Such Visitors (23 page)

On the small floor, they lumbered round in imitation of a foxtrot. Mrs McCorn, confident that the delicate tracery on the back of her own calves was well hidden by her Dusky Sunbeam tights, gave a small shake of her hips to encourage her partner.

‘You dance very well,' this spurred him to say, and Mrs McCorn began to enjoy herself. Should Commander Chariot come in now, he could not fail to observe the way in which people were drawn to her wherever she went, and surely he would be moved to admiration.

Mrs McCorn's two-week holiday passed happily enough. She befriended many of the other guests in the hotel, and every evening found herself in the desirable position of joining in games, drinks and conversations. Her new acquaintances included many foreigners, and Mrs McCorn was able to let the fact be known that she was a much-travelled woman herself, for all her quiet life in Cheltenham – with quite a flair for
Continental cooking and with some talent for making herself understood in French.

The pounds of flesh that Mrs McCorn had so industriously lost before coming to Ireland were soon regained, and indeed increased, by her indulgence in the delicious food. But Mrs McCorn did not care.

Realising that Fate had slipped up and been unkind in its choice of dates, and there was little hope Commander Chariot would appear, she sought consolation in cooked breakfasts in bed (beautifully arranged trays, flat grey water unblinking in the bay outside her window), hearty lunches and enormous dinners. But as her plumpness did nothing to diminish her evident popularity, so she saw no reason for cutting back until she returned home.

On the last day of her visit, Mrs McCorn – who for the most part had spent sedentary days – decided to join a trip to the Skellig Islands. She was all for a little adventure, and felt the breath of sea air would be of benefit to her complexion.

It dawned a disappointingly grey and misty day, a light drizzle swirling so weightless through the air you could not see it all. Mrs McCorn contemplated abandoning the trip, but then felt that would be faint-hearted, and cheered herself with the thought that Irish weather was wonderfully changeable, and at any moment the sun might drive away the cloud.

And indeed, by the time she was seated snugly in her poplin mackintosh and silk scarf on the fishing boat, along with some dozen foreign students, the gloom had begun to lift and the sun threw a first pale rope of light along the horizon. Mrs McCorn did not much like the bucking motion of the boat as it lumbered over the waves, but she sucked on her boiled sweets and concentrated on the feeling of enjoying the proximity to young foreigners. Widening her horizons, she was, she felt. Perhaps before the day was over she would find the chance to make herself known to them, although for the moment she could detect no openings. They were a dour lot: unwashed, unshaven, dirty clothes and unhealthy skin. But then Mrs McCorn, who was sensitive to the hardships of those less fortunate than herself, supposed they could not afford to live on anything but fish and chips on their camping holiday, and was not surprised. She could have wished they had appeared
friendlier, more willing to talk: a little conversation would have been agreeable, but perhaps they kept their interest for monuments rather than people.

After an hour of bumping over the grey sea, Mrs McCorn and the other sightseers were rewarded by the sight of the first island. It loomed out of the misty sea like a single tooth. The fanciful thought came to Mrs McCorn that the whole Atlantic Ocean was a vast, grey tongue, hissing and snapping and drooling with white-spittle foam, armed with its one hideous giant tooth. And the sky was a grim upper lip. The vast and dreadful mouth, made from the elements, only waited for the right time to swallow the boat-load with a single flick of its lapping tongue … Mrs McCorn sucked harder on her raspberry drop and listened to the wail of forty thousand gannets, who fluttered round their island thickly as a snowstorm. Occasionally one of them would swoop quite close to the boat, dismissing the passengers with its beady red eye, then diving into the waves to snap at an invisible fish.

The second island, their destination, came into sight. It was another monster rock, sheer and black and menacing. Waves thundered round its base, thousands more gulls screamed their indignation at having to live in such a God-forsaken spot. It was here that seven hundred years ago a small band of monks chose to build a monastery on its summit. To climb hundreds of steps to see the remains of this monastery was the aim of the expedition.

The boat moored at a small concrete pier. Mrs McCorn looked about her in dismay. She had imagined it would be quite primitive, of course: a simple tea shop, perhaps, and a small cluster of cottages. But there was nothing. The petulant gulls were the only inhabitants, balancing on the edges of precarious rock nests, screaming all the while. Close to, the rock was no less intimidating. While the waves pounded upwards, other water streamed down the jagged sides, gleaming, oily. Mrs McCorn was afraid.

