Such Visitors Page 17

  Physically weakened by such thoughts, and by the day’s exposure to relentless elements, Mrs McCorn put the last of the boiled sweets in her mouth and began her slow descent. She found her knees were shaking and she was sweating quite hard into her poplin mackintosh. But for all the loneliness, she was glad there was no one here to witness the way in which the island had unnerved her – that is, except for Commander Chariot. He would have scoffed at any talk of devils and talked knowledgeably of the breeding habits of gannets, which would have been very cheering. As it was, he was far from Ireland, or this place, with no thought of her. Mrs McCorn shuffled down the steps, one foot always forward like a small child, praying for the bottom.

  Three hours later, in the safety of her hotel room, Mrs McCorn, although much happier, still found herself somewhat shaken. She packed her suitcase, so as to be ready for her departure in the morning, and it took her twice as long as usual. In her confusion she found she had put soft things at the bottom, and had to start all over again.

  As it was her last night, Mrs McCorn felt it unnecessary to make quite the same effort she had made on previous evenings. She wore her plainest dress – very tight, now, across the stomach – and brushed half-heartedly at the mess the Skellig Islands had made of her hair. Somehow, she couldn’t face drinks in the lounge – no energy, as yet, to recount the adventure of her day. She waited in her room until eight o’clock, then went straight into the dining-room.

  She saw him at once. Commander Chariot was sitting at the window at a single table next to her own. Mrs McCorn’s instant thought was to flee – to unpack her turquoise Lurex and change into that, and to have another go at her hair. But she was too late. He had seen her. He smiled, slightly.

  Mrs McCorn followed the waiter to her table. She sat down and quickly ordered her dinner and half a bottle of wine. Then she allowed herself to look at the Commander, who was halfway through a plate of elaborate chops.

  ‘Why, hello there, Mrs McCorn,’ he said.

  ‘Magda,’ she said, with warmth and humour.

  ‘Well I never, running into you here of all places.’

  ‘It was your recommendation, you may remember.’

  ‘Was it? Was it, now? Can’t say I do remember. Anyhow, here for long, are you?’

  Mrs McCorn gave herself time to think before answering. Perhaps it would be possible to make new arrangements after dinner, to extend her stay for a few days. But there was the question of money (she had spent every penny of her holiday budget) and getting another flight back – too many complications.

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning, actually,’ she said.

  ‘Well, well, what a ruddy shame.’

  The Commander hustled a forkful of cauliflower into his mouth, shifting his eyes. His expression just might have been one of relief.

  But this paranoid thought was quickly dispelled from Mrs McCorn’s mind by the next turn of events: the Commander suggested he might join her at her table, seeing as they would have only one evening together.

  Scarcely able to believe her good fortune, Mrs McCorn signalled to the waiter. He moved the Commander’s place to Mrs McCorn’s table, picked up the bottle of wine, and lifted an eyebrow at Mrs McCorn. Her heart thumping, Mrs McCorn nodded. The waiter poured the Commander a glass of the wine: the Commander did not protest.

  Outside, there was an orange sky over the bay, and a small hard gold sun. Mrs McCorn wondered if she should put to the Commander her funny idea about a crabapple sun. But she thought better of it, and said instead:

  ‘It’s been quite a few years, hasn’t it? And you haven’t changed at all.’

  ‘No. Well. I manage to keep myself up to scratch.’

  Indeed, it was true he had not changed: no more grey hairs, no new wrinkles, the same handsome combination of angular bone and fine-drawn skin. Mrs McCorn found herself gazing at him in wonder and in disbelief. The only pity was the cruel timing. But she would not let herself think of the sadness of the morning. There was the whole night: time in which to play her cards with skill.

  To keep a clear head, Mrs McCorn let the Commander drink all her wine, and ordered him another bottle. She delighted in his pleasure in the stuff: the way he sipped and swirled and sniffed with such expertise. They talked of their various trips, and the Commander acknowledged her cards from Norway and Sweden.

  ‘I’m so glad they reached you. I thought that maybe – you know the foreign posts.’

  ‘Oh, I got them all right. Should have written back, but I’m not much of a dab hand when it comes to letters myself.’

