Last Guests of the Season

by Sue Gee

  This time Claire was silent. ‘How?’ she said, after a while. ‘How, if you will forgive me asking this in the 1990s, can another woman possibly do that?’

  Frances blew out smoke and looked at her. ‘Shall I tell you something? You may not believe this, but it is quite irrelevant to me that Dora is a woman. It might matter to other people, and it might matter to her, but it doesn’t matter to me one iota. It isn’t the point.’

  ‘What is the point?’

  ‘Who she is. I care for her because of who she is, the kind of person she is. I don’t feel like this because she’s a woman – it isn’t even that I prefer women. It might be much easier if that were the case, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly.’ Claire waited. ‘Go on. Do you want to? The kind of person she is – what kind of person is she?’

  Frances had her arms round her knees; she was looking out over the meadow, to the reeds at the edge of the river. ‘She’s my type,’ she said at last. ‘It sounds so simple, and it goes so deep. I said she made me complete – perhaps it’s more to do with my feeling that she is complete. She has a quality, she has an air: she’s beautiful, but it’s more than that. She seems sufficient unto herself. If you saw her out walking alone you would never think she wanted company: it would be clear that her own thoughts are quite enough, that she is walking alone because she chooses to. I suppose that sounds like such a small thing, but it seems to say everything, somehow.’

  ‘But that’s always how I thought of you,’ said Claire. ‘You always had an air of distance and preoccupation –’

  ‘But Dora’s different. With me it was retreat, and defence and protection. It still is. With her it’s simply because she’s engaged in her thoughts – but she’s also engaged with people. When she’s with you she gives you everything.’

  ‘Does she?’ Claire wondered. ‘Does she really?’

  Frances flicked ash on the grass. ‘She seems to,’ she conceded. ‘Actually, I think she does. And I feel when I’m with her as if I’m in the right place, at the right time, with the right person, it’s as simple as that. I don’t feel churned up in the way I’m sure you think I do. I feel at peace.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘It’s when I’m not with her that’s the problem.’

  Claire put down her empty coffee cup and sat thinking. Far along the river Oliver and Jessica were laughing, swimming well. For a moment or two she couldn’t see Robert, but then he appeared from beyond the reeds, panting a little as he came out, waving. She made a gesture – not now, leave us alone – and he nodded, and began to investigate the shining pools of water in the grass, looking for frogs.

  ‘And you’ve never told her any of this,’ she said to Frances.

  ‘No.’ She raised her head, and ground the cigarette out in the grass beside her.

  ‘Because you don’t want to drive her away …’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Are you sure it would? You don’t …’ Claire hesitated. ‘You don’t think she might feel the same.’

  Frances looked at her with affection. ‘Did you?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘There aren’t any buts.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘I just do know. I just do.’

  ‘And what about Oliver?’ said Claire, seeing him and Jessica begin to swim towards the bank, ready to come out. With any luck Robert would interest them in frog-spotting. The boys, she could see, had abandoned each other, but each was still intent on his own pursuit.

  ‘I love him, too,’ said Frances sadly. ‘When I met him, I thought he was God.’

  Claire looked at her. ‘You met at work, didn’t you? I remember when we came to dinner – he described you slicing through manuscripts.’

  Frances smiled. ‘I didn’t slice, I was terrified, I just didn’t dare show it. Especially not to Oliver – everyone there was in awe of him, they still are, I think. He seemed to know everyone, to have read everything. I couldn’t believe it when he –’ She drew a long breath. ‘I couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone else.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But things change. Babies are born, and everything changes. Oliver retreated, I was hurt, then I changed jobs, and then – then I met Dora. And discovered that some things don’t change. You think you have put things behind you, and then you find –’ She tugged at a wild flower, picking the petals off, one by one.

  ‘And now? You and Oliver now?’

  ‘He is on one side of the river, and I on the other.’ Frances threw the petals away. ‘As it were. Neither of us knows how to get across.’

  ‘But you still want him.’

