Last Guests of the Season

by Sue Gee

  ‘Oh, Tom …’ Claire and Robert burst out laughing; even Frances, clearly embarrassed, was smiling. Jack reached out to stroke sleek brown wings.

  ‘Careful,’ said Tom. ‘They’re still a bit nervous.’

  ‘Pare, pare! As minhas galinhas!’ With a stream of excited Portuguese, the owner of the hens was bearing down upon them, the crowd parting like the Red Sea to accommodate her. At the same moment, the stallholder’s dives for Mary were finally successful: he grabbed her, turned, and presented her at arm’s length with a bow.

  ‘Obrigado.’ The old woman reached out an enormous bare arm and took possession: in moments the hen was hanging upside down by her grubby feet, struggling ineffectually to raise her head.

  ‘Stop it!’ said Tom. ‘They hate being held like that.’

  The old woman turned to him with a smile. ‘Obrigado,’ she said again, and put a plump brown hand on his shoulder, making to shepherd him back towards her place at the entrance. Tom looked at her stonily.

  ‘If this were Spain,’ said Claire to the others, ‘we could be in trouble by now. Come on,’ she added to Tom. ‘Give them back, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘No.’ A dark flush spread across his face.

  Claire looked at Frances. Frances said warningly: ‘Tom …’

  ‘I’m not giving them back. She’s cruel, she’s keeping them cruelly. I want to save them from death.’

  Claire and Robert looked at each other. Robert said gently: ‘Listen, mate, give them back for now, all right, and then we’ll go and have a talk about it.’

  ‘Toma là.’ The old woman was smiling broadly, showing three teeth. She reached in the pocket of a vast green apron and produced a plump purple fig streaked with yellow; she held it out to Tom, and he turned his head away.

  ‘Tell her I don’t want it.’

  ‘Frances,’ said Claire, more sharply than she intended, ‘has this child got any pets at home?’

  Frances looked at her. ‘We can’t have pets in a flat.’

  ‘You could have a mouse or something,’ said Jack helpfully. ‘They don’t take up much space.’

  Tom looked at Frances, shifting the hens beneath his arms. ‘Could I have a mouse?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Please. Please.’

  Frances said: ‘Give those hens back, Tom, and we’ll discuss it. We’ll have to see what Oliver says.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Robert, moving forward. ‘Okay, now, Tom, you heard what Mum said.’ He ran a finger over the head and neck of one of the hens, making clucking sounds. ‘Come on, old girl.’ Sweat dripped from Tom’s arm on to the feathers. Robert carefully prised the hen off, talking soothingly. ‘Laid any eggs today? Come on, there’s a good hen, chook, chook, chook …’ He had her in his hands; Tom flexed his arm, then wrapped it round the other bird, bringing her up close to his chest. Robert passed Beaky over to the old woman, who in a single practised movement had her swinging by her feet, like Mary, who had given up the struggle. There was a round of applause from interested onlookers; he reached for the third hen, cradled in Tom’s arms.

  Tom looked at him pleadingly. ‘Can’t we just keep this one?’

  ‘Think of the possible mouse,’ said Robert, easing the bird away. ‘Good girl, clever girl …’

  ‘Can I have a mouse?’ asked Jack.

  The nameless third bird was swinging next; there were whistles and cheers. The fat old woman, nodding and smiling, made her exit as they stood aside for her. Within moments the crowd had returned to its shopping; stray pats landed on Tom’s and Jack’s heads.

  Tom stood by himself, and his eyes followed the waddling old woman and the gasping hens. He scratched one arm, absently; there was chicken shit all down his shorts.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Oliver to Frances, appearing with Jessica and a bagful of fruit and vegetables. ‘I was wondering what –’ He saw all the others, still there, and raised an eyebrow as Tom ran up to him.

  ‘Oliver! Oliver, can I have a mouse?’

  ‘A mouse?’ He frowned. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Right,’ said Robert, taking Claire’s arm. ‘I think we’ll be off now – see you all later.’ And he moved his family firmly towards the exit.

  ‘Hey –’ said Jessica.

  ‘You were great,’ said Claire to Robert.

  He mopped his brow. ‘Get me out of here.’

