The Visitors (2 page)

As time goes on, I learn some basic manners and a sense of politeness, but only in the way a chimpanzee can be taught to wield a fork, with no comprehension of why this is better than his fingers. I will wear the prickly starched lace collar without wriggling. I take my dose of castor oil weekly without protest and eat the fat on my meat. I love mealtimes and am fed well, preferring contrasts like cold meat and hot gravy or hot jammy pudding and cold custard. I learn to keep my elbows from the table and not to gulp down cocoa or grunt when devouring seedy cake. I am permitted to help in the kitchen, to stone cherries or top and tail gooseberries with Cook’s tiny scissors. Nanny taps on my hand or my back to reprove me. If I am good, I am given locust beans whose odour is horrid but their flavour delectable. If I transgress out of reach, Nanny stamps on the floor. The jolt travels to my feet and makes me stop. When Father is out, Nanny hits and shakes me. Not hard. Enough to shock. Nanny is a proper martinet, but for my own good. I am a wild animal kept in a tame house.

My desires drive me: hunger and thirst, the need for comfort and closeness, a wish to move and explore, a spirit of enquiry into what I can feel and smell and taste, never quenched. I ask all the questions my mind can conceive without words, by grasping and probing and sniffing and tasting, by applying to my nose and tongue or thrusting at Nanny or Father, a need within my flexing fingers to have it explained, to understand. But I have no words to express it and no mechanism of mind to receive it. I understand routine, that the aroma of food from the kitchen means luncheon soon, or a flannel in my hand means bath time next. Eventually, I come upon a sign or two to assuage needs: tap my lips for hunger or stroke my eyes for fatigue. But these are not calculated, only the mimetic gestures that bring satisfaction, as a cat learns to wheedle its desires from humans.

I follow my senses because they are all I have. I have to fathom the world for myself. A normal child grows and learns by listening and watching, trying out tasks and asking questions through her eyes and her early sounds. They are not yet words, but their inflection imitates the adults around her and she is understood by those dearest. I have none of this. My mind fights to escape its confines, to race and leap, but the silence and the greyness smother it. My outlet is anger, clear, ice-blue rage. My throat brings forth great shouts of hatred and I am chastised for these sounds, any sounds, in fact. I quickly learn that the noises I make – which I know only as a throbbing in my throat, a tickling in my mouth – are abhorrent to others. By touching the lips and throats of those around me, I learn that people throw messages at each other I cannot catch. I clutch at Nanny’s skirt or Father’s sleeve as they pace with purpose around the house and garden. And I know very early, I do not recall exactly when or how, that I am singular. I do not think my animal mind perceives that I am blind and deaf. I know there is a land that surrounds me, but always lies just beyond my grasp. I feel its constant presence through everything everyone else can do and I cannot.

I find Father holding a book and when I try to take it, I tear the pages and he stops me. Later, I return and find him there, the book still stuck in his fist. Why does he clutch this lifeless object in his lap for such long periods? And Nanny, why does she stand before a frame on the wall and primp her hair? She wears strange appendages on her nose, circles of glass surrounded by wire. And the box – a sacred object I am only allowed to toy with under direct supervision from Father – the box containing a ridged disc. When the box is working, it pulses with life. I lay my palm against its side to detect the vibrations. But no one can explain these mysteries to me yet: books and mirrors, spectacles and gramophones. Or gas lamps, candles, clocks and paintings, the Christmas tree, the chessboard, the piano or Father’s bugle, which hangs from a nail on the parlour wall. I only know that the others use them for some misty purpose of their own, from which I am eternally barred.

When the slow realisation settles that I am alone in my ways, I have no words to bemoan my fate. Only my fists, with which I can punch myself on the nose or pull out fat handfuls of my hair. Such self-violence produces the most spectacular results, chiefly the wonderful sensation of Father holding me down on the settee with his whole body and constraining me so tightly I can barely breathe. This makes me crow with delight. Yet afterwards, Father is always dreadfully puffed and puts a hand against his chest. Then I am sorry for my tricks. If Father is not at home, Nanny sometimes ties me to a chair. This is displeasing, but does not happen every day. Only when the madness grips me.

I know emotions as you do: boredom, disappointment, curiosity, pride. I know the house and garden where I reside. I know comfort and routine. But I do not know the meaning of home or family. My daily life is not thick with memories and understandings and connections as is yours, but rather it is thin and splintery, broken in places which let in the chaos of the unknown. I truly believe I do not know happiness. I cannot perceive of joy versus sadness, only the difference between loss and gain. I do not know myself or society or my place within it. I can enjoy or dislike a sensation, but not discern its relative importance; say, between a sour apple or the death of a bird. What thoughts I have, if any, are unremembered. I have the tools of a mind, but not the method by which to use them.

