Last Guests of the Season (40 page)

‘Okay, that's enough. Lunch?'

‘I'm
starving.'

They bought cans of Coke and drank as they walked across baking dusty ground to the wire fence, and out and up the steep street towards the centre. A tawny-coated bullock stood tethered to a lamppost, its eyes crawling with flies, a long line of drool swaying in the sun above an empty aluminium dish.

‘If Tom saw that –' said Jessica.

‘He's right,' said Claire.

They looked for a tap.

‘He can have some of my Coke,' said Jack.

‘I don't think he'd like it.'

But there wasn't a tap, so he poured it in. The bullock slurped, and his sides heaved.

‘Poor thing.'

They walked to the top of the hill, and found tables set out in a shady square. They ordered four different dishes so they could share them: rabbit and chicken and duck and –

‘I think I'll have salad,' said Jess.

‘We'll have salad anyway. With it.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't feel like meat.'

They had more drinks while they waited, buying a bottle of mineral water for the bullock later, and Robert ate so much bread from the basket that he was almost full by the time lunch came. Well, that was what he said. He still managed to put away the whole plateful.

And ice cream. They had four different flavours, dipping in and out of each other's glass dishes.

‘Yummy.'

And coffee. And then they could hardly move. They sat watching other tourists, not many, but a few, and well-heeled Portuguese, sitting at other tables, talking and reading the papers. Scaffolding clanged on distant sites, motor bikes scorched down the main street. After a while, they pulled themselves together and made for the cathedral, the children groaning.

‘There are shops all round it,' said Claire. ‘We can buy presents. And it's cool inside.'

The narrow streets were heavy with shade; they looked into dark chemists with wonderful bottles of coloured water.

‘You never see them at home any more. Such a shame.'

‘Come on.'

The shops round the cathedral sold ceramics, brass picture frames and woven rugs. They bought things for Granny in Maidenhead and Granny and Grandpa in Derbyshire, and Jess bought a nice little box for her best friend at school.

‘And something for Geoffrey and Linda,' said Claire.

Robert yawned. ‘And then that's it.'

‘And something for Tom,' said Jack.

‘There's a thought. Is there anything here that he'd like?'

They searched and searched.

‘I know! He'd like one of these.' He held up a tiny china cat, grey and white, curled up.

‘Do you think?' Claire asked Robert.

They all thought he'd like it. The girl at the till wrapped everything in coarse brownish tissue paper and the bill came to four times the lunch.

‘Never mind. It isn't as though we've been extravagant.'

‘Isn't it?' Robert put a thin wallet back in his jacket, wiping sweat away. ‘I've got to sit down.'

Pigeons crowded the cathedral steps; the carved doors were held back with enormous hooks. Inside it smelt of wood and polish and the pews were almost black. The children wandered, looking around; sun fell in from the door to the cloisters, and they went out, wandering through them.

‘It's nice.'

‘Don't you remember it? I told you it would be.' Claire sank into a pew with Robert. They sat watching old women in black get to their feet with difficulty, and a young guide take round a party. It was blessedly cool.

She put her head on his shoulder. A priest came out of a small side-door. She said: ‘Robert?'

‘Mmm?'

‘When Tom – when we were waiting for him to come round …'

‘Mmm?'

‘Did you pray?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Robert. ‘I prayed.' His hand stroked her hair. ‘I prayed like hell, didn't you?'

‘Yes.'

Voices murmured in the aisle, dust danced on shafts of sunlight, as always.

One more day.

The weather was changing. Not much, nothing dramatic, but they could feel it, cooler today than yesterday, the morning breeze a little stronger. It was pleasant and refreshing: they all breathed a sigh of relief.

In the morning, Robert and Oliver went down to the cellar, to bring up the shepherd's cloak. The children followed, and Frances and Claire came after them.

It stood in the corner, where they had left it, dark and enormous beneath the cobwebby window. Everything had happened since they brought it down here, and everyone was different from then. Jessica did not prance about and sing, and when Oliver carefully lifted the hat off and made, smiling, to put it on her head, she moved away.

