Last Guests of the Season (9 page)

‘It's beautiful.'

‘And it's perfect for the children, especially – the pool at the house, being able to walk down here … I can't bear having to drive somewhere every day on holiday, can you?'

‘No.' There was another pause, in which Frances did not elaborate either on holidays or driving with children; Claire thought vaguely that perhaps, if it were not so hot, she might begin to find this one-sided conversation rather awkward, and remembered, simultaneously, Linda Hobbs, last year, chattering without pause, and Frances, at Bristol, quiet and remote. But the sun explained and excused all silences, dissolved all social barriers, thank God. Once they'd settled down, and Tom had unwound, they'd be fine. She made a little runnel in the sand for another approaching humbug, and watched it fall and bumble on, feeling herself grow fond of it. Beside her, Frances said quietly:

‘I want to talk to you.'

‘How nice,' said Claire. ‘What about?'

Another silence. ‘Various things.'

Claire thought: well, that can mean only one thing. The marriage. She's going to tell me about her and Oliver, and I'm not sure I want to know, just at the moment. We're on holiday, she could hear Robert say, and she agreed. And then she had a sudden insight: no, it's not that, or it's more than that. It's something about Tom. She's going to tell me … what? With a flash she knew: he's adopted.
That's
why he doesn't fit.

Footsteps came over the sand behind them; above them Robert announced: ‘The kids say they're hungry.'

‘Well, give them something to eat, then,' Claire said briskly. ‘It's all in the rucksack.' She felt tom between wanting to hear what Frances wanted to tell her, and a desire for the morning, which had already had its unexpected moments of stress and distress, to be settled and ordinary now, undisturbed by problems.

‘Right.' Robert paused. ‘You all right?'

‘Fine, thanks. You?'

‘Hot.' He moved off again and she said: ‘Sun cream. In the swimming bag.'

‘Will do.'

Beside her, Frances said: ‘Later. Not now.'

‘All right.' Claire felt, with a shade of unease, as if she were being drawn into a conspiracy. She rolled over, and got up. ‘I'm very thirsty. Would you like a drink?'

‘Perhaps when I've thawed out.'

‘Okay.' She got to her feet, her head swimming a little, the sun on the water dancing before her eyes. Not a good idea, falling asleep mid-morning; there'd be time enough in the house, this afternoon. Still, if you couldn't fall asleep mid-morning on holiday, when could you? Robert was doling out crisps; the children ripped open their packets and crunched contentedly. ‘Squash,' she said, going over. ‘I'm dying.'

‘Me too. Here we go.' He withdrew the Thermos, unscrewing the top, and poured into the plastic cup: there was the delicious chink of ice cubes.

‘Can I have some?' asked Tom, watching. ‘Please?'

‘Of course.' Claire drank quickly, observing pairs of shoulders turning scarlet. Why on earth hadn't she done them first thing, before they'd all dashed into the water? Why, come to that, hadn't Frances and Oliver, in some ways so overprotective, done Tom? Well, they'd all been seduced by the river after a difficult walk; never mind. She passed the cup back to Robert, and rummaged in the bag. ‘Come here, Tom.'

He stood still obediently, like a rough pony waiting to be shod, as she rubbed cream into his shoulders and down his back. His skin was hot to the touch. I wonder, she thought, turning him round and rubbing his broad chest and stomach. Oliver was a big man, but he was spare, Frances not an inch over size twelve. Tom was built like a tank. ‘Here,' she said, squeezing a snake of cream into his hand. ‘You do your arms and legs.'

‘Okay.' He wandered off to get his drink, rubbing his limbs abstractedly, leaving thick smears of white.

‘Where's Oliver?' asked Jessica, munching on an apple.

‘He's gone to have a bit of peace and quiet with his book,' said Claire. ‘Come here and let me do you. Or would you rather do yourself?'

‘It's all right.' Jess settled down on the sand, her arms round her knees; Claire knelt up behind her, smoothing in the cream. Jess's shoulders were firm, dusted with freckles from the sun. Like Claire, unlike her father, she tanned easily; the boys had gone scarlet but she was turning a rich honey-brown, and her hair had lightened. Last year's photographs showed, by the end of the holiday, a lovely child, a lion cub, tawny and gold, fit, clear-eyed. But last year she had been freer, more open, always laughing, hugging goodnight. Now she seemed from nowhere to have found this rather distant, standoffish air, which shrank from physical contact. Claire was surprised to be allowed such an intimate ritual now. But perhaps Jess wanted to talk.

