Last Guests of the Season (25 page)

‘Come here,' she said to Robert, taking off her shoes.

He turned from the window above the terrace, and swung the shutters to.

‘What has got into you?' he said, as she lay down and held out her arms. ‘It must be the heat.' He came across to the bed, and sat down beside her, laying his hand on her stomach.

‘It isn't the heat,' she said, reaching up to him, hearing Oliver's heavy footsteps go past along the corridor, the door at the far end open and close. ‘It isn't the heat, it's you.'

Frances did not go upstairs with the others. She lay on the sitting-room sofa, with the long cotton curtains drawn, reading and thinking as Jessica slept in her room. In mid-afternoon, before anyone else was awake, she took her swimsuit and towel and walked down through the village and along the soft earth path beneath vines to the maize fields, where the heat was spread out like a blanket beneath the sky.

There was nobody down by the river: she swam and swam. The water was silken, yellow and green; it parted before her in a shining and gentle rise and fall, holding tree and rock and sky, broken, rippling, smooth again. She swam for perhaps half an hour, perhaps longer, and when she came out she felt calm.

It was cooler now. She walked along the paths of caked earth through the tall dry maize, crossing the little irrigation ditches, hearing water fall. She looked up to see a fine spray ahead of her, gleaming, pattering on to the papery leaves and the ground, and at the end of the row came upon an old sunburned man in a dark cloth cap and shirtsleeves, hosing his patch. He nodded to her; she murmured a good afternoon, although it was almost evening now, the sun beginning to sink towards the mountains.

In another place, she thought, walking on, in another country or even in England, I might be afraid to find myself alone in a stretch of field with a strange man, even an old one. Here, although the rows of maize made endless hiding places, she felt perfectly safe, the warm dry air all around her, no one to disturb her thoughts. And anyway, she was not alone; she was never alone: she was walking, as always, with Dora.

Frances left the field and returned along the soft earth path to the village, and the feeling of peace remained with her, until she reached the house again, and climbed the stone steps to the terrace, where Claire and Robert were sitting together on the swing-seat, reading, rocking slowly to and fro. She stopped, and the sight of such real and unquestioning companionship almost undid her.

They looked up and greeted her, and she smiled and said she had had a good swim, and asked about the children, who were up at the pool with Oliver. And then she went slowly into the house and leaned up against the first wall she came to, willing herself not to sink to the floor and weep.

That evening, they all ate early outside with the children, watching a tiny bat flit through the lemon trees as the light began to fade.

‘We saw a shooting star last year,' said Jessica suddenly.

‘So we did.' Robert was finishing a creamy vanilla pudding from the shop. He leaned back, scanning the sky. ‘Perhaps there'll be one tonight,' he said, but there wasn't.

It grew dark; the children had baths and were read to; the grown-ups went to their rooms one by one. And when Oliver had gone, taking his book and his glasses, and the house was quiet, Frances, who had busied herself in the kitchen, tidying away every last cup and plate, came back to the empty sitting-room, sat down at the generous desk in the corner with its parchment-shaded lamp, and wrote her letter.

More posters appeared in the village for the fiesta, and on Sunday morning Guida presented Robert with a roughly printed handbill, which he perused with the aid of the dictionary. There was, he told the others over breakfast, to be a procession, bearing the Virgin Mary and assorted saints, as well as stalls and a band, the arrival of whose sound equipment at three o'clock was billed as an attraction in itself. It was generally agreed that they could give this a miss, but at five that evening they locked up the house and set out, walking up the mountain road towards the next village, some half a mile away.

The heat of the day was fading, though it was still warm. They walked slowly, in single file, over dry heaps of pine needles at the edge of the road, grown-ups putting arms towards the children at the hectic approach of motor bikes and, less often, cars.

‘I'm
okay
,' said Jessica, irritably shaking off Robert. ‘Don't fuss.'

‘Don't be silly,' said Oliver, from behind. ‘We have to keep you safe.'

She flushed, and walked on, looking down, her face invisible behind a falling screen of hair.

‘Look!' said Jack. ‘They've done decorations in the trees.'

They looked up to see trailing loops of pink and white in the lower branches. ‘It's toilet paper!'

