The Visitors Read online

  Feb 23rd

  My English is so much better now—i watch many TV programs in English at night but I have to keep the sound very low so no one hears me. It is a program about animals in a big American zoo. I want to study about animals and become maybe a vet or work in a zoo. Do you think that will be possible Adrian to study these things in England? Of course I will need to get a job too and save up very much money I know this and I am prepared to work hard, do you have any animals? We were not allowed to have pets in the State Children’s Residence, but I loved to read books about all kinds of animals. This is why the supervisor obtained me the job in the pet store, but really it is the worst because the animals are treated so badly, but even then not as badly as some people!

  Feb 25th

  I received the money you sent yesterday. I am so excited to come to England! Of course I am a little scared because it is a very long journey, a bus, two trains and then a big boat. Then I wait at the McDonald’s for the Mercedes car. I hope I do not get lost on the way. No one will miss me here, except maybe the white rats.

  LUNCH WITH JUDITH

  As she waited for the clock to move to half past twelve, the inside of Marion’s thin nylon raincoat began to feel as hot as a carnival tent in summer. She had put it on well before going out, because getting the zip up could be a bit of a struggle, and she didn’t want it to get stuck at the last minute and end up being late. Of course, she was only going next door to Judith’s house for lunch, but it was a drizzly February day and Marion felt safer with the layer of orange nylon between her and the outside world.

  She held her handbag clutched in her lap as if afraid someone might snatch it, which was unlikely, of course, since she was alone in her own kitchen. The clock twitched to twelve fifteen. Appointments made her nervous. If only she could have come up with an excuse! But saying she already had plans for the day would have been an obvious lie, as Marion never had any plans.

  A pile of mail lay on the table in front of Marion. Mostly it consisted of leaflets and brochures encouraging one to do things like buy a new sofa or stay in a cottage in Cornwall.

  YOU CANNOT AFFORD TO MISS THIS OPPORTUNITY SAVE ££££££ SWITCH TO GREEN NET BROADBAND

  screamed a bright orange-and-green leaflet on top of the pile. She wasn’t exactly sure what broadband was; her brother, John, made all the decisions about that kind of thing, but perhaps she ought to keep it in case the opportunity was one they really could not afford to miss. Marion suddenly imagined them falling into poverty, becoming homeless and having to sleep on the streets as a result. Even though part of her knew she was being silly, a superstitious fear that she found hard to explain prevented her from throwing it away.

  Beneath it was a blue leaflet with a photograph of a pizza. The red circles of meat between bubbling cheese made her think of pictures of skin diseases in a medical textbook that John had once dared her to look at when they were children.

  Fratelli Pizza Delivered Directly to Your Door 50% DISCOUNT with this leaflet

  Neither she nor John ate pizza, but it did seem like a very good offer. The people who owned the restaurant were obviously trying very hard to sell their pizzas; perhaps business wasn’t going well, and they needed to reduce prices in order to gain new customers. It seemed cruel to just throw the leaflet in the bin when they had gone to so much effort, so she put that into the save pile too. Then she came across:

  RAY’S RELIABLE ROOFING—FREE QUOTES GIVEN

  and:

  BRIGHTEN UP YOUR WORLD—MORLEY DOUBLE GLAZING

  What if they really needed double glazing or the roof needed fixing? Who would they go to? Should she not keep these for reference or in case of emergency? Just by throwing a leaflet away, might she not be tempting fate to break their windows or damage the roof? Suddenly the thought of sorting through all these leaflets and deciding which ones needed to be kept and which should be thrown away seemed too much for Marion to cope with, especially on the day she had to undergo something as daunting as a lunch appointment with her neighbor, so she gathered them all together and shoved them into a cabinet above the sink.

  As she crossed the kitchen, dark fluff and grime filling the gap between the sink and the refrigerator caught her eye, making her think of hairy armpits. She really ought to do some cleaning when she got back, but there was so much that needed doing, where to start? Why pick one place rather than another? The bathroom tiles were all black around the edges, dust balls got fat beneath the beds, and each room was filled with so much junk and clutter that it was hard to cross the floor without tripping.