A sad little shadow my soul casts. These are the years 1883 to 1889. This is the Time Before.

I am six years old. It is late summer and the mellow perfume of plums, pears, apples and blackberries sweetens the air. I know that when the weather is hottest and the hops are ripe, many new people arrive on Father’s land and stay for a while. The ground shakes with their carts and caravans and tramping feet. They bring an army of exotic fragrances: woodsmoke and baking potatoes, perspiration and latrines. And every morning, a remarkable thing happens. Father marches into my room carrying his bugle, opens the window that faces the hop gardens, lifts his instrument and blows a rhythm across the land. I am permitted to clutch his leg as he does this and I can perceive the toots of the bugle tum-ti-tum through his body and into mine. At this signal, the people beyond stir, their work and chatter soon drumming the earth. In my long afternoons, I sit at my window and sniff the air, aware of these hordes and aching to meet them. The oast house exudes heat which drifts to my window and makes my skin clammy. A dizzying wave of yeast-stink pervades the air for days. If Nanny comes, more rarely Father, I point outside towards our guests, eager to meet them. But the answer is always no, no. I am not allowed to mix with them. I can smell the parasite deterrents our farmhands use to keep themselves free of the pests the strangers bring, the lice and the fleas and the bugs. But I do not know this fact as yet and I do not care. I only want to meet them. I point and point again. My arms are pulled back, down. My hand slapped. This makes my blood boil.

My tantrums grow worse. Now it is five or six outbursts a day. Afterwards I am exhausted and tearful, needful of arms around me. Yet the more I rage, the less I see Father. One September day I am tied to my chair all afternoon. The moment Nanny frees me, I escape and bound to my door. Careless Nanny has left it unlocked. I throw it open and hasten down the stairs. A maid’s hands grasp at my blouse but I wrench away and crash into the umbrella stand, which spews its contents. I scramble across their spiky guts and reach the front door. Outside, I skip down one, two, three, four steps and on to the drive. I trip on a rock I have forgotten at the edge of a circular border and the gravel greets my face with a clawing scrape. Skin, blood and stone fuse. But I will not stop. I get up and run-stumble on eastwise down the twisty path. I follow my nose to the hum of strangers gathered along the hop lanes. My flailing arms meet with resistance as I pass, bodies to the left and right, solid, foreign. I reach the end of a row and stop, winded. Then I feel a hand touch mine. I pull away, ready to yell, but it is a new hand: cracked and cut, used to manual work, but slender, mobile and female. It touches my hand again. This time I do not recoil. It begins to move, making shapes. Two fingers lie flat on my palm, one touches the tip of my fourth, a hand grasps my outstretched fingers. And so they go on, these odd shapes. Now, a finger draws a line from the top of my thumb down its curve to the tip of my index finger, then touches the tip of this and then one finger flat in the palm, then three fingers side by side. I am utterly still.

The next hand is Father’s, on my shoulder. I turn, use my free right hand to point at the shapes. But the hand withdraws. I cry out, stretch into space for that new hand. It comes again and I relax. I want that hand now. Father’s nudge at my back, we walk slowly back to the house, the new hand still there, still making those shapes. We go to my bedroom and sit on my bed. I do not know where Father is, I do not care. I assess the hand, up the arm to the head. Thin arms. Hair tied back in a tight, neat bun. Curly, wild when free, I imagine. Warm skin, sharp cheekbones. Full mouth. The lips smile. A countenance so pleasant I kiss her cheek. A sharp whiff of hop, sweat and soap exudes from her skin.

The hand takes mine again. It makes more shapes, new ones, quicker and quicker. I love this hand now. I want it never to leave. Nanny taps firmly on my back and I turn in fury, want to grab her and snap her, toss her away. I want nothing but my lady, who now taps my face. I remember my grazed cheek. In my enchantment, I had forgotten the pain. I permit Nanny to cleanse my wound, but cling to my lady’s hand. I want to explore her further so I let my hand roam, reaching down to her buttoned boots caked with mud, fingering her skirt of coarse cotton, covered with an apron stiff with grime, frayed and hole-ridden along its hem. I get up and retrieve my sewing basket. I will mend it for her and put everything in apple-pie order and she will love me. I feel someone leave the room but assume it is Father and do not care, as long as my lady is here.

