Such Visitors (2 page)

‘Je vous en prie, Madame,'
he said quietly, and lowered his head into his newspaper before Anna, in her confusion, could thank him.

Her hand now trembled on the glass. The extraordinary gesture had blasted all thoughts of her family from her mind. She felt the warmth of vanity. Her profile, she remembered, had always been good. Perhaps the remnants of other attractions were still recognisable. After a while she allowed herself to glance at the sender of the champagne. Nice face, hair drooping endearingly over one eye.

Suddenly, the way things were going became marvellously clear to her. She thanked God for the double bed, though how would she manage without a dressing-gown? The man raised his eyes.

They looked at each other searingly, recognising their mutual intent. Anna got up, left the salon. She would go straight to her room, rip off her clothes and let the stranger begin.

Somehow she found herself guided by the friendly proprietor to the dining-room. A candle burned on her corner table, a vase of blue lupins made pearly shadows on the white cloth. She ordered dinner. Passion would have to be postponed for an hour or so. Soon the man would follow, make his next move.

As she sipped at the stranger's champagne, Anna found herself wondering at her cold-blooded lack of guilt as she contemplated imminent infidelity. After twenty-three years of absolute faithfulness, here she was suddenly confronted by the prospect of adultery, determined to break every rule she had ever lived by, to behave like a whore. She shivered, enthralled at the thought.

She was halfway through her wild duck when the man
eventually entered the dining-room accompanied by a girl of about twelve – plainly his daughter. He gave Anna a brief smile full of purpose, then sat with his back to her and started a conversation with the child. Pity, considering the scarcity of time, Anna thought. But there was also something luxurious about
not
being able to have dinner with him.

By ten o'clock she was naked in bed, waiting. The sound of voices and the banging of cooking pots came from downstairs. Two hours went by. Footsteps creaked outside her room. Doors shut. Silence.

Tense with anticipation, Anna found herself wondering if just one night with a stranger would do anything to jeopardise twenty-three solid years of marriage. Might the placing of one foot on the slippery slope mean a general descent? Would it whet a long-dormant appetite, underline her discontent? It was hard to judge in advance. The self is so surprising. Maybe, from now on, she would break out in all sorts of directions. Maybe she would start to acknowledge the looks that Jack, Michael's oldest friend, had been giving her for years. Maybe she would become impervious to the boys' lack of consideration and, with other things on her mind, be irritated by them no longer. Maybe she would spend some money on herself, for once: resuscitate her rusty smile … cut and redden her hair, go off to London on Michael's nights out at the Round Table, the Parish Council, the Rock Gardeners' Club, and the Regiment's endless reunions …

The silence continued. Anna lay awake all night. The man did not come. The cold she felt became the cold of foolishness and shame. Desolate, she dressed at dawn, stood for a long time at the window watching a hard sun rise over the lupins. Escape had been quite spoiled by her own stupidity, her own crushed vanity. Also, she must now query her own judgement. How could she have been so wrong about the man's intentions?

By eight, she was downstairs settling the bill. Through stinging eyes, she observed a mistake. She had been charged for two glasses of champagne.

‘A gentleman paid for one,' she explained.

‘Apologies,' said the proprietor at once. ‘Of course: Monsieur Cadeau. He gave instructions. Whenever he's here he
buys everyone in the place a glass of champagne. Good for – how do you say? Public relations.'

Anna felt the blood scour her face.

‘Who is Monsieur Cadeau?' she asked.

The proprietor's smile indicated it was not the first time he had had to solve this puzzle.

‘He works for a champagne firm,' he said.

A taxi took Anna back to Angers. At the hotel she found Michael and the boys at breakfast. They showed no surprise at her return.

‘Had fun?' asked Michael. ‘You might have left a proper message. Still, we didn't worry. We knew you wouldn't do anything silly.'

The boys, engrossed in guide books, asked no questions.

‘Delange is the plan for today,' Michael went on. ‘Looks like an interesting church.' He turned almost contrite eyes to his wife. ‘I see it has a pretentious auberge, your sort of thing. Would you like –?'

‘Oh no,' said Anna quickly. ‘I went there. You wouldn't like it at all.'

From a long way off, she registered Michael's relief, and her sons' clumsy hands thrashing about among their guide books and maps, eager to be off.

‘Buck up with your coffee, Mum,' said Simon.

Was there anything more bleak than return from a flight that had failed?

In the car, Michael said, ‘Let's take the small road, follow the river.'

I could always try again,
thought Anna.

‘Did you look at the church?' asked Simon, zipping up his horrible anorak.

‘No,' said Anna. ‘I didn't go there to see the church.'

Turning her attention to the map, she found the road that led to Monsieur Cadeau of the champagne firm.

‘On our way then,' said Michael.

But I don't suppose I will,
thought Anna.

En famille
once more, the McGulls then set off for the ninth day of their sightseeing tour of France.

After much deliberation Mrs Hetherington decided against taking any tranquillisers. Better, she thought, to witness the whole thing with a clear mind than through an unreal calm induced by pills. If a tear should come to her eye – why, that was the prerogative of every bride's mother. Few people would see and those who did might understand.

When she had taken her decision Mrs Hetherington had not envisaged the strength of emotion that would affect her on the Big Day. So it was with some surprise, here and now in the church, the journey up the aisle having been accomplished with dignity on the arm of her brother John, that she felt frills of sweat at the back of her knees. And her hands, stuffed into navy gloves one size too small, trembled in disconcerting fashion.