  ‘I know just how you feel.’ (This was a permissible lie. Mrs McCorn had no idea, as a great letter- and postcard-writer herself, how it must feel not to have the constant desire to keep in touch.)

  By the end of dinner, the Commander had a bright pink spot on both cheeks (crabapples, again, thought Mrs McCorn). He was friendly and seemingly happy, but not exactly lively. There were long pauses between each comment he made, and the comments themselves were not of the stuff that remains for ever in the romantic memory. Mrs McCorn, remembering his long monologues about fishing and the Navy, wondered if there was anything troubling him. Given the right moment, she felt she should make a gentle enquiry.

  ‘It’s really quite lively here, evenings,’ she said. ‘Shall we take our coffee in the lounge?’

  The Commander followed. She led the way as far as the quiet room where the less lively guests read their papers round the fire, and the Commander indicated they should occupy the free sofa. But Mrs McCorn shook her head determinedly, and kept going till she reached two vacant chairs at the side of the dance floor. With a look of barely concealed pain on his face, as if the pianist’s rendering of ‘Stardust’ hurt his ears, the Commander lowered himself into one of the chairs. Mrs McCorn, meantime, was smiling and waving to nearby friends in some triumph: they had all heard about her friendship with the Commander, and to be with him on this, her last night, was a proud occasion. So engrossed was she in acknowledging the waves and smiles – yet at the same time not wanting to encourage anyone to draw so near as to deflect the Commander’s interest from herself – she was quite unaware that her own choice of seat was disagreable to her companion. With the elation of a girl, she summoned the waiter.

  ‘Let’s be devils, shall we, Commander, and treat ourselves to Irish coffees?’

  She knew, even as she made the suggestion, the treat would be put on her bill, and she did not care. What did strike her, with a brief iciness of heart, was her own word devil. She remembered the lugubrious island of evil gulls she had so recently visited. But the dreadful experience seemed wonderfully far away, now. She was back where she belonged, in a place of warmth and sentimental tunes and safety.

  The Irish coffees came. Mrs McCorn sat back, revelling in the warm froth on her top lip as she sipped the sickly drink, one foot tapping the floor in time to the music. In truth, it would have been hard to have a conversation against the noise of the band, and the Commander, Mrs McCorn observed, was sunk in that pleasurable silence that is permitted between those of understanding. The broad-hipped dancers swayed about, sometimes giving their bodies a small flick, to show some vestige of youth still lived under the middle-aged clothes.

  Mrs McCorn prayed the Commander would ask her to take the floor, to join them, to show them, but he did no such thing. And despite her vague sympathies for women’s liberation, she felt it would not be quite the thing to make the proposal herself. She waved airily at one of the dancers, disguising her disappointment.

  ‘I’ve made a lot of friends here,’ she said. Commander Chariot nodded. They had a second Irish coffee. The Commander, making much of his gallantry, paid with a lot of small change out of his pocket. The pianist struck up, by wonderful chance, ‘Hey there! You with the Stars in Your Eyes’. Mrs McCorn could restrain herself no longer.

  ‘Do you remember, Commander?’ she asked. ‘Our tune? On the cruise?’

  The Commander looked at her blankly. ‘Can’t
say I do. Music’s all the same to me. Wouldn’t mind if I never heard another note in my life.’

  Her ploy having failed, Mrs McCorn ordered two further glasses of Irish coffee – the Commander made no attempt, this time, to pay – so that he should not be aware of the deflation she felt.

  They spent the next hour drinking Irish coffee, unspeaking, except to agree to another order. By eleven o’clock, Mrs McCorn felt both reckless and sick. The Commander, she noticed, had a cluster of sweat on both temples, and was flushed. Time, she thought.

  ‘Well, I must be turning in, Commander. Early start tomorrow, for the plane.’

  Her words sounded thick as whipped cream. The Commander heaved himself up out of the deep chair and helped her to her feet.

  ‘Jolly good idea,’ he said.

  Very slowly, Mrs McCorn made her way to the stairs. The pillars through which she threaded her way spun like acrobats’ plates. When she tried to smile at various friends, her mouth slithered about in an uncontrollable way, and the feeling of nausea increased. But at last she achieved the foot of the stairs, and felt the mahogany bannister solid beneath her liquid hand. She paused, turned carefully to the Commander, whose eyes were at half-mast, and whose mouth sagged.

