‘I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean ... It’s all right. I’m a visitor. Here to see my daughter ...’
It made no difference. She was panting now, scented with fear. Guy backed off, attempting with smiles and shrugs to show how safe he was. Then, in her agitation the curtain slipped. He saw her face again and got a further shock. His stomach gave a queasy flip and his forehead became cold and clammy. He looked away sick with disenchantment and disgust, for the girl was crazed.
Deep-blue eyes rolling wildly round in her head, lovely lips dribbling with slime, grimaced and pushed forward into a grisly tight circle. Then, for the first time, Guy noticed the size of the jawline and the large brown hand ferociously splayed against the wall and realised that the figure was not female at all but that of a young man. His disgust deepened and he almost ran from the room, slamming the door behind him.
What the hell sort of place was this? Guy had been willing to give the first chap talking to the empty air in the cabbage patch the benefit of the doubt, but there was no mistake about the demented second. He felt a deep sense of alarm at the thought of his daughter living here.
He returned to the central area of the hall where it seemed that, at last, his appearance had been noticed. Following the rattle of wooden curtain rings a girl had appeared in the gallery and was hurrying towards the staircase.
She had long dark hair in a plait and wore floaty muslin trousers which billowed as she moved like wide white mothy wings. The muslin was caught into anklets from which hung tiny bells tinkling in a delicate manner. She sped along on bare feet which seemed hardly to touch the ground, and descended the stairs like a piece of thistledown. As she came closer he could see that her plait was threaded through with small white flowers and that a red spot marked the precise centre of her forehead. Standing before him, she placed her hands together in a prayerful salute to greet him: ‘Welcome to the Golden Windhorse,’ and bowed.
Guy, absorbed his third shock in almost as many minutes yet recognised the moment for what it was. Fraught with danger, rich with opportunity. He looked down at her hair parting - which was also powdered with reddish dust - reached out and touched her shoulder very gently. Then he said, ‘Hullo Sylvie.’
‘My name is Suhami now.’ Even her voice was different. Gentle, colourless and curiously muffled as if strained through layers of cotton wool. ‘It means little dancing wind.’
Guy considered several rejoinders all of which seemed primed with the potential for misunderstanding so he kept silent. Just nodded and hitched the flesh in the lower half of his face up into a smile. Was this too bold a response? The bland downcast-browness gave nothing away. She said, ‘You are early.’
‘Yes. I hoped we might be able to talk before dinner.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ She appeared disturbed at the very thought. A frown pleated the red spot.
Guy stood, ill at ease and uncertain, staring helplessly. Only Sylvie could reduce him to such a state and, for the first time ever, he felt a flash of resentment that this should be so.
She was going away without another word. Fluttering off across the hall, disappearing down a corridor. Surely she must mean him to follow. Guy lumbered off in pursuit feeling, in contrast to all that floss and cobweb, quite exceptionally gross. The corridor ended in a glass-topped door opening on to a terrace. Just before this on the left was a row of wooden hooks supporting an old mac and a peg bag. Beneath were assorted wellies and a paraffin stove. Facing this wall three shallow stone steps descended, ending in a further door from behind which came the sounds of crockery and the chink of teaspoons.
Turning the handle, Guy entered a kitchen, square with a low ceiling. The tiles and sink were cracked and old-looking, and there was a long iron range as well as a more modern gas cooker. Sylvie was making tea. She took some sprigs of mint from a flat raffia dish, put them in a small teapot and poured on boiling water. Guy hoped this was not for him and then hoped that it was.
She crossed to a rack of assorted knives, took one down and started chopping at a large piece of shiny, tacky-looking hard stuff. Her father, who had recently seen a drugs documentary, thought it looked like cannabis resin.
‘What’s that?’
‘Rambutan crunch.’
‘Ah.’
Now she was laying a tray. Obviously the tea was not for either of them. Any minute now she was going to pick up the lot and vanish, perhaps for good. Guy studied the composed profile, searching for some reaction to their meeting. How was it possible for her to remain so calm? Did she really not understand the significance of the moment? Whatever he had expected it was not this. She was like a stranger. His daughter yet not his daughter.
Maybe she’d been brainwashed. Perhaps this was the headquarters of some weird cult - that would explain the wafty costume, the silly bells and that ridiculous red daub. Guy, having no historical point of reference for the transformation, resented it on principle as he did any change in the quotidian made without consulting him.
He noticed she was handling all the implements on the tray in an exceptionally mannered fashion. Over-precise and unnaturally concentrated, inclining her head in a solemn deferential manner between each movement. Like all rituals its effect was to exclude the mere looker-on. All this serenity was getting on Guy’s nerves. He longed to jolt her into a natural response even whilst appreciating that any such move might be extremely unwise. He didn’t think that she might simply dread his company.
‘A beautiful house Syl ... er ... Suzz ... um ...’
‘Yes. I’m very happy here.’
‘I’m glad - oh! I’m glad you’re happy, Sylvie.’ He saw her shrink from this intrusive exuberance. Moderating his voice he added: ‘Why is that? What is it about the place?’
‘I’ve found peace here.’ A graceful hand movement encompassed the old grate, cupboards and shelves. ‘And people who really care for me.’
Guy took the blow, barely winded.
He could see she was sincere, he could tell that. Or thought so which was really the same thing. That, no doubt, was what the face denuded of all emotion, swoony drifting movements and humble bow were all in aid of. Guy loathed humility. In Guy’s opinion you could stick humility right up your fart-hole. She was speaking again in that sexless, ripple-of-silk voice. ‘... so when the Master suggested that you should be invited down we all discussed it and thought my birthday might be the right occasion.’
The second blow so lightly delivered marked Guy much more deeply than the first. To be frank, it had him on the ropes. It was not her idea then that he should visit. The suggestion had come from some bunch of sharing, caring peace-dispensing Venus-watching nutters. He was here under their sufferance. Guy felt sick with wounded pride at the thought. And jealousy. Unthinkably, he wanted to be unkind. To hurt her for bringing him to such a pass.
‘I expect it will wear off.’
‘What?’
‘All this peace and stuff.’
‘No it won’t.’
‘You’re very young, Sylvie.’
‘I’m older than I look.’
The words were full of bitterness. He looked across at her and the gap closed. Honesty flowered and the room was suddenly full of wretched agitation. Opportunities lost, gestures never made, songs never sung. Guy moved towards her and she sprang away.
‘I’m so sorry, Sylvie. Please ... believe me ... I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh, why did you come here!’ Her dignified composure vanished. Eyes glittered with sudden tears.
‘I got a letter -’
‘I mean why did you come now? Why couldn’t you just turn up at half past seven as you were asked?’