Last Guests of the Season (16 page)

‘So a son is born,' he said, striving for the right note.

‘When we wanted a daughter,' said Oliver. ‘If there had to be a baby, we wanted a girl. A girl would have been easier for both of us, I'm sure of that.'

Robert, thinking of Jessica these days – offhand, dismissive, hurtful – wasn't convinced, but said nothing. Anyway, such behaviour was recent, and, it was to be hoped, temporary. At this moment, recalling her tears, it was impossible, in any case, to think of her with anything but love and protectiveness. And perhaps Oliver was right, perhaps a daughter would have been better for them. Certainly a different kind of boy.

‘And instead,' he said, almost without thinking, ‘instead you have a changeling.'

They looked at each other directly, for the first time.

‘Yes,' said Oliver, acknowledging his accuracy. ‘Yes, exactly that. Our only child, and we don't know what to do with him. Certainly I don't. Frances has a little more patience, but –' He broke off, with a deep, involuntary sigh. ‘As I said, we didn't want children. We wanted each other – God, that seems a hell of a long time ago.' He stood up abruptly. ‘What a mess. What an unholy mess. I'd better go and see if they're all right.' He put down his glass, but he did not go, he stood there frowning and thoughtful, very tall, naked beneath the Paisley dressing-gown, long feet thrust into flat black espadrilles. Despite his height, his physical presence, something of the power which Robert and Claire had both sensed in him seemed to have gone: he looked weary and defeated, years older. It might have been the shock, the wrenching out of sleep, the disclosures made in the middle of the night to someone who was almost a stranger. It was, Robert knew, more than all this, though what he could only guess at.

He said: ‘We'd better get that thing out of the way in the morning,' and nodded towards the shepherd's cloak.

Oliver looked at it. ‘Yes. Well–' He gave a wry smile. ‘Let us hope that the rest of the night passes without incident.'

‘Indeed.' Robert poured out the last of the brandy. ‘I'll finish this off, I think. Sleep well.'

‘And you.' Oliver crossed to the darkened corridor, making his way to the stairs; he climbed them slowly, and Robert heard his footsteps creak on the landing, a pause as he checked the boys' room, and then the door of his bedroom with Frances open and close. The house was silent again.

He went on sitting there for a while, finishing the brandy, thinking, beginning to yawn. The memory of Jessica's scream receded: she was safe, they were all safe. He heaved himself out of the armchair and in Jessica's room lay down on the creaking bed, pulling up the blankets. But he found himself tossing and turning, rearranging thin pillows. In spite of his tiredness, in spite of the brandy, it was a long time before he fell asleep, seeing over and over again before him in the darkness the figure of Tom by the fallen cloak stand: white-faced, staring, clutching at himself in terror.

Next morning, everyone slept late, the sun already brilliant when Jack opened his eyes, reached for his book and smelt something. A pair of pyjamas lay on the floor; what were they doing there? He knew: Tom must have wet the bed, like a great big baby. He looked across at him, lying asleep with his mouth open: perhaps he should go and poke
him
in the eye, let him see what it felt like. No – he didn't want to go near him. He picked up his book and found his place, read a few pages and realised he was hungry. The digital watch he'd been given for his birthday in March showed 9:01, no wonder he was hungry. But the house was very quiet, not a sound from downstairs. He pushed back the bedclothes and got out, going across to his parents'room, where he found a light still burning, and Jessica lying next to Claire, her hair spread out on the pillow, both of them fast asleep.

He shook Claire's shoulder. ‘Hey! What's going on?' He climbed in beside her, shoving her with his feet. What was Jessica doing in here? ‘Move up.'

Claire frowned, moving her legs away. ‘Gently, Jack, stop it, please.'

‘But what's going on? Where's Dad?'

‘Sssh. He's down in Jessie's room, we had a bad night …' She opened her eyes, and pulled him towards her. ‘Don't be so grumpy, everything's okay. There, that's better. Settle down now.'

‘What do you mean, a bad night? Tom's wet the bed, it
smells
in there.'

‘Sssh! I don't want to wake Jess.'

But Jess was already stirring, disturbed and disgruntled. Even with the shutters closed you could tell from the light streaming through the gaps how bright it was outside. She pulled a pillow down over her head, and turned away. Claire sighed.

‘What
sort
of bad night?' Jack persisted.

