The Beautiful Visit (8 page)

Elspeth regarded me a moment in silence. Then in a clear voice with a hint of scorn in it she said, ‘You’re really worrying about whether you’ll get married.
I
don’t know whether you will. It seems such a queer thing to worry about. But I’ve noticed that quite sensible girls do. Boys don’t. It just happens to them.’

‘I don’t think I am.’

‘Well then you’re worrying about whether people will like you. That’s silly too. You shouldn’t mind so much.
Deb
doesn’t.’

I was stung. ‘She does. She minds very much.’

Elspeth looked at me curiously.

‘
Does
she?’ she said softly, and jumped off the gate in silence. We picked up the branches and in a bewildered way I almost hated Elspeth. Why had she said that Deb
didn’t mind? Why was she so sure? Giving me her advice! Of course I had asked for it. She was only a child, much younger than I. She was in her own surroundings, that was all; she was at
ease, but where would she not be? In my limited experience I could think of nowhere. Of course she read books . . . Supposing that was important. No, Lucy didn’t read. She had said so. What
was it?

‘What’s the time?’ Elspeth broke in. ‘I wish
I
had a watch. It’s practically the only thing I want. I’ve asked for one for Christmas. Come on,
lunch.’ Her hands were covered with scratches and full of holly. ‘It
is
lovely, isn’t it?’ she said. She looked purely delighted.

‘Sorry I asked you such silly questions.’

‘That’s all right. I enjoy it really. They say I’m pompous, but I don’t care. It comes out of me like that.’

‘Do you always live here?’

‘Yes, at present. My mother is dead.’ She said it easily, looking at me, but her eyes suddenly went quite flat.

I didn’t say anything, and seconds later she turned her head a little towards me, gratefully, as though she were acknowledging my silence.

Walking along a track up a hill, we came upon a cottage. It was yellow, with a low untidy thatch, and it had two stunted elms beside it. A woman stood in the open door. She wore a vast
blue-flowered overall. Her hair was done in a hard bun at the back. She was holding a large baby with a grey face and pale curls and
he
was holding a painted horse by its tail, loosely, so
that the head swung against the woman.

‘Hello, Mrs Druid,’ said Elspeth. At this, three more children suddenly appeared from among the cabbages. They stared.

‘Good morning, Miss,’ said Mrs Druid.

‘We’ve been collecting holly.’

‘I see you ’ave.’

‘For the church.’

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Druid.

‘How’s George?’ said Elspeth. Mrs Druid shook the baby gloomily.

‘Better than he should be. He ’ad a ball of wool yesterday. Didn’t you, George?’

George became convulsed over her shoulder and the horse flapped wildly.

‘He eats things,’ said Elspeth regarding him with respect.

‘It was only a little ball. Last week he eat arf a page of Druid’s paper, didn’t you, George?’

George hung motionless like seaweed.

‘He ate a lot of soap once and she couldn’t wash any of them,’ said Elspeth to me. One of the children giggled and fell over a hen.

‘It didn’t upset him at
all
,’ said Elspeth with awe.

‘Can’t keep ’is dinner down though,’ said Mrs Druid unexpectedly. ‘Just picks at it. Still we can’t ’ave everything. Can we, George?’ She laughed
comfortably and pulled his legs down like the weights of a grandfather clock.

‘Oh well,’ said Elspeth. ‘I hope he’ll grow out of it.’

‘We’re getting used to it,’ said Mrs Druid, and she laughed again.

‘Well, good-bye,’ said Elspeth.

Mrs Druid banged George enthusiastically on the back by way of farewell and disappeared into her cottage. The three children ran like rabbits to the gate and watched us up the hill. They were
still there when we descended the other side, out of sight.

‘It’s always worth stopping to see her,’ said Elspeth.

‘Doesn’t he get frightfully ill?’

‘Good Lord, no. He’s not like other people at all. That’s why I always talk to her.’

When we got back, I found Toby squatting on the top landing, beside four balloons, tied to the banisters by long pieces of string. He could let them down to the ground floor and then haul them
up. He looked very pleased and secret and didn’t speak at all. Lucy called me. She was sitting in the day nursery, with her feet in a tub. Nanny was rubbing her arm with some stuff out of a
bottle.

‘I fell off twice,’ she said. She looked white but triumphant.

‘Goodness, did it hurt?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Of course it did. You should have had a good cry before you got on again. You’re not a boy you know.’

