"The Visitor" is an eerie 29-minute horror episode of the BBC television series West Country Tales, originally airing on February 22, 1982
The Visitor
by Elizabeth Elliot
From the first I loved the cottage. This was the one I wanted, and I was deaf to all suggestions that I might feel lonely here, with Andrew — my husband — away at sea one month out of every two. The whitewashed walls, uneven ceilings and thatched roof were as different as possible from the suburban home we had left. I thought I should never be tired of looking out of the windows each one framing a different fascinating view of the Cornish countryside. Beyond the cottage, less than a mile away, great Atlantic rollers hurled themselves against a rocky coastline. I had not quite lost my childhood idea that people who actually lived at the seaside were outstandingly lucky, their lives a perpetual holiday.
We are nearly a mile from the village, and our only neighbours are an elderly couple down the lane. I would be solitary here, I thought — but not lonely. And of course I would have Kelly, our three-year-old daughter, and Andy, a sedate collie who takes her responsibilities seriously. Andrew had bought her before he went away. To protect me, he said.
How good those first days were. I locked up the car in the garage, bought some stout shoes, and made up my mind to become a walker again. Most mornings I went up to the village — Kelly in her push-chair and Andy at my side. I had expected the villagers to regard us with reserve — we were foreigners from London after all — but a three-year-old is a great breaker-down of barriers. Soon they knew her name — and her teddy's name — and she would be greeted with a smile, and sometimes the offer of an apple or a lollipop in the village shop. I felt I had been quietly accepted too.
In the afternoons we went further afield, making the most of a spell of fine autumn weather. We walked through leafy woodland paths, smelling of wet moss. Kelly called them 'green tunnels'. She saw her first seagull and I shared her delight in discovering beaches almost empty of holiday makers. We picked our way among stones sea-washed to an exciting smoothness, 'popped' seaweed, and watched little crabs scuttle away under the rocks.
Towards evening, I would light a fire in my small sitting room, and with Kelly asleep upstairs and Andy gravely watching the crackling wood from her place on the hearth rug, I would sit down to write to Andrew -- a daily chronicle of small events. Writing to him was so easy, then. And always I would be looking ahead in my letters to the time when he would be home to share it all with me.
Peaceful, ordinary days. A little too peaceful, I began to think. With no adult company -- none of the friends who had said they would visit me seemed able to get away at that time — my life had shrunk to the scope and focus of three-year-old. Kelly was with me all day, for there is of course, no nursery school near us. Eventually I asked the woman down the road if she would do a bit of cleaning and baby-sitting for me. She and Kelly had taken to each other, and I could confidently leave Kelly in her charge some afternoons while I explored further afield.
One day, taking my usual way along the cliff top, I noticed a narrow track, almost overgrown with grass and gorse — a hidden path but definitely a path, and I could see that it led gently downhill. I followed its gradual descent, Andy bounding ahead. Country smells seem to make her quite young and skittish again. I could hear the reverberating boom of the breakers, and caught glimpses of the sea between the trees. In a few moments I was standing at the entrance of a little secret cove. The rocky cliffs, rearing up on each side, seemed to cut it off from the rest of the world. The waves made lace ruffles along the edge of a beach peppered with large stones. With a wonderful sense of freedom, as though I had re-entered my own childhood, I strode and ran about the beach, glorying in the great expanse of sand, the little shining pools around the rocks, and the tremendous sound of the wind and waves. I felt a child's pleasure in seeing my shadow stretch ahead of me, knife-sharp, as I followed Andy to the edge of the sea.
I felt buoyant with energy, and after a bit, wanted to climb the rocks and possess myself of the whole place. I easily clambered up, and was soon looking down on my cove --- as I thought of it — from a rocky platform. I decided to bring Andrew here as soon as he got home. I could just see him climbing up to the ledge with Kelly on his shoulders. I have always specially enjoyed the times we can share our daughter's company. I took my book from my pocket, and spent a lazy hour or so alternately reading and gazing round me. The beach was empty now, but I tried to picture the people who might have been there in the past. It was just the sort of cove that might have been used by smugglers, I thought. One could imagine the boat grating on to the shingle under cover of darkness, the laden figures making their silent way up the cliff path. Then I wondered if ships had ever been wrecked on those cruel-looking rocks. I knew this coastline was famous for wrecks. That would have been a different kind of landing — the air full of shouting and cries and the sound of splintering wood.
Perhaps my imagination became too active. I began to be aware of how isolated I was in my new-found eyrie. There was no one in sight over the whole landscape — nothing but sea and cliffs and swooping, screaming gulls. The sun had gone in, and — suddenly it seemed — the rocks took on a sombre, menacing look. I felt inexplicably uneasy, and thought longingly of my cosy sitting room. I called Andy, who had clambered up after me, put my book in my pocket, and we began making our way down to the beach again. As we set off, I thought I heard something in the wind; it sounded like a cry. I stopped and looked back. It had seemed to come from the rocks. But there was no sign of anyone there. I started off again. Then — there it was again; unmistakably the cry of a child. This time I didn't look back; I walked on as quickly as I could without breaking into a run. It must have been a gull, I told myself. Gulls can sound extraordinarily human. After all, there had been no child or in fact anyone at all in the vicinity all afternoon. But my spine was tingling with fear.