‘Tom sleepwalked,' said Jess, from beneath the pillow.

‘What? What did you say?'

Footsteps along the corridor. They heard Robert putting mugs down outside the door at the end, calling discreetly: ‘Oliver? Frances? Tea.' He came back again, into their room.

‘Thank God,' said Claire. ‘Just what we need.'

‘How are we all this morning?' Tousled and puffy in his old pyjamas, Robert pushed the door to with his elbow and put down the tray on the chest of drawers, moving along a muddle of suntan cream and hairbrushes. He switched off the light and began to pour. ‘Sleep well?' He stepped over kicked-off sandals and yesterday's clothes, holding out mugs.

‘You are an angel,' said Claire, taking one.

‘I am a bearer of trays,' said Robert, easing himself down by Jack's feet. ‘This bed is too low. Move up a bit.'

Jack drew up his feet, Jess took the pillow off. They all regarded each other.

‘Phew,' said Claire.

‘Quite. Any sounds this morning?'

She shook her head. ‘Tom wasn't awake when you got up, was he?' she asked Jack.

‘No. What
happened?
'

‘I told you,' said Jessica, reaching for Claire's tea. ‘Tom sleepwalked. He knocked over the shepherd's cloak … you slept through
everything.
'

He was furious.

‘Listen,' said Robert, a little less puffy with the tea. ‘I'll explain. But no more teasing, Jack, got it? Give Tom a break for a bit.'

Jack looked mulish.

‘I mean it.'

‘Perhaps,' said Claire, ‘we should all have a break for a bit. Perhaps we should go off for the day and leave them all to calm down – do you think?'

‘Yes!' said Jack. ‘Just us. Oh, yes, let's. Where shall we go?'

The landing floorboards creaked, the door swung open.

‘Hello, Tom,' said Robert.

‘You're supposed to knock,' Jack muttered.

Tom looked rumpled, greyish, as if he might be sickening for something – no, thought Claire, stretching out a hand towards him, more as though he were getting over something, which of course he was. He stood in the doorway gazing at them all, and she patted the bedclothes.

‘Come and sit down. How are you feeling this morning?'

‘All right.' He sounded puzzled by the question; he came towards the bed slowly, with a faraway, anaesthetised air. ‘Can we go swimming today?'

Jack glowered at him. ‘This is
our
room. You're supposed to knock.'

‘Jack …' said Claire, warningly.

‘Sorry,' said Tom. He sat down heavily on the bed, and Jack moved irritably away.

‘You're on my feet, get off.' And then suddenly, in an outburst, as Tom clumsily shifted his large frame, ‘Get
off!
This is
our
room! Go away!'

‘Jack!' said Claire and Robert sharply, in unison.

‘Tom,' said Robert, ‘it's all right, come back …'

But he had gone.

Dora and Frances are walking by a river. It has been raining, and the fields on the further side of the water are lush and shining. Willow trees overhang the bank; beyond them they can hear cows, munching summer grass. Behind them is the house where they are staying, empty, peaceful, awaiting their return; in its tranquil garden, established, well tended, is a table where they sit and have breakfast when it is fine. Here, to their left, old men are moving among tall bamboo canes in a sprawl of allotments; runner beans clamber towards the clear rinsed sky, green and scarlet against smoke from a damp bonfire. The air smells fresh and earthy; ahead, a fisherman reels in his line, and flings it out again: ripples spread wider, wider. Frances puts her head on Dora's shoulder; Dora's arm goes round her. They walk on.

‘I love you,' says Frances. ‘I have always loved you.'

‘I know,' says Dora. ‘It's okay – I've always known.' And she gives Frances a smile of such acceptance and affection that Frances is overcome, light with happiness. I have come home, she thinks. I am where I belong.

And suddenly is alone again, the river and the afternoon's tranquility vanished. She is walking through dark streets, somewhere in a city she has never visited, looking at names she does not recognise, knocking on doors. Behind her, a girl is calling.

‘Frances! Frances! Remember me?'

‘No,' says Frances. ‘No, not now. I'm looking for someone, leave me alone.' The streets grow narrower, darker; she breaks into a run, calling out: ‘Dora! Dora!' A long way away from her, someone is crying, a door bangs open and shut, as if a wind is rising …

‘Frances, Frances …'

She opened her eyes on a room full of fierce sunshine: Oliver had flung open the shutters, and was standing over her, dressed, ready for the day.

