The Visitors

by Catherine Burns

  “I don’t want to frighten you, but Karen says you need to see a doctor about that, right away. Right away,” he repeated.

  A shadow darkened the man’s face just before the camera cut back to Brendan. At that point the program went to break, and that ad with the “mature lady” who sits staring out the window all day long watching her grandchildren play in the yard, then suddenly gets the confidence to join them on the trampoline when she discovers Peels Pliable Pads that Marion found so distasteful came on screen. She turned the sound to mute, then lay back on the sofa. She closed her eyes and imagined herself to be walking along that cliff top with Brendan O’Brian.

  Perhaps they might find a bench to sit down on and he would take hold of her hand, and look directly into her eyes, silently communicating his affection. Marion hoped the spirits would respect their privacy at this moment and not attempt to interrupt such exquisite intimacy with their messages about psoriasis, missing legal documents, and such. At that moment a crash from the hallway, and the sound of John letting out a cry, interrupted her fantasy. She got up from the couch and found her brother sitting on the lower stairs, his face bright red and beads of sweat covering his forehead. At his feet was the completed model of the Avro Lancaster Bomber, one of its wings broken off.

  “John, John, oh my goodness, did you fall?”

  Instead of replying, he stared at the ruined model, his clenched jaw trembling.

  “Oh, what a shame,” said Marion, kneeling to pick up the pieces of broken plastic.

  “Don’t touch it, Marion. Leave it, just get away, get away!” he growled, rubbing his left arm vigorously.

  Using the stairs for support, he tried to stand, but as soon as he let go of the banister he pitched forwards, smashing the remains of the model into shards beneath his feet. When John bellowed out loud, she did not know if it was because of the Lancaster’s complete annihilation or his own physical suffering.

  Marion moved to catch him; her brother’s frame was so heavy, she was unable to stop herself falling backwards, and the two of them ended up flat on the hallway floor. Using every ounce of her strength, she lifted him up again, then managed to support him into the dining room and get him sat down on a hardback chair.

  “What’s wrong, John? Do you want me to get the doctor?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Marion,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I just had a funny turn.”

  “What does that mean, a funny turn?”

  “It means you should mind your own bloody business, woman, now leave me alone, will you?”

  As he swung out his arm to swat her away she flinched in alarm. Then, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes, she left the room. As she went through the hallway she couldn’t prevent herself from stamping her foot on the pieces of gray plastic and grinding them hard into the floor with her heel before going back into the living room and sitting down on the sofa. Brendan O’Brian was mutely swinging his arm in the air as if throwing the invisible ball at a young woman in the audience. Marion picked up the remote control and switched off the set, her mind in too much turmoil to concentrate on television.

  IN THE NIGHT — 2

  Marion woke at three in the morning, her heart racing. She had been dreaming about Bunty, her aunt’s dog; she was barking outside the bedroom window, pleading to be let in. Then Marion realized a real dog was barking out in the street; it was Mr. Weinberg’s Pomeranian. Really he shouldn’t let it out at this time in the morning. It was a disgrace. The pain in her hip was worse too, and it had spread to her lower back. Lying in the darkness, unable to get comfortable, her mind soon filled with troubling thoughts. Why had John fallen like that? Was he sick? What would it mean for her if he got ill? What would it mean for them? John always seemed so strong and invincible, it scared her to see any signs of physical weakness, but what frightened her most of all was the rage he used to mask that vulnerability.

  She heard John open his bedroom door and then stomp downstairs. What was he up to at this time? Was he feeling unwell again? She got out of bed and put on her father’s old blue-and-red tartan dressing gown and matching slippers. Putting her hand in the right pocket, she touched a little nest of dried Kleenex. She took it out and used it to blow her nose. She could hear John fussing around in the kitchen downstairs.

  After using the toilet she went back to bed. She switched off the light, but her head was too squirmy with thoughts for her to go to sleep, so Marion lay in the dark watching the quivering shadows cast by the poplar trees outside her window and waited for the dog to begin barking again.

