Last Guests of the Season (38 page)

‘Jess?'

No answer.

‘Jess?' She turned the handle and went inside. The shutters were closed, and Jessica lay on the bed, on her tummy, her head buried in the pillows.

‘Are you all right?' Claire asked. ‘Do you want to talk?'

‘No, go away.' Her voice was thick. ‘Leave me alone.'

Claire went, closing the door behind her. Voices came from the kitchen, polite but friendly. She waited to see if Robert would come to look for her, but he didn't, and she climbed the stairs again, slowly slowly, walking across the brilliant sunny landing, stopping to fold up the ironing-board in case, God forbid, Tom should go sleepwalking again and bang into it. She walked along to the bedroom, bending to straighten the rucked-up rag runner, and she thought: I have been thinking of Frances and Tom. What about Jessica? What about me?

‘Frances?' ‘Yes.'

‘Come and sit down.'

‘In a minute.'

‘Now?'

She stood at the door of the dining-room with the trayful of things from their lunch, about to follow Robert, who had gone to the kitchen to make them all coffee. She nodded down at the blue and white plates piled up, the half-finished bowl of salad.

‘I'll just –'

‘Leave it. Please.'

She came back, and put the tray on the sideboard. The shutters were half open, and a fly buzzed between them and the window-pane; outside, a ripe peach fell to the ground with a thump. Frances pulled out her chair and sat down, taking her cigarettes out of her pocket. The seersucker tablecloth was covered in crumbs; Oliver ran a fork up and down, up and down, over the bubbles of check.

‘Claire?'

He closed the door behind him, and pulled off his shoes. The shutters were closed and the bedroom was shadowy and warm. Sunbeams fell here and there on the scatter of T-shirts and summer shoes, on the chaos on top of the chest of drawers, on the paperback books and on Claire, who did not answer.

‘You asleep?'

She was turned away from him, her face, turned to the shuttered balcony window, hidden by thick dark hair. He went across to the low double bed and lay down behind her, kissing her neck through the hair.

‘Sure you're asleep?'

He could feel her smiling. No, no he couldn't.

‘What's up?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Doesn't feel quite like nothing.' He propped himself up, and leaned over, looking down into her face, eyes closed, suntanned, faintly lined. Quite a few lines. ‘Mmm?'

Her eyes stayed shut. ‘Where are the others?'

‘Sitting in silence in the dining-room, with coffee I made for them, quietly tiptoeing out again.'

She smiled.

‘That's better. Look at me.'

She looked. He rolled her towards him, on to her back. His hand moved under her black and white skirt; he touched her, in just the right place. She began to cry.

‘Not more tears, surely. Surely there've been enough tears for one day.'

‘It's my turn.'

‘Yes. What is it, then? Why are you crying, my own true darling?'

She held him and held him; his shirt was soaked.

‘If anything happened to us, I'd die –'

‘Sssh,' he said, rocking her, holding her close. ‘Nothing's going to happen.'

Across the landing the door was opened; one of the boys came out.

‘I love you, I love you –'

‘I know,' he said simply. ‘I love you, too. We are built upon a rock.'

‘What are we to do?'

‘I don't know.' She sipped at her coffee, blacker than black, much too strong. What had Robert done to it? She tapped ash into a saucer; old china, green and white, English, brought out by the owners of the house, probably with a cup, once. The sort of thing Dora might like. Who were they, these owners? She pictured a woman out on the terrace in the early morning, drinking her coffee, watching the mist clear, watching the village wake up. She pictured Dora doing these things, standing by the parapet with her back to the doors as Frances came out of them, hearing a cock crow, starting the day.

Not love, but obsession … You are on the brink of madness
…

‘What are you
thinking
about?'

‘Nothing. No, sorry. That isn't true.'

‘I know it's not true. Look at me. Look at me!'

She looked. ‘Please don't be angry.'

Footsteps, the bathroom door closing.

‘I'm trying,' he said. ‘I really am trying.'

‘I know. I know you are. It's my fault.'

‘Well, then. Talk to me. Please.'

She put down the cigarette; it burned and burned. Dora, in long grey skirt, turned from the parapet, holding her coffee cup, calmly regarding her, smiling.

