Visitors (13 page)

‘Coffee in the drawing room,’ said Kitty, all smiles now. ‘And there’s a hazelnut cake for later.’

The usual groans of appreciation greeted this announcement, as was intended. Kitty’s hospitality was designed to stun. Austin basked in her good humour; they all did. This shed a certain radiance over the table, now empty except for the remains of the wine in the gold-rimmed glasses, a wedding present from long ago. ‘Shall we adjourn?’ Kitty enquired, and chairs were obediently pushed back, linen napkins thrown aside. In the drawing room they sank gratefully into the softer chairs.

‘I haven’t quite gathered what you young people do,’ said Monty Goldmark, stirring his coffee.

‘You could say we’re into the mind/body experience,’ said David. ‘Ann looks after bodies and I look after minds.’

‘And how do you do that?’ enquired Goldmark amiably. (‘No more, Kitty, thank you. Delicious, dear, quite delicious.’) ‘I’m listening,’ he added. ‘In fact I’m all ears.’

‘Well, we think, Ann and I do, that people’s lives are lacking in health, particularly young people’s, although Ann extends her care to the not so young. And I try to supply a resource that some people don’t even know they need.’ He laughed modestly.

‘And how do you do that?’

‘I run religious encounter groups, I suppose you’d call them, groups of young people reaching out for the unknown and sometimes being visited, you know? By the transcendental.’

‘And where do you do all this?’

‘This school I teach in has a gym that we use. There’s a lot of equipment we need—mainly space, and mats, of course—and a good acoustic for Steve’s guitar.’

‘Because Steve is involved in all this?’

‘Sure. That’s how we met.’

‘It sounds like one of those films we used to enjoy,’ said Molly suddenly. ‘You know, “Let’s do the show right here, in the gym.” ’

‘We’re building on exactly that kind of association, Molly,’ said David. ‘We aim to bring religion down to an informal level, make it correspond to natural impulses, make it fun. When people realise it can be fun they let God into their lives on a daily basis.’

‘I don’t agree with any of this,’ said Austin. ‘By no stretch of the imagination is religion fun. Religion is not a rave, David.’

‘It can be,’ he replied, almost flirtatiously.

‘I thought it was supposed to be a mystery,’ said Mrs May, surprised to have spoken out loud.

‘We aim to simplify the approaches,’ said David, undaunted by their lack of response. ‘A little singing, a little dancing …’

‘Give me strength.’

‘Austin,’ warned Kitty.

‘Maybe strength would flow in if you let it happen, Grandpa.’

‘ “It”? What is “it”? You make it sound like an orgasm. And don’t call me Grandpa.’

‘I find all this very interesting,’ said Harold. ‘I confess David has given me a lot to think about. And this diet he’s put me on works wonders. I’m sure Monty would agree.’

‘I’ve been trying to put you on a diet for years, Harold.’

‘But this is quite specialised, Monty. You see …’

‘Monty is not interested in your diet, Harold, and neither am I. I shall be glad when I can get my kitchen to myself again,’ said Molly.

The young people on this occasion seemed rather unfairly overshadowed by their elders, no match for their comfortable assurance, their conviviality, their long-established intimacy. They were if anything offended by efforts being made only nominally on their behalf but in fact directed to their own kind. David alone appeared to have some idea that they should make a contribution, but David’s particular contribution was falling on deaf ears. How awful if he felt obliged to volunteer it in all circumstances, reflected Mrs May. She noted that Ann made no attempt to help him out, nor did he appear to pay much attention to her. Ann had in fact withdrawn her co-operation from the proceedings, although she had made an effort to don some kind of finery, forced into this no doubt by Kitty, who may also have been responsible for the black linen dress and a visit to the hairdresser. The recipient of these attentions was glum, not to say morose. She sat chewing a strand of hair; from time to time she crossed and uncrossed her legs in irritation. Palpably she wished herself elsewhere.

‘Ann? All right, dear?’ said Austin.

‘I’m okay. Got a bit of a headache.’

‘Go into the bedroom with Kitty. She’ll give you an aspirin. Brandy, Monty? Harold? I won’t ask you young people. I’m sure you don’t drink.’

‘We don’t drink and we don’t take aspirin.’

‘A little eau de cologne, perhaps,’ said Mrs May. ‘I always find that helps. There’s some in my bag, Ann.’

‘I’m
okay
.’

