The Visitors (29 page)

Now, apparently, this act of clearance was complete, but – bringing back the past as it inevitably did – it had reminded Rose of certain obligations, such as ‘making calls’, ‘cheering up ancient chums’ and ‘staying in touch’. As a result, this journey west along the M4 was to include a brief diversion: en route to Rose’s home near Bath, we were to pay a visit – to someone Rose described as a dear old friend. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ she’d said. ‘Half an hour at most. Haven’t been there in ages. We’ve neglected our duty. Has to be done.’

I’d been reluctant to agree and was regretting this diversion. I didn’t want to discuss Dr Fong either, and hoped Rose would not pursue that subject. She was now fumbling in her ancient crocodile-skin Hermès handbag. I continued to gaze out of the window; a peculiar double vision afflicted me now. I saw a lost Egypt as we passed green English fields.

‘What’s happened to Wong? What did you say, Lucy?’ she enquired. ‘I do wish you’d speak up.’ She might deny it, but I felt Rose was becoming deaf: a hearing aid wouldn’t do any harm.

‘Fong,’ I said irritably. ‘He’s American, and his name’s
Fong
, Rose.’

‘Fong, Wong, Wrong – whatever.’ From the recesses of her handbag, Rose extracted a powder compact. She patted pink powder on her nose, peered at her own reflection and sighed. ‘Until recently, I thought I was quite well preserved, you know, Lucy,’ she remarked in mournful tones. ‘Not beautiful, obviously, I was never destined to be that: Ma’s genes all went to Petey and passed me by. And never pretty either, but I always told myself I was
presentable
– and I thought I’d stayed that way.
It was the cataracts, of course. The mercies of soft focus. Then that damn doctor
insisted
I have the op. Now I can see again and there’s no escaping the appalling truth. I look in the glass and think: what a terrible old hag – who in hell are
you
?’

Rose’s assessment of her own appearance was characteristically harsh: she’d retained her English-rose complexion; age had not withered the acuity of her gaze. She was looking well, I thought – but I’d save the compliments for later. I said, ‘Join the club, Rose.’

‘Thanks. I knew I could rely on you for sympathy.’ She laughed, and settled herself more comfortably in the Bentley’s deep leather seats. ‘Remember this?’ She held out the compact to me. I took it from her, and examined it: a period piece, fashioned in rose gold, decorated with vivid blue enamel, with the initials ‘PdE’ in a diamond scroll.

‘I do. It was Poppy’s. I remember her powdering her nose with it – and I remember when, too. We’d just had tea at Shepheard’s, after our ballet lesson with Madame.’

‘Gosh, you’ve got an amazing memory. Nowadays, of course, “powder” and “noses” have quite different associations. Or so my grandchildren tell me. They think it’s a hoot.’

Rose took the compact back and squinted at it critically. ‘I suppose one would remember it – it’s awfully flash. Very
goût
Rothschild. But then Jacob d’Erlanger gave it to her, and he
was
a bit Rothschild. Poppy adored that in him, she never stopped teasing him about his taste. Well, she adored
him
, of course… I found it in the back of a drawer when I was doing the great clear-out. Hadn’t laid eyes on it in years, and then, suddenly, there it was! Oh, so
that
’s where you’ve been hiding, I said to myself… I’ve started talking to myself now, incidentally, which
cannot
be a good sign, I feel. Do you ever do that, Lucy? No, of course you don’t. Far too strong-minded. It still has the powder in it that my mother used. What a relic! But then I found all sorts of interesting
relics
during my clear-out.’ She gave me a sly considering glance, replaced the compact, snapped her bag shut, and turned to the window with a frown. ‘Look at this traffic! Where on earth are all these people
going
? It’s ten-thirty on a Wednesday morning, for heaven’s sake.’

‘They’re going about their business, I imagine. They’re
working,
Rose.’

‘If you say so. I think they’re just gallivanting. The instant the sun comes out in this godforsaken country, every man, woman and dog says,
Let’s head for the M4 and cause the mother of all jams. It’s the English disease. So, let’s catch up. You’re not looking well, you know – how’s the hip? Where’s the Fong fellow gone?’

‘The hip’s hell. But less bad now it’s spring. And Dr Fong’s finally left for Egypt. They’ve begun filming his documentary at last, so I imagine he’s in Luxor.’

