Foreigners

by Stephen Finucan

  He saw the smudge on the pane: the greasy stain left behind when she pressed her nose and forehead to the glass. He looked toward the ceiling. Not a sound had come from upstairs since she’d closed the door on him. She’d been so quiet that he had half forgotten he was not alone in the house. He found the thought of this disconcerting.

  She must be made to leave, he decided, and the sooner the better. He realized, however, that it was now more than simply a question of turning her out, though in all honesty he knew that he had already done far more than was to be expected. After some consideration, he resolved to give her thirty quid and pay for a taxi to take her to the village. If she liked, she could use the money for a bed and breakfast or to buy a coach ticket to Derby or London, or wherever it was she needed to get to. It made no difference to him, just as long as she was gone.

  He left her to sleep while he arranged things. He found the number of a minicab company in the telephone directory and wrote it down on a pad of paper. Then, as a gesture of added generosity, he retrieved two twenty-pound notes from the jar on the countertop and laid them on the table beside the telephone.

  When the hour came that he usually sat down in front of the television to have his tea, he climbed the stairs to wake her. At the door to the bedroom he felt a flutter of nervousness and had to wait a moment before knocking. When no answer came, he tapped a little louder. Still receiving no reply, he turned the handle and gently pushed open the door.

  The first thing he noticed was that she had laid her clothes out over the floor. It was almost as if as she’d shed her wet layers as she made her way across the room. But the garments were not strewn haphazardly. Instead, they were neatly stretched out so as to avoid wrinkling as they dried. He was careful not to tread on anything as he walked over to the bed.

  She stirred as he approached, rolling onto her side. As she did, the duvet fell away and revealed to him a naked breast. For a moment he was transfixed. The soft, pale flesh; the blue faintness of veins around the brown bruise of her nipple. She murmured something he could not understand; moaned softly.

  Slowly he reached out and took hold of a corner of the duvet and covered her again. Then he turned and left the room.

  He was disappointed to find her sitting at the kitchen table when he came downstairs the following morning. She’d made herself a cup of tea and was smoking a cigarette, the ashes of which she flicked into a saucer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, extinguishing the cigarette. “I couldn’t find an ashtray.”

  “I haven’t any,” he replied, picking up the saucer and depositing her fag-ends in the bin before rinsing the plate clean. “Got rid of them years ago.”

  “You gave up smoking, then,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “I’ve never smoked.”

  He turned and faced her. She looked different to him: healthier, less fraught. He felt strangely guilty for having been harsh.

  “My wife did, though,” he added. “When she was still alive.”

  “I see,” she said.

  He wondered if she did. He’d not been trying to imply that cigarette smoking had caused Pippa’s death; he’d simply said it for the sake of saying something. Although now he wondered why he had bothered. For the remark seemed to be having a wounding effect, and the slight trace of colour he’d seen in her cheeks a moment earlier drained away. An awkward silence descended. He thought now might be the time to bring up her leaving, but she spoke before he had the chance.

  “It was awfully kind of you to take me in like that,” she said, trying to muster a smile again. “I can’t believe I slept so long.”

  “You must have been quite tired.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I was.” Her voice brightened and she sat forward in her chair. “I didn’t know it myself, but I truly was. I think I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. I didn’t move a muscle until I woke up this morning.”

  He looked past her to the telephone table. The two twenty-pound notes and the paper with the number of the minicab company lay undisturbed.

  “It’s the fresh air,” he said. “It tires one out.”

  “It sure does,” she replied. “I’ve always thought that odd. You would expect it to be invigorating, seeing that it’s so clean and … well, fresh.”

  It seemed to him, now that she was rested, that she was eager to talk. He wished she wouldn’t. He had grown accustomed to silence, and the thought of having to fill it taxed him. When he gave no indication of wanting to carry on the conversation, she took up the mantle herself.

  “You’ve got a lovely farm,” she said, attempting to draw him out.

  “It’s not a farm. Not any more, at least.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “The land’s all sold off,” he said and walked into the mud room to find his wellingtons.

  When he returned, a look of pity had settled over her. As he sat down at the table to pull on his boots, she leaned slightly toward him.

  “That must have been very sad for you,” she said, sympathetically. “Having to sell your land, I mean.”

  “Was never really mine,” he said, bent over his boots. “Belonged to my wife’s family. I was never much of a farmer. Truth is, I was glad to be rid of it. Always was too much work for one man.”

  “What did you have?” she asked. “I mean, was it crops? Livestock?”

  “Beef cattle first,” he replied, absently. “Sheep for a while after that. Nothing much near the end.”

  “And you did it for your wife.”

  Now he looked at her, annoyed that he had allowed himself to be taken in by her talk.

  “She must have been quite special,” she said after a moment. “For you to keep a farm going when you really didn’t want to.”

  He stood up from the table and turned toward the door.

  “I’m going for my walk now,” he said, coolly. “I walk every morning.”

