Visitors Page 11

  ‘Well done, Kitty,’ murmured Mrs May, taking her arm.

  But this was found intrusive. Kitty smiled distantly, disengaging herself. ‘You’re always so kind, Thea. What should we do without you?’

  Maybe it was meant, maybe it contained the same degree of parody as her own expressions of concern for Kitty’s welfare, for Austin’s welfare. Mrs May no longer knew. She knew that it was very late, too late for further efforts on her part. The lateness of the hour seemed to confer its own solemnity. Almost absently Kitty pulled back the blue silk curtains and opened the windows, as if to banish the memory of earlier dissension. Mrs May was aware of crushing fatigue. She looked at her watch. Just gone eleven.

  ‘Come, Kitty,’ she said.

  In the drawing room Austin, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, said, ‘Where have you girls been? You’ve missed all the fun. Ah, tea. Molly, how kind of you. Now, David, you can’t say I didn’t defend my position.’

  ‘Certainly not, Grandpa,’ said David, with a thin smile.

  ‘It was a mistake on your part to bring in comparisons. You’re on shaky ground there. We’re all rooted in the physical, whether you like it or not. You’ll discover that when you get older. Young people don’t even approach the problem. And Steve, what does Steve think of all this?’

  Steve came out of a brief trance. ‘I think I ought to take Dorothea home,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, not yet. Ann, give your friend his cup of tea. And cake. Perhaps you’d like to pass round the cake. All right, Kitty, my love?’

  ‘Perfectly fine,’ said Kitty agreeably, no trace of earlier troubles apparent. Indeed, if anything, both she and Ann seemed somewhat refreshed by their recent altercation.

  ‘It’s always nice to be with family,’ said innocent Molly.

  And Mrs May reflected that at some point all would agree that this was true. When time had done its work, and the visitors were little more than a memory, they would assure themselves and each other that family ties were best, were indeed indissoluble, that all families had their disagreements, but that these were negligible compared with the commonality of interests that bound them together. Even Ann seemed subdued, David mercifully silent. Surveying them, as they drank their tea, Austin was quietly jubilant. ‘Now you can’t say we haven’t had a pleasant evening,’ he said. ‘No hard feelings, David. I dare say we’ve both got a lot to learn. If I’m not too old, that is.’ He laughed at this possibility, as if it were out of the question. ‘Your grandmother’s been to a lot of trouble,’ he observed to Ann. ‘But I think we can all agree that it’s worth it. As long as you’re happy. That’s all that matters.’

  Various sensations of discomfort, not all of them physical, pursued her through a shorter night than she was used to, leaving her unsettled. Sleep had been difficult after the substantial meal and Austin’s excellent wine; she had reached home too tired, so that already regret for lost sleep took the place of the usual pleasant approaches, the ritualistic preparations, the drawing aside of the curtains to let in the night air through the ever open windows. A vague distress had sent her off to her room, after bidding Steve goodnight. She had been anxious to be alone, and not for the first time regretted his presence, although he had retreated behind the door of his own room and need have made no further inroads into her consciousness. She had sat on her bed, fretting, knowing that the family scene had upset her in various ways, yet not understanding why it had left such a residue of unused feeling. Certainly she was unequal to such manifestations of antagonism: quite literally she had no training in such matters. Yet there had been a dreadful sort of excitement in witnessing those two unburdening themselves of their frustrations, even though she knew perfectly well that the breach had been almost instantly repaired, this in its turn a tribute to the marvellous flexibility that those of uncertain temper could command. Yet the fact that both Ann and Kitty had derived a certain pleasure in voicing their objections to one another failed to relieve her: she felt distress, less on their behalf than on her own.

  Why this should be so she could not tell. Maybe she lacked the emotional equipment to deal with lightning changes of favour. The fearlessness of Ann and Kitty! Their wholeheartedness, their conviction! She had been reminded of girls at school, best friends who came to blows and swore undying enmity, only to be perceived a few days later, their arms linked, their heads together as usual. Whereas she, timidly welcoming overtures of friendship, considered herself to be party to a contract, one which she would never break, until in the course of events she was left with nothing but her disposition towards fidelity, while alliances shifted all around her, and she learned once again to rely on her own company.

