Such Visitors

Stories by

ANGELA HUTH

For Felicity Binyon

The Fuchsia Auberge

Mother of the Bride

Ladies' Race

Donkey Business

Sudden Dancer

The Bull

Balloons

A Matter of Diplomacy

Moment of Fame

Such Visitors

The Weighing Up

Irish Coffee

Not for Publication

‘He's a funny one, all right,' said Rose. ‘What are we going to do about him, Lo?'

Now Rose had come to the point, Lola stretched her long legs with relief. The gin was beginning to turn her blood warmly to quicksilver. It would be quite easy, now, as such old friends, to be practical. They could solve the problem very quickly.

‘It's quite clear we both love him,' she said, ‘and it's quite clear he loves both of us. All we've got to do is force his hand in making a choice. Procrastination is the destructive thing. Hell, the greatest friends on earth could hardly be expected to survive the misery he's causing us, waiting for his decision.'

‘To be fair, he's only known us a couple of months, hasn't he? Perhaps,' she smiled, incredulous, ‘I mean, it could be he doesn't want
either
of us.'

‘Nonsense,' scoffed Lola. Rose copied the brusque, practical tone of her friend's voice.

‘Well,
my
position is quite clear,' she said. ‘I want to marry him.'

‘Do you?
Marry
him? Marry him? – I suppose that's what I'd like too,' said Lola.

On the eighth day of the holiday, mid-afternoon in Angers, Anna McGull suffered a crisis no one noticed.

She stood apart from the rest of her family who, for the second time that day, were looking at the famous tapestries. Her husband Michael and her youngest son, Patrick, huddled together, seemed to find as much interest in the guide book as in the tapestries themselves. Simon, the eldest son, stood some distance away, his earnest stare fixed upon the Apocalypse. When contemplating any work of art, Simon managed to exude an air of superiority, as if he alone were granted understanding. His father and brother, a little awed by this attitude, believed Simon had a vision they lacked: hence their endless perusal of guide books to make up in facts what they lacked in spiritual communication. Anna had no such feelings. Simon's loftiness drove her wild. She thought he looked quite goofy, peering through his thick spectacles, fingers twitching at his sludge-coloured anorak. For years, she had struggled to fight the annoyance his physical presence caused her. It had never been so bad as on this holiday.

Outside, it gently rained. A flat, plum-coloured light in the galleries darkened the tapestries. Anna wondered if any of the women who had put thousands of hours of work into these hangings of gloomy beauty had ever rebelled. The younger ones, surely, must have woken some mornings and thought to themselves they would go mad if they had to do another bloody stitch.

Anna's reflections were cut short by a Norwegian tourist. He stepped in front of her, blocking her view and provoking the crisis. His mackintosh skimmed calves latticed with veins: bare toes splayed beyond the edges of his sandals, clenched in
concentration. Anna thought: in the past week I've seen forty-three Romanesque churches, fifteen museums, eleven châteaux, seven picture galleries, the tapestries
twice
… and now a Norwegian is thwarting my view. I can't bear it any more.

She left the gallery, hurried outside. It was raining harder, now. Sheltering under a chestnut tree, she looked up into the great dome of sharp green leaves and thanked God there was nothing in the guide book about
this.
The very thought of the guide book made her cry for a moment. Soon she would recover herself, return to the gallery, wait.

But as she was dabbing her eyes an English couple walked by. Plainly happy, the man took the woman's arm and guided her towards a café. His innocent gesture caused Anna a second crisis, this time of jealousy. Michael and the boys would never consider stopping mid-afternoon for a drink. Three more churches before dark, they would say.

Anna followed the couple into the café. She chose an empty table by the window, ordered a croissant and coffee. (Lunch had been a bag of apples eaten beside an ancient tomb.) Her aching legs and feet recovered. The pleasure of sitting alone at a foreign table uncluttered by guide books was almost tangible.

After a while she saw her husband and sons leave the gallery. They looked briefly about them, then set off towards the church. The English couple rose to leave.

‘Where are you going?' Anna heard herself asking.

‘Delange, ten miles north. We've been staying in an auberge there, but we've got to get back to Paris.'

The woman smiled, friendly. Then Anna heard herself requesting a lift.

They sped along a small road that followed a curling river. Silver birches shimmered high above white cows, and higher still white clouds feathered the sky. What am I doing? Anna thought, just once.

The auberge was the sort of place she had been hoping to find ever since landing in France. In her mind a fuchsia auberge (baskets of flowers hanging round the terrace) represented warmth, peace, an hour or two to herself. Michael and the boys, of course, were not interested in such things. Convenience for the sights was all they cared about. Station hotels. But she was alone now. She could do as she liked. Anna
quickly decided the place was much too agreeable to leave within the hour. Besides, there was no transport. She booked in for the night.

Her room had blue-striped walls, curtains dizzy with flowers, a freckled mirror in a heavy frame. The window looked on to a narrow garden of apple trees and lupins. A grey cat, ears laid back, snaked across the grass and jumped up on to a wall. Small gusts of windy rain, splattering against the window, were the only cracks in the silence.

So this is freedom, Anna thought, and put out her hand to touch it: the silky bed cover, the cold brass of the bedstead. She climbed under the eiderdown and with no feelings of disloyalty reflected what a relief it was to be in a
silent
bed: no Michael beside her rumbling on about tomorrow's plans or today's churches. Then she fell asleep.

It was almost dark when she woke. Away from the family for four hours … Guilt brushed her lightly. Much stronger was a kind of nefarious excitement, a feeling of adventure. The word caused her to smile to herself with a touch of scorn. If an afternoon's sleep in a French auberge was an adventure, how dull was the rest of her life?

Downstairs in the salon – open fire, smell of lavender – the guilt vanished altogether. Half a dozen couples – here for the fishing, she supposed – all seemed to be drinking champagne. The place reminded her of a small hotel in Galway where she and Michael had spent a last holiday alone before the children were born. They would sit on the bank of the river all day, Michael tweaking at his rod, she reading
War and Peace.
After a dinner of grilled fish they would play Scrabble by the fire, and have a glass of Irish whiskey before bed. That had been a good holiday, long ago.

Michael, these days, hated spending money on frivolous drinks. In private defiance, Anna ordered herself a glass of champagne. Careless of her light head, she chose a seat and drank fast. Then, rising cautiously, she went to the telephone and rang the hotel in Angers.

Michael and the boys were out.

‘Sortis pour le dîner,'
the receptionist said.

Anna was silenced for a moment. Loyalty and compassion
had forced her to make this call. She had imagined them worried, searching.

‘Were they looking for me?' she asked at once.

‘Absolument pas.'

‘Please say I'll be back tomorrow.'

Returning to the bar, annoyed by her burning cheeks, Anna found a full glass of champagne on her table. Puzzled, she caught the eye of a man she had noticed before. He sat alone.