Read The Visitors for Free Online Page B

returned when I was eight. I knew this silent stranger had fought in France, though he never spoke of it. Once, when I asked him to show me where the Somme was and handed him an atlas, he threw it across the room, and it struck me on the forehead, drawing blood. Bad war, bad war . I’d met several other men in Cambridge afflicted by that disease; I’d glimpsed several victims among the officers here in Cairo – their twitchy unpredictability gave them away, as did a certain deadness in the eyes. Had anyone experienced a good war? I knew better than to ask.
    I stared at the floor, which had begun to undulate. Miss Mack’s saga had resumed… So, crisis situation, but she herself, old Egypt hand, had had a suggestion to make… Prolonged period of convalescence. Voyage to warmer climes – much better than the prospect of an English winter. Only difficulty, insufficient funds… at which point, Took Charge, wrote the maternal grandparents, who, thus far, hadn’t lifted a finger to help…
    Here, Miss Mack drew breath. I knew what was coming next: the bid for sympathy was made: the bid for status would follow as inevitably as night followed day. Mrs Winlock was listening to this story with close attention, and with what seemed genuine interest. Unlike many of the women Miss Mack had buttonholed on my behalf, both on the voyage out and this past week in Cairo, she betrayed no signs of impatience. Lowering her voice again, Miss Mack moved on to the next twist in the tale.
    Child’s father brilliant classicist, distinguished Norfolk family, but could be his own worst enemy, always had advanced, even Socialist views… a trait that had not gone down well with Marianne’s family… They’d met in London on Marianne’s first visit to Europe. Married inside three months, cut off without a dime, all contact with her family severed… No, didn’t make one ounce of difference when the child was born, though you’d have thought that might have softened their stubborn attitudes and overcome their stiff-necked pride. But perhaps Mrs Winlock, as a fellow American… oh, and a Bostonian? Well, then, she’d understand just how plain bone-headed such families could be, especially when it came to a clan composed of Emersons, Stocktons and Wigginses…
    Miss Mack paused. Mrs Winlock’s eyes widened as the information sank in. ‘Stockton – as in railroads?’ she said faintly.
    ‘ And Emerson steel.’
    There was a silence. Upon Helen Winlock’s face came an expression familiar to me. It was compounded of surprise, awe, pity and deepening distaste. I began to edge away.
    ‘I wrote them,’ Miss Mack said, with an air of finality. ‘I wrote the Emersons – and I did not mince my words. And they relented – well, to the extent of funding this little expedition of ours. What the future holds, I cannot say. But I will tell you, Mrs Winlock, that I’m just about burned up with all this snobbery and injustice and when I look at that poor child there, it breaks my heart. She’s lost a mother she adored. She’s been desperately ill. What she needs isn’t some stuffy old woman like me. She needs fun. And some friends her own age who can take her out of herself, don’t you agree?’
    The pitch seemed over-blatant to me. I was retreating, shamefaced, when I saw Helen Winlock do something unexpected: instead of uttering the platitudes and evasions that this appeal of Miss Mack’s usually evoked, she gave every sign of being moved. Her interpretation of the appeal seemed to differ from mine: colour rose in her cheeks; with a low exclamation of sympathy, she rested her hand on Miss Mack’s arm, and then awkwardly embraced her. Miss Mack sighed and grasped Helen Winlock’s hands. In the midst of the mêlée of returning children being reclaimed, the two women stood there clasping one another, exchanging what seemed to be consolation or endearments as if they were the oldest of friends.
    I was not used to such demonstrations. ‘Let us