Visitors (24 page)

Across the room Mrs May caught a glimpse of Austin dabbing his eyes. ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ he was saying, to no-one in particular. ‘You know my son, do you? Come over, I’ll introduce you.’

Mrs May moved across to Harold, who also looked much moved.

‘How did they do it?’ she enquired, in as low a voice as the buzz of conversation would permit.

‘David did it. He had a word with him, man to man. I tell
you, Thea, that boy is a marvel. He has unusual powers of persuasion. He just came straight out with it. “Dad,” he said. “I think you should come to the wedding.” I’m going to miss him, Thea. He looks well, doesn’t he? Gerald, I mean.’

‘That’s his van outside, I suppose.’

‘Yes, he drove himself here. Well, it’s his home, after all. Not that he’ll stay. But he’s made contact, that’s the main thing. And you can see what it’s done for Kitty and Austin.’

‘So this was your secret, Harold? Yours and David’s?’

Harold blushed. ‘I didn’t even tell Molly. Well, if I’d done that I might as well have told Kitty, or rather Molly would have done. Who do you think he looks like?’

He looked like no-one. He looked like a not very prosperous country cousin, flexing his all but obsolete social muscles. Beside the radiant Kitty he appeared extinguished. This must be difficult for him, she thought; he must be on the defensive, nerving himself to reject his mother all over again. But in fact she could see no signs of psychic upheaval in his pleasant rather nondescript face. He seemed if anything indifferent, stood absently with a glass of champagne in his hand, surrounded by strangers, patiently offering himself to be shown off by Kitty, on whom, from time to time, he shed a puzzled smile. Beside him, clutching his arm, Kitty looked like a temple houri.

‘Congratulations, Kitty,’ Mrs May shouted in her ear.

‘Oh, Thea, do go and have a word with Bessie Millington. She’s over there, by the fireplace. You’ve met Gerald, haven’t you?’

‘How do you do?’

Gerald gave her an affable if bemused smile. ‘Over here,’ shouted Molly, who had produced a camera. ‘One with Kitty.’

The bride and groom, overshadowed, stood at the bar, each
with a carefully chosen plate of hors d’oeuvres. They appeared at last to be having a conversation with each other, possibly reckoning up the rewards of their activities. No, that was unfair, Mrs May reproached herself. They were simply bored with the whole thing. And Paris would be quite the wrong choice for them. They were naif and strong-willed: they should be in the country, or back home in America, where they belonged. Payment would no doubt have been made: Austin and Harold would have seen to that. So presumably everyone was satisfied. She craned her head, searching for Steve, but he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Bessie Millington,’ Kitty instructed her, nodding in the direction of the fireplace before moving off, Gerald in tow. ‘All alone, poor soul. Do have a word.’

Bessie Millington was a very old lady, so old that Mrs May thought she must have been brought along by a nurse, who would have the task of returning her to whatever retirement home had booked her out that morning. She wore a well-preserved hat of coq feathers, at least forty years out of date, and a dress of printed silk, the bodice of which, tactfully draped, could not quite conceal her completely flat chest. In contrast to her shrivelled body her hands were massive, the knuckles swollen by arthritis. Several fine rings were buried in the interstices. Around her tortoise neck hung a gold lorgnon.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Mrs May, raising her voice against the surrounding hubbub. She could not hear herself speak but presumed that she had done so. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ Wrinkled eyelids were momentarily raised. ‘A glass of champagne?’ she enquired at the top of her voice.

The ancient lips moved. When the words came out they sounded as if they had issued from a cavern.

‘What is on offer?’

‘Well, there’s smoked salmon, asparagus rolls, caviare, cheese puffs, oh, and wait, the maids are bringing out some hot savouries.’

‘I should like some caviare.’

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, suddenly aware that she was rather hungry herself. Breakfast had been a distracted affair, largely unregarded. She put caviare and crackers onto a plate, added some cheese puffs, and shouldered her way back. She found a small table and arranged it in front of Bessie Millington, then snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

One should not watch the old eating, she thought, should not imagine the mouthfuls travelling down those aged throats. Impervious, crumbs clinging to her withered lips, Bessie Millington seemed neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with her part in the celebrations. She might have been seated in a restaurant, Mrs May thought. Here was one person to whom Gerald’s presence was a matter of complete indifference, if indeed she knew who he was, who any of them were.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’d like to have a word with the bride, before she goes to change.’ For surely this cannot last much longer, she thought. They have a plane to catch.

