The Visitors (29 page)

‘Adeliza, you are going away soon, who knows for how long. You have told me how your father’s presence is a comfort to you, yet a sadness too, that he will never again be the man that he was. I admit, at first, I imagined a future where, when you return, you and I would walk in the hop fields and share his company. But I see clearly now, it would be wrong. To prolong his time further, to keep him from rest, to serve our own ends. And how I would await your return not only for the sight of you, but for news from him. That is wrong also. You should not be tethered to me or to this place, despite the warm remembrance of home which I hope will always glow in your heart. I want you to be free and your father too. We must say goodbye to him, Adeliza.’

We did it that day.

I love you, Father. You must go now, for ever. Goodbye.

Mother said, ‘Goodbye, Edwin.’

He turned and was gone, as they do. No more fears about yield and rain and the mould and the flea. The hops grew silently, alone again.

Mother asked me, ‘The five babies I carried before you, Liza. They died inside me. Are they … here? Do they speak to you?’

‘No, Mother. I have never heard them. I have thought about them many times. I can only think that our souls do not live fully until they cross over into this world.’

‘That comforts me. Perhaps they are there, though, but silent. In a place before words, where they cannot speak to you.’ She looked down to her belly and placed her hand there.

‘I think I would sense them, as I did before I could see. But I can place my hand on yours, here, like this, and ask them to go, to be at peace. Would you like me to do that, Mother?’

She nodded and we closed our eyes, said our own prayers for those five bright little souls and bid them farewell.

I left with Lottie days after. Mother wished me happiness in my travels.

She signed, ‘I hope you find what you seek.’

This has played over and again in my mind. What do I seek? It is human to travel, to explore, to be a visitor in strange lands. The world is there to be discovered, we are all visitors on this earth, to walk here for a time, make our mark on it – like my fingertips skimming across Father’s globe – and then to move on. But adventure can turn hollow, as Caleb escaped his life to seek adventure in Africa, but saw only the inhumanity of war and discovered instead his home. After the adventure is done, we look back for home, or find a home, or make a home. Is that not what we all look for? The oyster clinging to cultch, the couple rebuilding a farmhouse, the Visitors pacing again and again the day of their death. We carry it with us, this notion of home, a necessary comfort. I look forward to my life, to the green fields and red deserts of knowledge and this new twentieth century that sprawls before us.

For now, Lottie is my home. Perhaps she will find a new home here in America, perhaps I will. Or it awaits me where it always has, bounded by herb-filled walls and the yeast scent of drying hops. We all seek home in the end.

This book is a work of fiction. However, there are elements of the novel which are based on true events, such as the educational experiences of the deaf-blind from the C19th to the present day; late Victorian hop and oyster farming techniques in Kent; and the Second Anglo-Boer War.

Throughout I have endeavoured to remain faithful to dates of real happenings, such as Boer War battles, for example. Yet certain events have been shifted slightly to fit the narrative. The Whitstable ice sheet actually happened in 1895, not later in time as Liza’s narration suggests. Also, the film Liza watches at the Cinematograph – ‘A Sneaky Boer’ – was made in 1901, and so would not have been seen as early as Liza saw it. I hope the reader will forgive these chronological anomalies, in the spirit of forming a coherent flow within my story.

An invaluable part of the research for this book came from the charity for the deaf-blind, Sense. They provide wonderful support for deaf-blind adults and children throughout the UK. If you would like to make a contribution to the vital work this charity carries out, please choose from the following avenues:

• through the Sense website:
  www.sense.org.uk/content/make-donation
  
• by phone to their Supporter Services Helpline: 0845 127 0067
  
• by post to
  Supporter Services
  Sense
  101 Pentonville Road
  London
  N1 9LG
  Donations made payable to: Sense
  

When making your donation, please quote reference CBK12.

Thank you.

Thank you to:

Simon Porter, for being my benefactor, for knowing it would happen, for putting up with my writer’s moods and for everything, forever.

Poppy Mariska Porter-Mascull, for letting me read through drafts in peace while she was eating her tea, for knowing that The Visitors were ghosts and for writing her own brilliant stories.

My agent Jane Conway-Gordon, for getting to the heart of things and for loving both Daniel and Adeliza.

My editor at Hodder and Stoughton, Suzie Dooré, for saying yes, being such a good laugh and a sensitive yet meticulous editor. And to Francine Toon and Rosie Gailer at Hodder for their friendly and helpful ways.

My lovely mum Liz Beeson and the oracle Russell Beeson, for tireless editing, love and conviction.

My brothers – Jonny, Robert and David Chadwick – and my Aunties and Cousins, for whooping and being proud. And to Emily, Alex and Sonny for reading and discussing my work.

Marie and Kevin Porter: to Nana for reading first drafts and all the hot dinners, to Grandad for school runs and being Leo the Lion.

Lynn Downing, for reading so quickly and enthusiastically, with a mother’s eye on little Liza, and listening to me drone on. (Love to Abbie and Isobel.)

Kathy Kendall, Theresa Roberts and Ella White, for consuming everything I’ve ever sent them and the long hours on the telephone.

Francine Koubel, for years of support and our discussions of the novel over Italian meals in London.

Dorothy Judd – an exquisite writer herself – for her grace and goodwill.

Ann Schlee and Daphne Glazer, for expert writing tuition and encouragement.

Kerry Drewery, for being my loyal writing friend and fellow pianist.

Alexis Hepworth, for defending Daniel.

Sarah-Jane Potts and Sue White, for believing in me.

The Media Studies team at AQA – particularly Kim Doyle – for all the fun and my first opportunity in publishing.

Dr Chris Sutcliffe, for giving me his blessing to leave school teaching and write.

Roger Huggett, Carol Dawson and Tracey Smith, for the gift of the violin.

Debbie Cowie, for responding to novelist hairdo emergencies with flair.

Pauline Lancaster and her family, for being brave.

Alison Parry, for showing clemency and not burning me as a witch.

David Landick the parcel man, who delivered my first novel and always asks.

Rose Kimmings, Assessment and Advice Officer; Ginny Matthew, Senior Children and Family Support Worker; and Emma Blanchard-Moore, Multi-Sensory Impairment Consultant, from the charity Sense, for their valuable time and relating their experiences of working with deaf-blind people.

Bernard Chang, FRCOphth, FRCSEd, Honorary Secretary of The Royal College of Ophthalmologists UK, for his expertise regarding all aspects of Liza’s eye condition, operation and recovery. Also to his once colleague Jackie Trevena, who looked up eye diseases for me during one very helpful phone call.

Prof. Denis Judd, Professor of British Imperial and Commonwealth History, New York University in London; and Dr Keith Surridge, teacher of British History for American programmes in London; for their kind assistance with diverse aspects of the Boer War.

Paul McKinnell from Spa Valley Railway for his knowledge of Edenbridge Town Station and the late Victorian rail network.

Staff at the Imperial War Museum Research Room, for their help in finding obscure Boer War diaries, letters and documents.

James, the lad on the bus from Filton College, Bristol who taught me how it feels to be deaf.

My Great-Great-Great Grandfather James Golding born 1810, who farmed on hop land and the real Adeliza Golding born 1868, my Great-Great-Aunt, who died so young and haunted me.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Alison Bonnington, who listened to the story of my first novel over a long lunch in Oxford then frog-marched me to the computer room to start writing it. Thank you, Alison.