Such Visitors

by Angela Huth

  She had worked very hard upon Commander Chariot, trying to put him at his ease, to draw him from his shell, with the delicate lift of a sympathetic eyebrow, or an almost indistinguishable pat on the arm by her softly padded hand. And indeed, by the last night, amid the coloured rain of paper streamers, she had persuaded him to call her Magda. But she knew he had only complied to her wishes out of politeness. The name had not burst from his lips in a rush of warmth and natural friendliness, and Mrs McCorn had felt disappointed. It was some consolation, of course, to know the other passengers were firmly convinced a shipboard romance had flared between herself and the handsome Commander, and she would not give them any indication that the truth was quite different. She returned to Cheltenham with the Commander’s Suffolk address and the promise to ‘drop in for a cup of tea if ever she was that way’ (which, one day, she would most certainly arrange to be). The Commander made no such promises in return. In a brief farewell, he mentioned – in a voice that was almost callous, Mrs McCorn thought later, considering all the trouble she had taken – that Gloucestershire was not a part of the country he ever had occasion to visit. They did exchange Christmas cards, and Mrs McCorn rather boldly sent postcards from Norway and Sweden – by great strength of will managing to refrain from saying ‘Wish you were here’. But her greetings from abroad remained unacknowledged and in terms of development, Mrs McCorn was bound to admit, the Commander was a failure.

  But hope is often confused with inspiration, and on the journey to Ireland Mrs McCorn could not but help thinking that Fate may have planted the idea of Parknasilla in her head. On the aeroplane she bought herself a small bottle of brandy to quell the feeling of pleasant unease in her stomach: a glittery, excited feeling she had not experienced for many years. But the brandy’s medicinal powers had no effect on a state which no medicine can cure, and by the time she set foot on Irish soil Mrs McCorn was as dithery as a girl, her heart a flutter, her cheeks quite pink.

  She walked into the lobby of the Great Southern Hotel mid-afternoon on a fine July day, accompanied by her family of matching suitcases. She moved with head held high, bosom thrust forward, knowing that should her entrance cause a rustle of interest, then those who looked her way would take her for someone. She had persuaded her cautious hairdresser to be a little more generous with the Honey Glow rinse than usual, and by great effort she had lost two pounds through cutting out her elevenses for the last month. She felt she exuded health at this, the beginning of her stay, which is more than can be said of most people, and it was with a symbolic flourish of well being that she signed her name at the reception desk.

  Then Magda McCorn, glowing in oatmeal dress with tailored jacket to match, and a butterfly brooch (made from a deceased Red Admiral) sparkling on the lapel, tripped up the wide hotel stairs behind the friendly Irish porter. She admired the high Victorian passages, with their thick and shining white paint, and the ruby carpets. Commander Chariot was a man of taste, of course: he would only recommend the best in hotels. Should he not appear, then at least she would still have benefited from his recommendation and would thank him in a single sentence on the left-hand side of this year’s Christmas card.

  In her fine room overlooking the bay, the porter relieved himself of all her suitcases and asked if there was anything Mrs McCorn would be requiring. Mrs McCorn paused, smiled, fumbled in her bag for a tip, to give herself time. The only thing in the world she wanted was to know whether Commander Chariot, regular visitor to the Great Southern, was expected. The porter would surely know. But Mrs McCorn was not a woman to indulge in questions that might bring forth a disappointing answer, and after a short, silent struggle, she decided to shake her head and give the man a pound. He could be useful in the future, should she change her mind.

  When the porter had gone, Mrs McCorn surveyed what was to be her room for the next two weeks with great satisfaction. Then she went to the window and looked out at the grey waters of the bay. There were palm trees in the hotel garden, reminding her this was a temperate climate and, more distantly, wooded slopes that went down to the sea. I am going to be happy, here, she thought, and sighed at the idea of such a luxury.