‘So it is,' said Claire. It grew thicker and more elaborate, although here and there single sheets clung roughly to twigs, or had fallen to the earth. They began to hear pop music, vastly amplified, and the boys began to jig.

‘Careful!' said Oliver, as Tom danced out from the verge, and as a car approached from the opposite direction, coming towards them, he grabbed his arm. ‘
Will
you keep in!'

They passed a small concrete chapel, set back in a clearing, and rounded a bend, and then the music faded and stopped. Ahead they saw a line of parked cars and vans, propped-up bikes, and a throng of people, pressing back on either side at the approach of a bright procession. Children in cotton frocks and embroidered waistcoats followed the priest at the head, carrying flowers, teenage girls had ribbons in their hair, and embarrassed-looking boys walked with decorated crooks and sticks. Behind them all swayed a gaudy litter, borne by small men in hats. The crowd began to sing, there was a percussion of bells.

‘Come on,' said Robert, ‘find places,' and they hurried towards the edge of the crowd, reaching for the boys'hands.

The procession drew closer, the singing of the hymn grew louder; from the litter, piled high with dozens of plastic flowers, a large and tinselled plaster doll in blue and white smiled with crimson lips and gazed at the air with blank brown eyes.

‘Who's that?' asked Tom.

‘The Virgin Mary,' said Oliver. ‘Our Lady, they say here.'

He frowned. ‘I thought she was in London. In church.'

‘She's supposed to be in heaven,' said Jack.

‘It's just a
model.
' Jessica was scathing.

‘It's just a model,' said Oliver, ‘but it means something to these people – you shouldn't mock.'

‘I wasn't …' Jessica's voice trailed away, and Claire, glancing at her from the other side, saw her eyes fill with tears. She put out a hand.

‘Jess … what is it?'

‘Nothing,' said Jessica angrily. ‘Nothing!'

‘Oh, dear.' Claire turned to Robert, then thought better of it: this was hardly the place. She saw one or two other English faces in the crowd across the road, people she had never seen down in their village, who must be renting somewhere up here: a tall fair man with a beard, a woman with cropped dark hair and glasses. Then the Virgin Mary drew alongside, and they were lost to view. Behind Mary were two more saintly plaster dolls, and she saw Tom bend down as they went past, picking up a fallen plastic flower and moving quickly to replace it on the litter in a gesture that surprised her – she'd have expected him to pull it apart and be reproached by his parents, but he looked awed and excited, clearly caught up in the atmosphere and the sonorous singing of the hymn.

Families moved to follow the retreating figures down the hill towards the chapel, and as they disappeared round the broad curve there was an agonising, amplified squeal from loudspeakers and they saw what had been mostly obscured before: a beer stall and then, set up next to a café, a raised platform, painted black and festooned with toilet paper. Three or four men in shirtsleeves were wielding electric guitars. There was another squeal and they all covered their ears, and with a violent twang the music began again, so loudly that they could not hear one another speak.

‘Wick-ed!' Tom, in wild responsive excitement, leaped out into the road and began to dance, his whole body moving, clumsily enraptured. Jack took Claire's hand.

‘He's gone mad.'

‘What?' She bent down, and he yelled it at her.

‘I said he's gone mad!'

‘Ssh,' she said, absurdly, and began to enjoy herself. People were moving out into the street in couples, dancing sedately; on the other side of the café a bar billiards table was almost invisible, surrounded by adolescent boys. Robert touched her arm.

‘Ice cream?' he mouthed. ‘Drink?'

‘Drink,' she mouthed back, and they began to move through the couples, beckoning to Jessica to follow them.

But Jessica was hovering, and seemed not to see them. She was standing near Oliver, who was looking at Frances. And Frances, it was apparent, was miles away. Claire tried to follow her gaze, to work out who or what she was watching, but gave up as Jack pulled at her hand. She followed Robert towards the packed café, leaving Tom whirling and leaping, Jessica, with exaggerated concentration, moving up and down on the spot, Oliver watching Frances and Frances lost in a dream, gazing across the street to where Dora, as if summoned here at last by an unposted letter, stood watching the dancers, smiling.