  ‘So it’s au revoir, but not goodbye,’ she slurred.

  ‘Au revoir but not goodbye.’ The Commander, too, held on to the bannister, his hand only an inch away from Mrs McCorn’s. The repetition of her own words gave her courage: in the floundering feather globe of her mind, she realised it was her last chance.

  ‘Nightcap, Commander? Just a small one?’

  A long pause. ‘Why not?’ answered the Commander eventually.

  They negotiated the stairs, climbing each one as if it was a separate challenge, drifted like slurry along the moving ruby carpet to Mrs McCorn’s room. There, the Commander dropped at once into the velvet armchair. Mrs McCorn hastily hid her peach Dacron nightie – nicely laid out by the maid – under the pillow, and telephoned for two more Irish coffees.

  In her own room, she felt better. The sickness seemed to have passed, her head rocked rather than span. The coffees came. Once more, she and the Commander plunged their mouths into the comforting warm froth of cream, and sipped, without speaking. Mrs McCorn lost all sense of time. Her legs felt as if they were cast in swan’s-down, her heart beat wildly as it had in all her imaginings of this climactic scene, and she realised it was no longer possible to continue her life without the Commander.

  The next thing she knew she was on the floor by his chair (one shoe had fallen off), her hands running up his trouser legs. A strange moaning came from her lips.

  ‘Commander! Commander! You are my life, I am your slave, your obedient servant, your slave for ever!’

  She was dimly aware of her crescendoing voice, and the Commander’s bony fingers trying to unlatch her hands from his grey flannel thighs.

  ‘Get off, Mrs McCorn! Get up, Mrs McCorn! Don’t be so ruddy stupid.’

  Through the humming in Mrs McCorn’s ears, he sounded as if he meant to be stern, but the words lacked vigour.

  ‘How can you say such cruel things to one who is your life, to one who has waited for you like Patience on a – ’

  ‘Get up, I say, Mrs McCorn. You’re ruining the creases in my trousers.’

  Mrs McCorn rose awkwardly as a zeppelin, poised above him for the merest second, then dropped on to his outspread knees, curling into a foetal position. Before he had time to protest, she had grabbed his jaw in one of her hands, squeezed his mouth into an open hole, and thrust her creamy lips on to his. For a blissful moment, she managed to taste his Irish coffee and feel the small points of his teeth. She heard him moan, and lashed his tongue more wildly. But then she felt vicious fingers in her ribs, and drew back, crying out with pain.

  ‘Get off, you silly old baggage! What the ruddy hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Magda! Call me Magda …’

  ‘I’ll call the manager. Rape!’

  The word struck Mrs McCorn like a blade. She unfurled herself, holding the sore ribs. Stood.

  ‘You don’t understand, Commander.’

  ‘I understand only too well, Mrs McCorn.’

  ‘You’ve taken this all wrong.’

  ‘You’re blind drunk and disgusting with it.’

  Somehow the words had little impact. They fell on Mrs McCorn’s ears without wounding, but she felt it was incumbent upon her to protest.

  ‘Commander! That’s no way to speak when all I wanted – ’

  ‘I’m getting out of here.’

  The Commander rose. His mouth was smeared with Mrs McCorn’s Amber Fire lipstick, his sparse hair stood up in spikes. She felt sorry for him. He looked wounded, misunderstood. Mrs McCorn would have liked to have put a gentle hand on his head, smooth the hair, and say, There, there, it’s all right now: it’s all over. But she resisted.

  The Commander moved to the door. He seemed both cowed and fed up.

  ‘I’m sorry if I caused you any offence, Mrs McCorn,’ he said quietly, in his normal voice, ‘but a man has to protect himself from attack.’

  ‘Quite.’ Mrs McCorn nodded. She would have agreed to anything at that moment.

  ‘And I realise you were overcome. Not yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Quite overcome. Not myself at all.’

  ‘Well, I’ve survived worse things at sea.’

  Gentleman to the last, thought Mrs McCorn.

  ‘And now I must go to bed. You’re not the only one with an early start. Tomorrow I’m off on a trip to the Skellig Islands.’ He reached for the door knob.