‘Staying at the Winter Palace?’ She grimaced. ‘Oh, Lucy – I had nightmares about that place for years. Eve taking Petey and me into her room to explain, everyone trying to pretend it was going to be all right, when I knew it wasn’t. It was a palace of tears for me. Misery HQ. Still, it must be very different now. I expect your Fang’s having a whale of a time. You must be relieved to have him off your back. Frightful man.’

‘Very clued-up. Sharp. And he’s not so bad. In some ways I rather liked him… ’

‘That’s not what you said on the phone. You said he was pestering the life out of you, came to see you twice, stayed for hours, kept phoning and emailing, and was driving you round the bend. You said you couldn’t wait for him to bugger off to Egypt.’

‘I expect I was exaggerating. I don’t like being interrogated.’

‘So I’ve observed. You were always like that.
Close
, Wheeler used to say, and she was right. I can’t think why you’re so allergic to imparting information. I
love
being cross-questioned. I positively jump at the opportunity. After all, one doesn’t often get it, not now one’s old. Absolutely no one, in my experience, has the least interest in anything one has to say. And as for one’s
memories
, they just bore everyone to tears. “I once met Herr Hitler, as a matter of fact,” I said to my grandchildren the other day – you’d have thought
that
might have grabbed them. But did it? Two sentences in, just hitting my stride, and there they were, smothering these huge
yawns. It was
mortifying.
’

‘Hitler?’ I gave her a startled glance. ‘I never knew that. You actually
met
him, Rose?’

‘No, of course I didn’t. I just threw it in to liven things up. And it was
almost
true. I mean, given my father’s political views, it was on the cards. He was always buzzing off to Germany before the war, and then coming back and going on and on about parades and discipline and trains that ran on time.
Alles in Ordnung.
That was his watchword. Vile old fascist. Petey was in his teens by then and very left-wing, longing to go off and fight in Spain – you remember how he was, Lucy. So Pa only had to say it, and Petey would go white and clench his fists and––’

Her voice caught. ‘Don’t, Rose,’ I said gently. ‘Don’t go there. Not now.’

‘Not ever,’ she replied. ‘I do know that, Lucy. I’d willingly forget him, but sometimes he intrudes. Up he pops from his tomb, and starts on the inquisitions… a bit like your Dr Fang, I suppose. Only
he
’s alive, of course.’

I gave up. ‘Dr Fang’ had a certain ring. ‘Safely in Egypt, though,’ I said. ‘He kept telephoning when I was hoping it was you. But I don’t think he’ll bother me again, not now. I was just a minnow – he has bigger fish to fry.’

‘So what did he ask you?’

‘Oh, you can imagine – describe Carnarvon and Howard Carter –
with
anecdotes. What game was the Met playing? Did Carter
know
that tomb was there? Was it true he was looking for Tutankhamun from day one, as he claimed afterwards, or was that one of his fairy tales? Carnarvon’s death, of course. Oh, and the fabled Curse – inevitably.’

‘Crikey. Did he ask about Eve?’

‘Not much. She didn’t really interest him.’

‘Helen Winlock? Minnie Burton? The other Metropolitan wives?’

‘Below his radar. Bystanders, and female ones at that. Supernumeraries.’

‘Written out – and written off.
That
has a familiar ring. I hope you corrected him?’

‘No. Life’s too short. Besides, he wasn’t altogether wrong: the men did make the running, it was 1922 – what else would you expect?’

‘You have an argumentative nature, so I’d expect you to argue. Why didn’t you?’

‘Because I felt old and ill. This bloody arthritis was half killing me.’

‘What a liar you are, Lucy,’ she said comfortably. ‘Don’t worry,
I’m
not going to cross-question you. In the first place, I don’t need to because I know the answer anyway. In the second, you’ll only get grumpy and clam up. And in the third – look,’ she gestured at the motorway signs. ‘That’s us. Exit thirteen. It’s only twenty minutes from here. I’ve brought lilies – horribly florist, but I panicked – they’re in the boot. What did you bring?’

‘Spring flowers. Masses of them. Jonquils and narcissus. I picked them in my garden.’

‘Oh, how clever! Her favourites. She’ll love that.’

Rose’s face lit. For a second, the lines on her face vanished, the grandmother and widow vanished, and I saw her as the indomitable child I’d known. The effect was weakening; it brought tears to my eyes. This happens occasionally now and very tiresome it is; I assume it’s a symptom of age. I brushed them away quickly, but not before Rose had noticed them. Her face softened.

