Last Guests of the Season (33 page)

She saw herself as Dora, who knew only a reserved but competent and collected person, would see her now, and she knew that she would be shocked and shaken, that to reveal even a hint of the person she was tonight would be unthinkable; and knowing all this was as if she were standing on one side of a great and impassable divide, between what she had longed for and dreamed of and what was real.

She saw herself returning to London, climbing the stairs to the office, smiling, greeting, lying; trapped between what she felt and what she must not show. She felt the kitchen, with its faint but pervasive smell of gas, await her like a friend, once more offering oblivion, and standing there on the empty terrace with these thoughts the whole of her life seemed to rear up behind her, to hit her in the back: this end was what had always been waiting for her, it had always been only a matter of time.

Well, then. Do it, then.

The moon came out again; the breeze rustled the vines on the far side of the garden. There was another sound, behind her, and Frances, realising that she was not alone at all, perhaps had been followed all the time, and watched all the time, turned round with goose-flesh rising all over her to see Tom, his eyes like blank and staring stones, making his way across the moonlit tiles towards her.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty.' She never swore, but she swore now, half out of her skin with fright. Tom came nearer, walking slowly, somehow feeling his way; she crouched down so that she was at his height, and held out her arms. No, be careful, no, don't wake him, keep it steady and calm, holding him close might wake him, like last time, and frighten him to death. She was frightened to death, even though she had seen it before; it was different in London, in the flat, with everything familiar around them, and Oliver to call on, and work in the morning. And Dora in the morning. No.

He drew closer; carefully she put her hands on his shoulders to stop him, and he stopped.

They stayed there, and it felt as though those moments went on for ever: she searching his broad pale face, he, behind those hard blank eyes, miles away, locked away.

It was cold. Now it was really cold. Unbidden, scraps of a conversation held on a cold evening out here with the others came floating up now, like distant voices:

‘…
but I do believe in sin … Screwing up people's lives, I suppose … Do you love me … do I love you
…'

Dora, said Frances, feeling herself reach out for comfort, for human warmth, have I entered the territory of sin? Do you believe in such things?

Slowly she rose, her knees trembling, and slowly she turned Tom round, and took his hand. She led him back across the terrace, and carefully over the step; hand in hand they crossed the huge open space of the sitting-room floor, past Jessica's room and up the stairs to where the moon fell in brilliant silver squares on the landing. Hand in hand they moved over the rag runner along the creaking corridor and into the bedroom where Jack lay sleeping.

She picked Tom up, so heavy and still – how was it possible that he had not woken through such a journey? – and laid him down on the bed, pulling up the covers, tucking them in very tight. And then, shaking, she sank to the floor by the bed, leaning against it, her head between her knees.

After a while, she got up, terribly cold, colder than she had ever been in her life, and went all the way down again to close the terrace doors. She went to the kitchen and heated some milk on a flickering blue ring of gas, no longer thinking of death, or indeed of anything now except how to get warm. She climbed the stairs again with her milk, she climbed into bed beside Oliver and drank it, and then she lay down close to him, wrapped herself round him, her face pressing into his neck.

‘I'm cold,' she whispered. ‘Hold me, hold me.'

But Oliver had walked for twenty miles, and he did not hear her.

The church clock struck four times at who knew what hour. Frances thought: I have laid it all to rest. Tomorrow I shall be different; everything will be different.

Jessica sat on the swing-seat, shelling peas. The pods lay on a sheet of newspaper beside her, some of them green and fresh, some wrinkled and yellow and tired-looking. Claire had said not to worry, it was almost the end of the season and they were the best she could find in the market yesterday, only throw out the really duff ones. She didn't worry: why should she, what did a few peas matter? She had washed up breakfast and brushed her hair and she sat out here being helpful, feeling nervous and excited as she waited for him to come out and join her.

The cicadas down in the garden went on and on, it was lovely and warm. She swung to and fro, and her finger and thumb pressed on the sides of one of the fresh young pods and popped it open; she stripped the peas into the white china bowl on her lap: they made a satisfying little ping as they landed and rolled around on the bottom. She picked up another pod: pop, strip, ping, ping, ping. It was nice.

