Sybil put her hand to the door. This was the first really daring thing she had ever done to her father… THE VISITORS Rose Boucheron 1973 The visitors were expected in less than an hour, and a small insistent group clamoured around the rose-covered cottage. “Is it true that the old man — Sir William,”— the reporter amended — has no time for his daughter-in law and has never seen his grandson?” Sybil smiled the smile she reserved for naughty children and playful puppies. “Completely untrue,” she answered sweetly. “Sir William adores his daughter in-law and cannot wait to meet his grandson. And now, if you will excuse me—“ She closed the door behind her and once on the other side uncrossed her fingers. Well, she told herself, what possible interest could the public have in her father’s reaction to her brother’s widow? Still, she hoped she had handled them as well as her mother would have done, but then her mother had had a great deal of experience; a lifetime of protecting Sir William from determined reporters and keeping them sweet at the same time. In the last year, Sybil had learned much, and still marveled that the great British public hung on Sir William’s words and actions, or so they would have her believe. Difficult to remember a time when everything her father did, or said, was not a matter for publication in the national press. Even as a young man at Oxford, it was clear that he was destined for greater things. The enfant terrible, brilliant, gifted, as much of a philosopher as a scientist — his opinions were eagerly sought. And then there were his inventions the aircraft design, the space age forecasts. Honors were lavished on him, and the world eagerly awaited his next pronouncement Ah, well… Heavens, it was three o’clock already, and Sally Ann was due at four — the sister-in-law she had never seen. How strange it sounded. Sister-in-law - she couldn’t wait to meet her. And the child, the little boy — Edward. Her heart leapt at the thought, and she smiled. Scones and butter, home-made jam: she had no idea what you gave small children, having had no children of her own. A shadow crossed her face. All those years in Australia with Richard, her beloved Richard, until he died suddenly. Fifteen years she could look back on now as if they were but a few days. It was good that she was necessary at home. Her father had had a succession of housekeepers since her mother died, and was delighted when she agreed to come home and keep house for him. Barnes, her father’s batman from the R.A.F. in the Second World War, was still with them. He lived with his wife in a cottage in the village and was always there to help Sir William driving him to town, gardening, helping to move necessary equipment in the barn, not that Sir William was beginning to show his age. She would tell her father that Sally Ann was due at four—he would be sure to have forgotten, deliberately, she thought. How could he feel the way he did—an intellectual, wise, philosophical man like her father—how could he feel so resentful towards his son’s wife? She was only a girl, twenty-three or so, and after all, she had loved Jamie and borne his son. Sybil had been seventeen when her brother was born. About to leave school, and there was her mother, hugely pregnant and delighted. Sir William’s joy in the birth of his son knew no bounds. “Just like me.” he would say, dangling him. “Going to take alter his father.” But he didn’t. A quiet boy, shy and retiring with presumably not a thought in his head except a love of birds and wild things, of reading country things. Sybil got on well with him, liked him as a little boy, that is. He was nine when she married Richard, and she only remembered him as a small boy, quiet, someone like herself with certainly no sign of his father’s brilliance or his mother’s vivacity and jar of life. She was in Australia when the news came that Jamie had left England for America. Disappointment after disappointment had gradually driven a wedge between Sir William and his son, and Jamie’s wish to follow a musical career had done nothing to endear him to his father. Her mother wrote to say she feared Sir William would never forgive him. Then, a year later, came the announcement of his marriage to an American college girl, Sally Ann. And Sir William had snorted his disapproval. It was his final alienation from his strange son. Sybil was still in Australia when the news came of Jamie’s death in a car crash, and soon after Sally Ann gave birth to a premature son. That was four years ago. So Edward would now be four, and today she would be seeing him. She sighed, realizing she had been thrusting the problem to be faced to the back of her mind. Suppose her father refuse to meet Sally Ann? Suppose he was rude – suppose – already he had said he would be sleeping in the barn. He always did this when he wanted to be alone. He had done it when her mother was alive. She made her way across to the enormous thatched barn, long ago converted into living quarters and workshop for the old man. He allowed no one in there to clean, or touch anything—with the exception of Barnes—end she knew better than to try. She peered through the tiny window by the door—there was no sign of him, and the large KEEP OUT sign just dared anyone to enter. She pushed the door slowly. “Father?” She looked around, and saw him. A small monoplane was strung to the ceiling in one corner of the barn, and sitting in the tiny cockpit was her father, fast asleep, the sound of his rhythmic snores filling the room. He’s like a baby, she thought, pondering on that marvelous sleeping brain. Someone to handle gently, never being quite sure how far to push, how taut were the finely strung nerves. T ime was when he would stand on his head, presumably working on some deep problem. She recalled another of his little idiosyncrasies. When he approved something, or an idea occurred to him, or he was shown something of deep beauty, he would turn a somersault. “Like it!” he would cry out with sheer exuberance. “Like it!” Ruefully, she remembered the times he had done this in public when she was small. How she would blush and look down at the floor, anxious to be anywhere but near this ridiculous father. But other people said: “Isn’t he marvelous?” They seemed to expect strange behavior. She called him again gently. “Father—Barnes is just going with the car. Tea will be at five o’clock.” He opened his eyes. “I don’t want tea.’’ He sounded like a fractious child. “But, Father, you remember Sally Ann will be here.” “I’m busy,” he said obstinately, and you could never argue with that. “Oh, Father!” How would she explain his absence? How rude the girl would think him, and he couldn’t stay in his beloved barn for ever. “Busy,” he snapped. She sighed. “You want your tea in here, then. Very well. Shall bring them in to see you?” “No!’ he roared. “Just keep them out of my way. I didn’t ask them to come here.” “Then dinner will be at seven-thirty,” she said, going to the door. “I do think, Father—’’ “Close the door after you,” he said. ‘Nobody’s to come in.” She sighed, and closed the door firmly. How difficult this visit was going to be. They arrived just before four o’clock, a tall, slim willowy girl with long dark hair, and grave brown eves. With her was a small boy, particularly like Jamie, not very much like his mother, and yet he reminded her of someone. “My dear . . .“ she moved forward and on impulse put her arms around the girl. “Sally Ann—I’m so pleased you came. And Edward - “This is tour Aunt Sybil,” his mother said. He put out a small thin hand and looked up at her, his blue eyes round and intelligent. “Aunt Sybil?” he repeated politely, and seemed to be taking stock of her. “Yes, dear.” Oh, how sweet he was! Adorable with that fine, reddish hair. She hugged him, and he allowed himself to be kissed, while his mother looked down at him, smiling. She had a sweet, serious face, and a soft gentle voice. I might have known, Sybil thought, relieved. Of course, Jamie would have married a girl like this. How could Father doubt? “Is tour father here?” The girl was removing the little boy’s coat. “We are so looking forward to meeting him.” “Er—no.” Sybil said briefly’. “He’s working—in the barn—” “The barn?” “Yes, just over there—you can see it from the window.” She pointed to the thatched roof. “Grandpa works in there?” The boy’s turned two bright blue eyes to her. “Yes, you’ll meet him later on when he isn’t so busy. Now let’s take you up to see your rooms, shall we, and get you settled in?” She sat in the lung flowered drawing-room with the comfortable chairs, her heart full. How she wished her mother could have been there. And the boy——not like his father—yet — Sally Ann came in holding Edward’s hand. Edward was carrying a book which he opened as soon as he sat down. “He’s a bookworm,” Sally Ann laughed. “Always reading.” “My goodness,” Sybil said. At four, it seemed very young to her. “We wanted so much to come,” Sally Ann said. “I felt it as only fair—to Edward. I never knew Jamie for long, less than a year all told—and he always talked about his family constantly. Tears sprang to Sybil’s eyes. “Did he—oh, did he?” ”Yes—particularly about his father. He adored him.” “Oh, how sad,” Sybil said involuntarily. “I know, of course,” Sally Ann said, “they didn’t get on—but I hoped it would be only temporarily.” Your father would have been proud of him, you know. It was just that he didn’t understand him. That’s why I’ve brought Edward, you see…” “Why you’ve -?” “Yes.” Sybil poured out the tea and handed it to her. Edward was engrossed in his book, and looked up when his mother spoke to him. “Aunt Sybil said would you like tea—or milk?” “Milk, please,” he said. “And one of those, please.” Sybil laughed. “A scone—shall I butter it for you?” “What a cosv scene it made, with Sally Ann and Jamie’s son. “You see, I feel a sense of continuity is important—we take thing very seriously in my country,” she said, smiling. Sybil smiled back at her. “And at times—I feel there is something awfully lacking when I look at Edward. I have tried very hard, but there are times when I don’t understand him— can you see that? To begin with, he has never known a father, and secondly, he is the sort of boy, I feel sure, who needs a man around. Apart from that—” “Yes, Sybil spoke slowly for she was remembering what her mother had told her and those old photographs of a young rebel at Oxford, the wild red hair, the fiery blue eyes…. Easy to forget now, seeing the white thatch of hair, the white beetle brows, the steely grey eyes… Later, Edward came down from the bathroom, and the sun was already settling low on the September afternoon. They had already talked for over an hour. “So you see...” Sybil got to her feet. “Edward,” she said. “Come here. You and I will go for a little walk. “Mummy won’t mind, will you Sally Ann?” The girl smiled. She seemed to understand without being told. “This way, then.” Sybil took his hand. Surely, surely, this must be the way. Sybil’s plump, middle-aged figure disappeared up the garden path, the small boy walking at her side, his hand held tightly in hers. So far he had said nothing, remaining quiet during the whole of teatime. They reached the barn door, and Sybil put her hand to the door. She could hear nothing. She peered through the window. There was her father at his desk absorbed in charts and blue prints. Her heart leapt within her at this, the first really daring thing she had ever done to her father. She was by nature a very cautious woman. She pushed open the door. “Father,” she called quietly. “Father?” He looked up frowning at his daughter standing there with a small boy, his mouth open slightly. “Father. This is Edward—“ she was about to turn and run, but the boy looking around, seemed to come alive. His eyes were sparkling, and he turned round and round again taking in the machinery, the models, the plane, the bits of equipment, the general mess of it all, then he jumped up and down and promptly turned a somersault. “Like it!” he screamed. “Like it!” Her father had got to his feet and was staring in wonderment at this small apparition. “Here—” he said, going towards him. “Here—you, boy—” Edward was upright again, his eyes shining, and with no hesitation went over and took his grandfather’s hand, while Sybil made her way back, smiling through her tears. “He looked round, so excited,” she said to Sally Ann, “then turned a somersault. “Like it! Like it! Just like Father used to.” “Oh, he often does it—I’ve got used to it now,” Sally Ann said. “Oh, I think you’ll find it will be all right now,” Sybil said happily. “They say it skips a generation. And I think, too, we shall have Father’s company for dinner. Would you like to give me a hand?” THE END