Visitors (14 page)

‘Powder your face,’ said Kitty, with an effort at authority. ‘You are being impolite to your guests. They have come to see you, after all.’

‘They’re not my guests,’ the girl said sulkily. But Mrs May could tell that the fight had gone out of her.

‘Come, Kitty,’ she said, going over to the silent figure. ‘A little cologne and you’ll be as right as rain.’

‘She’s going to see Gerald,’ stated Kitty without emotion.

‘Maybe she’ll bring him back with her,’ suggested Mrs May, for the benefit of Ann. But Ann’s back was turned, as she picked up the hairbrush once again and passed it slowly through her hair.

Kitty looked up. ‘I’m too old, Thea,’ she said. ‘I can’t take these shocks. And what about Austin? What will this do to Austin? His angina …’

‘Come now, Kitty. There may be pleasant surprises ahead, who knows? Now what about a cup of tea? And did you mention a hazelnut cake? Are you ready, Ann?’ she said, trying to keep the distaste out of her voice.

Molly appeared in the doorway. ‘Is everything all right? Kitty, Ann, are you all right?’

‘Put the kettle on, Molly’ said Kitty, in her normal voice. ‘How are they getting on in there? Is Austin all right?’

For they are united against the world, those two, thought Mrs May, and that will be their salvation.

‘Austin is having the time of his life. So is Monty. Your David is certainly giving them a run for their money, Ann. Harold hasn’t talked so much for weeks. Months, probably.’

Mrs May watched Kitty restore her face, with the impassive concentrated look of an actress before a first night. Standing, Kitty surveyed her silk-clad form from all angles in the mirror of her dressing table, from which, as of right, Ann had been quite properly displaced. ‘We’ll join you in a minute, Ann,’ she said, a new formality in her tone.

‘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.’