‘Who did you say you were?’ asked Bessie Millington, lighting a cigarette with a large trembling hand.

‘Thea. Thea May. Shall I take that plate?’

‘You married Henry, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘The second wife.’

‘Yes, yes, the second wife.’

‘I knew the first one,’ said Bessie Millington, taking in a lungful of smoke. ‘Terrible little bitch.’

‘Oh, really?’ Mrs May felt a warm surge of appreciation for Bessie Millington. ‘I never met her.’

‘Little gold digger.’ She inhaled again, deeply. ‘Men are so cheap,’ she added. ‘I should know. Three husbands, all dead. How old would you say I was?’

‘Eighty?’

‘Eighty-six,’ she said, disappointed. ‘You seem a sensible woman. He was lucky to find you. Or were you on the lookout too?’

‘No, no, I wasn’t. We were very happy.’

Bessie Millington gave a cunning smile. ‘That’s what they all say. But you’re an improvement on the first one, I’ll give you that. Women always spoiled Henry. Is there any coffee?’

‘I’ll ask,’ she said. ‘And I’ll just have a word with the bride, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll bring you some coffee, if there is any.’

If I were at home I could be having a rest, she thought, as she fought her way, smiling, through the crowd. The disturbing dream of the previous night had left her anxious, as if even now she might be forced to undertake some task for which she was unprepared. The Bessie Millingtons of this world were an easy proposition, but she dreaded what was to come: Kitty’s triumph, to which she would never oppose the truth of Gerald’s indifference, of Ann’s antagonism. Again she would be called upon to play her part, but it would be a lowly one; she would despise herself for the appreciation which it would be her duty to offer. But what else were they to do? They were all old, must cling to evidence of affection, even if they had to beg for it. Kitty’s armoured carapace had been pierced by the sight of Gerald, and to judge from his expression Austin’s cynicism had quite deserted him. If they were very careful there need be no damage. If Kitty would let Gerald go, without extracting promises from him, if Austin were
to behave in a suitably grandfatherly manner, they might be encouraged to remember this as a happy family occasion. Even Mrs May would be invited to do this; indeed she would be the ideal audience. And Kitty would feel more kindly towards all those friends whom she had mystified with stories of the absent Gerald’s well-being: present, he had justified all her untruths. And she would have witnesses to acknowledge the fact that he existed, as many had begun to doubt. ‘I assumed he was in prison,’ one man was overheard to say, before being silenced by his wife. Gerald was thus doubly successful; he was both son and attribute. But Mrs May had seen his cautious smile dull from time to time, and his glance turn towards the door. She silently urged him to be patient, for it would soon be over for all of them.

She edged her way into the bedroom, where Ann was athletically divesting herself of her wedding dress. ‘Aren’t you going to take that with you?’ she asked. ‘I could pack it for you if you like.’

‘No way. As soon as I get out of that’—she gestured to the pink suit laid out on the bed—‘I’ll be back in my jeans. What a farce. I’ll tell you one thing, Dorothea. If we don’t like Paris we’ll be on the next plane home. We’ve got our return tickets, remember.’

‘And Austin has no doubt been generous.’

‘Not bad. I still think he’s a mean old sod, though.’

‘Oh, do be kind,’ she said. ‘After all we shan’t see you again. Give Kitty a big hug. And thank Austin nicely. Then it will all end happily. They do want you to be happy, you know.’

‘They expect us to thank them all the time, don’t they? We’re here, aren’t we? We’ve gone through it all, haven’t we? What more do they want?’

‘They want you to love them,’ said Mrs May sadly.

There was a silence, while Ann zipped her skirt over her substantial hips. ‘You’ve been okay,’ she said finally.

If it were to end now, it would be all right, she thought. If I could simply walk out of this room, smile my goodbyes and go home, I should be quite happy. But it was the goodbyes, the leaving, that would be the problem, and of course the empty flat. Henry and she had married soberly and gone away unnoticed. Susie Fuller had thrown confetti, and they were embarrassed. In fact they had been embarrassed with each other, with what they had done. It was better when they got to the South of France, but then everything was better in the sun. And she had appreciated male company. But she could not ignore his own difficulty: he was a man recovering from an unhappy love affair. Once she had understood that, she was in a position to care for him, which she had done wholeheartedly. She was seen as Henry’s comforter, rather than as his lover. No-one knew of her lost ardour, of which there was no trace.

