Read Last Guests of the Season for Free Online Page A

that’s all. How’s the arm?’
    â€˜What? Oh, fine. Where’s Jack?’
    â€˜He’s upstairs with Claire – they’re coming down for tea in a minute. Do you want to go and tell your parents? We’re going to have it out on the terrace.’
    â€˜No, I want to stay here with the cat.’
    â€˜Well …’ In the face of Tom’s obduracy, which seemed to encompass many issues, Robert could hear himself begin a number of sentences with this hesitant, placatory ‘Well’. The kettle was beginning to shake. ‘Well … perhaps in a minute?’ He went back inside to wreaths of steam. ‘If you don’t tell them,’ he called out to Tom, turning off the gas, ‘they won’t know, will they?’
    A heavy sigh. ‘Oh, all right, then.’ Robert heard him get to his feet, and then a sudden cry: ‘The hens are out! The hens are out! Come on, hens, here I am!’ He went running down the steps past the cat, racing towards them over the dry ground: Robert heard squawks, and beating wings.
    He picked up the tray and carried it through the house and out on to the terrace, where Jessica, tawny-haired, white-skinned, lay beneath the canopy of the swing-seat in striped pink shorts, faded T-shirt and a string of beads. Beyond her, beyond the lemon trees, the valley’s shimmering light was beginning to thicken and grow still, and the clock struck twice.
    â€˜Five o’clock,’ said Robert, setting down the tray on the round marble table. ‘Teatime.’
    â€˜Tea should be served at four,’ said Jessica, stretching. ‘In china cups,’ she added, looking at the battered mugs and cheap, thick glasses. ‘With egg and cress sandwiches.’
    â€˜I don’t know where you get your ideas from.’ Robert sank on to the swing-seat. ‘Move up.’
    â€˜Not from you,’ she said calmly, swinging her legs off. ‘You never notice what things look like.’
    There was the sound of panting and running feet: beneath the terrace Tom was in hot pursuit. Jessica got up and went to look, leaning gracefully on the parapet.
    â€˜If you chase them,’ she called down, ‘they’ll just run faster, won’t they?’
    There was no answer. Robert called up to the balcony window. ‘Tea! Claire?’
    The shutters were opened, and Claire came out on to the balcony. Dark hair tumbled in unbrushed waves to her shoulders; she leaned on the stone ledge in her crumpled white shirt and smiled down.
    â€˜Will you tell the others?’ he asked her.
    â€˜All right. Hello, Jess.’
    â€˜Hi, Mum,’ said Jess, not turning from the parapet. ‘Hey!’ she called down suddenly. ‘Hey, don’t do that.’
    There was a scuffle, and a furious flutter; Tom came up the steps, triumphant. ‘Got one!’
    â€˜Poor thing,’ said Jessica. ‘Look at her, she’s scared to death.’
    â€˜She’s all right.’ Tom carried the hen over to the swing-seat and plonked himself down. ‘There you are, there you are,’ he said to her soothingly, running his fingers over the scrubby brown feathers and balding neck. The hen sat motionless on his lap, her eyes bright and blank.
    â€˜Put her down,’ said Jessica. ‘She’s filthy.’
    â€˜No she’s not! Anyway, she can’t help it, can she?’
    â€˜Tea,’ said Robert. ‘Put her down, Tom, there’s a good chap.’ He nodded towards the biscuits. ‘Then you can have one of these.’
    â€˜Can she have one?’ asked Tom.
    â€˜Well …’
    â€˜For heaven’s sake,’ said Jessica.
    â€˜Oh, go on,’ said Claire, warm and amused above them. ‘Stop being so snooty, Jess.’ Beside her, Jack, who had emerged from the bedroom, said: ‘Can I hold her?’
    â€˜Sure,’ said Tom. ‘Come on down.’ He reached for the packet of