‘Come with me,’ said Kitty. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve freshened up.’

With a violent uncrossing of the legs Ann stood up and followed her out of the room. Without her presence David lapsed into silence, a silence marred by some ostentatious deep breathing.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Austin.

‘Fine, fine. Just repairing the energy levels.’

‘You have no stamina, you young people. I never had a headache when I was young, didn’t have time. Now, of course, I’m a ruin,’ he added cheerfully. ‘Monty knows all about that. More brandy? Help yourself.’

‘You look rather well, in fact.’

‘I put on an act; we all do. Kitty does, bless her. Where is she, by the way?’ For the absence of Kitty from the room distracted him, made him uneasy, as if without her he might indeed suffer a reversal. The appetites of the young, who appeared to have little notion of what to do with them, paled into insignificance in the light of Austin’s still verdant concern. No doubt they were disgusted, both by the lavishness of the entertainment and by the all too visible evidence of the depredations the entertainment had made on elderly bodies, now relaxed into almost supine postures, at ease with themselves, indifferent to appearances, confident of their acceptance by their peers. It is unequal, thought Mrs May; we are an insult to the young. This is not how they choose to amuse themselves. And they are still intact; they cannot believe that their own muscles will one day relax, so that when they are benevolent they merely look stupid. She readjusted her own expression. In passing she appreciated Steve’s neutral demeanour. Although he had scarcely said a word all evening—and perhaps for that very reason—he shone as a model of good behaviour. He replied monosyllabically to Molly’s attempt
to engage him in conversation. Discouraged, she gave up. In the brief silence that followed Austin stirred.

‘Thea, be an angel and go and see what the girls are up to. I don’t want Kitty doing too much. She was up at six this morning. Now, David, tell us more. You don’t mind, do you, dear?’

Behind her Mrs May could hear the conversation rumbling into life once more. She made her way out of the brightly—too brightly—lit drawing room into a no less brightly lit corridor, and thence, guided by voices, into the main bedroom. Glancing at her watch she saw that it was ten-thirty, at which time she should have been in bed, rejoicing in the great silence that emanated from the garden at night. But this was no longer possible. Her rest, when not disturbed by Steve’s radio, was disturbed by the very presence of a stranger in her house. And he was a stranger, she reminded herself, despite the fact that, rather to her surprise, she did not actively disapprove of him. They were all strangers, Kitty, Austin, Molly, Harold, despite the fact that she had known them for thirty years. Briefly and apocalyptically she had a vision of herself as a young girl, walking docilely round the park on a Sunday afternoon, convinced that she was enjoying herself. But in fact she had been enjoying herself, perhaps because there was at that stage of her life no reason to dissemble. She told herself that the time was out of joint, that the occasion was discordant, that it was late, that she was tired, that she needed to be alone. Loneliness is much feared by the gregarious, she reflected, whereas to the solitary the gregarious pose a much greater threat.

From Kitty’s voluptuous bedroom, the décor of which paid little heed to Austin’s presence, came the sounds of an argument. ‘… beastly to David,’ she heard, and the sound of a hard
object—a hairbrush, perhaps—being slapped down onto a glass surface. She winced. The girl was upset, no doubt of that. She had been upset all the evening, had sat silent and scowling, overdressed, her hair transformed into a multitude of ringlets, like the up-to-the-minute hairstyling of Albrecht Durer, whose self-portrait Mrs May had seen on her most wretched holiday, the one taken after Henry’s death. She had thought, mistakenly, that a change of scene might be beneficial. She had taken trains, had spent time silently and discreetly in many museums, trying to summon up reactions but experiencing only blankness.

On entering the bedroom she saw Kitty seated on a fragile chair, her eyelids lowered as if in pain. At the dressing table Ann was furiously brushing out her expensive coiffure, anger tightening her mouth. She did not arouse sympathy for her plight. She was too big, too powerful, too unmanageable. Even Kitty was at a loss. The thwarted child had compensated by growing into a giantess.

‘… beastly to David,’ she was saying. ‘Bloody rude, in fact. He’s been like that ever since we arrived.’

‘Please don’t speak of your grandfather in that tone of voice.’

‘They are only having a discussion,’ observed Mrs May pacifically.

‘They’re having an
argument!
’

‘Sometimes a discussion sounds like an argument. I think they are both enjoying themselves, actually.’