Of course, it was not Dora – but the hair, the glasses, that particular smile … That particular air, sufficient unto herself. Frances, whose heart had turned over when she first caught sight of this unknown woman, stood looking at her now, suffused with emotion, with longing.
Turn again
, she said to her silently, for there was something, too, of the way Dora moved in the way this woman moved, turning – yes, now – to the tall, fair-haired, bearded man beside her, saying something, taking his hand. They moved out on to the street with the other couples and began to dance, slowly, their arms around each other's waists, casually intimate.

Of course, it was not Dora. Frances, able to observe her more closely, saw that this woman was younger, her face not as fine; the glasses, which Dora wore only when she was working, were not ones she would have chosen. There was only one Dora, there was no one else to touch her. And yet to see someone here who so resembled her, who both was and was not her … Frances closed her eyes, searching for the real, the original. And Dora came towards her, greeted her with a smile.

‘Hello, Frances.'

‘
Dora
…'

‘Frances!' She was being shaken; she opened her eyes to see Oliver looking at her with bemused impatience. The music was deafening, vibrating through her; it had taken her over like a lover.

‘What?'

He mouthed at her, made gestures. ‘Do you want to dance?'

She shook her head, about to add, Later, in a little while. Oliver looked at her, his face darkening. ‘Please…' she said. ‘I was…' But he had left her, marching across the street, seizing Tom's hand as he passed, dragging him, astonished and afraid, towards the café. Frances, shaken, felt Dora also – the real Dora, not her likeness, who went on dancing – abandon her and disappear; she was left with Jessica, who looked distressed.

‘What's the matter?' she asked, struggling to regain a sense of herself as someone capable of looking after a child.

Jessica shook her head, not meeting her eyes, trying, clearly, to indicate that nothing was the matter at all.

With a sound like a nail being dragged across glass, the song came to an end; there was a burst of clapping and cheers, and the bandleader stepped forward, taking the microphone, which shrieked.

‘
Obrigado, obrigado
…' He began to talk rapidly, greeted with laughter and more applause.

‘Come on,' said Frances, taking Jessica in charge. ‘Let me buy you an ice or something.' They moved through the dancers, and she cast one last look at the woman who was not Dora, seeing, ahead in the queue, Oliver and Tom, next to each other in a silence that she could sense from here was grim; then the music began again, louder than ever.

‘Oliver …' She went up to him, trying to smile, to defuse. ‘You misunderstood –'

‘Did I? I don't think so.'

‘But you did. I was thinking about something else, that was all – you didn't give me a chance –' She could hear herself trying to absolve her own part, to make light of her abstraction, and he said coldly:

‘Please don't try to tell me what I did or didn't do,' and turned away from her.

Between them, Tom was clutching at himself.

‘Do you need a pee?' she asked him. He shook his head. ‘I think you do.' She took his hand.

‘I want an ice cream.'

‘You can have one when we get back. Come on.' She led him through the crowd, looking bleakly about her. Apart from the single café there seemed nowhere which might house a lavatory, and anyway, who cared? There were gaps between the houses, leading straight to the mountainside on earthen paths bordered by ferns. She ushered Tom through one of these and waited, trying to recover herself, while he peed into the ground; he finished, giving a shiver, and pulled up his shorts again.

‘Oliver's angry,' he said, as they made their way back.

‘Not with you.' The singer on the stage was wailing; the air throbbed. ‘Did you like the dancing?' she asked, and Tom nodded, but said no more as he walked beside her. They moved to rejoin the queue, seeing Claire, Jack and Robert, who had reached their goal and were out in the street again with ice creams and cans of beer, wave and beckon to them. Frances waved back in so far as she ever waved – and looked along the line leading into the café for Oliver, who wasn't there.

‘Can you see Oliver anywhere?' she asked Tom.

‘He's dancing.'

‘Dancing?' she repeated blankly, and then she saw him, with Jessica, on the far side of the bandstand near the beer stall. Jessica had her back to the café queue; she was swaying to the beat, her hair swishing across her shoulders, her hands at her side. Oliver, opposite her, was studiedly looking at the ground, a tall, beautiful man moving little, shifting on his feet.