‘They’re leaving!’ The cry went up as she returned to the drawing room, where husbands had drawn up gilt chairs, and, legs crossed, were enjoying a discussion among themselves, free of their wives, who, although still professionally animated, had also lapsed into normal conversation. Rallied by the appearance of Ann in her pink suit they resumed their fervent expressions. Maids were already clearing away dirty plates, removing ashtrays. Ann seemed empowered by the prospect of release. They followed her out onto the pavement. A brief hectic sun sparkled on wet leaves, on Gerald’s van, now decorated with white ribbons. ‘Harold did that,’ Molly murmured to her. ‘Wasn’t it clever of him? It was to be a surprise. Gerald’s driving them to the airport.’

‘And then driving on, I suppose? Not coming back here?’

‘We didn’t like to ask him. Mind you, it’s just as well. Kitty looks exhausted. We shall all need a rest, after the excitement. We’ll miss him, you know. David, I mean. Harold has got so attached to him. They had such long talks. He needs a man to talk to, especially since leaving the office. He’ll be depressed. He won’t want to upset me, but I think he’ll be lonely.’

‘You must book your holiday, Molly. He’ll be all right, once you’re away.’

‘Will he?’ Molly smiled sadly. ‘We’ll miss him,’ she repeated.

‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ they cried. ‘Dorothea, come and say goodbye.’

‘Well done, David,’ she said, pressing his arm. ‘You did really well.’ He flashed her a genuine smile, the first she had seen. ‘And Ann.’ She kissed her. ‘Godspeed. Don’t forget us! Steve?’ Steve was already opening the doors of the van. His cheeks were flushed, his expression hilarious. ‘Good luck, Steve.’

‘Yes, good luck, Steve,’ someone shouted amiably behind her.

He came round the side of the van to where she stood, a little apart from the crowd.

‘Take it easy, Dorothea,’ he said. ‘Stay cool.’ And bending her backwards he enfolded her in an elaborate Hollywood embrace. Cheers went up. She blushed.

And then they were gone. Those who were left trooped back slowly inside, for coats, for hats. In the great silence left by their eventual departure Mrs May had time to notice a couple of cheese puffs trodden into the carpet. Slowly, very slowly, Bessie Millington emerged from the cloakroom, an antique mink stole draped round her shoulders. ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she said to Mrs May. ‘I have enjoyed talking to you.’ She made her way out, her stick flicking a forgotten glove out of
her path, without further acknowledgement of the occasion. ‘Margot’s glove,’ said Kitty absently. ‘I must ring her up.’ But her mind was clearly elsewhere.

‘A great success, Kitty,’ said Mrs May.

‘It did go well, didn’t it? Did you manage to have a word with Gerald?’

‘Gerald was surrounded,’ she said, smiling.

‘He looked well, didn’t he?’ queried Austin, wiping his eyes again. Mrs May thought how old he looked. They both looked old, drawn.

‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ she told them. ‘You’ll have plenty to talk about. I’ll be in touch, of course.’

‘Goodbye, Thea,’ said Kitty, with a poor smile. ‘Did you enjoy yourself? You don’t mind if Austin doesn’t come out, do you? He’s awfully tired. Austin? Don’t cry, darling. Come and lie down. You’re tired. It’s all right, dear. Kitty’s here.’

Mrs May found her way down the hill to the bus stop, careless of the last raindrops falling from the trees onto her blue suit. How pleasant it was, out in the air, away from them all. Yet she was touched, perhaps more than touched. And she would play her part, as she always had, would add her voice to the long appreciation of Gerald’s
acte de présence
, as they expected her to. And she would find it in her to be genuine with them, at long last. And maybe the silence of the flat would once again be welcome. A wedding stirs up all kinds of emotions, she thought, feeling the moisture in her own eyes. It was a success. Even those young people were a success. What more could they have done? A 74 bus reared out of the sun just as she reached the stop. They might perhaps appreciate a telephone call this evening. And on Sunday, of course. Of the intervening days she did not think; they would be filled somehow.

‘All right, love?’ asked the conductress, a hand under her elbow.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘Just a little tired. I’ve been looking after a young friend.’