  They had lunch in a café full of flies, and bought Portuguese sick pills just as the chemist was closing. Shutters were put to, blinds descended, the sputtering motor bikes disappeared; a pall of heat and quietness enveloped the town as they drove away.

  And the house, when they returned to it, felt like a haven: familiar, shady and cool, a place they knew and where they were known – by the creeping cat, and by Guida, who had washed up supper and breakfast, swept the wooden floors and made the beds, leaving the shutters closed and a cotton bag of fresh bread on the kitchen table.

  Dora, wrote Frances, carrying shopping, following Claire down the stone steps beneath the vines, I could sit and talk to you for ever … Please don’t be too shocked, please don’t be afraid …

  Water, steady and calm, poured into the green-tiled tank above her; shouts and laughter came from the pool, where the children had raced the moment they were let out of the car, Oliver keeping an eye. Up on the blinding hot road Robert was slamming the boot shut; he came down the steps with the last box of groceries, and Frances turned to smile at him.

  ‘Thanks so much for helping with Tom.’

  ‘That’s all right. What did you decide about the mouse?’

  ‘The mouse … Oh, Oliver’s told Tom he’ll think about it, if his behaviour improves. Do you think that’s reasonable?’

  Robert opened his mouth and closed it. He shrugged, shifting the box on his arms. ‘It’s not for me to say, is it?’ A tin of flageolet beans, perched on top of a box of crackers, rolled off and banged down on the steps, bouncing on to Frances’s neat canvas foot; she winced, and bent to retrieve it. Ahead of them, Claire had opened the door and was carrying bags inside; they followed her into the kitchen, shaded by creeper, smelling faintly of gas.

  Robert dumped his box on the table and poured a long glass of mineral water from the fridge; without another word, he went out of the room, leaving Claire and Frances to unpack the shopping, hearing his heavy tread going up the stairs and along the landing. The bedroom door opened and closed; the house was silent. In silence, Claire and Frances put tins and boxes in cupboards, meat and fish in the freezer, fruit in a bowl.

  Dora, said Frances, bending down, putting potatoes into the vegetable rack beneath the sink, Dora, Dora, please don’t go …

  Behind her, Claire said, ‘Do you want to talk to me?’

  ‘No.’ She straightened up, and stood with her back against the wooden draining-board. ‘Where are my cigarettes? Where’s my bag?’ She saw it, lying on the table next to the empty cardboard box, and went quickly over; she took out the packet, and lit a cigarette with a match from the box by the stove, shaking it out with exaggerated care, inhaling as if her life depended on it.

  Claire stood watching this performance. ‘Frances –’

  On the wall above the stove was a cheap electric clock, its plastic face covered in a film of grease. It ticked into the silence; Frances glanced up at it.

  ‘It’s after two,’ she said, her voice brittle. ‘I think the children should have a rest, don’t you?’ She was moving towards the door, talking into the air. ‘Certainly Tom should …’ And she was gone, climbing the steps towards the water tank, walking at speed along the path to the pool.

  Claire stood watching her go. ‘Tell Jack and Jessica to come in too,’ she called, and Frances waved a hand in acknowledgement and was hidden by the vines. And Claire felt suddenly overcome with heat and sleepiness, and a longing for Robert, and normality. She would try to deal with Frances later. She went out and up the worn wooden stairs, shadowy and warm, along the rag runner, shaken out by G
uida. Distant voices came from the pool. She pushed open their bedroom door. Robert was lying on his back with his eyes closed, snoring gently. She pulled off her sandals and in bare feet went quietly across the untidy floor to wake him.

  The path to the pool was shaded with vines, but the poolside itself was exposed to the blazing afternoon sun, which beat upon the rusting fence by the road and the concrete surround where Oliver, his feet in the water, sat watching Jessica swim up and down. The pool had been roughly painted in pale green; the water, unchanged all summer, having received the muddy feet of all the previous guests at the house, was a cloudy brown, although the surface sparkled. Oliver, in his swimming trunks and old straw hat, felt the sun on his shoulders beginning to be uncomfortable, even though, unlike Frances, he enjoyed the heat.

  ‘I think we should move,’ he said to Jessica, as she reached his end.