  Some hours later – having furnished the room with small touches that made it more her own (crochet mat on the bedside table, magazines, travelling clock) – Magda McCorn returned downstairs. It was time to perform her first important task of a holiday: establish her presence. This she did by arming herself with a small glass of sherry, then drifting round the lounges (three of them, with open fires), nodding and smiling with fleeting friendliness in the direction of anyone who caught her glance. The idea was to stamp a firm image in the minds of the other guests: they should instantly understand that here among them was a middle-aged widow of considerable attractions, alone, but in good spirits and certainly not a case for sympathy. While her smile was calculated to indicate enthusiasm, should anyone wish to offer her to join in their conversation or their games, her firm choice of a chair near the window, and apparent engrossment in a book, conveyed also that she was a woman quite happy with her own resources. Her establishing over, her search for the Commander thwarted, Mrs McCorn set about hiding her disappointment in the pages of a light romance.

  In the magnificent dining-room of the Great Southern, Mrs McCorn had a single table by the window. There, she enjoyed a four-course dinner cooked by a French chef, and drank half a bottle of expensive claret. Nearby, at other tables, families with children, and several young married couples, chattered their way through the meal. Mrs McCorn did not envy them: it was her joy silently to watch the sun – which put her in mind of a crabapple rather than a tangerine, but then, as Patrick used to say, she was an original thinker – sink into the silver clouds which, if she half shut her eyes, looked like further promontories stretching from the bay. Her measure of wine finished, Mrs McCorn’s thoughts took a philosophical turn: the frequent lack of clarity between boundaries (sea and sky, happiness and melancholy) struck her with some hard-to-articulate significance that sent a shiver up her spine. In fact, it had been to Commander Chariot that she had tried to confide some of these private thoughts – as the sun then had been setting over Santa Cruz – but he had shown a lack of response that Mrs McCorn had quite understood. It wasn’t everybody who was blessed with such insights, and after all they were of no practical use and the Commander was a wholly practical man.

  After dinner, to continue the establishing process, Mrs McCorn made her way to the lounge where the life of the hotel seemed to have gathered. There, an elderly lady wrapped in a mohair shawl, the occasional sequin twinkling in its furry wastes, played the piano. The prime of her piano-playing years was evidently over and, accompanied by a dolorous young man on the double bass, their rendering of fifties tunes lacked spirit. It was as if the music was emerging from under a huge, invisible cushion, oppressed. But it was good enough for Mrs McCorn. In her time she had had quite a reputation on the dance floor, although partnering her husband Patrick there had been little opportunity to show off her prowess at the quickstep. It would have been disloyal to complain, and she never did: although for all the happyish years of their marriage, Magda McCorn secretly deplored the fact that her husband was such a lout on the dance floor. But her feeling for the dance, as she called it, never left her and here, suddenly as of old, she felt her toes privately wiggling in her patent pumps in time to the steady thump of ‘Hey, there! You with the Stars in Your Eyes’ which, she recalled with a stab of nostalgia, had been played every night on the cruise to the Canaries.

  Mrs McCorn chose herself a tactful armchair. That is, it was within reach of a middle-aged Norwegian couple, should they choose to talk to her: yet far enough away to make ignoring her within the bounds of politeness if that was how they felt. She gave them a small signalling smile and was delighted, though not surprised, when immediately they drew their own chairs closer to hers and began to converse in beautiful English.

  Due to her holiday in Norway, Mrs McCorn was able to tell them
many interesting things about their country, and to captivate their interest for some time. Occasionally she allowed her eyes to glance at the dance floor, where she observed the deplorable sight of unmusical men shunting around their wives with not the slightest regard to the beat of the tune. The long-suffering expressions of the wives did not escape her, either. She felt for them, poor dears, and envied them, too. Varicose veins a-twinkle, at least they were on their feet.

  Something of her feelings must have registered in Mrs McCorn’s eyes, for the Norwegian gentlemen was standing, offering her his arm, asking her to dance. Taken so unawares, Mrs McCorn hardly knew whether to accept or refuse. But she saw the friendly smile of the Norwegian wife urging her, urging her, and knowing everything would be above board, with the clinical Norwegian eyes of the wife following their every move, Mrs McCorn said yes.

  On the small floor, they lumbered round in imitation of a foxtrot. Mrs McCorn, confident that the delicate tracery on the back of her own calves was well hidden by her Dusky Sunbeam tights, gave a small shake of her hips to encourage her partner.

