The Visitors (32 page)

‘
I
shall take over from Dr Gerhardt,’ Miss Dunsire had announced, and, since she could twist my father around her little finger when she chose to do so, he’d quickly concurred. Out went the vocabulary lists and the irregular verbs Dr Gerhardt and I had laboured over: in came magnificent floods of Goethe, Racine and Baudelaire, not a word of which I understood.
During her gentler periods, Nicola Dunsire could make these passages speak, so I began to grasp their meaning, thrill to their use of words; but during those black spells when her mood altered and she became so unpredictable, anything might happen – she might smack me around the ears, throw the book across the room, or pull my hair. ‘
Listen
,’ she would cry. ‘
Respond.
I won’t let you inch your way through this like some blind worm, do you hear me? I’ll make you
run
before you can walk – I’ll make you
dance,
damn you, you stupid girl, if it kills me. Again, like this, listen:
C’est
Venus toute entière à sa proie attachée –
no, no, no. Get rid of that hideous accent. You’re not English, you’re
French.
Read this speech of Phèdre’s and remember – you’re not some plain little schoolgirl, you’re a
queen.’

How could I have seen her as serene that first day I met her, I thought, as – having remained in the house for twenty minutes (twenty minutes? to take an aspirin?) – Nicola Dunsire emerged at last, and began to make her way slowly down the garden with an air of queenly unconcern. I fingered the key to my desk: I’d taken to wearing it around my neck on a chain. My letters and my diaries were in that locked desk – if Nicola Dunsire had used her aspirin absence to spy among my things, as I was certain she did, she’d have been thwarted this time.

My father, who might or might not have been dozing, opened his eyes, looked up and watched her approach. She took her time, delaying by the lavender again, lingering by a rose, her slim white dilatory figure the only cool thing in the crucible our garden became in this weather, the heat enclosed, reflected, intensified by its high brick walls. The slowness of her advance did not improve my father’s temper: the longer he gazed at her, the deeper his scowl became. Miss Dunsire, having reached us at last, sat down without a word, confident in the knowledge that however much my father might want to ask why it took twenty minutes to swallow a pill, such a remark was immodest, impossible. Even in this brave new post-war world, a lady’s disappearances could not be enquired upon.

She leaned back in her wicker chair and gazed dreamily at the rose arch again. Those who did not know her (that group included my father, I felt) might have imagined she was calm. I knew better. Attuned to her now, sensitive to the slightest perturbation in her unpredictable nature, I knew we were in the midst of one of those monthly black spells. I could sense a seething disquiet in her – just as you can with a cat, who will sit, kneading its paws, betraying agitation with the merest flick of the tip of its tail.

I doubted Miss Dunsire’s claws would come out in my father’s presence. I waited. My father had picked up the two envelopes again and was examining them with a frown. I could smell incipient punishment in the air and felt the axe was likely to fall on my neck; yet I had the sensation that, even if it did, his ire was not truly directed at me, but at the silent, languorous, abstracted Miss Dunsire.

‘
Secrecy
,’ my father said, as if there had been no interruption to the conversation earlier. ‘Twin sister to deceit. Qualities I abhor in a woman and, Lucy, find unacceptable in a child. I have here two letters, one from Boston, one from Hampshire. It is obvious you
knew
these letters would be written and encouraged their sending. Your laments and complaints to your little friends from Egypt, you’ll be glad to learn, have borne fruit.’

‘I haven’t complained to anyone about anything,’ I muttered, staring down at the grass. ‘Why would I complain – or lament?’

‘And these children, in turn, have whipped up others on your behalf,’ he continued, pressing on as if I’d said nothing. ‘As a result,
two
invitations.’ He picked up the American envelope: ‘Let us deal with this first. Here I have a letter from someone signing herself
Helen Chandler Winlock.
Why Americans feel this need to embroider their names with matrilinear flourishes, I cannot comprehend, but let us move on… Mrs Winlock informs me that she and her family plan to spend the summer at their holiday cottage
,
a
cottage
with twenty bedrooms by the sound of it. Why do our transatlantic cousins infallibly over- or under-state? Where was I? Ah yes,
et in
Arcadia ego:
Mrs Winlock and her rustic
cottage
. I understand it’s on some island, Lucy, yes?’

‘North Haven,’ I said. ‘It’s an island off the coast of Maine, Daddy.’