  “If anything happened to John,” she said out loud, “I think I would die. I couldn’t cope with all the bills and money things. I even forget which day the rubbish bins are collected.”

  “You would cope somehow. People manage. People who are blind, people who have no arms and legs live by themselves and get by perfectly well,” said Neil.

  “But I can’t live alone.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone, Marion, you have me.”

  NEIL

  Unless I can see exactly where they are and what they are doing, having people in the house makes me jumpy. I can feel them skittering around like bugs,” Mother would say with a shudder. Since she couldn’t stand them being at home all day long during the school holidays, as children, Marion and her brother spent much of their free time at the warehouse of Zetland’s Fine Fabrics.

  John studied his science books in the conference suite, while Marion wandered up and down between giant stacks of rolled fabric, pretending they were the walls of some ancient castle or deep ravine. The workmen in their dull blue overalls were ogres, and she had to hide from them to escape being captured.

  Neil came to work in the warehouse when Marion was fifteen. She remembered exactly the first time she saw him, that gangly frame that was too big for the blue overalls clinging on to a roll of gray underlay like a drunken dance partner. The other workers were always making fun of him, as if an ability to move rolls of fabric with ease gave them superiority.

  Unlike the other workers, he didn’t stand around smoking in the loading area on his break; instead he sat on the pallets reading a book, holding his long, strawberry-colored fringe out of his pale blue eyes. His lips were full and pink like a girl’s, and he bit his fingernails, revealing wrinkled strips of newborn skin. This proof of his sensitivity made Marion heady with tenderness.

  The first time he spoke to her Neil offered her a cheese-and-onion crisp, then told her about his plans for the future; he was going to study languages at Durham University, but before that he intended to fulfill his dream of traveling to America and driving all the way from one coast to another. During another break-time conversation she found out that his mother was a nurse and his father an accountant. Afterwards she imagined herself attending dinner at their house, being formally introduced to his parents as Neil’s girlfriend.

  “Such a nice, polite girl,” his mother, who always dressed in her nurse’s uniform, even for dinner, would say. “Did you notice how she cleared her plate so thoroughly? Not like those fussy girls who ruin their health with fad diets.”

  “So modest and well-spoken,” the father, who always wore a suit and glasses, would respond. “Not like those teenage girls who dye their hair green and listen to rock music.”

  “She will make a perfect wife for Neil,” the mother would declare.

  Halfway through the summer, Neil was offered a job as a tour guide in Spain and left the warehouse without saying goodbye. Marion blamed the warehouse men for his departure and invented violent deaths for the worst of the bullies as punishment: Big Phil was crushed by rolls of red velvet and Smithy burnt to death in a fire. She comforted herself with dreams of running away and traveling with Neil on the coach, sitting next to sunburnt holidaymakers and listening to him talk about the history of bullfighting and flamenco dancing, how to change money, and whether or not they could drink the local water.

  From then on, like a cutting taken from a plan
t, a separate version of Neil flourished inside Marion’s head. Imaginary Neil provided her with comfort when she was miserable, and company when she was lonely. She often spent hours at a time, lying in the bath or on her bed, creating a fantasy world where the two of them lived their lives together.

  They went on holiday, took long walks through forests, and climbed mountains. They had a big white wedding where doves were released into the sky and they ate a cake with five tiers. Sometimes they had children; sometimes she gave names to the children, like Alex and Stephanie. Then Alex fell off a horse and had to be in a wheelchair. Then she changed the story so that Alex wasn’t in a wheelchair but Stephanie got abducted and she and Neil had to go on a TV news conference and ask people for help finding her.

  “I just want to die,” she exclaimed. “How can we go on without her?”

  “We have to be strong for Alex’s sake. Don’t worry, I know we will find her,” said Neil, because he was always so good at reassuring her when she was upset. Then Stephanie was found, and they were all happy again because she hadn’t been interfered with or anything like that. It turned out she had just lost her memory after bumping her head, and then been taken in by a kindly old woman who had looked after her for a while before sending her back home.

