The Visitors (11 page)

This part of the seafront is not a glamorous place, as one might expect from a seaside town, but it is somehow picturesque in its very ordinariness, with a jagged collection of squat, pitch-black weather-boarded cottages that face the sea, resolved to stay put whatever the elements hurl at them. They border the bright-pebbled beach, the throngs of polished stones glimmering white, caramel and grey under the cornflower sky and tumbling down to the hungry sea. Oh, the sea. It is restless and mighty, silver-metal here and green-blue-black there, facing the clouds with belligerent agitation. The ships in the port slice the sky with their huge criss-cross masts, peppered with men engaged in maintenance, packing, unpacking, cleaning, heaving and working their backs off. Further along, the bay is filled with a cluster of boats, many of which have the same graceful curve to the sides and tall stretch of sail. Their masts reach high into the salty air, fencing with the invisible breeze. Lottie tells me these boats are the ‘oyster yawls’, used by her family to sail out to the oyster beds to tend the crop and fetch it in.

Even on this squally April day, there are brave souls on the beach: family clusters, girls in cotton dresses and canvas shoes, hair tied back in white frilled bonnets against the breeze, zephyrs ballooning their aprons; young women in confidante pairs sit awkwardly on the lumpy stones, legs crossed beneath their ankle-length skirts, grasping a shawl with one hand, boater with the other; groups of larking boys playing cricket or chucking stones. To grow up by the sea, to have the luxury of ignoring it only to find it there whenever you wish, waiting and wild, at the end of every street. How I envy them.

I become aware of others who walk the beach, the Visitors. They are harder to discern on a bright day like this. Somehow their white-blue light obscures them and makes their glassy outline melt into the blue sky and white light from the sun. But they are there: a few women and children, but most are men, fishermen dressed for the sea and wandering alongside it, staring out. One stops, scans the sky then turns to me, says,
They must get their hauls aboard before it blows
. Others look round at me, seem as if they want to talk, but my mind is closed to them and they know it. I have gained more control over them recently; by force of will I can repel them with a look. I do not want their chill today. They are drawn back constantly to the water, gazing beyond it, beyond everything to a realm only they can see. I turn from them and we walk away, Lottie and me.

The streets that lead from the station towards the Crowe home are narrow and muddy. Around a corner, we come across two boys dressed in green woolly jumpers, short trousers, long socks and cloth caps. Small, aged faces. They stand beside a neatly stacked pile of shells and when they catch sight of us, they reach out their hands, palms aloft, and the older boy speaks. I can read his first couple of words: ‘Remember the …’ but the third is a mystery and I turn to Lottie. She dismisses them with a gesture and walks on, calling out, ‘Come back in the summertime!’ The younger boy kicks the dirt and thrusts his hands away in his pockets. The other boy has forgotten us already, calling to two other arrivals as they walk up the alley.

‘Remember the what?’ I ask Lottie.

‘“Remember the Grotter”. It’s an old Whitstable custom. A tale that a knight was saved from the sea covered with clinging oysters. The children make an oyster shell grotto on St James festival, end of July. They light them up at night with a candle and get a penny for the best ones. Those cheeky rascals are trying their luck with the tourists in April! I know their mother, she won’t be pleased.’

We exit the maze of lanes on to a broad street of clean pavements and larger houses. I see two little girls collect horse manure from the roadside in a dustpan and run off with it. For their garden, I presume. Lottie stops before one of the neat, white houses. Each has a gate, a small flowerbed before the front window and a boot scraper beside the door, which Lottie uses and I do too. The tiny front garden is immaculately kept, with a ring of daffodils and crocuses surrounding a holly bush with leaves so shiny they seem hand-polished. Lottie opens the front door and marches straight into the house. We stand in an alcove filled with coats on hooks and a boot rack behind the door. I see our box standing at the end of the hallway, sent before us two days ago filled with clothes for our stay and presents for the Crowes. We take off our boots and stack them with the others, a heap of footwear from Daddy Bear to Baby Bear size. Each heel is clogged with a mixture of mud and shingle. My pristine boots look ridiculously out of place. I am suddenly aware of my piled-up hair and hair pins and silly ruffled shirt and I feel my cheeks flush.

I tap Lottie’s arm. ‘Do I look silly?’

She signs back, ‘You are amongst friends here.’

We take four steps and reach the end of the short hallway, white walls brightening the narrow way. On one side, I glimpse the parlour, crocheted antimacassars on the two armchairs I can spy. Ahead is an open door, from which moist air issues into the hallway.

‘Monday is washday,’ says Lottie and steps inside.