  ‘I still want him. I want him, I want Dora – I told you: I want the moon.’

  Claire shook her head.

  ‘How can you bear to live with all this?’

  Frances went quiet again, watching Oliver and Jessica wading out towards them through the shallows. ‘Let me tell you something.’ She turned to her. ‘It was you, for a while. Dear Claire. It was Rowan at school, for a while. It’s been Dora for years and years. No one else. I can’t imagine anyone else now. And I don’t know how else to live. I simply don’t know how to, not after all this time.’

  ‘You don’t think perhaps you should have some kind of therapy …’ Claire said tentatively.

  And Frances was suddenly sharp, as only Frances could be, in quite that way. ‘Will you tell me,’ she said coldly, ‘why I should have to have “therapy” for something which thousands of enlightened women up and down the bloody country are not only enjoying but declaring to be a political act? Will you tell me that?’

  ‘Because,’ said Claire, stung into sharpness herself, ‘you are not making that declaration, are you? You’re living a secret life, you’re living a lie, and I can’t believe it isn’t tearing you apart. And anyway –’

  Frances got to her feet. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you, I knew.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘I don’t want to say another word about it, and please, whatever you do, don’t tell Robert. Please. I can’t bear the thought of you both discussing me.’

  ‘I –’ Claire found that she was shaking, too. ‘Listen –’

  ‘Frances! Mum! I’ve got one!’

  Tom was stumbling through the tall grass towards them, his hands cupped. Frances stepped out of the shade.

  ‘Have you?’ she said, her voice quite without emotion. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  He came up to her, red in the face, very hot, and carefully opened his hands, just a crack. She bent down and saw within them the little frog, emerald bright, absolutely still, save for the small frantic throb of a pulse in its throat.

  ‘Poor thing,’ she said quietly. ‘Poor little thing. Let him go, Tom.’

  ‘No. I want to show Robert and everyone.’ And he moved away from her, closing his hands again, calling out. Frances stood watching him, her hands in the pockets of her shorts, and then she went down to the river, speaking to no one.

  ‘That was my frog,’ said Jack.

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘It was, actually. I saw it first.’

  ‘Yes, but I caught it.’

  ‘I was just going to catch it, wasn’t I? I was just going to. And you pushed.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  Their feet squelched over the marshy ground; soft mud oozed through their sandals as they walked side by side with their fishing nets. The sun was climbing higher. It beat upon their hats, and their rising voices were carried on the air to where Robert, beneath the trees, was dozing after his swim.

  ‘Do put a sock in it,’ he said, as they drew near.

  ‘It was my frog,’ said Jack, stepping into the shade, and he dropped down on his knees beside his father, letting his fishing net fall. ‘What shall we do now?’

  Robert groaned. ‘I was just dropping off.’ His head was resting on the empty nylon swimming bag, folded over; he opened a reluctant eye, seeing Tom standing on the edge of the
shade, his square shape dark against the brightness of the sun. ‘Mum still swimming?’ he asked Jack.

  ‘Yes.’ Jack tugged at blades of grass. ‘Why didn’t you bring the dinghy?’

  ‘Too far,’ said Robert, closing his eyes again. ‘Too hot.’

  Jack found a long and succulent stem and broke it. He leaned forward and carefully inserted a wavering tip into Robert’s right nostril, amongst the hairs.

  ‘Stop it!’ Robert pushed his hand away and gave a violent sneeze. Jack burst into giggles. ‘You sneeze like a whale!‘ He clambered on to Robert’s chest, sitting astride him, patting his face. ‘Wake up, whale.’

  ‘I’m going to do something to you in a minute.’

  ‘What? What are you going to do?’

  Robert sneezed again; Jack shrieked. ‘Whoosh!’

  Robert sat up and felt in the pocket of his shorts for a handkerchief. He blew his nose and wiped his streaming eyes with Jack still on his lap, and then looked at him crossly, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket.

  ‘Was that kind?’

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’ Jack put his arms round his neck, and Robert gave a sigh.

