A Change of Climate: A Novel

“In the fields? No, not usually. We don’t have that kind of farming. In the fields we grow things.”

“What, like bloody grass?” the girl said.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Anna said. “Don’t swear at me. It won’t make you any happier.”

“But it does,” Melanie said balefully.

Anna went downstairs, and checked that anything Melanie might inhale or swallow was locked away. Not many women have to padlock their oven cleaner, Anna thought. They had tried to exclude from the house any substance with a potential for abuse, but you could never be sure; a boy who’d stayed last year had a predilection for a certain brand of suede cleaner, and had ransacked the kitchen cupboards and her dressing-table drawers on the off-chance that she might have some lying about. Again, these children were given to what are known as “suicidal gestures”—drinking bleach, for instance. Some of their experiments were so unlikely that it was only later, when they got out of hospital, that you could find out from them whether they’d been in search of euphoria or oblivion—a temporary exit, or a permanent one.

“Ralph,” Anna said. “I’m afraid Melanie is a Sad Case, a very sad one indeed. You’re not going to leave me with her this afternoon, are you?”

“I have to go out,” Ralph said, “for three hours.”

“Can’t you cancel? I don’t think I can be responsible.”

Ralph wavered. “I’m expected,” he said. He thought, how easy it is to lie. “Robin’s locked the bikes away. She’ll not run off, I don’t think. Nowhere to run to. She seems dazed, doesn’t she? It’s odd, because she was all right at Norwich station when the volunteer handed her over. But then as soon as we got out of town she seemed to go rigid. In the end she shut her eyes and wouldn’t look out of the window.”

“I’m not worried about her running away,” Anna said. “I’m worried about what she might do if she stays here.”

“We’ve had worse than Melanie.”

“I know—but Ralph, I know we’ve done this for years, had these poor things here in summer, but I’m beginning to wonder if it’s fair on them—they hate it so much. And we hate it, too.”

“We’ve had this out before,” Ralph said. “And I really do believe it does some good. They get good food, they get at least a bit of fresh air, they see something different from what they’ve seen all their lives—and there are people around who are willing to spend time with them and sit and listen if they want to talk.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t want to talk this afternoon, then. Because you’ve gone and fixed some meeting, which will probably go on into the evening.”

“No. I’ll be back for five. I promise.” He was already on his way out of the back door. I have to see Amy, he was thinking, I have to. He felt nauseous at the lies he was telling, at the thought of his duties neglected; felt almost sick enough to turn back. But I promised I’d see Amy, I have to. He drove away, cherishing the comforting belief that he was under a compulsion.

Anna was annoyed with herself; she hadn’t meant to get involved in a debate about the philosophy of Visitors, she’d really meant to get a phone number from him, so that if there was any crisis with Melanie she could get him out of his meeting. She went into his office. His diary was in its usual place, top right-hand drawer. From his pewter frame Matthew Eldred frowned at her, hand on his watch chain; Uncle James, in his tropical kit, squinted into the sun. And Ralph was there, too; Ralph on the stoep at Flower Street, one hand in his pocket, leaning against the wall. It was the only photograph they displayed, of their life in Africa. It was there because Rebecca, a couple of years ago, had begged to see some; she had taken a fancy to this, saying, “Oh, Dad, weren’t you handsome, you’re not a bit like you are now.” Ralph had decided the picture should go on his bureau, to remind him of his present imperfections. It was a photograph devoid of associations; he did not remember it being taken. He saw a smiling, insouciant boy, a lounger with curly hair; a broad-shouldered boy, who looked—if only momentarily—at ease with the world.

Anna took out the diary, found the week, page, day.

9 A.M.: Meet Red Cross about Home-from-Hospital scheme. DON’T FORGET—ring the bishop. 11 A.M.: Collect Melanie Burgess from station.

Then nothing. So he had left the afternoon free, and something had come up at the last minute. Why didn’t he say so? Anna put the diary back in the drawer. She thought no more about it.

Ralph left Amy’s house at half past four. As he reached the top of the track he saw a police car, apparently waiting for him. He stopped the engine and waited in his turn. He recognized the officer who got out first; it was one of the men he had seen previously at the same spot, one of those who, Amy said, were always watching the house.

Ralph wound his window down. “What do you want?”

“Could I have your name, sir?”

“Eldred, Ralph Eldred.”

“And your address?”

He gave it.

“Is this your car?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“Can you tell me the registration number?”

He told it.

“Would you have your driver’s license on you?”

He took it out of his pocket. The policeman looked at it, handed it back; clean, not a penalty point, nothing to be done there. “We’ve seen you round here before.”

“Yes. I’ve seen you.”

“Been calling at the farm down there?”