Last Guests of the Season (28 page)

Still, he was safe down here, all shut away, like the pig. That made a funny noise, too, grunting and snorting in the dark. Twang, bang; not quite so loud now. Good. Now – where was the house?

He found the passage, and the cupboard. He stepped inside and drew the house towards him. Dust had settled since the last time and he blew it softly away, surprising himself – he hadn't known he could be so quiet. Then he opened the front, and the lid in his head opened too, but not much, and he forgot about it, anyway, looking through all the rooms again. It was clever, making something like this, he wished he was good at making things. Perhaps he could make some people to live here, and some furniture or something. It was sad seeing such a beautiful place all empty.

Tom bent down, and looked on the shelf below. There was the box of chisels and screwdrivers, and the nice little saw, and there was a box of left-over bits of wood. He looked through them, sorting out sizes. A big piece, a medium-size piece, and a little piece. He held them all in his hand.

Now then, what about furniture? A thick square shape for a table, that was easy. He put down the family: they lay there as if they were dead. He put the table in the middle of the great big room, and found some little round bits for chairs, and arranged them nicely. They'd need some food, but he could bring that down later, pieces of bread and stuff. Of course, he didn't have to feed them, not if he didn't want to. He could do anything he liked with them, starve them to death if he wanted. Now then, where were they going to sleep?

He picked them up again, and walked them up the stairs, one by one. Tap tap tap of wood on wood. Tap tap tap along the corridor. Where should they go?

Above him floorboards were creaking, and he could hear footsteps, then voices. ‘Tom? Tom! Now where's he got to?' He went absolutely still and invisible. You could do anything you wanted if you were invisible, take all the food off people's plates or kill someone, and no one would ever know who it was. The footsteps went away, and the voices went quieter. Good.

Now, then. Three bedrooms. Three people in the family, so they could, have one each. He walked them in, one by one, and laid each of them down. How did that look? Lonely and sad. Put them all together, but that wasn't right, families didn't ever all sleep together. Put them as they were now, then: the little piece in one room, and the big piece and the medium-size piece in another, and why didn't that feel right? He picked up the big piece, and began to feel afraid. How could you be afraid of a bit of wood, a stick, almost? Things like this, dead things, hadn't got power, had they?

‘Tom!' That was Frances. He wanted to call out, to tell her where he was, but he didn't want anyone to know he was here, not even her. So he waited until she had gone away, guessing she was outside now, and then he put down the big piece of wood, just left it on the landing, not with anyone, and shut up the house at the front and went out of the cupboard, shutting that up, too. Click, click, click. Doors and lids on everything.

And across the cellar, panting with fear as he passed the shape, because that was real, he couldn't make that be nothing, it was too big, and then up the stairs to the door, flicking the light off, going out quietly, as if he'd just been to the toilet or something.

Somehow they got through the day.

Guida came: that helped. She arrived soon after Tom reappeared, saying he'd been outside with the hens. No one believed him, but no one had the energy for questions, and anyway, what did it matter? He was here. And here was Guida, visibly hungover but full of smiles, shrugging about the power cut, indicating it had happened before, bringing luridly coloured little cards for the children.

‘Nossa Senhora,'
she said, presenting them. ‘From the fiesta.'

They stared at swirling bright blue robes, uplifted faces, crimson hearts in a sunburst of bleeding rays.

‘
Obrigada
, Guida.'

They took them away.

‘What do we do with them?' asked Jack, out on the terrace.

‘Go and put them somewhere,' said Claire feebly. ‘Where's Frances?'

No one knew.

‘Are they stickers?' Jack turned them over. ‘They've got glue on.' He licked, cautiously. ‘Ugh.'

‘I shouldn't,' said Robert, watching. ‘It's probably made of Third World chemicals and will kill you. Go on, put it down. Now then, who's for a swim?'

They ran to fetch their things from the line, leaving the cards to curl in the sun.

Claire said to Robert, ‘I'm sorry I was foul last night.'

‘You weren't foul. Anyway, let's forget it now.'