  ‘Can’t a chap ever have forty winks in peace?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack again, and kissed him.

  Over his shoulder, Robert saw Tom, watching them.

  ‘What did you do with the frog, anyway, Tom? I thought he was rather nice.’

  ‘I let him go,’ said Tom. ‘Frances wanted me to.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that was kindest.’ Jack’s head was buried in his neck, his sunhat fallen to the grass, his dark hair sleek and warm. ‘Where is Frances, anyway?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  Robert held out an arm. ‘Come here.’

  Tom came, dropping his fishing net.

  ‘Want a drink?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Get off, then,’ Robert told Jack.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. Come on, that’s enough now. Let me get at the drinks.’

  Jack rolled off, on to the other side; Robert, reaching for the picnic bag, saw beyond the trees Oliver and Jessica, still down by the shallows, where dragonflies darted and the water sparkled. They were exploring the pools, Jessica in her floppy straw hat, shorts pulled on over the green swimsuit, Oliver with binoculars slung round his neck against his faded T-shirt. They moved at some distance from each other, but looked companionable and relaxed, pointing things out like a couple of naturalists on holiday. Like the perfect father and daughter. I don’t know, thought Robert, pouring out squash from the larger flask, trying not to feel hurt. It seemed light years since he and Jessica had spent time together in quite that way, happy and unquestioning. Still, here was Jack. And here was Tom, hot and thirsty, making noises at the back of his throat, flexing his jaw.

  ‘There you go, then,’ he said, passing them both their drinks. Ice clinked in the flask; he poured himself a cup, making a mental note to replenish the beer next time they went to the market town. ‘If you two want a swim, I should have it soon, don’t you think? Before lunch. You both look as if you could do with it.’

  ‘Will you come in with us?’ asked Tom.

  ‘No, I’ve just had mine, but I’ll watch.’ He scanned the water, looking for Frances and Claire, who had both gone off without a word, separately and, it seemed, rather abruptly. I don’t know, he thought again, and gave up on that one, seeing, beside him, Tom’s hand straying absently down his shorts. Probably not a good idea, with Jack here.

  ‘Not now,’ he said quietly, and gave Tom a wink, man to man.

  Tom flushed, pulling his hand out.

  ‘Not what?’ said Jack on the other side. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Robert, getting up. ‘Right, who’s for a dip? Have you got your trunks on?’ He held his arm out high before him, trumpeting. ‘All young elephants at the ready – quick, march!’

  They fell in behind him, laughing, moving in procession out of the shade and down to the river, where Claire was just coming out, waving.

  ‘You lot look happy,’ she said, as they drew near.

  ‘Just off for a mud bath,’ said Robert, and then, as the boys stripped off, dropping their clothes on the grassy bank, ‘Everything okay? Where’s Frances?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ She shaded her eyes, looking towards Oliver and Jessica, wading through pools of water, blue as the sky. ‘Those two look happy as well,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert, still thinking about Frances. ‘What did you two talk about?’

  ‘What? Oh –’ Claire made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Nothing much. I’m going to dry off, and then I’ll put lunch out, shall I? Don’t let the boys stay in too long, it’s after midday.’

  And she was gone, walking away as if she had nothing more to say to him, though he somehow felt sure that wasn’t true.

  Jessica, after lunch, prevailed upon her father to walk all the way back to the house for the dinghy.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please. It’s so beautiful here, it seems such a waste …’

  ‘I can go,’ said Oliver, finishing a fig.

  ‘All right, and I’ll come with you.’ Her head bare, Jessica sat with her arms round drawn-up knees on the edge of a towel, shoulders patched by the sunlight through the leaves.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ said Robert, casually. ‘How about that for a change?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can see you any old time.’

  ‘You’re not very kind to Dad these days,’ said Claire mildly, leaning, at her son’s request, back to back against his knobbly spine.