‘No, thanks.'

Frances and Claire took the cloak off, but Robert no longer thought about handmaidens, and two women together, in quite the same way, and he looked at them, smiling at each other as one took the shoulders and dangling sleeves and the other the great fall of cloak itself, and he wondered. He found himself wondering.

Jack did not make for the box of toys and race all the cars up and down. He stood watching Tom, who was standing in the far corner. The doctor had given Tom some medicine, Claire told him, to – well, to calm him, and help his head. He looked sort of sleepy and out of it. He'd liked the cat, though, he could tell.

‘Are you feeling better?' asked Jack.

‘What?' He stood in the corner, and watched them, taking it all to bits. Its face had gone: under the hat there was nothing, only that long thin neck with a knob on. How could you hide your own face? Somehow it hid it, and only put it back when the hat was on. They were up-ending the whole thing now, turning its body on its side: it groaned. Good.

‘Jessica?' said Frances. ‘Just keep an eye, will you, while we take it upstairs?' She nodded towards Tom; Jessica nodded back.

‘Right,' said Robert to Oliver.

‘Right.'

They lifted it, they began to climb the stairs. The wooden stand bumped and scraped; behind them the straw went rustle rustle rustle.

Jack went up after them.

Tom went to say goodbye to the house.

Jessica followed him.

The door was still open, from last time. He stood there looking at it, breathing – how? His breathing was different today, he could feel it. Slower. He felt slower. He looked at the people, all broken up, and something behind him moved. He jumped. Because everything was slow it wasn't an ordinary jump, it was all sort of heavy and thick inside him.

‘Sorry,' said Jessica. ‘I didn't mean to frighten you.' She was being kind, too. ‘Is this your house, Tom? It's nice.'

‘A lot of people died in it,' he said.

‘What?'

‘They were all very wicked,' he said, ‘and I had to punish them.' He picked up all the broken bones and showed her. ‘See? I left them to starve, that was their punishment, and then, when they still weren't sorry, I had to chop their legs off, and their arms. I don't know if they had lids, but I know the pig had one, and that's dead, too, isn't it? They don't protect you from anything, do they?'

Why was she looking at him like that?

‘It's all right,' he said, as he swung the front of the house to, and fastened the catch. ‘You don't have to worry about them now, they're dead. Nothing can get you once you're dead.'

Time to pack up. It seemed to take for ever.

‘Surely we didn't bring all this stuff?'

‘We need some clean things for Spain …'

Up at the water tank, beneath dark trails of ivy, Guida washed and washed, and hung everything up in the sun. Bulging cases were dragged down the stairs and heaved into the boot, paperbacks stuffed into corners, a litter of tapes in between the front seats.

Upstairs, Frances folded everything neatly, and zipped up her case. Tom sat in the corner, watching. The little grey cat was curled up in his pocket, sleeping well. She liked the afternoons. Frances put her case down, next to Oliver's, and went through all the drawers, just in case. Nothing.

‘Right, then,' she said to Tom. ‘Your things now.' She held out her hand; they went along the landing to his room, stopping to straighten the runner.

‘It'll only ruck up again,' he said.

‘I know.'

Claire had packed all Jack's things, and gone downstairs with his case. There was nobody up here now. The shutters of the bedroom were open, since no one was resting today and the weather had changed; the room, with its twin cotton bedspreads, bare floorboards, old chest of drawers and yellow chair, was sunny and warm. Frances began to pull open drawers; Tom went to the window. Children were running about down in the threshing yard, pushing the cart up and down. He called and waved; they waved back, and went on playing. Far beyond, the mountains were hazy; above them, an aeroplane circled and climbed.

Frances was packing shorts and shirts and swimming trunks.

‘You've grown out of almost all this, haven't you? Time for some new clothes when we get back.' He didn't answer. ‘Tom?'

‘Yes?'