‘Did Oliver alarm you?' she asked, pushing the thick hair aside. ‘I mean with Tom – getting so cross.'

Jess shook her head. ‘Not really. Anyway, Tom was being a pain.'

‘He'd hurt himself,' said Claire, taken aback. Had Jess really become so cool?

‘You know what I mean. Have you got any sweat bands? For my hair?'

‘I think so, up at the house. Can you manage for now?'

‘I suppose so.'

Claire ran her fingers down the knobs of Jessica's spine, and across, covering the whole of her back, down to the curving line of swimsuit. ‘There. You do the rest of you.' She looked over to Jack, who had picked up one of the humbugs and was scrutinising it closely. ‘Next, please.'

He came over carefully, his palm upmost. ‘Look.'

‘I know. They're nice, aren't they?' Tiny feelers waved at the air. ‘I think he's a bit frightened; put him down.'

‘I want to see how he works.'

‘And I want a hug,' said Claire.

Jack upturned his hand: the beetle fell like a stone.

‘Poor chap.' Tom, she found herself thinking, would never have done that. His clumsiness was accidental, unconscious, a kind of affliction; he would, unless he had tripped on something, have put that little creature down with care, tenderness even. Still – the thought of living with Tom was daunting. She held out her arms, and Jack came into them, burying his face in her neck. Claire held him close, smelling his sun-warmed hair; she turned him round, so that he was sitting between her knees, and picked up the tube of cream again.

‘Like monkeys,' he said, as she began to rub. ‘It's like a grooming session.'

‘Mother monkey and little monkey.' She kissed the back of his neck. ‘I do love you.'

‘I love you too,' said Jack simply. ‘I'll always love you.'

Claire kissed him again. And turned for some reason; to see Frances, sitting up now, her hands clasped round her knees as Jessica's had been, watching them

‘We must talk about food,' Claire said.

‘Food?' She looked blank.

‘For tonight. Are you and Oliver happy about this arrangement? Taking turns?'

‘Oh. Oh, yes, that's fine.'

‘There's not much in the larder, I'm afraid, we'll have to go and do a proper shop tomorrow in the market town. But there's enough bread and cheese and ham and salad stuff for a couple of meals. I don't really care what you put on the table, I just don't want to have to put it there myself.'

‘Don't worry,' said Frances, ‘I'm happy to do it. I enjoy cooking, remember.'

‘Yes. That meal you and Oliver gave us was wonderful.' Claire ran creamy fingers along Jack's slender arms, and pushed away the memory of Robert and herself at home afterwards, munching cornflakes.

Frances was getting up, dropping her thick blue towel.

‘Oliver likes cooking, too. It's one of the things we have in common.' And she walked across the sand to the edge of the glinting water and stood there, looking downriver in the direction he had taken; hesitating, as if undecided whether to stay or follow.

The rest of the morning passed agreeably. The sun rose, bleaching the cliff face and the comfortable flat rocks across the water where Robert and Jessica had been, but the rocky shallows were shaded by hillside and trees, and Robert suggested a wildlife expedition.

‘Wicked,' said Tom. ‘What's there?'

‘Little fish, little frogs, butterflies, dragonflies. And sometimes you see water snakes.'

‘Water
snakes! Wow!'

‘They're not dangerous, are they?' Frances asked, fastening on his sandals.

‘Gentle as kittens.' They began to walk towards the shallows. ‘Oh, look, here's Oliver.'

He came towards them smiling, raising his hand, heralded by an iridescent shimmer of turquoise dragonflies. They greeted each other and stood on the rocks, gazing down into sun-flecked brown pools of water. Little black butterflies, soft as velvet, fluttered amongst the reeds; the air was full of the sounds of birds and flowing water; far above them an aeroplane crossed the sky, leaving a long pale line of smoke.

‘Well, this is very nice,' said Oliver, putting an arm round Frances. Her hands in the pockets of her shorts, she stood smiling up at him, fair hair light against his old blue T-shirt. A photograph taken then would have shown an undeniably appealing couple, happy and relaxed. Probably, thought Claire, observing them, all they need is a little sun and time to be together, like anyone else.