  “I wonder,” she said before he could add anything, “would you mind so much if I used your bath? It’s just that I haven’t had a proper wash since I left the hotel in Torquay. Days ago now.”

  He did not look at her when he spoke: “You’ll find the bathroom at the top of the stairs to your right, beside the toilet. Towels are in the linen cupboard just inside the door.”

  He first came to the farm with Pippa on their honeymoon. Two days were all they’d been given, and all things considered, even that was generous. They’d been hastily married by the base chaplain at Aldershot, who, before he joined them, reiterated his disapproval of wartime marriages. Her parents had not been able to attend. So it was decided that rather than Land’s End, as they had planned, they would go north to the farm.

  For a few delirious days, Pippa’s mother paraded him around all the shops in the village, fawning, almost flirtatious, in her delight. Showing him off like a trophy to all, and running her hand proudly over the shoulder flashes of his dress uniform.

  At the farm, two evacuee children from Whitechapel, whom Pippa’s parents were fostering, followed him around; as he pitched in awkwardly with the chores, they laughed at his clumsiness and strange accent. Even Pippa’s father, whose weak heart left him able to only direct the young boys in the farm work, smiled at his well-intentioned but feeble efforts at mucking out the cowsheds.

  They were given the guest room, the two boys being made to share the narrow bed in Pippa’s own room. Their first night together as man and wife, Pippa allowed him to undress her. She stood beside the bed, eyes closed, a faint smile curling her lips, as he unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Her blouse, once opened, he pushed gently from her shoulders. He unfastened her stockings from her garters one at a time and rolled them down her soft white legs; she put her hands on his shoulders as he slipped them from her feet. She lay down on the bed then and raised her hips so he could remove her knickers. She reached around and unclasped her brassiere as he climbed in beside her. They made love quietly; the only sound, the voices of her parents talking to
one another in the next room.

  Later, after Pippa had fallen asleep, he got out of bed and sat in a chair by the window. The entire house was silent then as he watched her sleep. The bedclothes were gathered around her hips and her bare torso was lit by the moonlight through the window. It was a clear, starry night. There would be air raids over the cities: Liverpool, Birmingham, Hull, London. But there, in the quiet countryside, watching Pippa as she slept, he did not care.

  It had been such a very long time since he’d thought of that night. And as he stood now, in the middle of the field, the slate grey sky again threatened rain.

  He stood in the doorway to the kitchen and watched as she buttered toast on the sideboard. On the countertop beside her lay his library book. She put the knife down, licked the tip of her finger and turned a page, still unaware of his presence. He retreated into the mud room and opened the outside door, then slammed it shut again. He took his time removing his boots.

  When he re-entered the kitchen she had set the book aside and was standing by the table, in her hands a plate piled high with toast.

  “What’s all this, then?” he asked.

  “You’ve just been so kind,” she said, sounding very pleased with herself, “that I thought I would do something nice for you.” She put the plate down on the table, which had been set with cutlery, paper napkins, salt and pepper, brown sauce and red. “I found some side bacon and eggs in the fridge. And a can of baked beans in the larder.” She took a dishtowel from the counter and moved to the stove. From the oven she retrieved the two plates she’d left to warm. “I thought you would be back sooner. I didn’t want everything going cold.”

  She set the plates down on the table and smiled at him. He’d not come any farther into the kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

  “I was saving that for my Sunday tea,” he replied.

  “Oh.”

  She looked at the table, then back to him.

  “I should have waited,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “You should have.”

  Even as he spoke, he could see the tears beginning to well in her eyes. She wiped them away quickly with the back of her hand.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It was presumptuous of me.” She folded the towel into a neat square and set it down on the table. “I should go, I think.” She looked at him; her smile waned. “You’ve been very good.”

  For a moment he felt quite weak and thought he might have to put a hand against the wall to steady himself.

  “I’ve left a few things upstairs,” she said, moving toward the hallway. “I’ll just collect them and be on my way.”

  He remained where he was, listening to her footsteps as they made their way up the stairs and along the corridor. He could hear her moving about in the room above. Then came the sound of the bedroom door being closed. She was carrying a small black haversack when she came back into the kitchen. He’d not noticed it before; she must have worn it under her anorak. She stood for a moment looking at him, as if searching for something to say, then turned to go.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She stopped, but did not face him.

  “It seems such a waste,” he said, crossing to the sideboard where he opened a narrow cupboard. “You’ve gone to the trouble of making a meal; it would be silly not to eat it.” He withdrew two dinner trays and brought them to the table. “I’ll never be able to finish all of this myself,” he said, as he began to load the plates onto the tray. “Please stay.”

  Now she turned.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

  It was his turn to smile.

  “Of course,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Besides, I couldn’t send you off on an empty stomach.”

  He held out a tray to her.

  “I hope it’s all right,” he said, “but I prefer to eat in the lounge.”

  They ate in silence, and afterward he collected both trays and took them to the kitchen. Then he set about making a pot of tea, which he carried back into the lounge with the china service Pippa always saved for special occasions. He’d had to fetch it down from a top shelf in the cupboard and wipe away the dust. He also brought along an extra saucer for her to use as an ashtray.