The air is thick with steam. There is Mrs Crowe, arms elbow-deep in a large bucket on the kitchen table, grinding a garment against a washboard up and down, up and down. Behind her I can see through the opening into the scullery, where a boy who must be one of the twins, Clarence or Claude, holds a washing dolly and bashes it into a tub on the floor. The other twin and Christopher are playing at knights, wooden spoons for swords, the copper lid for a shield, their faces screwed in competition. The twin is winning, as he has a few years on his opponent and a more brutal demeanour.

I have met them all before, but by touch, never by sight. Mrs Crowe’s hair is sable, greying at the parting and above her ears, with small eyes, dark and piercing, red cheeks from her exertions and a small, pretty mouth. Clarence and Claude are identical twins – astonishing to look upon in their absolute likeness. They are sparky boys, with twinkling eyes and active hands, hair and faces like their mother. Christopher is pale-faced and angelic, a shy little one, only as tall as his mother’s hip, with Lottie’s red curls and blue eyes. Perhaps their father is the red, white and blue one. They must get it from somewhere.

They all look up at the same moment and see Lottie. Mrs Crowe throws up her hands in delight and warm sudsy drops spatter my cheeks. Lottie is assaulted by arms flung around her, the children getting there first. Her mother wipes her hands on her apron first, then she too reaches her and they all hug together. I watch them, hot in my ridiculous layers of underwear. It is the little ones who peel away first, so curious about this frilly visitor to their home. Mrs Crowe steps back and sees me, reaches out her hand and takes both of mine. Her hands are deeply wrinkled and damp, scarlet and furrowed with cracks that when dry will be sore. She draws me close and squeezes my hands, looking with great interest into my eyes. And I realise it is the first time she has seen my eyes without my affliction.

‘Her eyes are lovely.’ She speaks to Lottie. ‘Why, she’s a young woman already. A beauty!’

‘She’s only thirteen, Ma.’

‘She looks a lot older,’ says Mrs Crowe. ‘Better watch out for hungry men round here!’ And I realise she has no idea that I can understand a word she says. She takes my hand and finger spells creakily into my palm: ‘Happy to have you.’

I spell back, ‘You can speak to me. I can read lips now.’

Mrs Crowe’s mouth drops open and looks to Lottie. ‘Is this true?’ I see her say.

Lottie says, ‘You can talk to her, Ma. She will finger spell to you, but you can talk back.’

The boys are watching all this, their hands folded across their fronts.

‘Well, I never,’ Mrs Crowe says. ‘That is a relief! My finger talk days are long gone and I’ve forgotten that much. But the little ones have something for you, my dear.’

She motions to them and they all lift their arms deliberately; their hands held up, palms inward, they bring their hands in short repeated movements towards their chest, as if they are saying, Come, come closer. It is the visual sign for: ‘Welcome.’

I lean down and kiss each one on his cheek, followed by blushes and giggles all round. Their hair stinks and I wrinkle my nose. Mrs Crowe says, ‘It’s Rankin’s ointment, my dear. For nits. Good time to do it, when they’re not going out. They’re having a holiday from school this week, so that’s why they’re here, helping me with the washing. We’re very clean in this house, aren’t we, boys? Am I talking too much for her, Charlotte, too fast?’

Lottie and I both shake our heads.

One twin covers his mouth and whispers something to the other.

‘It’s rude to whisper, Claude,’ says Lottie.

His hand drops. ‘But she can’t hear me!’ he says.

‘Miss Golding can see what you say,’ Mrs Crowe scolds him, ‘so don’t cover your mouth. It’s ignorant.’

I take Mrs Crowe’s hand and spell out, ‘Please, call me Liza.’

The organised chaos of washday continues. It does not stop for me and I would not wish it to. Lottie takes off her coat and hangs it on a hook, as do I, and we begin to roll up our sleeves. But Mrs Crowe grasps at Lottie’s arms and rolls her sleeves down.

‘None of that nonsense. You two are visitors here. Now push off out. Go and meet the men from the boat.’

‘Let’s all go!’ pipes up Clarence. ‘Come on, Ma. Come and have a bit of a skip with us.’

But Mrs Crowe stands firm, puts her hands on her hips and glares pointedly above the fireplace. We all turn our heads and see hanging there a cat-o’-nine-tails. The boys’ faces sink and they are given soap and a bowl of socks and sent to the backyard to get scrubbing.

‘Don’t think I’d ever use it!’ says Mrs Crowe, and I can tell from her mouth that she is whispering. ‘But they don’t know that, eh! Off you go.’