Frances said slowly: ‘I cannot relinquish a dream.'

‘What?'

Water flowed in the bathroom; the door was opened; more footsteps.

Do you really want what you think you want?

Does anyone?
‘One day I'll try to. Not yet. I can't.'
‘What are you talking about?'
At the very least she deserves honesty
…
I shall tell her, I shall tell her –
‘Frances!'
He deserves honesty, too. I can't. I can't.
‘Frances!'
The door swung open.
‘Mum?'
In unison they turned on him.
‘Just a minute –'
‘Please! Not now!'
He fled.

Early evening, a little cooler.

‘Jessie?' Claire knocked on the door. No answer. ‘May I come in?' No answer.

She turned the handle and looked inside. Just before dusk, the sitting-room, with its tall casement windows and doors wide open, was filled with shadows, but there was still light enough to see by. In here, with the dense green bushes and creeper outside, the room was almost in darkness.

‘Jess? May I put the light on?'

She was lying on her back with her eyes shut, wearing the Walkman; her fingers moved slowly up and down on the quilt. Claire went over and gently touched her. Jessica jumped, and frowned. Claire made gestures; she removed one side of the Walkman.

‘What?'

‘I said may I put the light on?'

‘No.'

Claire sat down on the edge of the bed, hearing Frank Sinatra through the headphones. Her tape. Never mind. She took Jess's hand.

‘Please turn it down. Or off. Just for a minute.'

Jessica looked at her, and then away.

‘Please.' Claire made to remove the headset herself; Jessica took it off, her beautiful hair trailing after it, clinging with static to the earpiece. Sinatra sang into the crumpled quilt; muffled strangers wondered what chance they had. Jessica switched them off.

‘What is it?'

‘Just –' Claire hesitated, wanting to get it right. ‘Just that I'm here, that's all. And I'm sorry you're sad.'

Jessica looked at the window.

‘Do you want to talk to me? Mmm? I won't tell a soul, I promise.'

She shut her eyes, and tears rolled on to the pillow.

‘Poor little Jess. I'm so sorry.'

‘Oh, Mummy –'

She cried and cried; Claire rocked her, holding her close.

‘It
hurts.'

‘I know. I know.'

‘What did he tell you?'

‘Not very much. Just that you … well, had a crush …'

‘A
crush?'
Jessica raised her head in fury. ‘Is that what he called it?'

‘No, no, I don't think so, not exactly –'

‘Don't you
dare
call it a crush!' She was weeping all over again. ‘How
can
you?'

‘I'm sorry,' said Claire, drawing her back into her arms, stroking wet hair off her face. ‘You're right, I'm sorry.'

And after all, she thought, as Jessica, at last, had no more tears left and got up to look for a hankie, what is the difference? Everyone talks of a crush when they mean you've built up something from nothing, idealised it, made someone something they're not. Well. Perhaps she saw things in him none of us saw. It doesn't mean they weren't there.

She got up and kissed her.

‘May I suggest,' she said, ‘that you have a bath before supper? They do help, for some reason.'

‘Okay.' Jessica had found a handkerchief in the top drawer; she blew her nose and switched on the light.

‘And when we get back to London I'll buy you something nice.'

‘I don't want anything.'

‘Well.' Claire opened the door. ‘We'll see.'

‘Okay, thanks.'

When she had gone, Jessica looked in the mirror, propped on the chest of drawers. Her eyes were sore with crying, her skin had patches of red all over it. Awful. She picked up her hairbrush from the midst of the little boxes and necklaces and sun tan creams, and brushed her hair, over and over; she put on her nightshirt, and bundled her hair through a sweatband, rolling it tight. Then she picked up her sponge bag and quietly opened the door.

There was no one in the sitting-room, and no had one switched on the lamps; the last of the light came in through the windows and voices came in from the terrace. They were all out there, drinking and talking and eating crisps. Were they talking about her? Had everyone guessed? She went softly along to the bathroom and turned on the taps, she brushed her teeth and washed her face, and went out again, yawning, waiting for the bath to fill, and along to the sitting-room again. She stood in the half-light, listening to them all: they were talking about the weather. The weather!