  Mrs McCorn had been aware of her spirits rising as the Commander made his apology. All was not lost. But with this fresh, final piece of news, they fell to a place so deep within her she had not previously been aware of its existence.

  ‘The Skellig Islands?’

  ‘Always wanted to go there. Well, goodnight.’

  He left very quickly. When he had gone, Mrs McCorn fell back on to the bed. Too weak to analyse the failure of the evening, too disheartened even to chide herself, she cried for a while, and then fell asleep.

  The maid who brought her breakfast found her next morning, still dressed, on top of the bed, one shoe still on, make-up awry. Somehow, Mrs McCorn roused herself and overcame this little embarrassment with considerable dignity, and even a joke about the effects of Irish coffee. Then she hastened to repair herself, and finish her packing.

  Downstairs, she looked about for the Commander, but then she remembered the time of her own departure to the Skelligs yesterday and realised he would already have gone. When she was given the bill, she smiled at the huge sum the Irish coffees had amounted to, and with soft gentle fingers touched the headache that braided her forehead. Various friends from the hotel were there to see her off, and said how much she would be missed. Their declarations touched Mrs McCorn: at least she had made an impression in some quarters.

  On the aeroplane over the Irish Sea, she found herself imagining the Commander retracing her own steps of yesterday, or a million years ago, or whenever the thoroughly nasty day had been. But she imagined he was enjoying it, and she admired him for that. He was a man of vision in some ways but, unused to much contact with women, could be sympathised with for not recognising true worth when he saw it. Her conclusions about the Commander thus neatly parcelled in her mind, Mrs McCorn searched in her bag for a boiled sweet. And as the coast of England, dear England, came into sight, she decided that on this year’s Christmas card she would simply add, Did you enjoy the Skelligs? Thereafter would follow months in which she could look forward to an answer, and life in Cheltenham would continue to be lived in hope.

  Not for Publication

  Discipline as usual, today. Doubt if anything short of another war could make me change my routine now. Old men get stuck in their ways, haven’t the heart to change them.

  Grey sky, slight wind, leaves beginning to turn. I eagerly read the weather first thing every mo
rning. A fine day makes me look forward to the afternoon walk, though I don’t mind rain. I’d never retire to a hot climate. Seven thirty: open the kitchen door for Jacob. He lumbers out into the orchard, squashing autumn crocuses with every step, the old bugger. Careless, but affectionate, is Jacob. Make myself a piece of toast – can’t be bothered with a boiled egg these days – and a cup of tea. Put knife and plate into the sink, run the tap. Mrs Cluff says, ‘You leave it, General, till I come.’ But I don’t like to. I like to do my bit.

  Jacob returns, muddy paws. ‘You brute, Jacob,’ I say. He wags his tail. The most intelligent dogs have their soppy side. He follows me to the study. Goes straight to his place under the desk. The high point of Jacob’s day is our walk on the Common after lunch. He knows this will be his reward for patience during my morning stint at the typewriter. He’s learned the best way to get through the hours is to sleep. He sleeps.

  I light the electric fire. Real fire in the evenings, when Mrs Cluff has done the grate. I lower myself into my creaky old chair (presented to me, at my request and much to their amazement, by my fellow officers when I retired. Well, I’d enjoyed sitting in it for so many years).

  I glance out at the clouds behind the apple tree. Can just see a distant hill. It’s not like my native Yorkshire, here. But not a bad bit of country. Tame.

  I pick up The Times. I allow myself fifteen minutes to read it each morning, then begin writing at nine on the dot. ‘Start when you mean to start,’ my Commanding Officer used to say. I always try to take his advice. He was a sound man.

  I’m having a bash at my memoirs. Military, mostly. I had a good war. Nothing personal, of course. Don’t go along with all this exposure of private life in memoirs, myself. I was horrified only yesterday to see that some tinkering American professor had pried further than any previous biographer into Jane Austen’s brief and innocent engagement to one Harris Bigg-Wither. (Imagine: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Bigg-Wither. Wouldn’t have been the same at all.) Let her keep her secret to herself, I say. Stop nosing about. How will it further our knowledge and pleasure in her work to know that Miss Austen and Mr B-W held hands? Her secret should be allowed to rest peacefully with her in her grave.