‘Ah, Lucy,’ she said, resting her hand on mine. ‘I know. How many decades has it been?’

‘A great many. We’ve been friends now for —’

‘Most of our lives. Let’s just say that.
Good
friends. And long lives too… though, of course, I’m just a stripling compared to you,’ she added, as the small country church that was our destination came into view. This was a familiar tease: Rose’s landmark birthday was still some distance away; she had not yet passed ninety; I had. She liked to remind me of my greater decrepitude.

‘Well, we’re not likely to make this trip again, so we’d better get a move on,’ she remarked, on a firmer note. She opened the glass partition. ‘Wheelie, park over there, would you? Get as close to the lych-gate as you can, then it’s less far for us to hobble. No, no, don’t fuss, we can manage the flowers perfectly well. You just stay here and smoke a cigarette. We shan’t be long. Then we’ll trot on home and have lunch.’

Wheeler, who was the great-nephew of the original Wheeler, had been driving Rose since he was eighteen. After some thirty years, he was used to her vagaries; he assisted us gallantly from the car, opened the lych-gate and obediently retired. Removing his cap, he leaned against the vintage Bentley’s gleaming bonnet, and lifted his face to the sun. ‘Wheelie
claims
to have given up,’ Rose hissed, as we began to negotiate the churchyard path. ‘But I know differently. He’s cut down, that’s all. The second we’re out of sight, he’ll light up a Silk Cut. I like him to know
I
know – keeps him on his toes. Now, where are we? Is it left or right, Lucy? It all looks different. I’m not sure.’

It was ten years since our last visit, so I wasn’t too sure either. The warm weather had brought the grass on, and with it a thick spring burgeoning of weeds and wild flowers. Leaning on my stick, I peered about the graveyard short-sightedly: the small church was fifteenth century, and many of the tombs were almost as old; we were in this ancient sector now, where lichens and the weathering of stone made the inscriptions virtually unreadable.
Who wants to lie in some mouldering old churchyard?
Frances’s voice enquired from a long-distant past. This might convert her, I thought: it was a serene and lovely place, isolated, quiet, with a matchless view across the north Hampshire downs.

‘We need the modern bit, Rose,’ I said. ‘I think it’s over there. No – not that way. You should never walk around a church anticlockwise. It’s widdershins. It’s unlucky.’

‘The hell with that, it’s quicker,
and
there’s a path. I’m not risking that long grass,’ Rose replied. Ignoring superstition, she set off to the left; I turned to the right. The hip started complaining immediately, so it took me an age to negotiate the bumpy surface and limp my way between the stones. I passed into the shadows to the north of the church, and emerged into sunlight the far side; the hawthorn hedges bordering the churchyard were coming into flower and I could smell their heavy, peculiar, vixen scent; from their depths, a thrush burst into song. I found Rose standing by Poppy d’Erlanger’s overgrown grave, clutching her florist’s flowers.

Jacob d’Erlanger, who had selected this burial place and commissioned this ornate and magnificent headstone, was buried next to his wife; he had shot himself on the anniversary of her death, three years later to the day. Rose, who had turned to his grave, gave a sudden moan of distress. ‘Got it wrong,’ she said. ‘
All
wrong. We should have brought him flowers too. How crass I am. He was always really good to me… Now what are we going to do?
I
know – we’ll give Poppy your lovely jonquils, and I’ll give him my lilies. They’re absolutely Jaco’s style.’

We laid the huge swath of pink-throated lilies on d’Erlanger’s grave and the loose bunch of spring flowers on Poppy’s. Neither of us was sure what to do next: I felt I couldn’t utter an agnostic platitude, and Rose, who went to church regularly in the same devout spirit as, when younger, she’d ridden to hounds or opened her gardens to charitable causes, seemed moved, but reluctant to risk a prayer. ‘Well, God bless you both,’ she muttered, crossed herself with a practised gesture, and turned away.

‘He chose well, Jaco,’ she remarked as, arm in arm, we made our halting way back towards the car. ‘He chose the right wife – and, when she died, the right place to bury her. People thought all Poppy cared about was parties, and rushing about and being fashionable – but really she hated that life. It made her hectic and miserable. Jaco understood that. They used to live near here, you know, Lucy, in this absurd mansion he bought for her – it was sold eventually, after he killed himself. It’s one of those spiffy country-house hotels now, Poppy would
rock
with laughter if she could see it.’