‘That doesn’t make the slightest difference, Nanny. Can I take my feet out?’

‘I don’t hold with your riding a pony with tricks like that. You might have broken a bone and then where would you have been, with the dance coming on and all?’

‘Nanny, never
mind
.’ Lucy was very near to tears. ‘You go on down,’ she said, and I went.

The vicarage children came at half-past three. They were very punctual and clean and pugnacious. There were two boys and a girl. They had ordered the game and they lost no time in organizing it.
They picked sides with various aggressive comments on our potential running powers. I had never played the game before. After ten minutes’ confusion I had a stitch in my side and had not
managed to collect either a handkerchief or Lucy, now quite cured of her falls, and prisoner.

The vicarage children charged and shouted and hurled insults and won the game. It was agreed that we should play something else, and while Gerald and the elder boy were deciding, the other two
children chased each other and fought, with panting fury, any of us who stood in their way.

Eventually, no other game determined, we reverted to French and English. This time, however, Gerald forced them to pick the sides evenly. It was quite an effort, although he was at least three
years older than the elder boy. Our tea bell rang, just as I had distinguished myself by a spectacular capture of Gerald, who yelled ‘Well done!’ as he roared back to his side. I felt
proud, and was just settling down to enjoy the game.

‘ ’Fraid we must go,’ said Gerald.

‘Mother said we could stay to tea as soon as we were asked,’ said the girl, eyeing Lucy firmly. Good heavens, I thought, they must be awful indoors. They were the sort of children
that one only visualized in the open. The training of generations rose to aid Lucy and she answered gallantly enough.

‘Well, of course, do come to tea.’ We all moved towards the house.

‘Although, you know,’ I heard Elspeth say to one of them, ‘we don’t really want you to tea in the least. Lucy was only being polite.’

Whether we wanted them mattered not at all, I realized. They all washed at once, turning on and off the taps with wet grey hands, leaving the soap with black cracks, and a high-water mark all
round the basin which Elspeth cleaned with the nail brush in silent indignation. Elspeth was a very particular child.

At tea they ate an enormous amount; the girl spilt her milk; and the boys had an argument. Lucy’s mother was admirable. After the opening courtesies, she took no further notice, and even
told one of them to leave a chocolate biscuit for his brother. When we left the table, the floor was thick with crumbs round their places.

‘Still, it was a nice rest for their poor mother,’ said our charitable hostess. She asked me whether I had written to my mother. ‘Don’t you think it would be a good
idea?’ she said. I felt myself blushing, and she showed me to a desk with pens and ink in silver stands, and pale grey paper with the address upon it in white.

‘Dearest Mother . . .’ What could I tell her? She had hoped I would have a good time. How far her hopes were excelled already! Strangely, my happiness made her further removed; it
was harder to write than I had thought possible.

‘I am arrived here quite safely. Everyone is very kind, and Mrs Lancing sends you her love. It is very cold. This morning I went picking holly for the church with a girl called Elspeth.
Last night we played games and this afternoon the vicarage children came to tea.’

I thought a bit and then added, ‘There is going to be a dance so I shall wear my frock, so thank you for buying it for me. I am having a lovely time. Your affectionate daughter.’

That night I had a very real and frightening dream. I was dancing in my pink frock, dancing quite safely with Elspeth. At the end of a passage stood Michael; much taller than he really was, with
his arms out like a tree. The nearer I danced to him the larger he was and the further away he seemed. Then I noticed Rupert whom I had never seen, on a hill. I was so frightened of Michael that I
picked up my skirts and ran cold and breathless nearer and nearer to Rupert, until I was quite up to him; and then I was in a wood, with no light to be seen, groping and stumbling in the dark, with
Michael’s laugh outside. I felt that the whole wood was Rupert, although I could not find him. The branches clung to me like arms and the leaves smothered me like a face, but I still called
desperately for Rupert, pushing him away in my struggle. I must move on, get somewhere, but I did not know where I was going. When I woke, my heart was pounding in the silent room, and perspiration
streamed down between my breasts. I lay stiff and still until the blackness of the window softened to a deep grey, bringing with it a faint sense of relief. I was freezing cold. I unplaited my
hair, pulled it round my shoulder for warmth, and slept.