She gave him a look, as last night. ‘Robert – you can't always just skate over everything, you know.'

He looked back at her. ‘That's enough. Stop telling me how to behave.'

‘But –'

‘For now. Please.'

She took a breath. ‘All right. Let's deal with today, then. Do you think we should try and go somewhere? On an outing, or something.'

‘Where?'

‘Well …' She cast about. ‘We could go to the cathedral …' She tailed off, seeing his face.

‘A carload of over-emotional people in the heat. Tom throwing up. Jessica sulking. Oliver and Frances –'

‘No. You're right. Not today.'

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘Keep it simple. For Christ's sake keep it simple. Let them unwind. Let us all unwind.'

‘Where's Oliver?' asked Jessica, returning, her towel round her shoulders.

‘Gone for a walk.' Claire stretched out her hand. ‘We're going to have a quiet day, after – well, after the fiesta, and everything.'

‘Okay.' She sounded indifferent.

‘Right.' Robert got to his feet as the boys appeared. ‘See you all up at the pool.'

‘Where're you going?' asked Jack.

‘I'm going to see a man about a dog.'

‘What?' He turned to Claire. ‘What's he talking about?'

‘It's just an expression.' Claire looked at Robert. ‘Where
are
you going?'

‘Just checking,' he said. ‘Go on, off you go.'

‘Stop bossing
me
about,' she said; but they went, down the steps to the garden, freckled with sunlight, where the hens, let out by Guida on her arrival, were wandering hopefully, scratching the earth. Robert stood watching as Claire and Jack, Tom trailing behind, slowly crossed to the other flight of steps, climbing to the upper path to the pool. Glimpses of bare shoulder moved along the vines, voices grew fainter; after a few moments he heard the first splash. He went back into the house.

Guida had washed up the breakfast things and was sweeping the sitting-room. The coarse yellow broom went back and forth, crossing enormous slabs of sun from the open doors, moving into the shadows; dust and sand and breadcumbs lay in soft heaps on the boards. She looked up at Robert and smiled; they both began to laugh.

‘Good dancing,' she said.

‘Very good.'

The door to the dining-room was half open; he could see Frances, sitting at the table, smoking. A Dutch interior, he thought, remembering a print in the hall of his mother's house in Maidenhead. Give or take a cigarette, give or take a mood. The little servant girl in a broad cool room, a woman glimpsed deeper, through a further door, tranquil, alone. But this woman wasn't tranquil.

He knocked on the door. Guida, behind him, moved out on to the terrace and began to sweep there. Swish swish swish in the sun over the tiles.

‘Frances?'

‘Yes?' She looked up, elbows on the check cotton tablecloth, coffee and cigarettes beside her. This early in the day the shutters were open, and the window, too, at the top; smoke rose into the air and went drifting out through the gap.

‘How are you?'

‘All right.' She looked away again, sitting more still than any painting.

‘Do you want to talk?'

‘No.' There was a pause, then she began to smoke again.

‘Where's Tom?'

‘Up at the pool with the others. With Claire.'

‘Okay.' Another pause. ‘Oliver?'

‘Oliver isn't back yet,' he said. ‘Well … See you later.'

‘See you,' said Frances, and did not move.

Tom who had returned, and was listening by the coat-stand, heard Robert coming towards the door again. He went quickly out to the terrace.

Jessica sat on the edge of the pool, watching the mountain road. The bullock cart creaked past, carrying pine logs; a bike went up and a van came down, and apart from that there was no traffic at all. It grew hotter; Claire went indoors for drinks, telling her to watch the boys; she came out again with a tray and called them all down to the table on the path beneath the vines for lemonade with ice in it, but Jessica stayed where she was, with her sunhat on.

And at last she saw him, coming out of the gap between the bushes a bit further down the road, where there was a path leading up to the mountain. That was where the hungry stray dog had come from, chasing after the old woman the afternoon soon after they'd arrived. They'd had the whole pool to themselves then, the whole afternoon.