We go back into the hall to fetch our boots, but as we step on to the tiles, I see another child has joined us in the parlour doorway, a little girl. She has a cloud of red curled hair, just like Christopher’s – in fact, she so resembles Christopher that at first I think it is him, playing mischief by sporting a dress. But she is radiant. She is a Visitor. She has nothing to say to me, just stands there, smiling, in her hand a rag doll which has lost its frock and much of its woollen hair. Lottie moves past without an inkling and pulls on her boots, the little girl only inches away from her, her head down, looking at the floor. I see that she has her eyes closed, no, not closed, but shrivelled, her eyelids rest against no eyes. She has lost them. She raises her head and reaches out her hand to me. I feel a faint tickle, like a downy feather resting in the palm. She is finger spelling for me. I have to watch it, as there is not sensation enough to read it by feel. I catch only the end of what she says: …
and I was so hot, so very hot. Can I have my cup?

Lottie turns to me, passes my boots and gestures for me to get on with it. I look at the Visitor and my eyes prick with tears. I know who she is. I want to tell Lottie that her sister Constance stands behind her and she is thirsty. But I cannot. Lottie has made it clear she does not accept the Visitors, that she thinks they are a sign of madness.

Rest now
,
I tell Constance.
I will speak with you later.
Her mouth twitches into a faint smile, she fades and leaves us. Sometime during my stay here with the Crowes, Lottie must hear some home truths, whether she likes it or not.

We explore Whitstable. Its coal-dusted alleys are soon replaced by the delights of a flourishing seaside town, packed with shops and places of refreshment, holidaymakers and locals, enveloped in the tangy scents of seafood and salt, fresh air and wet shell. We wander down the High Street, festive flags strung across the street above. The road is full of bicycles, wagons and donkey carts, while a couple push their great black perambulator at the side of the road as it is too wide for the pavement. We pass a shrimp stall reeking of the sea, a man in a fez selling the creatures in pints and halves. I watch the O-shaped mouths of street sellers shouting their wares, two men in long black coats with salt blocks on a cart, another man with a broad-brimmed hat and fly-catching strips hanging from it, stuck with the poor dead creatures. I read his lips as he walks sedately past: ‘Flies, flies, catch ’em alive!’ We peer in shop windows at fancy goods. I see an advertisement for sand shoes and bathing drawers and stop Lottie to see.

‘I have no bathing things. Father would not let me pack them.’

‘Why not?’

‘He does not approve of bathing. He says paddling is mischievous, as it makes your feet cold and sends all your blood to your head. And I’d need ginger wine if my lips turn blue or cornflower petals soaked in brandy on my eyelids if they should become inflamed.’

Lottie laughs, her head full back. Men glance at her as they pass by on the pavement. Her red hair and blue eyes are so very striking. And she has an ease about her, as if to say, I do not care tuppence what you think of me.

‘What nonsense!’ she signs. ‘Your father fusses too much. He is always imagining illnesses, in himself too. He’s as healthy as an ox and so are you. How do you think we managed, growing up by the sea, if paddling was so evil? When we were children, we’d light a fire on the beach and undress before it, then run down to the sea in our underthings or the little ones naked. All the mothers had no bathing costumes, they’d go in their nightdresses which would float around them like giant mushrooms.’

I look at the mannequins in their bathing costumes.

‘Perhaps Father would think it is unladylike to wear these.’

‘We won’t need those. It’s April and far too chilly for bathing. But if you want to pop into a hut and take your stockings off on the beach for a paddle, I won’t tell your father, will you?’

We are conspirators.

I am giddy with the freedom of my first sojourn in the world. I think, I am a visitor here in Whitstable. And as the saying goes, When in Rome … We walk on and pass a tavern called the Two Brewers. I notice the sign, because from one side you see the backs of the eponymous gentlemen drinking and as you pass, you look up to see their faces. A beer wagon has stopped outside and barrels are being offloaded. A couple emerge, clearly the worse for drink, as they reek of it and cannot stand up properly. They fall out of the doorway and bump headlong into the delivery man, who pushes them aside with his great forearms thick as a hunk of ham. They rise and mouth angrily at him; a bullish confrontation develops. Lottie hurries me on. I glance back and see the sign waving above their arguing heads in the breeze, and I see the name of the brewer is written across the top: Shepherd Neame. It is one of Father’s customers. I think of Father and the hops. It is the first time I have ever considered the ends of my father’s living. He is a good man, the best. But the products of his business can bring shame to those who use them. He even supplies a barrel of beer to the Head Drier in the oast house and all his men. It seems to me that to bring forth food from the sea, as the Crowes do, is a more noble enterprise than growing hops to make beer which ends with this intoxication. Perhaps Father does not know everything about morals and goodness after all.