Clicking noises came up the steps; Tom stood watching her.

‘Can I do that?'

‘No. Sorry.'

‘Why not?'

Oh God.

‘Why not?' He came over, and stood beside her, breathing heavily, watching. ‘Please can I?'

Oh,
God.
‘Goon, then.'

He picked up one of the older pods, and squeezed it; nothing happened. ‘What do you do?'

She sighed, and showed him; he tried again.

‘Where's Jack?'

‘I don't know,' she said, watching him mangle the pod between his fingers and crush the peas. ‘Why don't you go and look for him?'

He shook his head.

‘Don't you want to find him?'

‘No.'

‘Why did you ask where he was, then?'

He didn't answer, and she stopped shelling the peas and looked at him. He had dark circles under his eyes, as if he never got enough sleep, and he was breathing as if he'd got a cold, and even trying to concentrate on the peas, trying to shell them properly, which he couldn't, he was restless and twitchy and moving about.

‘Tom?'

He didn't answer; he had that funny, far-away look in his eyes, and suddenly he dropped the pod he was making such a mess of, and just stood there.

‘Hey,' said Jessica. ‘You've dropped it, pick it up.'

But Tom didn't pick it up, he went on standing there with the funny grey look on his face, and then footsteps Game across the sitting-room floor. It was him, it was him! She jumped, and the peas in the china bowl fell from her lap and on to the tiles, all scattered everywhere, rolling about, squashed and flattened by Tom's great flat sandalled feet, treading all over them as he came back to normal – where had he been? – and went wandering vaguely off again, back down the steps to the garden. So that Oliver, coming out through the tall white doors, instead of finding her all grown-up and sensibly occupied, not at all showing him how nervous and excited she was, found her flushed and cross and flustered, down on her knees trying to pick up all the peas, the white china bowl beside her, miraculously unbroken, rolling noisily round and round on the orange tiles like a spinning top. And though of course he was kind, bending down to help her, setting the bowl to rights, she couldn't possibly tell him
now.

Frances woke to an empty room. The shutters were still closed,

but the windows were open: it was warm, but not as it felt up here in the afternoons, heavy and still. It was fresh and airy, and she lay beneath the covers listening to the start of the day, to people calling to each other down in the village street, to the gate of the threshing barn swinging open, sackfuls of maize being dragged across the yard and up the steps, and after a little while the steady thud thud as the long dry stalks were beaten.

Every now and then sounds of activity drifted up through the house itself: Jack running indoors calling for Claire, and running out again; footsteps crossing the sitting-room floor; taps turned on and the pipes banging; Robert's voice, mildly exasperated, as he searched for the foot pump. She could smell coffee; she turned to look at her watch on the table beside her. Half-past nine.

Half-past nine, and everyone up and about, getting on with things. I could lie here for ever, she thought, but she knew that she must not, that on holiday with other people you must do your bit, and that she, on a holiday which was almost over, had done far too little. She pushed back the bedclothes and sat on the edge of the bed, shocked by how utterly drained she felt: as if she had been ill and were trying to go back to work too soon. And then, as she stood up, thinking: Today is going to be different, the events of the night, kept at bay by these pleasurably ordinary domestic noises, came flooding back with such power that she sank down and pulled up the covers again, and turned her face to the pillow.

Footsteps along the corridor, heavy and flat; funny noises, a knock at the door. She did not answer, her face pressed down, down, willing him to go away. The handle was turned and the door was opened, cautiously.

‘Frances? Mum?'

Not now – please, not now. Later I'll come down, later I'll be all the things I should be.

‘Mum?'

‘What?'

‘What are you doing?'

‘Resting.'

Silence, a shifting of feet.

‘When are you coming downstairs?'

‘Soon. I've got a bit of a headache.'

He came closer, breathing heavily.

‘Why've you got a headache?'