  This echo from the past, and the memory of those brazen disaffections and accusations, had so disturbed her that her sleep had been interrupted by dreams of a different order from the ones that usually beguiled her, and even before waking she had felt apprehensive. And this morning the unexamined emotions of her dreams made her alert to change, not only the changes of uncertain favour and disfavour, but to changes in the atmosphere, in this room. She glanced at her clock; it was neither later nor earlier than her usual hour. But it was slightly darker. That was it: the weather had changed. She got out of bed and went to the window. The garden was still sleeping, as were the birds, who had been so active only yesterday. The great sun was on the wane, and the weather was slowly metamorphosing into autumn. She felt a moment of panic at the prospect of months of cloud and dull skies. She remembered a distant holiday in the mountains of Savoy when just such an overnight transformation had taken place. Her one thought, on that occasion, had been ‘I must get home’, and she had packed her bag and ordered a taxi immediately after breakfast. Now that she was home, and was likely to remain so, her thought was that once again she had missed the summer, had forfeited it for the humble reassurance of sitting on the terrace every morning, conscious of cowardice, or rather of uncertainty, but swiftly, perhaps too swiftly, coming to terms with the fact that such uncertainty was blameless if not particularly noble, and reminding herself once again that she had no accounts to render to anyone, that her obligations were as neatly filed as the receipted bills in the pigeonholes of her desk.

  But Kitty knew. Kitty had penetrated her disguise, as had the softer-hearted Molly, who pitied her. Once again she thought of those distant Sunday afternoons, still more vivid than all the expensive holidays that had followed. With Henry there had been no problem: her efforts had been devoted to seeing that he was enjoying himself, that his occasional expression of fretful disappointment was kept at bay. Holidays were what she took after his death, in the immense perplexity of her unpartnered state. She had been astonished and alarmed at her lack of enjoyment, as if in some part of her mind she had expected her undivided and placid childhood to resurface. But it had never come back, and it was only by the most unremitting effort that she had kept it under control ever since, as if she knew that the child she had been might threaten the adult she had become, with all the compromises and the imperfections permanently on hand to render her thoughtful.

  Bathed, dressed, she faced the day without expectation of any pleasure from it. There was no sound from Steve’s room; maybe he had gone for his run, although she had not heard the front door close. She laid the breakfast table in case he should come back when she was out, then went into her bedroom and stripped the bed. She took clean sheets and towels from the linen cupboard, knocked on Steve’s door, and receiving no answer went in. He was still in bed; beside him on the floor was an almost inaudible murmur of pop music from his radio. He sat up defensively. He is afraid of me, she thought sadly, though in fact she was slightly afraid of him. At the same time her heart was softened by the sight of his eyes fixed on her, willing her not to encroach on his liberty. A primitive tenderness warred with her habitual reserve and momentarily overcame it. Her smile was involuntary; any young face moved her. She tended nowadays to smile at young people in the street, whether she knew them or not. All the more reason, then,
to take pleasure in this young person under her roof. Nevertheless, he must be made to leave. To allow him to stay would be to court all kinds of danger.

  Henry would not approve of this incursion, she reflected. But then in this particular circumstance Henry’s opinion was hardly relevant.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were out. Here are some clean sheets. Did you sleep well? I expect you want your breakfast. I’ll make the coffee; I think I’ll have another cup with you. I had a rather disturbed night.’

  She had in fact finished her coffee by the time he entered the kitchen, noiselessly as usual, on bare feet. He had washed his face but had not otherwise put himself to rights. His slack moodiness seemed to match the uncertain light of the day. She sighed, empathising with his boredom.

  ‘I think it would be a nice gesture if you were to telephone Mrs Levinson and thank her for dinner last night,’ she said. ‘She went to a great deal of trouble. I don’t expect you’ll be seeing her this weekend, if David and Ann are to be away.’