  ‘In a minute.’ She touched the side, turned and pushed off again, moving through the water in her sleek green swimsuit like a seal: firm, well-covered, strong. ‘I want to do fifty lengths,’ she said, her mouth above the water. ‘That’s about twenty at home, I should think.’

  ‘And how many metres is that?’ He moved his feet, swishing gently.

  ‘Four hundred.’ She was beginning to pant. ‘How many have I done so far?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be counting.’ She had reached the far end, was already turning back towards him.

  ‘It’s too hot. Come on.’

  ‘Three more. I think that’ll be thirty. I can’t do it when the boys are here, mucking about.’

  ‘No.’ The boys, bidden by Frances, had gone inside to rest; Frances had gone for a walk, charging Oliver to look after Jessica, who said she didn’t want a rest.

  ‘When will you be back?’ he had asked her.

  ‘Oh – teatime. Fiveish.’ Frances stood on the steps leading from the bushes to the pool, impatiently ushering the boys away. They looked at each other through their sunglasses. ‘I need some time to myself – is that all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ It was built into their agreement. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She went down the steps and along the path to the water tank, up the next flight to the road; there was the creak of the iron gate, and footsteps, going away.

  There were footsteps on the road now, slow and quiet. Frances had gone up, towards the bend; these were coming down, passing the house, approaching the pool. Oliver turned to see a wiry old woman in black, her lined face beneath a towering heap of ferns piled on her head, held by one hand.

  ‘Bo tar’.’ Her voice was a croak, distant and dry; she did not smile.

  ‘Bo tar’.’ He watched her steady progress beneath her load, down towards the village, to the line of empty cottages waiting, surely, for some British developer. After a few moments, a scrawny brown dog came slinking out of a gap in the mountainside and began to follow her. He was more than scrawny: he was half starved, ribs and haunches sticking up through a dull, flea-bitten coat. His claws clicked on the hot surface: the old woman turned and he shrank back, but a low growl came from him, and as soon as she walked on he followed her, and the growl of hunger came again.

  ‘Cao danado!’ The old woman stopped suddenly and swung round; ferns dropped on to the road, and she raised her fist. ‘Vai – te embora!’

  The dog snarled; strings of saliva shone. She took two steps towards him, and he retreated, still facing her, hunched down, haunches high above a skeletal spine. ‘Cao danado!’ Still she advanced, and he suddenly gave in and leapt up, turning, running weakly from side to side, back up the road to a clump of bushes, where he disappeared. The old woman waited a few moments, and then she walked on, swaying a little beneath the ferns.

  ‘What was all that shouting?’ Jessica had done her three laps; she rested her arms on the poolside, looking up at him.

  ‘Just an old woman.’ He told her about the dog.

  ‘Do they get rabies?’ Jessica’s hair clung to her head in thick, wet strands but on the top it was still dry, burnished with lights from the sun.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Yes, I expect it’s possible. We’d better be careful.’

  She sniffed, wiping water from her face with a suntanned hand, and smiled up at him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’ll get sunstroke if we stay out here.’

  ‘What shall we do, then?’ She pulled herself out of the water and sat beside him, dripping on to the hot concrete. She shifted her bottom. ‘It’s boiling.’

  He got to his feet, and held out his hand. ‘Get up. Let’s go and sit in the shade.’

  ‘And play chess?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Out here,’ said Jessica, taking his hand. ‘Away from the boys.’

  ‘All right.’

  They walked down the path to the round table set beneath the vines. Even here, in the shade, it was so hot that the air felt breathless, motionless, the sky above the valley drained to white. From somewhere down in the village came the sound of a saw; then it was quiet again.

  Jessica sat down on an iron seat with care; she rested her chin in her hands and waited while Oliver went down to the house for the chess set. After a while, she took away her right hand, the one he had held, and looked at it; she pressed it to her cheek again.

  ‘Here we are.’ He was back, with the chess and also, balanced on the wooden box, two tall glasses of squash, with ice cubes. Glistening drops of condensation clung to the sides.

  ‘Brilliant.’ She drank thirstily, watching him set up the pieces. ‘You can be black.’

  ‘All right. Can you remember all the moves?’

  ‘I think so.’ She leaned forward, her hair brushing the board; she pushed it back impatiently. ‘The knight is the difficult one, it goes …’ She picked up the white knight and moved him, two forward and one across, biting her lip. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly right.’