  She was standing beside the settee when he returned, looking at a small silver-framed photograph hanging on the wall. It was the picture taken of him and Pippa immediately after their wedding ceremony, just before they left for the station to come to the farm. It had been a windy day, and in the photo Pippa had to hold her nurse’s cap on with her hand because she’d misplaced her hatpin. They were both laughing at something that had been said, but he could no longer remember what it was. They were standing outside the base chapel, and if one looked closely, the chaplain’s pinched face could be seen peering through a small window on the far right.

  “That’s you and your wife, is it?” she asked, leaning in close to the photograph.

  “Yes,” he said as he set the service down on the coffee table. “We were just married.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Yes. She was.”

  He poured out the tea. “Do you take sugar?” he asked.

  “Just a little milk, thank you.”

  She sat down on the settee and he passed her a cup. After she’d taken it, he set the extra saucer at the edge of the table and nodded toward it.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

  “No, not at all.” He took his own cup and sat again in the chair beside the window. He watched her as she took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her anorak, which she’d laid over the arm of the settee. She withdrew one and lit it with a slim gold lighter, then tipped her head back and blew a thin cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. He seemed unable now to take his eyes off her, and as he brought his cup to his lips, he slightly misjudged the distance and spilled a drop of tea down his front. This brought a smile to her face.

  “What was her name?” she asked, picking up her cup and saucer while still holding the cigarette between her fingers.

  “Pippa,” he said. “Philippa, actually.”

  “That’s a lovely name.”

  He nodded and glanced up at the photograph.

  “How,” she said, “if you don’t mind my asking, did you meet?”

  He set his cup down on the side table and folded his hands in his lap. She was perched on the edge of the settee, an almost childlike glint in her eyes.

  “Ah, well, yes,” he said and brushed a piece of lint from his trousers.

  “If you’d rather not, that’s fine.”

  “No, it’s perfectly all right,” he said. “Just not much of a story, really. I was a second lieutenant in the Sixth Infantry. We were stationed at Aldershot, down south. Training for the Normandy invasion, as it turned out; though we’d no idea of it at the time. Pippa was a nursing sister in the British Army Surgical Hospital at Newdigate.”

  “You were wounded?” she asked, concerned.

  He was amused by her worried tone, so long after the fact, and felt a flickering of emotion for her.

  “No,” he continued. “Not wounded, per se—unless you consider appendicitis a wound. I was operated on at Newdigate. Philippa was on the recovery ward. Sounds romantic, I know, but in truth, it was all rather messy. Bedpans and sick and what have you. But that didn’t put her off. We were married after I was released from hospital.”

  She took one more puff of her cigarette before stubbing it out in the saucer, then sat back on the settee. Her face became gloomy.

  “It must have been so awful for you.”

  He wrinkled his brow: “How do you mean?”

  “France. Normandy. Those terrible beaches.”

  “Oh, I never went to France. Not long after that photo was taken,” he said, pointing over her shoulder, “I contracted peritonitis. Spent most of the duration of the war in an invalid hospital.”

  She was curious and wanted to see the farm. He
told her there wasn’t much left worth looking at, but she was insistent, and it made him rather prideful. First they crossed the yard to the one remaining outbuilding, but she seemed disappointed when he explained that it wasn’t anything more than a storage shed; he’d kept winter feed in it at one point, but now only used it to store old garden tools and other such rubbish. The foundation for the barn was also rather a letdown. He’d sold the slate roof tiles to a salvage company from Matlock and had the walls knocked down after they became something of an eyesore to him.

  She perked up a bit when he pulled back the rusty gate and led her through to the paddock. The grasses had already grown knee-high and here and there among the nettles beechnut saplings had begun to take root. He pointed them out to her and explained that the sheep would have eaten them long before they reached such a height; that, in fact, they’d have eaten everything to the ground, nettles included.

  At the top of the paddock was the one remaining cattle shelter; the other, which stood on the opposite side of the stone wall that separated the paddock from the upper field, had collapsed three winters before. He showed her the long trough where he used to feed the sheep, and the cattle before them, as well as the remnants of a salt lick that had melted away over the years, staining the concrete floor of the shelter a pale violet blue.

  She ran the toe of her trainer through the powdery blemish, then walked on to the stone wall. He stood back a moment, watching her. She leaned on her elbows and stared out over the field. A slight breeze coming from behind ruffled her short hair, revealing the pale nape of her neck. He went and stood beside her.

  “This wall could do with mending,” he said, rocking a loose stone on its top. “I’ve let things go a bit.”

  “It does seem a shame,” she said.

  “Well, it’s not such an easy job for me any more. I’d have to take it down to its base to fix it properly.”

  “No,” she said, turning to him. “I mean this.” She nodded toward the field.

  “Ah, yes,” he agreed. “I think so, too, at times. But things change.”