‘Had a good swim?' he asked her, and Frances nodded.

‘Very. Did you find somewhere pleasant?'

‘I did. I've been lying with the scent of pines all around me, undisturbed by a soul.'

‘Lucky you.'

‘Fish!' said Tom suddenly from beneath them, kneeling on an overhang. ‘There's lots!'

They all got down and peered. Dull grey, a couple of inches long, the fish flickered through the water, vanishing the instant his fingers touched the surface.

‘Quick! Where's the nets?'

And thus the rest of the morning passed, tranquil and easy. They fished, and baked tiny finless bodies on the rocks; they captured butterflies and released them into the sun again; they admired the dragonflies, and hoped for kingfishers. Every now and then a car or a van made its way down the winding mountain road above them; apart from this they were quite alone. Oliver swam, in a strong slow crawl; the children went in again, and played.

Frances went on ahead to prepare the lunch: by the time they all gathered up their things and made their way back through the baking heat of the fields again, it felt as if they had, in the course of the morning, become something of a group, genuinely enjoying each other's company.

Back at the house they slowly climbed the steps to the terrace. Claire dumped all the swimming stuff inside the doors, and went into the dining-room to find the table freshly laid with bread and cheese and a big bowl of salad. Frances had closed the shutters and the shaded room looked fresh and inviting. Claire gave an inward sigh of relief: she might have known that Frances, once she had begun to unwind, could be relied upon to make an effort.

Behind her the children were coming into the room companionably, settling into their chairs, and here was Frances, her hair brushed and tied back, carrying a tray of glasses, welcoming them all home again. She put the tray down on the table and began to pour out squash for the children.

‘There we are … All right, Tom? Careful with that.'

‘I'm hot.' He took the glass and began to drink noisily. ‘Can we swim in the pool after lunch?'

‘After tea, perhaps,' said Robert, coming in with Oliver, and pulling out a chair. ‘This afternoon all grown-ups are off duty and all children rest or amuse themselves quietly. Is that possible, do you think?' He drew the china jug of wine towards him. ‘And don't forget what I said yesterday, will you? No one uses that pool without a grown-up nearby. Frances, this all looks wonderful. Thank you. Have a drink.'

In the deep and enveloping warmth of the late afternoon, the grown-ups, rested, sat beneath the overhanging vines at the round white table on the upper path. They were drinking tea, and Frances was smoking; from the far end of the path came the shouts and splashing of the children, leaping in and out of the pool, beyond the bushes. Beneath them, the half-starved cat slept on baked earth, stretched out, motionless. Robert yawned, and reached up to pull off a few more black grapes from the bunch above his head; he sat popping them into his mouth, one by one, flicking the pips on to the ground, where tiny insects scurried.

‘You'll be ill,' said Claire.

‘No I won't.' He popped in another one. ‘One of the very nicest things about today,' he went on, reaching for Dick Francis, ‘is the prospect of supper being presented to me by our companions. Now it begins to feel like a holiday. And now, if you'll excuse me …' He got up, scraping the white iron chair on the path. ‘I am going to take my turn on the swing-seat. See you.' And he wandered away down the path.

The others smiled; Frances stubbed out her cigarette; there was a silence.

‘Do you think the children need an eye?' she asked casually, looking at Oliver.

‘I think they're all right, aren't they? So long as we're within earshot.'

Claire, who had begun to feel sleep and sun and wine soak into her bones, and thus no longer had the energy or inclination to care about anything very much, was nonetheless aware that Frances was willing Oliver to go, and that he was refusing. She couldn't begin to guess whether his refusal was simply because he, like herself, could not be bothered to move from this blissful spot, or because he would not be willed away. But he did not go, and the three of them sat listening to the children and watching the dissolving shimmer of heat over the valley as the sun slipped lower and the first pale streaks of grey appeared beyond the mountains.

We need Robert, thought Claire, seeing the swing-seat on the terrace begin to sway. Frances lit another cigarette and Oliver reached for his book again, something on Portugal he'd found in the house this time, not Larkin. Robert defuses, he makes everything easy and fun; I don't seem to be able to do that with these two, not on my own.