It was a relief to reach the road again, and meet a couple of fellow walkers. I was back in the world of people and familiar sights. By the time I reached my own front door, the memory of the desolate cry had faded, and I was almost ready to laugh at my fright.
As soon as I walked in, I smelt cigarette smoke. Then
I saw an unmistakable carpet bag in the sitting room, and I knew with a sinking heart that Fran had come. I was surprised — yet not surprised. We had parted on cool terms, and I had thought I might not see her again. But Fran always turns up.
She first came into my life when I was working in London at one of the big hospitals, sharing a flat with two other physiotherapists. None of us can ever remember how we first got to know her. Was she a cousin's friend, or a friend's cousin? Anyway, after that unremembered first meeting, she was always dropping in. Perhaps our stable, well-organized lives fascinated her. She would get us to talk about ourselves: 'You really did play hockey every day at school?' 'You really do clean the flat every Saturday?' It was not a friendly interest. Of her own way of life we knew very little. She seemed to have no settled occupation, but never to be out of funds. We gathered she did odd jobs from time to time including a little modelling and film extra work. She had a face to interest a photographer, with its slightly slanting eyes and secretive smile. A fascinating face, somebody called it. Another of our friends said there was something waif-like about her. He was mad about her — but none of her relationships with men seemed to last long. Whether she ended them or they did, one didn't enquire.
One Christmas time, she arrived unexpectedly with three young men in tow. One of them was Andrew, who had only met her that evening. It was love at first sight with us, and within weeks we were engaged. I rather hoped that after we were married, I should see no more of Fran. But she continued to drop in at our new home, and Andrew didn't seem to mind. He said she interested him. I used to tease him about her — I knew she just wasn't his type. Andrew is a warm, outgoing person, energetic and practical, good at every kind of sport. I share his interests, which is what makes our marriage so good.
I looked through the window and saw that Fran was in the orchard with Kelly. There was no sign of Mrs Kims. I assumed, with annoyance, that Fran had sent her home. I steeled myself to seem welcoming as I went out to join them. Kelly was clinging around her, as usual, and had no eyes for me. I suppose I have always slightly resented the way my daughter abandons me as soon as Fran appears. Fran cares nothing for children, I know. But she has quite a way with her when she sets out to please. And she certainly was sparing no pains to please Kelly. They were playing hide-and-seek as I joined them. I hung about for a few minutes, feeling almost an intruder, then suggested we should go into the cottage and have some tea.
As we strolled across the grass, Fran told me she had just come back from 'wandering around India', and thought she would come and see how I was making out in Cornwall. She seemed amused at the idea of my living in an isolated cottage. But then she has always taken a slightly mocking attitude towards me. She said she had spent part of her childhood in Cornwall. Where you live as a child, she said, with one of her odd looks, is home. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I knew very little about her past life, though mine was an open book to her. She never spoke of any family or relatives.
When I came into the sitting room with the tea, she was already settled in my chair. Her presence — although she had gone into one of her silent moods — changed the room. Her reticence made me chatter on about the first things that came into my head. But I was not at ease. All the time I was wondering, why had she come again? What did she want?
It was obvious that, for whatever reason, Fran was here to stay for a while. She had soon made my pretty spare room her own. It was filled with her clutter, including some strange things she had brought with her from India —masks and ornaments. Although I've known her for several years, I have never felt comfortable with Fran. There is something alien about her. I wanted her out of the cottage. Yet, as always with her, I couldn't bring myself even to ask how long she was staying.
So the days went by . . . The rhythms of her life were quite different from mine. She would still be asleep when we went to the village in the mornings. Later in the day she would go wandering off on her own. I never knew where. Certainly she didn't seem to be known to the locals. At night, long after I was in bed, the melancholy haunting chords of her guitar kept me awake. I could imagine her long fingers twanging the strings as she stared into the fire, half-tranced, as I'd often seen her do.
Her attitude to Kelly was quite inconsistent. She would completely ignore the child for a couple of days, then spend hours with her, swinging her tirelessly in the garden, making daisy chains, telling her stories which stopped abruptly as soon as I appeared. It irritated me that Kelly still appeared devoted to her.
Between Fran and me there was little communication. She remained the most remote and secret person I have ever known; in my house but not of it.
One day, a disturbing thing happened: I came back from the village to find Andrew's photograph smashed to pieces on the sitting room floor. Fran was sitting in my armchair looking particularly dreamy. It must have been the wind, she said. But the windows were all shut against a sudden shower of rain. I was sure she had deliberately broken it. But why should she do such a thing?