  The six-bedroom house, once so immaculately maintained, had tumbled into a state of domestic chaos in the twenty-odd years since Mother’s death. Cobwebs draped the high, corniced ceilings, the Meissen figurines were surrounded by white drifts of dust, Georgian dressers were heaped with piles of old newspapers, and the fine oak flooring was cluttered with broken toasters and TV sets that John said he intended to fix but never got round to it. Before Mother died, the housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, kept everything in order; but no sane person would even think of taking the job on with things in such a state, and even if they did, John would never allow a stranger into their house.

  In fairness, Marion tried to keep some areas of the house clean; she had a dustpan and brush that she used to clear biscuit crumbs and bits of fluff from the big leather living room chairs and the sofa where she lay while watching television in the afternoons. The kitchen and bathroom surfaces were wiped down regularly with a cloth soaked in a weak solution of bleach; the smell that lingered on her skin afterwards always bringing back miserable memories of school swimming lessons.

  And as usual, whenever she thought about all the mess, she felt as if she herself were just another piece of nameless junk trapped underneath one of the many piles that littered the house. So as not to have to look at her surroundings, she tightened the drawstring of her hood until it covered her eyes, leaving only her mouth and nose framed by a small oval of puckered nylon.

  As the bolt behind the cellar door scraped back, a little worm of anxiety crawled around in her stomach. The door swung open, letting a whiff of old-church smell into the kitchen, and Marion held her breath so she wouldn’t have to breathe the same air as them. Then John appeared, panting with effort from climbing the steep cellar steps. It wasn’t until her brother had slammed the heavy door behind him and locked it that Marion allowed herself to breathe again.

  John used his handkerchief to wipe sweat from cheeks crisscrossed with tiny red veins. Well over six feet tall and with a huge belly that hung over his leather belt, he seemed to fill up the whole kitchen. Marion noticed that his well-polished, black leather shoes had rubbed his ankles raw.

  “John, why aren’t you wearing any socks, love?” asked Marion.

  “Couldn’t find them.”

  “I left the clean ones on the bed in the spare room.”

  “In Mother’s room?”

  “No, the spare room.”

  “The room with the cracked window?”

  “No, the spare room with the face wardrobe.”

  The face wardrobe was the polished-oak wardrobe where winter coats were kept. In the dark grain of one of the doors you could see a shape that, as children, Marion and John thought resembled the face of a screaming man. Marion had been too afraid to go into the room by herself until she was nearly fourteen.

  “Why didn’t you leave them on my bed?”

  “I always put them in that room. You don’t like me going in your bedroom.”

  He made a huffing sound, then shook his head, jiggling the heavy jowls around his neck.

  As he walked past her, the scent of the cologne she had bought him for his birthday tickled her nose. It was called Apollo, the one with the advert where a man from Greek legend was riding a white horse. She had chosen it because he was so fond of classical mythology. His hair was combed carefully across his scalp in a manner that even Marion knew was considered old-fashioned nowadays; most men s
haved off the remaining hair the minute they began to go bald. Around his wrist was the watch with the stainless steel band that had belonged to Dad. The same watch that had been recovered miraculously still working from the river after the accident.

  John went over to the sink, took off the watch, and placed it on the ledge before turning on the hot tap. As steam clouded the kitchen window he put his hands under the running water, and then began scrubbing them with a bar of dirt-streaked, coal tar soap. Marion noticed a neat round scar on the inside of his wrist.

  After drying his hands on a kitchen towel, her brother switched on the radio, then stomped across the kitchen and began chopping up tomatoes for sandwiches, drumming his knife in time with the music playing. Little piles of seeds slid across the cutting board like frogspawn tinged with blood. These sandwiches would be for the visitors, and even to look at them made Marion uneasy.