  • • •

  MARION LAY IN bed listening to the doorbell ringing. It was late morning but she was still tired after a sleepless night. Was the doorbell always so loud? It rang so rarely that Marion couldn’t remember. She put on her dressing gown and went to the top of the stairs, afraid to go farther down in case the person outside could see her through the stained glass panel in the door.

  Briing—briing.

  Why wouldn’t they go away? Surely someone collecting for charity or delivering a parcel would have given up by now.

  Then a loud clattering shook Marion’s bones; the person was rattling the letterbox. She would have to answer, or they would never leave her in peace. Steeling herself, she crept down to the hallway. A shadowy shape was hunched behind the glass panel. When she opened the door, she found Mr. Weinberg standing on the step, his ancient face creased with anger. He was wearing a hat and overcoat even though it was a sunny day. A blob of egg yolk stained his collar.

  “Vy didn’t you answer the door?” His accent was a thick soup of German and Northport. He looked at her dressing gown. “In bed at nearly eleven o’clock?”

  “No—no—not in bed—I was busy doing something,” insisted Marion, affronted by the accusation despite it being true. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Weinberg?”

  “Have you seen Polly? My little dog, she is missing.”

  “Your dog? No, I haven’t seen her.”

  Mr. Weinberg was trying to push his way into the house, but she stopped him by keeping her weight behind the half-opened door.

  “She ran away yesterday morning ven I took her for valk. Maybe she is in your garden.”

  “No, no she isn’t.”

  “How can you be sure?” Eyebrow hairs, thick as electrical wiring, poked over the top of his huge glasses. “Did you check already, before I came? You have psychic powers? Perhaps that is vat you were doing when I ring the bell. You get psychic message that Mr. Weinberg’s dog is missing, so you think I go and look for it before he comes even.”

  Anger heated the soup of his accents, so Marion found it almost impossible to understand what he was saying. Even though Mr. Weinberg was being really quite rude, since he was elderly, she had no choice but to be polite to him.

  “Well, I haven’t looked yet, of course, but I will look and I’ll let you know if I find him,” she promised.

  “Her—Polly is girl,” he said, pronouncing her like “herrr” and girl “gurrl” in his funny way.

  “Her, I’m sorry.”

  “Perhaps you should let me check. That vill be the best, I think.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s not convenient. I promise I will let you know if I see her.”

  Then Marion practically had to shut the door in the old man’s face to get rid of him. She waited until his hunched silhouette had gone from behind the door before going back upstairs to lie down on her bed and recover.

  • • •

  AS A CHILD, Marion would often stay with her aunt in the flat overlooking Northport Beach. They would have midnight feasts of crisp sandwiches and fizzy orange pop, feeding titbits to her aunt’s poodle, Bunty. Before they went to sleep her aunt would tell stories about when she and Mother were girls. The sisters were taught to play the piano by an Italian lady who had lost a limb during the war. She was called Mrs. Morello, like the cherries, and used to stamp her wooden leg in time to the music. As teenagers the two girls had entered a beauty contest on Northport Pier, but before the judges even made a decision, Grandma Carter arrived and dragged them home by their hair, still wearing only swimsuits and sashes.

  One story in particular gripped Marion. It had happened when Mother was just fifteen in the Grange Road house the family still lived in; she had been carrying her newborn brother downstairs when she tripped on the fourth stair from the bottom and fell, crushing the infant beneath her body. The baby had been called John. Mother must have named her own firstborn in honor of him. Marion longed to ask Mother about the tragedy. Did she still feel torn up with guilt? Had Grandma Carter ever forgiven her? Did the poor little baby scream and cry, or just go silent in her arms? But Agnes swore her to secrecy. “You can’t say a word, Marion, not on your life. My sister would never speak to me again if she knew I’d told you that.” And Marion would put her hand on her heart and promise.

  • • •

  BUNTY’S ACCIDENT HAPPENED one Saturday afternoon when Marion was twelve. Agnes had invited the whole family over to the flat for lunch. John, who didn’t like visiting his aunt, was in a sulky mood. While they were still in the middle of eating their iceberg lettuce, cold chicken, and boiled eggs, John took a book out to read. Agnes told him quite firmly to put the book away, as it was rude to read in company. Mother, who always seemed a little afraid of John, didn’t say anything, but Dad agreed with Agnes.