  ‘And the queen …’

  ‘The queen can go anywhere,’ he said. ‘She is omnipotent.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It means she is all-powerful, she can do anything. Like God.’

  ‘I don’t believe in God,’ said Jessica. ‘None of our family do. Well, Jack might, he’s a bit soppy sometimes.’

  He gave a laugh. ‘But you are never soppy.’

  She shrugged, finishing her drink. ‘Mum and Dad still treat me like a baby, sometimes.’ She looked at the board, all set up and waiting. ‘Come on, let’s play.’ Her fingers hovered above the line of pawns.

  ‘You seem rather grown-up to me,’ said Oliver.

  Beneath her rucked-up cotton skirt, Robert’s fingers slid into Claire: practised, affectionate, sure. She gave a long sigh of pleasure.

  ‘More. More.’

  Sun poured through the gaps in the shutters: up here, in the heavy fullness of the afternoon heat, the tension of the morning ebbed away: it was possible, in this tender and erotic rhythm, to feel the quiet house and the beginning of the holiday reclaimed, just for themselves. Claire lifted her legs and spread them wide, moving her head upon the pillow; she stretched out her arms to Robert, kneeling above her, moving in deeper, his other hand beneath her; she heard his breathing, aroused but unhurried. They had plenty of time: the rest of the afternoon, the rest of their lives. He lifted her higher, withdrew from her, lowered his head.

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  Waves of desire came up to meet him; his mouth and his tongue were everywhere, over her, inside her, searching and discovering, knowing and still wanting to know more.

  ‘And you,’ said Claire, rising, rising. ‘And you …’

  In an old embrace they moved, the warm bed creaking beneath them, and devoured each other with infinite and exquisite slowness, until Robert, the most generous of lovers, at last brought her round and beneath him, and slipped inside her and withdrew, and inside her again, and on and on and on and on, mouths locked and bodies pounding, until
at last they came, hard up against each other, crying out, rocking, murmuring, falling asleep.

  The mountain road Frances had taken was steep and winding, but there were places, on the long slope down towards the river, where the ground levelled out and it was possible to walk for some distance among the trees without too much exertion. The heat was intense, the air was still, rich with the smell of the pines; she walked on a carpet of long sharp needles, stepping over drifts of dry, grey-brown fir cones, larger than fists. At this height, upon this plateau, the river far below and the road above were both invisible: Frances felt suspended, secluded, unreachable.

  There were no birds. Occasionally the far away sound of a car or motor bike droned through the afternoon, going up, going down, going away; then it was quiet again. Frances walked on, continuing her letter.

  In all the years we have known each other I have been sustained simply by knowing that every day, when you come through the doors to the office and walk down the room I shall be able to look up, and see your face. Dora, forgive me – I have never seen anyone so beautiful …

  The publishers where Frances worked as editor and Dora as designer had offices on the top floor of a long-since converted warehouse in a narrow street not far from Long Acre. There was no lift, and no reception area. You came in from the street and climbed narrow stairs; you passed, on each floor, swing-doors and corridors leading to other offices, then came, at last, to the fourth floor, the top, where swing-doors painted midnight blue led into a large, open-plan space running the width of the building. Prints and posters hung on the walls, plants trailed from shelves and window-sills, broad desks stood on either side of the room, flanked by metal bookshelves. On the right-hand side the ceiling sloped, and skylight windows had been set into it at intervals: Frances had her desk beneath one of these, a bookshelf at right angles making a secluded corner.

  At other desks sat other people. Nearest the doors, ready to welcome visitors, was Elaine, secretary and production assistant, young, cheerful, living with somebody nice. Opposite sat Derek, the production manager, not quite so cheerful since the divorce, liable to bark at printers, liable to drink. Like Kate, rights and contracts manager, overworked, overweight from too many lunches, single, witty, lonely. Down at the far end was Jocelyn, who had set up the company with money from the city and his redundancy money from another, much larger publishers; who had vision and drive and believed in good books and was nice to everybody. Sometimes Kate made caustic remarks about perfect Jocelyn and his 2.1 family in East Horsley, but Frances, who also tried to be perfect, had a certain admiration for him, when she gave him thought. Most of her thoughts went in a rather different direction.