  ‘You dance very well,’ this spurred him to say, and Mrs McCorn began to enjoy herself. Should Commander Chariot come in now, he could not fail to observe the way in which people were drawn to her wherever she went, and surely he would be moved to admiration.

  Mrs McCorn’s two-week holiday passed happily enough. She befriended many of the other guests in the hotel, and every evening found herself in the desirable position of joining in games, drinks and conversations. Her new acquaintances included many foreigners, and Mrs McCorn was able to let the fact be known that she was a much-travelled woman herself, for all her quiet life in Cheltenham – with quite a flair for Continental cooking and with some talent for making herself understood in French.

  The pounds of flesh that Mrs McCorn had so industriously lost before coming to Ireland were soon regained, and indeed increased, by her indulgence in the delicious food. But Mrs McCorn did not care.

  Realising that Fate had slipped up and been unkind in its choice of dates, and there was little hope Commander Chariot would appear, she sought consolation in cooked breakfasts in bed (beautifully arranged trays, flat grey water unblinking in the bay outside her window), hearty lunches and enormous dinners. But as her plumpness did nothing to diminish her evident popularity, so she saw no reason for cutting back until she returned home.

  On the last day of her visit, Mrs McCorn – who for the most part had spent sedentary days – decided to join a trip to the Skellig Islands. She was all for a little adventure, and felt the breath of sea air would be of benefit to her complexion.

  It dawned a disappointingly grey and misty day, a light drizzle swirling so weightless through the air you could not see it all. Mrs McCorn contemplated abandoning the trip, but then felt that would be faint-hearted, and cheered herself with the thought that Irish weather was wonderfully changeable, and at any moment the sun might drive away the cloud.

  And indeed, by the time she was seated snugly in her poplin mackintosh and silk scarf on the fishing boat, along with some dozen foreign students, the gloom had begun to lift and the sun threw a first pale rope of light along the horizon. Mrs McCorn did not much like the bucking motion of the boat as it lumbered over the waves, but she sucked on her boiled sweets and concentrated on the feeling of enjoying the proximity to young foreigners. Widening her horizons, she was, she felt. Perhaps before the day was over she would find the chance to make herself known to them, although for the moment she could detect no openings. They were a dour lot: unwashed, unshaven, dirty clothes and unhealthy skin. But then Mrs McCorn, who was sensitive to the hardships of those less fortunate than herself, supposed they could not afford to live on anything but fish and chips on their camping holiday, and was not surprised. She could have wished they had appeared friendlier, more willing to talk: a little conversation would have been agreeable, but perhaps they kept their interest for monuments rather than people.

  After an hour of bumping over the grey sea, Mrs McCorn and the other sightseers were rewarded by the sight of the first island. It loomed out of the misty sea like a single tooth. The fanciful thought came to Mrs McCorn that the whole Atlantic Ocean was a vast, grey tongue, hissing and snapping and drooling with white-spittle foam, armed with its one hideous giant tooth. And the sky was a grim upper lip. The vast and dreadful mouth, made from the elements, only waited for the right time to swallow the boat-load with a single flick of its lapping tongue … Mrs McCorn sucked harder on her raspberry drop and listened to the wail of forty thousand gannets, who fluttered round their island thickly as a snowstorm. Occasionally one of them would swoop quite close to the boat, dismissing the passengers with its beady red eye, then diving into the waves to snap at an invisible fish.

  The second island, their destination, came into sight. It was another monster rock, sheer and black and menacing. Waves thundered round its base, thousands more gulls screamed their indignation at having to live in such a God-forsaken spot. It was here that seven hundred years ago a small band of monks chose to build a monastery on its summit. To climb hundreds of steps to see the remains of this monastery was the aim of the expedition.

  The boat moored at a small concrete pier. Mrs McCorn looked about her in dismay. She had imagined it would be quite primitive, of course: a simple tea shop, perhaps, and a small cluster of cottages. But there was nothing. The petulant gulls were the only inhabitants, balancing on the edges of precarious rock nests, screaming all the while. Close to, the rock was no less intimidating. While the waves pounded upwards, other water streamed down the jagged sides, gleaming, oily. Mrs McCorn was afraid.

