The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  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 t
he 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.’

  ‘Impossible. Out of the question. Responsible for Lucy for the whole of September? Delightful as that prospect might be, I’ll have work to do. My sabbatical is coming up.’

  ‘Precisely my own view,’ she said, in unruffled tones. ‘Which is why I suggest I accept this invitation. For those four weeks, Lucy would then be safely in Hampshire. That seems convenient for everyone, Dr Payne. It kills several birds with one stone. Shall I write this evening and accept? I dislike arrangements to remain unsettled, if you recall.’

  ‘I don’t recall any of this,’ my father burst out, suddenly enraged. Now we’re in for it, I thought, inching backwards from his wrath while Miss Dunsire coolly held her ground. ‘Reading party? What damned reading party? Who’s attending this reading party? That so-called poet you invited to lunch today, I suppose? Dear God, imagine it, listening to him prosing on for an entire month. I never met such a blasted poseur in my life, preposterous hair, affected manners, opinions about everything under the sun, a damned insinuating manner too – who in hell does that young man think he is?’

  ‘Rupert Brooke?’ Miss Dunsire sighed. ‘There is a Brookeian epidemic in Cambridge, and the disease is very infectious; that iconoclastic tone could well be a symptom. I so agree with you, Dr Payne, he’s a pest – and a bore. I invited him today at the last minute to make up the numbers and regretted it the second he arrived. And he won’t be in France, I can assure you of that! It’s strictly a women-only reading party. Which I much prefer.’

  She paused, and then in an altered tone went on: ‘Ah, this is all my fault! I blame myself. I should have reminded you again – you have so much on your mind! But I did inform you, Dr Payne – shall I fetch your desk diary? I can show you the entry I made.’

  ‘No, no – no need for that.’ My father hesitated, looking down at Miss Dunsire’s face. Her expression was now penitent; his temper seemed on the mend. ‘I know how efficient you are, Miss Dunsire. And I didn’t mean to suggest – of course you are entitled to your holiday. A reading party in the Loire… delightful! A very beautiful part of France, too. A “crowd” of you going, I think you said? Your friends from Girton, I expect?’

  ‘Indeed. We remain very close. What’s the collective term for us bluestockings? A covey of bluestockings… a chattering, a charm, a cabal?’ She smiled demurely, and my father, who liked wordplay, smiled in return. ‘My friend Dorothy whom you met today will be there and her sister Edith. Evadne and Winifred, Meta of course – and my very dear friend Clair, who shared supervisions with me. There will be twelve of us, I think, perhaps thirteen… I’m looking forward to it immensely.’ She lowered her eyes.

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ My father seemed to find this chaste roll-call reassuring. ‘You will be missed here, I hardly need say. I shall be looking forward to your return, as will Lucy. Very good. Fine. The whole of September… that’s settled then. Oh, and accept that invitation from Lady Evelyn, if you’d be so good. Now I really must go.’ With that, he set off across the garden, humming to himself, his spirits restored.

  Miss Dunsire and I watched him depart. The heat of the day was diminishing now, and in the cooling air the scents of the flowers intensified. Silence fell. I kept my eyes on the garden; I gazed at the roses pinned to wires on its high walls: Edith Cavell, Lady Hillingdon, Grace Darling, Mrs Herbert Stevens. My mother had planted them; I’d never noticed that all our roses were named for women. I examined them studiously. Well trained and tied in, branches expertly crucified to maximise flowering: displaying an abundance of blooms.

  ‘Are you going to thank me, Lucy?’ Miss Dunsire spoke so suddenly she made me start. ‘You don’t like me,’ she went on. ‘You make that abundantly clear. But be honest and admit it: it was I who won you a month with your friends. Shall I tell you why I did that? Please do not imagine I was motivated by compassion or sympathy. No – I did it because I could.’

  This was true, I realised. I didn’t doubt it for one second. After a pause, I said in an obstinate way: ‘That was the main reason, perhaps. It wasn’t the only one, though.’

  ‘Well, well, well. Not such a simpleton, after all. But then I never made the mistake of thinking you were.’ She gave me a long glittering look. ‘Sharp. Quick. A subtle child. You repay teaching, I see. Come with me.’

  Catching me by the hand, she began to walk back to the house at a swift pace, coming to a halt in the cool shadows of the hall. ‘One of my migraines is coming on,’ she said. ‘I shall go and lie down. But there’s something I need to do first – come in here.’

  She threw back the door to my father’s study – the Holy of Holies; infrequently used, since he preferred to work in college, it remained sacrosanct. It was a place I revered, feared and ra
rely entered. I hesitated, then with reluctance followed her inside. I saw to my surprise that the shabti figure I’d given him, a present he’d rejected as more loathsome than a scarab, had been retrieved and reinstated; it now stood on his desk.

  ‘I rescued it, Lucy.’ Miss Dunsire followed my gaze. ‘I persuaded him of its virtues. It isn’t genuine, I’d say, though I have no expertise in such matters. Ah, I’m right, I can see it in your eyes.’ She looked at me curiously. ‘How can you tell it’s a fake?’

  ‘You need to look at lots of them, and you have to know how to look,’ I replied. I couldn’t understand why she had brought me in here, especially now. She was leaning across the desk and had picked up the shabti figure. ‘Go on, Lucy,’ she said. ‘I want to know.’

  ‘Mr Carter, that archaeologist I met,’ I began, cautiously, ‘he said the best way to tell if an object was genuine was to look at it every single day. By the end of a week or a month, the quality of the genuine object would become obvious. It would – sing out. Whereas the coarseness of the fake would gradually reveal itself. Its flaws would become evident… That’s what he said, anyway.’

  ‘A useful technique. I’d always thought I could spot a fake at forty yards. Maybe I have something to learn.’ She frowned. ‘I read up on these shabti figures. Their name – it means answerer, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what they are – answerers. In the afterlife, when a king needs them, he only has to call out, and there they are, ready to do his bidding, answering all his needs.’

  ‘Every man’s dream. The perfect present for your father. Now – where’s that diary of his?’

  She began to move the books on my father’s desk back and forth. Having found the diary, she flicked through the pages, plucked up my father’s fountain pen and unscrewed its cap: ‘September. You’ll observe those pages are blank. Astonishing! I could have sworn I entered my holiday dates. I must have dreamed it. Still, that’s easily rectified.’