Christmas began to make itself felt. There was a tremendous expedition to the nearest town for the purpose of buying presents. Lucy’s mother became the source of all secrets, all desires
and inventions were exposed to her, and she sat giving gentle practical advice, smiling at everything, laughing at no one, keeping all secrets equally well. I accompanied Deb on the expedition. She
spent nearly all her money on a watch chain for her Roland, and we packed and dispatched it together. That accomplished, she seemed to have no further interest in either her plans or mine; buying
all her presents with careless speed, and giving me perfunctory advice in my schemes. She did not play games like the rest of them, and I found her more difficult. Occasionally, she collected me
for some confidence or other, but she neither expected nor desired any return on my part.

Gerald tested the ice every day with growing confidence. I had one fateful riding lesson with Lucy and Parker. It was all right while the pony walked, but when it was clicked and encouraged to
trot, I bit my tongue and lost a stirrup. Nothing was said about the venture, but it was mutually agreed that one could not learn to ride in ten days unless one showed some aptitude.

We suffered several visits from the vicarage children whose names I found were inappropriately enough, Vivian, Cecil and Bunty. They were aggressive and awe inspiring. They wore heavy clasp
knives on leather belts round their waists, and always one of them was suffering from some frightful self-inflicted wound. They came through hedges, instead of over gates, and they usually entered
any building by the first floor. One of them was always stuck at the top of a tree, while the other two pelted him with chestnuts or stones, in a heartless endeavour to get him down at all costs.
They were permanently and terribly hungry; and they ate almost anything, from cow cake to frost-bitten blackberries. They ran everywhere, and only stayed in one place in order to fight. Their
favourite pastimes were frightening each other, and giving other people terrible shocks. I think they were curiously devoted, or at any rate dependent, one always needing the others to carry out
some complicated scheme. I cannot imagine how their poor parents existed under their rule. It must have been like living with a minor storm, on the brink of revolution, with a cloud of locusts.

Parcels kept arriving by post. There was mistletoe in the hall, under which Elspeth solemnly kissed me. Nanny ironed all our best clothes. Nobody was allowed into the library, which someone said
was piled to the ceiling with presents. Great curly chrysanthemums stood in the hall, yellow and white, and smaller bronze-red ones, rambling and ragged, all smelling sweetly burnt.

Three days before Christmas the ice bore. Gerald broke the news at breakfast, and immediately after we were wrapping up for skating. I had learned in that short time to like any new venture,
since new ventures were no longer initiated by me as a desperate resort against boredom and solitude. Gerald had brought a broom with which he carefully swept a large slice of the river, while we
sat on the banks surveying the green-grey ice. Lucy helped me put on a pair of skates. They seemed tight; although she assured me that that gave one support.

‘Now,’ she said. ‘Hold on to me and walk.’

I staggered down to the edge of the river. Lucy embarked and held out her hands. ‘You’ll soon get used to it.’ Kind Lucy! My gratitude made me brave. Of course I sat down
pretty hard in a moment, though the others skimmed about like butterflies. Seeing Deb coming across the grass, with some difficulty I got to my feet. Lucy took my arm and soon I was lurching along,
she urging me to take long steps, and supporting me when I lost my balance.

Learning to skate is much the same for everyone: it is enough to say that before the morning was over I was able to move up and down the river with quick uneven steps alternating with a drunken
roll, that I fell down with painful regularity, and that getting to my feet with nothing to help me presented its usual problems. My ankles ached badly, and it became sad to see the others racing
about, cutting figures and dancing together. I was encouraged by Deb’s very reserved enjoyment; she glided about for an hour with Gerald, then repaired to the house. I sat on the bank and
watched them all. Elspeth seemed intent on speed; she shot up and down the swept strip, her knees bent and her face thrust forward, so that I could almost see the air being cut away by her, like
the pictures of steamers with a white wave in front. Elinor was very little more advanced than I, or so it seemed. She painstakingly cut a figure of eight, over and over again. Lucy and Gerald were
the best; they leapt about and he showed her complicated steps and turns, they laughed a lot, and once they collided and stood holding each other’s elbows, when their laughter died, they
looked at each other, and rubbed noses to make it easy and usual again. Lucy’s mother came to watch with a bag of peppermints. She fed us like birds because our gloves were too thick to
manage for ourselves. ‘Don’t get cold,’ she said to me. She came back again later, bringing Toby, who skated like a duck in a hurry, quickly and easily from side to side. He said
he didn’t like it, but he stayed.