  Gritting her teeth, remembering she was British, she followed the students up the dangerous little flight of steps. There, they abandoned her with peculiar speed, scampering up the steep path with an eagerness Mrs McCorn found herself unable to share. She followed them slowly, tucking the lunch box the hotel had given her under one arm, and telling herself she must persevere, however undesirable the climb may seem.

  Although Mrs McCorn’s progress was very slow – students from another boat passed her with uncaring speed – she soon became out of breath and listened to her own panting against the dimmer noise of waves thudding far below. She was forced to conclude that she should have to rest before the top, or she might risk a heart attack. And who, then …? She chose a small, flat rock at the edge of steps, sat down, and unbuttoned her mackintosh. The hotel had provided her with an unimaginative lunch, but she found comfort in the sliced-bread sandwiches, tomatoes, biscuits and cheese. Her breathing returned to its normal pace, and after a while she began to feel cool again.

  When she had finished eating, Mrs McCorn looked about for somewhere to bury her empty lunch box. There were no litter bins, of course, and the sea was much too far away to throw the wretched thing over the edge. Mrs McCorn scrabbled about the springy green stuff that grew among the rocks, and eventually managed, by squishing it quite small, to hide the box. Plunging her hands into the greenery gave her a nasty turn: its cold sliminess was surprising. But she completed the job to her satisfaction, and turned for another look at the bewildering expanse of grey Atlantic before continuing on her way.

  The sky was whitish-grey, mists swirled blotchily about the sheer sides of rock. In the distance, the sea kept up its perpetual snarl, and the gulls their angry screeching. Mrs McCorn had never felt so alone. To lift her spirits, she thought of the ordinary things of her life: her small, neat garden, her well-Hoovered carpets, her Silver Jubilee tin of biscuits, always full, in the kitchen, her cat Tibby, the absolute regularity of the Parish Newsletter – things which sometimes she found lacking in excitement, but which now she appreciated with all her heart. Then, for the first time that day, she thought of Commander Chariot.

  As she did so, Mrs McCorn stood up. No point in dwelling on the unlikely, she thought, and at that moment a small chink of sun appeared in the sky, making the wet rocks glint. An omen, thought Mrs McCorn, and at o
nce forced herself to abandon the idea as silly. But, trudging slowly up the rough steps once more, she could not cast aside the Commander. He filled her being in an unaccountable way: she longed for his presence. With him this day on the island would be an agreeable adventure, instead of the frightening experience it was in reality. Alive in her mind, the Commander then spoke to Mrs McCorn in a voice so real he might have been at her side.

  ‘Ruddy masochists, those monks must have been,’ he said (‘ruddy’ was his favourite adjective), and Mrs McCorn smiled.

  Somehow, she got to the top. It was no great reward. A cluster of stone-built cells, gently rounded structures, putting Mrs McCorn in mind of house martins’ nests. Very uncomfortable, they must have been, with their slit windows and damp floors, the mists and rain flurrying about outside, and nothing to comfort in the sight of the grim Atlantic sea. Mrs McCorn ventured into one of the cells: it smelt wet and spooky. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, she noticed three of the students sitting on the floor in a corner. They passed an evil-smelling cigarette between them, and gave her an unfriendly look. Mrs McCorn hurried out.

  She was quite cold by now, and thought with longing of the hotel bath and her warm candlewick dressing-gown. Only a few more hours … And it would, of course, be a good story to tell friends at home, not that she’d ever be up to describing the strange sense of horror that the island of rock had given her.

  Before returning to the path to descend, Mrs McCorn leaned over one of the ruined stone walls and looked down, down at the spumy sea battering for ever the base of the rock, and she listened to the endless evil screeching of the gulls. It was then it came to her why the silly old monks had chosen such a place to live: they had wanted to confront the devil head-on and this was the perfect spot. There was no grain of comfort, of soft or easy living on the rock land or the monster sea. The gannets were devils incarnate, the brief flashes of sun a simple mockery. On this island was the rough face of God – quite unlike the God Mrs McCorn was acquainted with in the church at Cheltenham with its carpeted aisle and central heating. On this island, you’d have to be tougher than she, Mrs McCorn, to go on believing.