  “Why are you sitting there with your coat on, Mar?”

  “I’m going to Judith’s for lunch.”

  “Does Judith even eat lunch?” He snorted. “She looks like she lives on fresh air and tap water.”

  “I suppose she must eat now and then.”

  “I’ll bet she wants something.”

  “Don’t be silly. What could she possibly want from me?”

  “You’re a soft touch, Marion. That’s why she uses you.”

  Marion didn’t mind the idea of being used; surely that was better than being unused, like a forgotten carton of milk going slowly sour in the fridge.

  “All that babysitting you did for her and without paying you a penny.”

  “But I enjoyed babysitting for Lydia. I would never take money for that,” said Marion, a little shocked by the idea.

  “Well, it’s a shame Lydia can’t be bothered to come and see you now she’s all grown up.”

  “I’m sure she is too busy with her studies and friends to bother with an old thing like me.”

  Despite regularly sending parcels of treats, and sometimes a card with a bit of money stuffed inside, Marion hadn’t heard from Lydia since she began her studies at Birmingham Met more than a year ago. It wasn’t so much Lydia’s behavior as John’s relish in pointing it out that gave Marion a tight feeling in her throat.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you, John, a delivery arrived for you this morning. It’s in the hall.”

  John left the room, then returned a moment later carrying a package. After placing it carefully down on the table, he stood looking at it for a few seconds as if savoring the moment. The brown wrapping made a papery shriek as he ripped it off with a knife; he then ran the palm of his hand across the box upon which was printed a picture of a dark gray aeroplane.

  “What do you think of that then, Marion? The Avro Lancaster.”

  “Very nice, I’m sure.”

  “Nice?” John chuckled. “I don’t think the people of Hamburg thought this beauty was very nice; the Lancaster was used by the RAF to bomb the city in World War II. One of the air attacks took place after a spell of such warm, dry weather that it created a firestorm nearly a thousand feet high.” John paused to flick his tongue across his bottom lip. “The roads and even the water in the rivers burst into flames. People were swept up into the blazing tornado like dry leaves.” He removed his gaze from the picture of the plane to fix it on her. “Can you imagine that?”

  Marion gasped. “How awful!”

  “It had to be done, to win the war.” John patted the box affectionately. “People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf. George Orwell said that, Marion,” he said, wagging a thick, red finger for emphasis.

  “It never ceases to amaze me the things you know, John.”

  • • •

  AT TWELVE THIRTY exactly Marion rang the bell by her neighbor’s front door. Judith appeared dressed in leggings and a wraparound cardigan, dyed-black hair pulled into a bun. Her clothes and posture gave her the controlled, impatient look of a ballet mistress. She squinted at Marion as if unsure who she was or what she was doing standing on the step, then her thin red mouth curved into a smile.

  “Oh, there you are. Well, come in then, lunch is already on the table.”

  Marion followed her into the house, which despite being built in exactly the same style as the one next door, seemed to exist about a thousand years in the future. Everything in the open plan kitchen/dining room was sterile as a laboratory, and as she entered, the brightness of a dozen overhead spotlights stung Marion’s eyes. The entire rear wall of the house had been replaced by glass, through which you could see a Japanese-style garden and small gazebo overlooking a pond.

  “Shall I grab your coat?”

  “No—no—it’s all right—I’ll keep it on, thank you.”

  “Isn’t it warm enough in here for you?” asked Judith.

  In fact the house was much warmer than Marion’s; the outdated boiler next door did little to fight the sharp drafts that were forever chasing each other around the edges of windows and doors. But Marion was thinking of the struggle she had getting the zip up in the first place. If she got it stuck again and had to struggle to get out of her coat, Judith would get that annoying amused look on her face as if Marion were a clown brought in especially for her entertainment.

  “Maybe I’ll take the hood down.”