  He gave a sour smile. ‘Got my marching orders last night,’ he said. ‘ “We shan’t expect to see you here before Monday evening, Steve.” ’ The imitation was not unsuccessful, accompanied as it was by Kitty’s imperious turn of the head. This usually preceded what Henry had called Kitty’s Aria. ‘Life hasn’t always been easy. I’ve had my disappointments like everyone else. But you won’t catch me feeling sorry for myself. In fact nobody knows what I’m feeling. I put a bold face on it. And then, you see, I refuse to lower my standards.’ Mrs May, who had heard Kitty’s tributes to herself on more than one occasion, suppressed a smile. The boy was no fool.

  ‘Did you not want to go to Plymouth with David and Ann?’ she asked.

  ‘Got my marching orders there too, didn’t I? “This is family business, Steve.” Ann was quite rude, really; well, she is rude. Not my type, as I need hardly point out.’

  ‘And David?’

  ‘David’s all right.’

  ‘And do you believe in his work? This spreading of the Word, as I suppose we must call it.’

  ‘I do and I don’t. Basically I think it’s crap, but David’s sincere, know what I mean? After all, he gave me house room when he hardly knew me. Christian charity, and all that.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been living with him?’

  ‘No, Dorothea. I’ve been living in his house.’

  He grinned. She smiled back at him.

  ‘Where will you go after they’re married, those two?’

  ‘Dunno. I’ll move on, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t you want to settle down, put down roots? Or is that a silly question? You’re maybe too young to think of such things. It’s old people like me who want to settle down. Have to, rather.’

  ‘I’ve got time.’

  ‘I’d rather like to know your plans, Steve. You know that Austin has bought you a plane ticket for Paris? I suppose you will see quite a bit of Ann and David while you’re all there. And if they go to the Goldmarks’ house at Apt, I suppose you’ll go with them?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say, Steve, is that I’m afraid you can’t come back here.’

  ‘Can I leave my stuff here?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ This sounded so unkind that she immediately retracted it. ‘Are you looking for a place in London, then? Perhaps until you found one …’

  ‘Nah. I’ll go back to the States with Ann and David. I’ve got the ticket.’

  ‘But my dear boy, you can’t live with them once they’re married.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. David needs a friend. Ann’ll soon get tired of him. And pretty soon she won’t need his money if her grandpa coughs up.’

  ‘That’s a dreadful thing to say. Surely it can’t be true? They are getting married, after all.’

  ‘You’re sweet, Dorothea. Too too sweet.’

  She wondered where he had heard such suddenly exaggerated diction, such as she had been accustomed to hearing in her youth. She then reflected that she was willing to overlook this moment of mockery in favour of having made it clear that he was to move on. At least, she thought she had made it clear. At least, she had said something to that effect. He was grinning at her, showing his fine teeth.

  She rose, collected the dirty dishes. As ever, he had eaten heartily. ‘What will you do today?’ she asked, a note of formality in her voice.

  ‘Oh, I’ll go out, don’t you worry.’

  ‘You can eat here this evening, if you’ve nothing better to do.’

  ‘Thanks, that’d be great.’

  ‘I’m not a cook like Mrs Levinson,’ she warned him. ‘It’ll probably be something from Marks and Spencer. Oh, and you won’t forget to ring Mrs Levinson, will you? Just thank her and give her my love. Tell her I’ll ring her tomorrow. I expect she’s rather tired.’

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  She saw that he was about to break into another bout of impersonation, and moved quickly to forestall it.

  ‘Then we’ll meet here at seven,’ she said. ‘Have you got a coat? It looks like rain.’

  ‘No.’

  She hesitated. ‘There’s a jacket of my husband’s you could borrow. The only one I kept. You’ll take care of it, won’t you?’

  The jacket, slightly waisted, fitted him perfectly. ‘Of course it doesn’t look quite right over a T-shirt,’ she said. ‘Where’s that shirt you wore last night?’

  ‘I put it in the washing machine when I took it off. If I do it now it’ll be ready for tonight. Must be properly dressed if I’m to dine with you, Dorothea.’