‘You were dreaming,' he said.

She covered her eyes.

‘It's late, you were dreaming badly, I thought I should wake you.'

‘Close the shutters. Please. Please – it's too much.'

He crossed the room again, pushing them to. ‘Robert's brought us some tea – do you want it?'

‘In a minute.' She went on lying there, her eyes still covered.

‘What were you dreaming about?'

‘Nothing,' she said. ‘I can't remember.'

‘You looked troubled.'

‘Did I?' She uncovered her eyes, her limbs like lead. Then: ‘Tom!' she said suddenly. ‘Is he all right?'

‘I've just been to look – he's playing outside. Everyone else is getting up for breakfast. Here –' He passed her a mug from the pile of books by the bed. She sat up and took it, sipping lukewarm tea.

‘What did you and Robert talk about last night?'

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘I can't remember.'

They looked at each other.

Frances said: ‘Oliver …' But Dora's arm went round her again, lovingly holding her, and she turned back to her mug of cold tea and left his name hanging in the air.

And Oliver said, ‘I'll leave you in peace,' and went out, closing the door with unexpected gentleness.

Guida was downstairs, waiting to wash up the breakfast she had laid but which no one had eaten. Robert, smelling coffee, made efforts to explain, standing in the sitting-room with the doors to the terrace wide open and the sun pouring on to the floorboards, on to the yellow straw shepherd's cloak and hat, which hung askew.

‘Bad …
noite
,' he said, thumbing the dictionary. ‘Everyone has slept late.' He folded his hands and laid his cheek upon them, closing his eyes, and Guida smiled.

‘Party,' she said. ‘Drinking.'

‘Drinking, yes,' said Robert, noticing that the brandy bottles and empty glasses had gone. ‘Party, no.' He moved to adjust the hat. ‘Never mind. Perhaps you can …' What could she do?

‘Washing,' said Guida, and moved her arms up and down, as though she were riding a horse.

Robert laughed. ‘Yes, washing,' he said. ‘Well done.'

She went into the shady bathroom, humming, gathering piles of discarded clothes from the basket, and carried them slowly down the corridor and out through the kitchen, flip-flops flapping, climbing the steps to the water tank. Robert stood for a moment, looking up at the huge heavy cloak on its stand, which looked so solid and fell so easily. They must put it down in the cellar; he and Oliver could do it after breakfast.

He turned back into the room, which since they all arrived had been used more as a thoroughfare than anything else: a place to pass through on the way out to the terrace, or to dump swimming things, coming indoors. He recalled from last year, when it had rained and been cooler, endless afternoons in here of Monopoly and the Game of Life with the lively Hobbs boys, and evenings of bridge with their undemanding parents. This year, it seemed, the game of life was of a different order.

But the room this morning felt restored to its original airy calm: he looked at the tall windows, hung with loosely woven curtains, at the wooden ceiling, the white walls above the panelling hung with old farm implements – a scythe, a wooden yoke, a saw – and gave an inward sigh of relief.

However. There was still Tom. Where was he?

Robert went out on to the hot, empty terrace; he leaned on the parapet, shading his eyes, and looked down. Cicadas scraped and sawed; Tom was standing beneath a peach tree, gesturing, murmuring, in a perpetual, unconscious river of sound, clearly lost in a game. Robert was about to call to him, to ask if he was all right, but there was something unapproachable about that air of complete and private absorption, and he found himself remembering long distant summer days from his own childhood, when he, too, had needed time to himself. Perhaps Tom should be left to find his own way through his troubles; and perhaps Oliver was right – they were less of a problem for him than for those around him. So long as they kept an eye on Jack it would all blow over. In the clear – well, dazzling – light of day, he didn't want to think about it any more, he really didn't.

It was much too hot out here. He stepped back indoors and, waiting for the others to come down to breakfast, he wandered over to the library in the foot of the L, looking along the shelves where they had done much browsing last year on those rainy September afternoons, finding something for everyone: biographies, novels and journals, travel books. Holiday paperbacks, some of them no doubt left by other guests in other seasons, occupied, with worn copies of the Reader's Digest, two or three shelves: Agatha Christie, Dick Francis, Barbara Cartland, Barbara Pym.