  She must have tied the knot too tightly beneath her chin because it was impossible to get undone. Marion had to stretch the hood back over her crop of dark frizzy hair. She sat down on one of Judith’s funny modern chairs made from a piece of curved plastic, then struggled not to slide straight onto the floor, as her nylon-covered bottom offered no grip against the shiny surface. The room was decorated with artworks from the gallery on Northport High Street that Judith owned. A giant abstract picture that looked like it might have been a lady’s breast hung on one wall, and several disembodied dolls’ heads that had been, for reasons incomprehensible to Marion, roughly crammed into an old medical cabinet stared out at her.

  On the opposite wall hung two black-and-white portraits of Lydia. One had been taken when she was about five years old, her round face framed by a puffy halo of hair, and there was a solemn look in her huge eyes as though the camera had disappointed her gravely. In the second, taken more recently, she was wearing a white linen shirt and sitting on a wicker seat, her fine features framed by long straight hair. Marion felt a surge of warmth as she looked at the pictures.

  The table was set out with things like tomatoes, peppers, and artichokes drowned in bright yellow olive oil, all arranged on glossy white plates, so they looked like medical specimens.

  “I’ve got bottled water, Marion, or would you prefer tea?”

  “Tea would be nice. Milk and two sugars, please.”

  “I don’t have sugar. Or milk. If I have a drop of dairy, I swell up like a balloon. The human gut isn’t really designed to handle it. You know you must have a real espresso,” said Judith, forcing the word from between her lips with a hiss. “Greg brought me this fancy coffee machine back from Milan.”

  She went over to a huge metal contraption that sat on the counter and then began messing with tiny cups and pouring jugs of liquid through funnels.

  “Go ahead and eat,” said Judith as she began cleaning already spotless surfaces, taking things out of cupboards, wiping them, then putting them away again, moving with a whirr of sharp angles like some kitchen apparatus set to fast motion.

  Marion tried to cut off a piece of baguette, but the bread was so stale, it shattered instantly into sharp brown crumbs, leaving her with a small elbow of crust. There was no butter, and the crust cut into her tender gums as she took a bite. A tiny cup of black coffee appeared in front of her. Marion took a sip. The coffee was so bitter that her tongue shriveled like a slug doused with salt.

  “So, Marion, what have you been up to?” Judith, having completed her flurry of activity, positioned herself on a plastic chair, pulling up a bare foot and placing it across her thigh.


  “Well, not much, really.”

  “You know, Marion, you should get out more, take up a hobby or join a club. They have all sorts of classes at Northport Methodist Church. Someone left a pile of leaflets in the gallery—here, I brought you one.”

  Judith pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her bag and began smoothing it out on the table.

  “Monday is adult literacy, then on Tuesday an AA meeting, well, presumably you wouldn’t need either of those, Wednesday is computer skills, and basic maths, but look, on Thursdays they do beginner’s French—ooh la la—you never know, you might meet someone.”

  “Someone?”

  “A man. A romantic interest, Marion.”

  The sound that came out of Marion’s mouth was more like a screech of fear than laughter.

  “Oh gosh, can you imagine me meeting a man at my age?”

  “Well, why not? You know sixty isn’t considered old these days.” Marion, at fifty-four, was a year younger than Judith.

  “Of course, I should take you clothes shopping sometime. We need to glam you up a bit.” Judith reached out and patted Marion on the arm. “I hope you don’t feel offended, but I am only saying these things because I want to see you bloom. You have to live life to the fullest, my dear, and no one can do that in polyester slacks and an old raincoat.”

  “I don’t know, Judith, it sounds like a lot of fuss and bother, really,” said Marion, ashamedly picking a fuzz-berry from the knee of the offending slacks.

  “But you don’t want to miss out on everything, do you, Marion? And time passes us by so quickly.”

  “I suppose it does. But I’m quite all right.”

  “Are you really all right, stuck in that big old house with John?” Judith asked.

  The house didn’t seem that big to Marion; it was so filled with things that sometimes she felt like a little mouse trying to burrow through it all to get where she wanted to go.