Gritting her teeth, remembering she was British, she followed the students up the dangerous little flight of steps. There, they abandoned her with peculiar speed, scampering up the steep path with an eagerness Mrs McCorn found herself unable to share. She followed them slowly, tucking the lunch
box the hotel had given her under one arm, and telling herself she must persevere, however undesirable the climb may seem.

Although Mrs McCorn's progress was very slow – students from another boat passed her with uncaring speed – she soon became out of breath and listened to her own panting against the dimmer noise of waves thudding far below. She was forced to conclude that she should have to rest before the top, or she might risk a heart attack. And who, then …? She chose a small, flat rock at the edge of steps, sat down, and unbuttoned her mackintosh. The hotel had provided her with an unimaginative lunch, but she found comfort in the sliced-bread sandwiches, tomatoes, biscuits and cheese. Her breathing returned to its normal pace, and after a while she began to feel cool again.

When she had finished eating, Mrs McCorn looked about for somewhere to bury her empty lunch box. There were no litter bins, of course, and the sea was much too far away to throw the wretched thing over the edge. Mrs McCorn scrabbled about the springy green stuff that grew among the rocks, and eventually managed, by squishing it quite small, to hide the box. Plunging her hands into the greenery gave her a nasty turn: its cold sliminess was surprising. But she completed the job to her satisfaction, and turned for another look at the bewildering expanse of grey Atlantic before continuing on her way.

The sky was whitish-grey, mists swirled blotchily about the sheer sides of rock. In the distance, the sea kept up its perpetual snarl, and the gulls their angry screeching. Mrs McCorn had never felt so alone. To lift her spirits, she thought of the ordinary things of her life: her small, neat garden, her well-Hoovered carpets, her Silver Jubilee tin of biscuits, always full, in the kitchen, her cat Tibby, the absolute regularity of the Parish Newsletter – things which sometimes she found lacking in excitement, but which now she appreciated with all her heart. Then, for the first time that day, she thought of Commander Chariot.

As she did so, Mrs McCorn stood up. No point in dwelling on the unlikely, she thought, and at that moment a small chink of sun appeared in the sky, making the wet rocks glint. An omen, thought Mrs McCorn, and at once forced herself to
abandon the idea as silly. But, trudging slowly up the rough steps once more, she could not cast aside the Commander. He filled her being in an unaccountable way: she longed for his presence. With him this day on the island would be an agreeable adventure, instead of the frightening experience it was in reality. Alive in her mind, the Commander then spoke to Mrs McCorn in a voice so real he might have been at her side.

‘Ruddy masochists, those monks must have been,' he said (‘ruddy' was his favourite adjective), and Mrs McCorn smiled.

Somehow, she got to the top. It was no great reward. A cluster of stone-built cells, gently rounded structures, putting Mrs McCorn in mind of house martins' nests. Very uncomfortable, they must have been, with their slit windows and damp floors, the mists and rain flurrying about outside, and nothing to comfort in the sight of the grim Atlantic sea. Mrs McCorn ventured into one of the cells: it smelt wet and spooky. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, she noticed three of the students sitting on the floor in a corner. They passed an evil-smelling cigarette between them, and gave her an unfriendly look. Mrs McCorn hurried out.

She was quite cold by now, and thought with longing of the hotel bath and her warm candlewick dressing-gown. Only a few more hours … And it would, of course, be a good story to tell friends at home, not that she'd ever be up to describing the strange sense of horror that the island of rock had given her.

Before returning to the path to descend, Mrs McCorn leaned over one of the ruined stone walls and looked down, down at the spumy sea battering for ever the base of the rock, and she listened to the endless evil screeching of the gulls. It was then it came to her why the silly old monks had chosen such a place to live: they had wanted to confront the devil head-on and this was the perfect spot. There was no grain of comfort, of soft or easy living on the rock land or the monster sea. The gannets were devils incarnate, the brief flashes of sun a simple mockery. On this island was the rough face of God – quite unlike the God Mrs McCorn was acquainted with in the church at Cheltenham with its carpeted aisle and central heating. On
this island, you'd have to be tougher than she, Mrs McCorn, to go on believing.

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.