When I return to the bed and sit, I know from its flatness that I am alone. Now that I am calm they have taken my lady away. I go to the door and it is locked. I scream and beat the walls. My wrath is scorching. I have never felt such a longing and loss as I do for my lady, for that hand and its shapes. I will not eat, I will not drink, I will not succumb until I have that hand again. Time watches me, impassive. I sense the Visitors come. They are sad for me; I almost feel their touch like the faintest breath on my skin. They want to console me. But they cannot, they cannot do a thing for me, cannot act for me in my powerlessness. I despise them for being no help and no use. I close my eyes and shake my head to insensibility to rid it of their pointless pity. I fall on my empty bed, sobbing, gasping. In time, I wipe my face and take up my doll. I tidy her hair and straighten her clothes. I sit on the edge of the bed and cradle her in my lap. She sleeps.

Hours later, I have not moved. I do not understand patience, but I know that nothing will happen while I am screaming. So I sit still and wait. Then, a jolt as the door is unlocked and opened. I know two figures approach by the stirring of air and their tread. One is Father and the other follows: tiptoe-light, tentative. Father pats my tear-dried cheek. I grasp his hand, do not know the common way of begging, but do my best, a kind of drawing towards my heart, my head swaying, eyes tight shut. Please, please. Bring her back to me. And here it is, her hand again in mine. I straight away flatten my palm ready for the shapes. They begin again. If I fidget, they stop, so I remain static. Then an object appears in my hand. I know it well, it is a key. Daily, Father lets me unlock the tall clock in the hall and wind it up. She removes the key and makes three shapes: one finger hooked in the palm, a touch on my index fingertip, a pointed finger at the base of my thumb. Then the hand is gone. Back comes the key. The three shapes again. The key. The shapes. And so it goes on.

She stops. She wraps her fingers around mine. She takes my index finger and moulds it into a hook in her palm. Then she shapes my straight finger pointing at the tip of her index. Next I point at the base of her thumb. Now the key is back in my hand. Away again. I have to make the shapes myself. She helps me. I recall them exactly. The three shapes, then the key. The three shapes, always the same three shapes in the same order. She places my right hand over her own, so that I can discern the shapes it makes from her viewpoint. This helps me refine my style and I quickly become adept. I am good at this trick. It is new and it is fascinating. I like the complexity, the sense of purpose.

I remember Father and flail my hand out for him. He is there beside me. I take his hand, put in the key, remove it and make the three shapes. He grasps my hand and shakes it like a jolly gentleman. I do not think he appreciates how wonderful my new trick is, so I do it again and again. His hand is rigid with concentration. He stops me and throws his arms around me, lifts me and wheels me about the room. So I do it again and again, as it cheers him and makes him love me. He sits me down with her and this time my doll appears in my hands. I learn new shapes then hold my doll. There are four shapes this time and they are different from the others. Yet the last two are the same one repeated. I check this to make sure and yes, it is correct.

This day we pick up many objects around my room and make the shapes for each: bed, chair, brush, pin, shoe. Then parts of the body: ear, nose, mouth, eye, hair. As she demonstrates the new patterns, my face is screwed with anxiety to read it precisely and reproduce it correctly. I am delighted when I get it right. And I do get it right, repeatedly. I want to pick up more things and make more shapes, more and more. Everything. But she is selective, ignores some requests, proffers others. I learn at least twenty and make them over and over. Soon my fingers are fatigued. Not from motion, as my hands are habituated to doing fine work for hours on end. But my mind is tired. It is unaccustomed to such strenuous and peculiar activity. I want to lie down, but I do not wish her to leave me. I take her hands and pull her to the bed. I stroke my eyes to show I am sleepy. She makes new shapes for me, five this time, some I know already from other patterns. She strokes my eyes too then makes the five shapes. I draw her fingers to my breast. I am very frightened that she will go. But she does not. She is lying beside me and lets me squeeze her hands. Before my eyelids droop, the Visitors come and they are most excitable and congratulatory. I fall asleep with a merry heart. I dream of her. My dreams are a mixture of the real and the impossible, as are yours. I can run without impediment, I can leap and float, my feet above the ground. But I cannot miraculously see and hear in my dreams. Instead I feel through my body, my muscles’ sense of space, my joys and terrors, as in my waking life. This dream is of my lady’s hands, just her hands in mine. They move with mystery and offer a kind of hope I do not yet understand but I want it, how I want it so.