He was walking up the road towards her: she waved and called. He looked at her, and she knew he could see her, but he didn't wave back, he just came on, with his lovely walk. She waved again, and this time he moved his hand, but that wasn't a wave, it was more as if he was flicking something away. She swallowed. Surely he couldn't mean to wave like that, surely he couldn't. She didn't know what to do; her hand dropped to the hot surface of the poolside and she sat picking at loose crumbs of concrete, her feet in the water, the sun beating down upon her legs.

He drew nearer, coming on towards her, still on the other side of the road, the shady side.

‘Hello.' She turned her face towards him, trying to smile as she usually smiled, but it felt stiff, and her stomach was full of butterflies.

‘Hello,' he replied, as if he was talking to a stranger, just someone he happened to pass. He walked on, along to the upper gate, pushing it open. She heard him come down the first flight of steps, past the water tank, and then stop, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next, and then he must have seen her mother and the boys; she could hear his footsteps along the path between the vines, and she willed him to come on, to nod curtly to the others and come to her, the one he was looking for, but he didn't, he stopped at the table. She heard him pull out a chair and sit down; she could hear the boring rise and fall of adult voices, his and her mother's, who surely had nothing to say to him, and she wanted to get up and go there, just to be with him, but she wouldn't, she wouldn't, she'd wait and see.

Somehow they got through the day.

Guida stayed: that helped. She swept and dusted, and washed the kitchen floor and cleaned the cooker; she piled up books and papers, put clothes to soak in the water tank and went home for lunch, leaving the house looking fresh and cared for. The families had their lunch in the dining-room, with the shutters closed. No one talked much, but everyone made an effort, solicitously passing bread and cheese and wine, making sure the children had what they wanted, rallying when Robert suggested memory games.

‘I went on holiday and packed my bag, and in my bag I put …'

‘A toothbrush,' said Claire.

‘A toothbrush and a pair of pyjamas,' said Robert.

‘A toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas and a chess set,' said Jessica, looking at Oliver.

‘A toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas, a chess set and a book,' said Oliver, slicing more bread.

‘A toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas, a chess set, a … a book? A book, and a bucket and spade,' said Jack.

‘Frances?'

‘What?'

‘Your turn.'

‘Sorry. I went on holiday and packed my bag, and in my bag I put … a toothbrush, a pair of pyjamas, a chess set, a bucket and spade – no, a book, and a bucket and spade, and a letter.'

‘A letter,' said Robert, wondering.

She picked up her cigarettes.

‘Tom?'

‘What?'

‘What did you pack in your bag?' asked Claire.

‘What bag?'

Afterwards, clearing away, Jessica said to Oliver: ‘Will you play chess with me later?'

‘I'll see,' said Oliver, and her heart lifted: he hadn't said no, he'd said he'd see. She carried the tray to the kitchen and started the washing-up, to save Guida, because she thought it was the kind of thing he'd approve of. The door was open; afternoon sun fell on to the freshly washed floor, the bubbles in the sink shone in the light. She put clean plates in the wooden rack, feeling like her mother, trying to feel like herself. Had Oliver seen her, helping? Where had he gone?

Guida returned, and climbed the stairs to the landing. She set up the ironing-board and plugged in the iron; the house was filled with the smell of clean clothes being pressed, with the hiss and cloudy puffs of steam. Everyone went to rest, in an atmosphere which felt calmer, soothed: Claire and Robert in their room, the boys in theirs, Frances in hers, where she lay on top of the freshly made bed and went through her letter, line by line. Jessica, down in her own room, did not close the shutters, because the creeper at the window made the room shady and dark already. She lay watching the shadows of the leaves on the wall, listening to her tape, wondering how long she could leave it before she went out to the terrace, where Oliver was on the swing-seat, looking at maps, rocking, lying stretched out. She had set up the chessboard on the desk in the corner of the sitting-room because that was a cool place, near the tall window, away from everyone, so they could concentrate. Every piece was in its right place, all ready to play.

I'll send you all my dreams, every day in a le-etter
…

She yawned. Perhaps, when the holiday was over, they would write to each other. Perhaps it was easier to write things than say them.
Dear Oliver
… What should she say?