Last Guests of the Season (41 page)

‘Guida?'

He stood on the landing. A pile of sheets fell softly to the floor in the boys'room; she came out in her denim skirt and flip-flops.

‘I –' He held out the envelope; she came over and took it.

‘Obrigado,'
he said. ‘You've been wonderful.
Marvilhoso. Obrigado.'

She shook her head, smiling.
‘Marvilhosa,'
she said.
‘Obrigada.'

‘What?'

‘Obrigada
– for the woman, yes?'

‘Ah, yes,' he said. ‘For the woman. Quite right.'

They stood on the sunlit landing, smiling at each other.

Leaves stirred in the peach tree outside the window; another peach fell to the ground.

‘Well,' he said.

She kissed him on the cheek and fled.

Well well well.

The car was packed; Oliver's, Frances's and Tom's suitcases all stood up by the gate on the mountain road, waiting for the taxi. The weather had changed: definitely cooler. A few dry leaves blew on to the terrace and danced across the tiles. Everyone was out there, saying goodbye.

‘Thank you for everything –'

‘Thank you for coming –'

‘Don't say that. I'm sorry –'

‘He's all right. I hope so, anyway. That's the main thing –'

‘Yes. We're phoning the doctor as soon as we get home.'

‘Phone us, let us know –'

‘We will.'

They shook hands, they hugged and kissed.

Oliver went over to Jessica. ‘Goodbye, Jessica.'

‘Goodbye. I'm glad Tom –'

‘Thank you.' He put his hand on her arm; he kissed her cheek. She looked at him quickly and then away.

Tom stood on the threshold of the tall white doors, looking in to the sitting-room. Sun fell on to the floorboards and on to the shepherd's cloak. The straw looked yellow and warm. The hat was tilted forward a bit, as if it was asleep.

‘Tom? Can I have a kiss?' That was Claire. He let her. He let all of them. What a fuss.

The taxi hooted up at the gate: they ran.

The driver was small and fat with a medallion at his neck. A photograph of his son in a plastic envelope was sellotaped to the dashboard; the Virgin Mary swung from a little piece of string. He helped them to put all the cases in the boot; they all climbed in; doors banged.

‘Goodbye, goodbye …'

They waved and waved.

Everyone was waiting, out in the car. Claire made one last check on the house, going round all the empty rooms. It was quiet, it felt hushed, even. She'd never had it all to herself before. Outside, up at the water tank, Guida was washing all their sheets and pillowcases, using a huge bar of yellow soap. The water, as always, poured and poured.

Well. That was it. She checked all the bedrooms, she went slowly down the stairs, and into the airy sitting-room. The tall white doors to the terrace were open, a few more leaves skittered across the tiles.

Everything had happened in this house. Someone, on this holiday, had nearly died.

But he hadn't died, he had been saved. And nothing, in the end, had been taken away from her; nor did she feel that her life was over. She stood there, all by herself, and she felt like offering up a prayer. But then the car horn sounded, two impatient notes, and she crossed to the doors and closed them carefully. She went out, along the wooden corridor, through the kitchen, leaving a small dish of scraps for the cat, saying goodbye to Guida and going down through the garden, and out to the car.

‘What have you been
doing
?'

She got in next to Robert; they drove away. Slowly through the village, then gaining speed.

‘Let's have some music,' he said.

‘Sinatra.'

Everyone groaned. ‘Not
again
.'

She took no notice, slotting the tape in, pressing the button. The car was filled with Sinatra: they all began to sing.

After a while, Jessica stopped. She sat with her head pressed up to the window, looking out over the blue-green mountainside, the valley and the winding river, getting smaller, smaller, as they climbed.

And then I have to spoil it all by saying something stupid, like I love you
…

She shut her eyes, and the music floated through her, and out through the open window as they drove away.

Tom sat between them, waiting for lunch. Behind them, the trolley

rattled and shook, coming along the aisle, but the plane was flying smoothly, and the little cat liked it. She sat on the plastic tray in front of him, waiting for her lunch, too.

Frances and Oliver looked at each other, over his head.

‘He seems fine.'

‘Yes. You okay?'

He nodded, and looked at his watch, returned to his book while he waited.

Frances looked out of the window. They were flying above the clouds: a thick, sunlit landscape of white, of such apparent substance and solidity that it was hard to believe it would not break your fall. If you opened the door of the plane and stepped out – surely you could walk upon those hills and along those valleys, surely you would be safe.

The plane flew steadily on. Far below them, far beneath the cloud, the mountains of Portugal were growing smaller and smaller, miles away. She saw before her the house, the garden, the darkness of the night, a cool breeze stirring the vines as she burned her letter, and Tom, coming up behind her, blindly seeking her out.

I shall be this and I shall be that, and tomorrow everything will be –

She saw him, lying as still as death at the side of the pool, his face blue and his teeth clamped shut; moving, twitching, trying to say her name.

Dora knew about things, she knew what was what. It sounded so simple, and it went so deep –

Dora
, wrote Frances, leaning back, closing her eyes, seeing before her once again that oh, so lovely face,
beloved Dora, help me to make it right.

First published in 1993 by Century

This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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ISBN 978-1-4472-3437-1 EPUB
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Copyright © Sue Gee, 1993

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