‘Excellent: Miss Dunsire’s attempts to impart
some
understanding of geography have clearly had effect. Now – how she writes, this earnest friend of yours! Four sentences, where one would suffice… ’

‘And not alone in
that
vice,’ came a low murmur from the wicker chair beneath the birches.

I started and looked up. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard the words, or imagined them. Imagined them, I decided; Miss Dunsire’s lovely eyes were closed. She was possibly asleep.

‘Finally, Lucy my dear, we come to the crux.’ My father sighed; his anger seemed to be diminishing, I thought. His expression was faintly amused: ‘Mrs Winlock seems to feel the summer vacation at the University of Cambridge is protracted. Through June to October, she understands. Now who, I wonder, told her
that
?’

‘No one. She doesn’t
need
to be told, Daddy. Her father taught at Harvard University, he was Dean of the School of Architecture there. Her brother and her husband Herbert, the – the splendid archaeologist I told you about, they both studied at Harvard too. So Mrs Winlock
knows
how long university vacations are.’

I was hoping the mention of Harvard would help; I had faith in Harvard. In my father’s opinion, it was not at the peak of academe’s pinnacle – that sublime summit was reserved solely for Cambridge, with Oxford allowed grudging space on a lower ledge. But Harvard was an august institution, it was Ivy League – and even with him, so finicky and critical, that must surely count. And maybe it did, I thought, with a sudden spurt of renewed hope: his expression had warmed; there was now a twinkle in his eye.

‘She
also knows – or has been given the impression – that my daughter may be
at
a loose end for some of that time
and as
Frances
is missing dear Lucy so much
, Mrs Winlock proposes to reunite you. She invites you to join her family for a month or even a generous six weeks
,
on this romantic island. Off Maine. In the United States. There, you’ll be able to go for long
hikes
– can she mean walks? And, to add to these delights, her daughter will teach you to sail. First it was
ballet
, then
hieroglyphics,
now it’s
sailing.
Gracious me,
this Frances child is a prodigy –
is there no end to her accomplishments?’

He chuckled, shook his head in amusement, and then, looking up from the letter, smiled at me in an indulgent way. Miss Dunsire stirred in her chair. ‘So tell me, Lucy,’ he went on, ‘should you like me to accept this kind offer?’

‘Before you answer, Lucy, might I trouble you for a glass of water?’ Miss Dunsire said. I stood up and fetched the water jug. I handed her the glass and, as I did so, her cool fingers brushed mine. She pinched the back of my hand lightly, then swatted at some insect invisible to me, murmuring, ‘A
wasp
, I think, Lucy. The warm weather has brought them out. Take care, dear.’

‘A very generous invitation,’ my father continued in a reflective tone, as I returned to my chair. ‘But then Americans
are
generous. We have them to thank for your trip to Egypt, Lucy, remember. So tell me, my dear, would you like to do this?’

‘I’d love – like to do that more than anything, Daddy,’ I replied, on a wild surge of hope.

‘As I feared.’ He gave a profound sigh. ‘I thought that would be your response. That makes it all the harder for me to tell you that it’s out of the question. I wish it were otherwise, Lucy, but there are your studies with Miss Dunsire to consider, and there’s also the question of
fares.
My means will not stretch to
transatlantic crossings. The answer, therefore, must be “No”. I wrote yesterday to Mrs Winlock to explain that.’

I felt the blood rush up into my face, then drain away. Silence fell upon our garden and then the Cambridge church clocks began to chime: it was four o’clock; the air rang with bells. I stared fixedly at a bed of blue lupins; after a while, they disappeared, and I found I was watching a carefree girl jump from a car, run across the sand and perform a cartwheel. I stared hard at this pyramids’ girl until the first sharp stab of pain began to ease. When the bells finally ceased tolling, Miss Dunsire, her manner still languid, roused herself from her chair. Leaning forwards, shading her eyes from the sun, she said in her cool pure voice: ‘And the
other
letter, Dr Payne? Have you also replied to that?’

‘I haven’t. Not as yet.’

‘May I read it?’ She held out her hand.

‘If you wish it, Miss Dunsire… ’ He hesitated.

