' He drew to the side, pressing into the thick hedge and tall lush weeds, to let her pass. ‘Frances –' he said, on impulse, and touched her arm. ‘I'm not going to interfere. But I'm here if you need me, okay?'

‘Thank you,' she said, but she did not meet his eyes. They walked past each other and away, in opposite directions, and neither of them saw Tom, who, looking for Robert, had taken a detour through some bushes alongside the broad, straw-littered path which led to this one, and then heard voices, and stopped, seeing his mother in tears and Jack's father touch her, as if he were her husband or something.

Frances found a tissue in the pocket of her shorts and blew her nose; she lit a cigarette and walked on, the cool damp ditch on one side, the luxuriant growth of hedge and weed on the other. Above her, the village was silent, sleeping; she came to the turning, the ruined house and the sweet-smelling piles of straw beneath the vines and, sitting on the low wall in the cobbled square, Dora turned towards her, smiling in welcome.

‘No,' said Frances aloud, and started to cry again. The path was yellow with sun and straw, her footsteps slowed in the heat. She came to the bushes, the opening into the meadow, the stillness of the long grass and the quivering butterflies, pale blue, pale brown, creamy yellow; she saw ahead the clump of trees, and everyone flat out beneath them, though from here, through her tears and in the dazzling brightness, she couldn't tell which child lay on Claire's lap, nor see Jessica's head on Oliver's chest, her glorious hair spread out like a faery queen as she slept contentedly upon him.

After that, he didn't feel like following Robert any more, and he waited until he was out of sight and then came out of the bushes, stepping over the wicked dark ditch and squatting down beside it, looking for creatures. Water-boatmen darted, midges hovered round his head. He tried, over and over, to catch a boatman, but they were too quick; he lifted the weeds hanging down at the side of the ditch and peered beneath, to see if there were any more frogs or anything, but there weren't. He lay down on his stomach, reaching across, raising the dangling weed on the other side; he imagined a particular creature waiting in there, a bit like a chameleon, or a watery lizard, something with legs, anyway, hunched and still, green within the murky green of the ditch's edge, with a bright yellow eye and enormous black pupil, watching him. And as he imagined it, the lid in his head unhinged itself, swinging up and open, and for a moment, once again, he wasn't there at all, it was as if his brain had done a kind of blink. Then he came back, and the lid closed up again, fitting nicely.

Tom got to his feet, and went wandering along the path. He found a stick and swished at the tall weeds, breaking tops off, breaking stems. The air was full of midges, but everything else was still; he walked past gardens and houses all quiet, with the shutters closed. He rounded the corner of the last garden wall, finding himself at the foot of the long flight of steps they had come down this morning. He stood looking at it, winding up and away in the shade above him, like the beanstalk that led to the giant's castle in the clouds, and the lid in his head went click, just once.

Long-legged insects in the grass crawled over the bare limbs of those at rest beneath the trees, leaving little hot pinpricks, like a rash. Jessica, feeling something ticklish make its way over her face, stirred, brushed it away, and woke; she lay for a moment or two and sat up, scratching her legs. Beside her, Oliver was still asleep, as she was almost sure he had been when she crept alongside and put her head on his chest. A few feet away Claire and Jack were beginning to waken; beyond them, she could see Frances, coming across the meadow. She was wearing her sunglasses, walking slowly. Jessica waved.

‘Hello.' Frances moved into the shade and stood looking down at them all. ‘Where's Tom?'

‘Didn't you see him?' said Claire, moving Jack off her, lifting her shirt up and down to cool her skin. ‘He just went off to have a pee.'

‘Where?'

‘Well … over there in the bushes, I think. He can't have been far behind Robert – he's gone back to the house for the dinghy.'

‘Yes, I know. We met on the path.' Frances spoke distantly, as if to someone with whom she had only recently become acquainted and with whom she had no intention of spending longer than she had to. ‘Well … how strange. I wonder where he's got to.'

Oliver, hearing their voices, woke, and stretched. He rubbed his forehead, sitting up, taking in Frances's arrival with a nod.

‘We're wondering where Tom is,' she said.

He frowned.

‘Claire says he went for a pee – he hasn't come back.'

‘In that case,' said Oliver, ‘I imagine he's looking for you. What have you been doing?'

‘Walking.' Frances addressed him, too, as if she barely knew him. ‘I left Tom with you.'

You didn't, actually, leave him with anyone, thought Claire. You just left him. ‘Well,' she said soothingly, ‘perhaps he's with Robert, do you think? Let's hang on for a few minutes until he gets back. Would you like a drink?'

‘No, thanks.' Frances stood looking across to where the bushes grew and the path began. ‘I suppose he's all right,' she said uncertainly. ‘Perhaps I should go and –'

‘Please don't go and do anything,' said Oliver. ‘He's probably with Robert and if he isn't I don't want to have to look for you too. For God's sake stay in one place for a minute.'

Frances flushed, and felt for her cigarettes.

‘Perhaps he's been kidnapped,' said Jack.

‘Oh, do stop saying that.' Claire was scanning the meadow.

‘I don't keep saying it.'

‘I wish Dad would hurry up.' Jessica, hot and prickly, pushed back her hair. ‘It's boiling.'

‘Why don't you go and have another dip while we're waiting?'

She shook her head. ‘I just want to go out in the dinghy.'

‘Well you might not be able to.' Claire was suddenly impatient. ‘We might have to look for Tom. And please take that sulky expression off your face.'

Jessica turned away, and a silence it felt quite impossible to break with a light remark fell on the group and stayed there.

‘There he is!' said Jack. ‘There's Dad!'

And they all looked across in relief to where Robert, the dinghy carried by a nylon rope in one hand, the paddles slung over his shoulder with the other, had emerged from the bushes and was walking towards them.

‘Is Tom with you?' called Claire, getting to her feet.

‘No.' He sounded puzzled. ‘He was with you lot when I left.'

‘Oh, God.' Claire stood beside Frances, waiting for him. ‘We'd better go and have a search,' she said. ‘I don't want Robert wandering about in this heat any more.'

‘No. No, of course not. But there's no reason why you –' Frances broke off, and turned to Oliver. ‘Will you come and help me look?'

‘No,' said Oliver. ‘I've been in charge of him all morning. I'm pretty sure he's hiding quite close, and I'm sure it's you he wants to find him, don't you think? He's been fidgeting about ever since you disappeared.' His tone was casual, his words not entirely unreasonable, but Claire, shading her eyes as Robert came up to them all, felt chilled.