  ‘Oh…’ Jessica frowned, beginning to look uncomfortable and cross. ‘I just want the dinghy, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ The last thing Robert wanted was to make a big deal out of her withdrawal, it could only make things worse. These things happened; they passed, surely. He got to his feet, throwing an apple core into the grass. ‘Anyone want anything else while I’m there?’

  ‘Will you see Frances?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I might.’ Robert looked down at him, sitting between Oliver and Jessica. ‘Is that where you think she might be?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Well even if she isn’t, I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’

  ‘She’s been gone for ages,’ said Jack.

  ‘Sometimes people like to be by themselves for a bit,’ said Claire.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I know you don’t. You just want love and cuddles all day, you’re just a soppy old puss cat.’ She shifted against the knobbly spine as he giggled. ‘Do we have to sit like this?’

  ‘God, you two,’ said Jessica. She looked over to Oliver, raising her eyes to the heavens, and he laughed.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Robert. ‘I’ll see you all in a bit.’ And he bent to pick up his sunglasses and walked off, cutting a path through the tall grass and meadow flowers, dry and still in the heat.

  ‘And when you come back you must have a rest,’ Claire called, watching him flick at butterflies with his hat.

  ‘A nice thought,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘See you.’

  When he had gone a silence fell on the group, which was perhaps accounted for by full stomachs and sleepiness and sun, but not, thought Claire, completely. Had she and Oliver been left alone with the children before? She didn’t think so. What could they talk about? And where had Frances got to?

  ‘Move up,’ she said to Jack, and then: ‘Actually, Jack, I’ve had enough of this, it’s too hot. Go on, let me lie down for a bit.’

  He moved, unprotesting, his own back damp with sweat, and she put her head on a rolled-up towel and he put his head on her stomach, settling down.

  ‘I can hear your lunch,’ he said, with interest.

  ‘Sssh.’

  And he was quiet, his dark head rising and falling as her stomach rose and fell, soon asleep, and she lay listening to the crickets all around them in the grass, and the buzz of bees,
watching Oliver and Jessica clearing away the remains of the picnic, brushing off crumbs, stacking up the plastic cups. Jessica was being much more helpful than at home; perhaps she and Robert, in their easygoing muddle, had made her lazy, perhaps she needed someone like Oliver, who had and expected high standards, to help her grow up. He was organising Tom, now, to put all the leftovers in a bag.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said sleepily.

  Oliver smiled at her. ‘Not at all.’ His face, which could look so sombre and withdrawn, was altered utterly by that smile: she thought so every time she saw it, remembering now the outing to the market, and the charm with which he had offered to do the shopping. She remembered, also, the moments of coldness or irritation which threatened to become fury – with Frances, with Tom.

  Tom had done as he was asked, and was clumsily stuffing the bag of crusts and orange peel back in the picnic bag.

  ‘Well done.’ Oliver shook out his towel, spread it out on the grass, and lay down, reaching for his book. Larkin again, Claire saw. Larkin had come and gone intermittently ever since their arrival, interspersed with books on Portugal borrowed from the house. Tom hovered, watching, making noises. Oliver looked at him. ‘Where’s your book?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your book. Have you brought it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Oliver gave a sigh.

  ‘Perhaps it’s with mine,’ said Jessica kindly, rummaging in Claire’s cotton shoulderbag, bought on a long ago childless holiday in Greece. ‘Mum? Did you pack our books?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Claire, who had gathered up a pile from the table as usual, just as they left the house.

  But Tom’s Enid Blyton was not with her Nina Bawden and Jessica’s Judy Blume, not that he seemed to care. It’s Oliver who wants to see him reading, thought Claire, watching all this; Tom himself looks in need of a rest. He stood beside Oliver looking down at him.

  ‘Can I do what Jack’s doing?’

  ‘What’s Jack doing?’ Oliver looked up from his book and across to where Jack lay, his head on Claire’s full stomach, fast asleep.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ said Claire. ‘Quite nice, really.’

  ‘It depends,’ said Oliver, ‘on the level of fidget.’ He looked up at Tom. ‘Promise not to wriggle or fidget or twitch?’