I marvelled at this capacity she had, to place him on the defensive. He was clearly reluctant to hand her the envelope and yet he did so. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Miss Dunsire extracted the letter, which was brief, a single page, and began to read. My father took out his pocket watch, examined it, frowned, played an arpeggio with his fingertips.

‘Lady Evelyn Herbert,’ she said, after five long minutes had passed. ‘She writes, Lucy, in her capacity as godmother to your friend Rose. Rose and her little brother Peter are spending the summer at a house in Hampshire, under Lady Evelyn’s auspices, and in the care of their nanny, Wheeler, while their father travels abroad. She asks
your
father if you, Lucy, might be allowed to join them for a month… You would be collected by car, the dates are flexible. What a very kind letter! What a charming way she has with words.’

‘You admire her style, Miss Dunsire?’ My father snorted. ‘It passed me by, I fear.’

‘Slangy.’ Her smile was imperturbable. ‘I like that. We can’t all achieve your high standards, Dr Payne. Lady Evelyn is young. She writes as she speaks, no doubt. See how kindly she describes the little boy’s devotion to Lucy. I’m sure you’d have expressed it differently, and you’d certainly correct her grammar… but her affection for the children is evident: this is a letter written from the heart.’

‘All the sadder then that this heartfelt invitation will be refused.’ My father rose to his feet. ‘Lucy has better things to do this summer than waste it in the company of empty-headed idlers. She needs to
work
. Her standards have improved, I acknowledge that. I expect them to improve further by the start of next Michaelmas term.’

‘You don’t feel, perhaps, that a holiday…  ⁠?’ Miss Dunsire also rose.

‘I don’t believe in holidays. I don’t take them, and I fail to see why Lucy should. I haven’t time to discuss this now, and I haven’t time to answer letters like this either – you take care of it, Miss Dunsire. A few lines of polite refusal is all it requires. Reply this evening, please. I must be getting back to college. I need an hour or two in the library before Hall.’

‘Of course, Dr Payne. But if I might just ask, before you leave – once I’ve refused this invitation, what arrangements would you like me to make for the summer? You’ll be away for much of June, for the whole of July and August. Research, guest lectures, conferences, all that travelling; you really need a secretary. I’m afraid you’ll be exhausted, though of course you do have such energy… such stamina.’

She paused on the word
stamina
. My father looked at her furtively; for a moment he seemed to forget the demands of libraries. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘a heavy programme. And you’re to blame for some of it, Miss Dunsire. It was at your – urging that I embarked on this book. But that does involve additional work, long hours… into the night sometimes.’

‘
Late
into the night,’ she said with warmth, taking a small step closer to him. ‘I admire that so much. Your powerful resolve, your capacity to plunge to the
depths
of scholarship.’ She frowned. ‘Do you know how I imagine you when you’re at work, Dr Payne? I imagine you plunging – down, down to the very depths of the ocean, and then surfacing, gasping for breath, with the pearls of knowledge cupped in your hands. I see them so clearly: round, milky, glistening… ’ She gave him a sidelong, considering look. ‘Ah, I know that expression of yours! I can see you think I’m being absurd.’

‘No, no, not at all – well, not the simile I’d have used perhaps.’ He gave her an uncertain glance. ‘Charming, charming – but a scholar’s work can be dry as dust and––’

‘
Dry?
That’s
not
the adjective I’d use. Describe you as dry? Never! Let me see, I’d say… ’ And she leaned closer to him, lifting her face to his. She whispered some word into his ear. My father’s face crimsoned. He stared at her; he appeared thunderstruck, appalled, disbelieving, fascinated – he had, I think, no recollection that I was there.

‘I’m making you late,’ she said, breaking the silence, moving a few steps away. ‘Before you go: there’s the small problem of
dates.
You realise you’ll be responsible for Lucy for the whole of September? You plan to be in Cambridge then. But I shall be away.’

‘Away?’ He was still staring at her. ‘What are you talking about? Away where?’

‘Ah, you’ve forgotten. Our agreement, Dr Payne, was one month’s holiday for me every summer. In return, I would forgo most weekends, even breaks for Christmas and Easter. You put that agreement in writing – and I must hold you to it.’ Her manner became stern. ‘I shall be in France for those four weeks, at a chateau in the Loire. A reading party – a number of my friends are going, we’ll be quite a crowd. The arrangements were finalised weeks ago. I did tell you. I even entered the dates in your desk diary.’