‘Well, I’m not. And I doubt if David is. He’s basically a very shy person.’

‘Oh, really? I thought him quite forthcoming. Able to give a good account of himself,’ she added hastily, reflecting how
many talkative people thought of themselves as shy, positively launching into the fact by way of introduction.

‘I know you mean well, Grandma,’ said Ann, having dismissed Mrs May’s rejoinders as unhelpful. ‘But we’re simply not on the same wavelength, me and David and you and Grandpa. All you think about is worldly stuff, food and clothes …’

‘You will have to think about these things too, Ann. And may I remind you that all this is being done for your benefit? We didn’t expect you to get married here in London. A girl’s mother usually arranges the wedding.’

‘Mother hasn’t got the means …’

‘There you have it.’ Kitty gave a dry laugh, but Mrs May could see that she was less sure of her position, had in fact become aware that she was being accused of vulgarity, whereas before she would have advanced it as a virtue. Extravagance was her reason for living, her tribute to her husband’s financial position, to her own self-respect. That her arrangements might be regarded as crude had not hitherto been apparent to her. Now she wondered how far they had been apparent to everyone else. With strangers she was vulnerable, which was why she stayed so close to home. And this girl had defined herself as a stranger, in which case her efforts had been for nothing.

‘You leave my mother out of it.’

‘Gladly. We haven’t heard from her in years.’

‘Or my father, I suppose.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Kitty gave a wry little laugh. ‘We hear from him every Christmas. He sends us a Christmas card. A Christmas card! We only know where he is from the postmark.’

‘And where was the last one from?’

‘Plymouth.’

‘Well, it may interest you to know that David and I are going down there tomorrow.’

‘What good will that do? You’ll never find him.’

‘I have found him! David and I are going to see him this weekend.’

‘How did you find him?’ asked Mrs May, who thought Kitty unequal to putting the question. Kitty, it was clear, was suffering humiliation, she who only ever dispensed patronage.

‘I get a Christmas card too, don’t I? And I’ve got friends, well, a friend, who’s been on the road and joined up with his lot a couple of months ago. That’s why we’re in London, Grandma, if you really want to know. Not because we want a posh wedding, with smoked salmon and florists and relatives …’

‘And a honeymoon in Paris,’ said Kitty quietly. ‘And the generosity of all kinds of people. Hélène Goldmark is opening their house in France at this very moment, in case you want to go down there.’

‘I wondered why she couldn’t come this evening,’ said Mrs May.

‘I just don’t want all these
strangers
…’

‘One meets a lot of strangers at weddings,’ observed Mrs May from the sidelines. ‘But they don’t matter very much. It is a social occasion after all. One is not getting married to them.’

‘You are a silly ungrateful girl, Ann.’

‘I don’t care. I hate it here.’

‘And hate me too, I suppose.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

There was a brief pause, while each of the combatants reviewed her position. Then, loftily, distantly, expressing only a mild interest, Kitty said, ‘So you are going to see Gerald.’

‘He is my father, after all.’ The tone was now defensive.

‘So you say,’ said Kitty, as if discounting the connection, even the possibility.

Bad faith rose like a miasma. Bad faith was now seen to have dogged the visit. Kitty’s suddenly old face alarmed Mrs May. Kitty was an old lady, she reminded herself. Kitty was seventy-five, nearly seventy-six, Austin a year or two younger. It was vital that they should be kept intact until all this was over, that they should keep their dignity, be seen to triumph. Ann condemns her, she realised. Kitty dislikes Ann, as much for her clumsy appearance as for her graceless manners, but Ann condemns her utterly. Ann sees through the elaborate housekeeping, the invincible chic, sees them for what they are: a defence against extinction, an attempt to console and deny, a refusal to accept defeat. Kitty knows that. But she may not have known that it was quite so evident. So evident that this girl, a virtual stranger, has unmasked the pretence and done irreparable damage.

Her heart ached for Kitty, that proud futile woman, whose absent-minded attention she had loyally translated as kinship. Even now, at the sight of Kitty diminished by Ann’s revelations, by the mere introduction of Gerald’s name, of his possible presence, when before he had been most vividly and perhaps acceptably present as a ghost, not even a revenant, a person who belonged to the past, to the unimaginable past of a young Kitty, a young Austin, she knew that neither of them would ever forgive Ann, and that they would strive mightily to conceal the fact.