‘Feeling all right?' She came up beside him, and he rested his head against her. Their arms went round each other; they stood looking out at the view. The river wound on and on through the maize fields: the deepest yellow, the palest blue, on and on, round the bend and away out of sight, going on for ever and ever.

In the late afternoon, they all went down to the village. They sat beneath the awning of vines outside the little café, sipping tea and lemonade, watching, for the last time, their corner of the world go by.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. Jessica looked at him, and then away. He said: ‘One last walk. Just a short one. Anyone interested?'

‘Where?'

‘Not sure, don't mind.' He leaned forward again, and his hand rested on Tom's. ‘How about you? Would you like to come for a walk?'

He turned the little cat over and over; he brought her out to sit on the table, joining in.

Would you like to come? he asked her.

She said she would. So did Frances. Good.

‘I tell you what,' said Robert. ‘I could go and get the car and drive you three up to a place we used to go last year. Claire? That path that comes back from the next village?' He pointed up the road, towards the market town. ‘It isn't very far, maybe a mile. And you come back past the frog place. Remember?' They remembered. ‘Tom? Do you think you could manage a mile?'

‘How far is a mile?'

‘Good question.'

Robert went back to the house, and got the car. He drove them, because two miles there and back was too far for Tom at the moment, everyone knew that, up to a village with brown shiny tiles on the walls and bright flowery curtains. He pointed out the mountain path, and said he would see them back at the house in an hour, or send out a party.

‘Thanks.'

They watched the car winding away down the hill.

Then they entered the mouth of the path, lined with bushes at first, which thinned out as they climbed through the trees, until they were walking on a clear and open piece of land which sloped gently down towards their own village. Below they could see the flowery meadow, the path leading past the ruined house, the damp little fields criss-crossed with ditches. Unharnessed bullocks were moving slowly through one of them; as they drew near they could hear the tinkling bells, the sound of them grazing, moving slowly through the long grass, swish swish swish.

‘It's lovely,' said Tom.

‘Isn't it?'

He was walking between them, a hand each. They could see, across the other side of the path from the oxen, the houses in their small flagged gardens, with fern and moss and ivy growing, and one or two people pottering about. Tom frowned.

‘I've been here before.'

‘Yes. We all have. Look, we all had our picnic there – see? That's where you and Jack caught the frog, remember?'

He remembered.

‘Tom. Things are a bit better now. Yes?'

He turned the little cat over and over. ‘Mmm.'

They walked on; he wandered ahead, showing things to her, telling her about everything: she was a good listener. Oliver and Frances watched him, walking with their arms round each other.

‘Things are a bit better?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Want to tell me anything?'

‘One day.'

Ahead, Tom was walking slowly, murmuring things, making noises. Not quite so many noises.

‘What about you?' she asked.

‘A few thoughts.'

‘Do you want to tell me?'

‘One day.'

The sun was slipping towards the mountains; the air grew cooler, cooler. She thought of the long conversation she'd had with Robert, walking through the pine woods in the heat of the day. Such a little while ago. She thought of how it had ended:

An Alice word. It means whatever you choose it to mean, neither more nor less. Like God, now I come to think of it
…

‘Oliver? When – when it happened – when you found him – did you think it was an act of God? That you got there in time?'

‘Difficult not to. But no, not when I thought about it later.'

‘Why?'

‘Too many people don't get there in time,' he said. ‘Why should we be spared?' He paused. ‘Not that I wasn't grateful.'

She was silent.

‘But did you pray?'

‘Oh yes,' he said. ‘I prayed. Wouldn't anyone?'

They walked on, slowly, hearing the bell on the church clock chime four arbitrary strokes.

The last morning. Everything in a muddle.

Tom, Jack and Frances went to say goodbye to the hens. Jessica helped Claire clear out the fridge and make a leftovers picnic for the journey. Robert stuffed a wedge of escudos into an envelope and went to look for Guida.

She was upstairs, stripping the beds. They were just going to do that, no need for her –