  She thought he was probably making fun of her, and felt foolish. Though I don’t know why I should, she thought. He is really quite irritating, and after all nothing to do with me. She switched on the washing machine and left the dirty dishes in the sink, as if waiting for Steve to take care of them. When, with a sigh, she ran the taps, she felt a quiver of longing to be on her own again. She put the kitchen to rights, amazed that it still belonged to her. Yet she felt unsettled, and when Steve reappeared wearing Henry’s jacket she felt slightly worse. How angry Henry would have been, she thought. The jacket was still redolent of Henry’s vanilla cologne, soon to be banished by the young man’s alien smell.

  Yet, ‘You look very nice,’ she managed to say.

  He put an arm round her shoulders. Henry’s ghostly aroma enveloped her more closely.

  ‘You’ve been a brick,’ he said warmly, again with that faintly parodied intonation. ‘We could go for a drive tomorrow, if you like. A spin. Out in the country somewhere.’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ she said, but her heart leapt. Richmond Park, she thought. And tea at Kew. It was years since she had been there, walking slowly, pensively, as in days of old. ‘Don’t forget to ring Kitty,’ she reminded him. ‘Tell her I’ll ring her tomorrow.’ If I have time, she thought.

  Henry had been wearing a soft brown hat when he had raised her to her feet in St James Street. Even in her distress she had been aware of his elegance, as the hat was swept off. She had supposed such suavity to be the outward manifestation of comfortable circumstances. She had always dressed carefully herself, so that her eventual access to those same comfortable circumstances had not made a noticeable difference to her appearance. But initially she had marvelled at the number of suits and shirts that had made their way into the cupboards of her flat. He had liked her home, had not wanted to move. This had surprised her, until she realised that in an odd way he had always regarded it as temporary. Besides, he had been living with Rose, and was thus without a home, having made over his flat in Basil Street to his first wife. Mrs May was prepared to regard herself as a safe haven, as indeed she turned out to be. But she had been unprepared for his fierce devotion to his sister, to the cousins, in whose presence he reverted to a more archaic version of his normal self, relaxing on the soft cushions of their sofas, accepting coffee and cake from Molly or Kitty, a cigar from Austin or Harold. ‘They’ve b
een through hard times,’ he would say as an excuse, though she could see no evidence of hard times in their luxurious appointments. Rose was the only one to whom she had been inclined to make concessions, and those concessions had hardened into an unbreakable routine. ‘I didn’t know you were so attached to your family’ was the only criticism she ventured, after yet another punishing dinner party. ‘Well, you wouldn’t’ had been his reply. ‘You’re such a solitary. I suppose that’s the main difference in our backgrounds.’ She had been mortified, thinking that he had been referring to class, whereas all he had in mind was disposition. He was not English, despite his English birth; he did not automatically think in terms of class. And she herself was perfectly civilised. Nevertheless she felt uncomfortable when she remembered that remark of his, for which, if she were honest with herself, she never quite forgave him.

  Her bedroom mirror showed a careful, even distinguished woman, in whom she saw all too clearly the lineaments of the studious schoolgirl, and, even more, the faithful employee. ‘Dorothea can be relied upon at all times,’ her boss, Mr Grindley, had said, perhaps only dimly realising that she had been waiting to be such a paragon for the better part of a lifetime, all the more so because of the assignations in Down Street. She had, even then, been homesick for good behaviour. She smoothed back her still thick but quite grey hair, noticing, as she did so, the veins standing out on the back of her hand. On impulse she telephoned the hairdresser to see if by any chance Jackie were free today instead of Monday, her usual day. Jackie could just fit her in at eleven, if she came promptly. Then a quick lunch, she thought, then the supermarket, although she rarely shopped on a Saturday. No, not the supermarket; the delicatessen in Marylebone High Street, where Kitty occasionally shopped, or where Harold would go, in search of something out of the ordinary. Or perhaps his gourmet habits had been curtailed by David. What did young men eat? Anything, she supposed, as long as it was put down in front of them. But she wanted to do them both credit. And he gave all the signs of harbouring a healthy appetite. She had been impressed by the neat way in which he had disposed of Kitty’s meal, leaning back comfortably from the table as he finished his wine.