‘Tom,' she said, hating herself, ‘please go away. Please. I'll be down in just a little while.'

Silence. More breathing.

I should be taking him in my arms. I should be bringing him into bed with me, reading to him, talking about the day ahead. Or I should be up and about, playing, doing things with him, making him happy. Instead I cannot even bear to look at his face: it's too much. Just at the moment it's too much.

‘Please,' she said again. ‘Go on.'

And he went, trailing off, she could feel he was trailing, leaving the door wide open.

‘Close the
door!'
she snapped, and he came back and closed it, walking slowly away.

They left her a note to say they'd be back for lunch; they put it under a stone on the marble table, and they all went down to the river, taking the dinghy. Claire and Jack walked holding hands, swinging their arms up and down and laughing at elephant jokes; Robert and Tom made a detour to look at the pig, and Jessica carried the dinghy with Oliver, he in front and she behind, keeping in step with him, watching him, willing him to stop and say he was tired after yesterday, and perhaps they should have a rest and a talk, just the two of them.

‘Oliver?'

‘Mmm?'

‘My arms are aching.' Well, they were.

‘Dear, dear. Must be all that pea-shelling.' He slowed down, and turned to look over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow, and she laughed.

‘What's so funny?'

‘You.'

‘I'm funny?'

‘Yes.' It was just like before, they were happy and easy together, it was
lovely.
And the others were almost out of the way, Robert and Tom well behind them, safe with the smelly pig, Claire and Jack striding ahead, going along the nice soft path beneath the vines. There. She would tell him there. She'd wait until those two were well into the maize field, and then she and Oliver would stand in that lovely romantic place, and … And Robert and Tom might catch them up and interrupt and ruin it all. Out on the river. That was much better, no chance of anyone catching them up, or seeing, they'd be out of reach of all of them.

‘Come on,' he was saying, turning round again, following Claire. The dinghy bumped against her side and the nylon rope in her hand was beginning to rub; she changed hands for a moment, and wiped all the sweat off on her shorts, and he had to stop to let her do that, and waited, raising an eyebrow again, and he looked so wonderful she almost told him then, almost blurted it out, feeling the words well up inside her, but she wouldn't, she wouldn't, she'd wait like a grown-up, until the right moment had come.

‘He's a funny old thing,' said Robert, getting to his feet. He brushed dirt and a few bits of straw from his knees, which hurt after being down there on the step. ‘Okay, then? Shall we go?' It was much too hot already, especially after yesterday, spent in the car and the town, and his head was swimming a bit from standing up too quickly. He wanted to get to the river: he'd missed it, and now there were only two or three days left to enjoy it, with much of day three, no doubt, spent packing and loading the car. ‘Come on, Tom.'

Tom didn't answer, still crouched on the step, still peering. Robert was about to start laying down the law when he saw Guida, coming out of the house with a basket, on her way round to the shop.

‘Bom dia!'

‘Bom dia
, Guida.
Como estás?'

‘Bem, obrigado. Eo senhor?'

‘Hot,' he said, gesturing at the sky, wiping his forehead. He imitated a wilting plant, and she laughed. Nice girl, easy to talk to. Well, not talk to exactly, but get along with. And they stood there, getting along in the sunshine, while Tom, shifting along on the worn stone step, sent messages in to the pig.

‘I've got a lid in my head,' he told it, speaking in animal language. ‘Have you got a lid?'

Did pigs have lids? Did other animals? He knew that people did – well, they must do, mustn't they, otherwise he wouldn't have one, would he, and he was a person. But animals. He wasn't sure. Did they have the same kind of feelings? Did they sort of come and go?

The pale wet nose was moving along the gap, the two dark holes in it opening and closing. All those bristles. Yes, it had a lid, the pig was saying, in animal language, pig language. What was it like? Well, it was a great big pink thing, bony but pink, and when it lifted, which it did very slowly, inside you could see … Ugh. Ugh. He didn't want to go on with this, animal lids were even worse, it was making him feel sick. And he got to his feet, and even just doing that made him feel funny.