  When John shoved his plate of food away from him, knocking over a jar of Hellmann’s mayonnaise, Marion went cold inside. Then he said he had a stomachache and needed to go to the toilet. After he had been gone about five minutes they heard a funny sound like something heavy being knocked over. Then John came back into the room, picked up a boiled egg with his fork, and shoved it into his mouth whole.

  It wasn’t until they were about to leave that Agnes noticed Bunty was missing. They searched everywhere for her, then Aunt Agnes went out onto the balcony and screamed. Bunty was lying dead on the pavement below.

  Agnes just couldn’t understand how it happened. She said she was sure the balcony door had been closed. Even if it had been left open, Bunty was too big to squeeze through the railings, and they were too high for her to jump over. Then Agnes got it into her head that John had lifted the dog over the railings and let her fall. She said it must have happened when he went to the toilet. But John swore he had nothing to do with it. Even when Agnes screamed at him to admit what he’d done, John’s face stayed smooth as a saucer of milk.

  Agnes said she didn’t trust John as far as she could spit. She called him a cruel, nasty little boy and she was as sure he had killed Bunty as if she had seen him do it with her own eyes. These words cut Marion in two. Her brother and her aunt were her favorite people in the world and she wanted them to love each other as much as she loved them.

  Mother refused to believe that John was responsible and was furious that her own sister could accuse him of such a terrible thing. After that day, the two of them never spoke a word to each other. Marion was forbidden to visit her aunt or accept the presents she sent at Christmas and birthdays. She cried for weeks and even considered poisoning herself with the bad berries one more time. Then she remembered Dad’s promise that the doctors wouldn’t bother to pump her stomach if she tried that malarkey again.

&nb
sp; • • •

  ONE MORNING OVER breakfast, Dad read the announcement from his copy of the Northport Herald:

  “Agnes Carter, Aged 57. Died from ovarian cancer in Saint Anne’s Hospice, Northport.”

  He said it with the exact same tone of voice he had used to inform them of the closure of the little train that ran from Pleasure Beach to the boating marina. When no one commented on the news, Dad just folded up the paper, then carried on eating his scrambled eggs and black pudding.

  SHOPPING

  On Fridays, Marion went out to buy the week’s groceries. Unable to drive, she took a wheeled shopping trolley on the two-mile journey to the SmartMart on the edge of Northport Business Park. It would have been much easier for John to take her in Mother’s silver Mercedes, of course, but he was always too busy.

  “Don’t forget the list, Mar,” said John as she was putting her coat on at the door.

  “Stop going on at me. I’ve got it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I have it right here.”

  Marion opened the zip-up pocket of the handbag where she kept her purse, but there was no list. John let out a long sigh.

  “I bet I left it in the kitchen.”

  She went and fetched the shopping list, and John watched while she put it safely in her bag.

  “There are important things on that list, Marion. Now don’t lose it again.”

  “I know, I know, important things, I promise I won’t lose it.”

  “You’ll forget your bloody head, woman.”

  Marion set off on the long walk to the supermarket along roads choked with traffic as people drove to Northport for the May Bank holiday. All the way down Grange Road, up and down curbs and across bumpy pavements, she dragged the trolley so by the time she reached the car park of the SmartMart her arm and shoulder ached as if she had been pulling a plow behind her.

  The SmartMart was packed with tourists stocking up on cheap food to eat in their holiday flats and caravans over the weekend. The crowds and bright lights made her dizzy and confused, and it took several minutes of wandering around before Marion found the aisle for jam, only to be dazzled by all the different varieties. One with pictures of lovely purple berries on the label looked appealing, but another kind was fifty pence cheaper. As she was trying to make up her mind, a short, muscular man with a bald head knocked her with his trolley and didn’t bother to apologize. Then as she was picking out bread, a woman in denim shorts and flip-flops pushed her out of the way and grabbed five white medium-sliced loaves, throwing them into a shopping trolley already piled high with cheap pork sausages.