In the corner of the room where the books were, she could see the chess set where she had left it on the desk, all ready and waiting, all set up on the board. All those pieces, all those lovely games. She went over. For a moment she felt like sweeping the lot off, watching them fall and roll about on the floorboards, but she didn't. She stood for a moment; she picked up the black queen, tapping it against her lips. Then she cleared everything off, but carefully, on to the desk; she turned the board over, so it was a box again, and she put in all the pieces, one by one: the brave little pawn, the swooping bishop, mighty castle and prancing knight, the lonely king, the omnipotent queen. She put every piece in the box, and then she closed it, fastening the catch at the side, hearing the bath fill, turning on the lamp.

Evening, a little cooler. They all remarked on it, deciding to eat in the dining-room because of it, lighting candles, seeing through the window the stars come out, pale at first, then bright as frost in a dark sky.

The children had eaten already; they hovered.

‘Can we stay up?' asked the boys.

‘You can,' Claire said to Jess.

She shook her head. ‘I don't want to.'

They hugged each other; she went to her room, saying a general goodnight to the air.

‘She all right?' Robert asked Claire, as the bedroom door closed.

‘I'll tell you later.'

He shook his head, pouring more drinks for himself and Oliver as the women went to the kitchen. ‘Now what?' he said aloud, and then, recalling how very subdued Jess had been all evening, and how quiet Oliver seemed now, said to himself: Oh, Christ. Now what?

Jack and Tom were beside him, pestering.

‘Can we stay up? Please?'

‘No.' He looked at them, as if from some distance. Tom, always better after food, still seemed a bit –

‘You okay?' he asked him. Was no one okay in this household?

Tom nodded. ‘I just feel a bit –'

‘Time he was in bed,' said Oliver, sipping his drink at the table.

‘Yes. You, too,' Robert told Jack. ‘Go on, both of you, up you go.'

The boys went up, and the women came back. Claire had made a casserole from a piece of pork bought when the butcher was open, and frozen since. She served it with rice and the peas Jess had shelled in the morning, and they ate it appreciatively, hot food for once, making conversation, now they were all together, about nothing very much, thinking of separate conversations held earlier in the day, about everything.

Early morning, cool. Dark grey skeins of cloud dissolving above the mountains, the light growing paler, paler. Tom, deeply asleep, got out of bed, and went walking.

Dawn came into the house through the cracks in the shutters; down in the village the first shutters were being opened and pushed back, the first kettles filled. Dogs got up from the steps and shook themselves, old men spat, a cock crowed. Tom went slowly downstairs.

It grew lighter. Down in the village Guida's father and uncle sat at the table in the corner of the kitchen, drinking from chipped mugs of coffee, dunking their maize bread, taking their time.

Tom reached the bottom of the stairs. He stopped, and went on again, into the kitchen, with its faint smell of gas. He crossed it, bare feet sticking on the worn brown lino; he came to the door, and went bump. Outside, sleeping beneath the steps to the garden, the dull-furred cat heard the sound and woke. She came up the steps to the door and miaowed, rustily. Tom heard her, a little less deeply asleep; he tugged at the catch, and the door swung open. From the threshold, the cat looked up at him. The air was cool and fresh. He went out, and past her, to the edge of the steps she had climbed, with their sheer drop down to the garden. His foot went forward, on to air; it came back again; he stopped, and went on again, turning aside, climbing the long flight of steps ahead, beneath the vines to the water tank and the upper path. It grew lighter; the cock crowed again.

Guida's father and uncle picked up their things and came out of the house, and down the steps at the side. They went round to the front and walked down the hill, three or four paces to the old plank door set beneath the house. They pushed at it, shifting dark sodden piles of straw, and went inside. There was a grunting, a food bowl was rattled. One of them brought in a bucket. One of them brought in a knife.

Tom bumped into the white iron table, and stopped; he walked on, brushing the tendrils of the vines, reaching the end of the path. He came to the bottom of the short flight of steps to the pool, and stopped; he climbed them; the cock crowed again. It grew lighter. The air above the pool was cooler: he sensed it. He woke.