She had chosen to wear navy with the thought that it was the most appropriate colour for her particular role at the wedding. Nobody could accuse her of trying to steal the bride's thunder – as did so many mothers, perhaps unconsciously -and yet, if they observed her closely, Mrs Hetherington's friends would see that her clothes conveyed the quiet chic she had always managed to achieve. She had chosen them with care: silk dress, matching coat, straw hat bearing the only small flourish of which she could be accused – an old-fashioned rose on its moiré band. On a November morning of early snow she had taken shelter in Debenhams and come upon the whole outfit, piece by lucky piece: even bag, shoes and gloves. In the small changing-room she had examined her appearance with the sort of critical eye no bride's mother can afford to be without. How would it all look five months hence under a blue April sky? Mrs Hetherington would have liked to have asked Alice's opinion – after all, it was by tradition supposed to be
Alice's day – but her daughter was off on a ‘holiday' raising funds for overseas famine relief. She was funny like that, Alice. No interest in appearance – never had had. It had been all Mrs Hetherington could do to persuade her daughter in March – cutting it pretty tight – to concentrate on her own wedding dress. No: Alice had never so much as asked her mother what
she
was going to wear, and in all the flurry of getting ready it was unlikely she had noticed. Or cared.

Precisely what Alice did care for, Mrs Hetherington was sometimes at a loss to know. As a child she had been straightforward enough – ordinary, really, except for her freckles. A fondness for rabbits rather than ponies; some talent at the high jump, which petered out at puberty; an inclination towards history, which petered out after ‘O' levels; and no traumas that Mrs Hetherington could recall. Except perhaps for the time Alice had thrown scrambled egg at her father on the last morning of their holiday at Brancaster, calling him a fuddy-duddy (and worse) for not allowing her to stay at the village disco later than midnight. But that had been an exceptional time, and David had made his point clumsily, Mrs Hetherington had to agree. She put the incident down to teenage wilfulness and considered herself lucky she had such a comparatively easy offspring.

It was only when she thought about it later that it occurred to her that Alice's ‘distance', as she called it, dated from that holiday. This ‘distance' itself was so hard to define that Mrs Hetherington refrained from mentioning it even to David, lest he should consider her ridiculous. But to Mrs Hetherington, who could never be accused of insensitivity, the widening gap between their daughter and her parents seemed noticeably to develop. It wasn't that Alice changed in any outward way: she remained the polite, willing, quiet creature she had always been, dutiful to her parents and apparently content to come home most weekends. But of her weekday life in London Mrs Hetherington was aware she knew nothing beyond the facts: Alice had a research job in television – exactly what that meant Mrs Hetherington had always been a little unclear and never remembered, somehow, to ask. She shared a flat with an old school friend in Shepherd's Bush: not a very salubrious part of London, but still. What she got up to in the evenings Mrs
Hetherington had no idea, though several times when she had rung after nine at night Alice had been in, giving rise to the comfortable thought that at least her daughter spent many evenings at home watching television. Once, when Mrs Hetherington had conversationally mentioned a demonstration in Trafalgar Square that had been given much attention in the papers, Alice casually remarked that she had been there and it wasn't half as bad as the publicity made out. Well, thought Mrs Hetherington at the time, Alice must have been passing. She had never been a
political
girl, that was for sure. She could happily have bet her bottom dollar Alice would have no interest in the terrible carryings-on of the National Front, or those dreadful Militants.

As for men in her daughter's life – Mrs Hetherington's speculations flailed about in a total void. No evidence of any kind to go on. Some weekends Alice would stare into the distance, sandy eyelashes (from David) fluttering thoughtfully, and make a point of answering the telephone first. When the call was for her she would speak in a low, unrecognisable voice: hard to hear from the other side of the door where Mrs Hetherington would hover – not out of curiosity, of course, but from natural anxiety about what was going on. If Alice had any boyfriends she never brought them home. Mrs Hetherington could not understand why. She had always made it clear she was eager to entertain any of Alice's friends. ‘Do bring whoever you like to stay, darling,' she would say every Sunday evening Alice was at home. But Alice would always reply she preferred her weekends alone.

Then, out of the blue, no warning, there had been the event of Alastair. Mrs Hetherington would never forget it. Glancing at the stained-glass windows above the altar, whose unkind colours recharged the tears in her eyes, she remembered the occasion once again. Alice had not acted in the most thoughtful way, it had to be admitted. Not a warning telephone call, even. Just, that Friday evening, arriving with him.

‘Thought you wouldn't mind, Mum,' she said, ‘if I brought Alastair Mead. We're going to get married.'

David, bless him, had taken it very well. Fetched the last bottle of Krug from the cellar and was talking easily to Mr Mead, about mortgages, within moments. (Mr Mead, it
seemed, was something to do with mortgages ‘for the bread and butter', Alice said. In his spare time, his real vocation, he raised money for famine relief.) Their conversation gave Mrs Hetherington time to study her future son-in-law: she saw a shortish, chunky figure, head slightly too big for his body, the loose smile of lips not quite in control, falling socks. She sipped rapidly at her drink to conceal her disappointment. In her heart of hearts she had always hoped her son-in-law would cut something of a dash: the brutal truth about Mr Mead was that he would not turn a head in the most plebeian crowd. Still, he had been to Charterhouse, as he let drop with his second glass of champagne, and perhaps his charm lay in his mind. He must be given a fair chance, Mrs Hetherington told herself, and in time Alice might wean him off tweed ties. Dreadful to be so prejudiced by appearances, but Mrs Hetherington had always been like that. It was unfair that a stranger's cast of nose or choice of shoe could breed in her such instant prejudice, but there it was. Suddenly Mrs Hetherington knew that she hated Alastair Mead, both for himself and for his proprietory talk about Alice. But she smiled bravely, and no one could have guessed her feelings.