All this time I was waiting for a letter from Andrew. Usually, his letters arrived every few days. But now, when I especially longed to hear from him, I had to wait over a week. At last, I came• down one morning to find the envelope waiting on the mat. I took it to my favourite seat in the garden to read, feeling light-hearted for the first time for days. This should give me details of his arrival next week. And once he was home I knew he would help me, tactfully but firmly, to get rid of Fran. The first part of the letter was full of allusions to our pet jokes. His letters always make me laugh. But in a moment I was trying to keep back tears. His leave had been postponed. We must now wait five weeks to see each other. Five weeks! It seemed an eternity. I felt unaccountably desolate.
For once I needed Fran. I had to pour out my disappointment to somebody. I started up to go into the house and wake her— she was sure to be still asleep at this hour. Then I saw a curtain move upstairs and saw her move away from her window. I had only caught a glimpse of her expression, but somehow I was sure my news was known to her. Was it then that I began to feel frightened?
It was a fine day of wind and glinting sunshine. After lunch, I decided to pack up a picnic for Kelly and myself and get away from the cottage for a long afternoon. A good walk, I told myself, would get rid of this bout of depression. I was in the kitchen, looking for Kelly's favourite biscuits when Fran appeared in the doorway, and for a minute stood watching me. Then she asked if I was going out. Yes, I said, getting milk out of the fridge. I did not elaborate.
THE VISITOR
After another pause, Fran said she thought she would come along with us. I opened my mouth to tell her she was not wanted, that I particularly needed to be on my own with Kelly. But that sort of remark doesn't come easily to me. I said nothing.
I filled a thermos, added another cup to the basket, and we set off, Kelly in her push-chair clutching her teddy, which she had insisted on bringing. I was fond of Teddy —he had been mine as a child, and age had given him a sort of battered leering charm — but he was a large creature, and I usually ended up having to carry him. Andy walked close to my side, between me and Fran. She did not share Kelly's affection for Fran. In fact her distrust of my visitor could have been embarrassing if I had cared about it. I had not mentioned Andrew's letter, and did not now. Nor did Fran. We were an oddly silent party.
For a while we walked along with no discussion of where we might go. Then we passed the beginning of the path I had followed on the day Fran arrived. She stopped and said she was sure she had been this way before. Didn't it lead to a cove? There was something tense about her attitude. I felt strongly against going there again — especially with Fran. It was not worth seeing, I said, and too long a climb up again with the push-chair. But she walked ahead, taking no notice. I need not have followed her, but Kelly began demanding to 'get out and walk with Fran'. I almost pushed her out, and let them go ahead, while I followed with the push-chair and picnic. My jealousy had become an obsession. I recognized, but could not control it. It seemed to me that Fran was trying to take over my child. I felt she had some sort of power over all our lives which I could not shake off.
Fran went ahead, more and more purposefully. Soon she seemed oblivious even of Kelly. I dropped further and further behind, hampered as I was. When I got to the cove, I at first could not see either of them. Then I saw Fran, a motionless figure, looking out to sea. Kelly was playing at the edge of a pool. Some instinct of danger made me leave the push-chair and hurry across the sand to her. It was not until I caught up with her that I felt she was safe again. Fran hardly seemed to notice when I called Kelly to come and look at some seaweed. For a while Kelly and I played on the edge of the ocean as though it were an ordinary afternoon. But all the time I was aware of the silent, rapt figure looking out at the waves.
At last she came towards us, holding a piece of drift-wood, which seemed to interest her. It might have come from a wreck, she said Gulls were circling, screaming, above our heads, almost drowning her words. Fran glanced up at them.
`You know,' she said, 'there's a legend that seagulls are the souls of dead children?'
`No, I didn't,' I said composedly. I knew she meant to frighten me, and was determined not to show it. But I remembered the mysterious cry I had heard before, and felt as though cold water were being poured down my spine.
I asked her if she did remember the cove.
`Oh yes,' she said. 'It's just as I remember it.'
That was all. But I was sure it was no ordinary childhood memory which had kept her tranced beside the sea.
Suddenly she swooped on Kelly and picked her up. Kelly shouted happily as Fran ran off with her towards the sea. I ran after them, pretending to join in the game; but it frightened me to see my child in her arms. The mood of the beach had quite changed since the sunny afternoon when I had discovered it. The stones and rocks now looked to me like part of a stark, primeval landscape. And I was possessed by the most primitive emotions — fear and anger. Anger had liberated me at last: I was ready to tell Fran to clear out. But while she still had Kelly I dared not speak, could only call out that it was time to climb the path again for our picnic.
At the suggestion of a picnic Kelly began struggling to get out of Fran's arms. Fran did not put her down, but changed course, and we all set out for the cliff top.
`I suppose you've heard the local story of the shipwreck and the child?' Fran said, as we climbed. Her question sounded rehearsed, as though this were another attempt to frighten me. I shook my head, looking uninterested. But Fran went on to tell me the tale whether I wanted to hear it or not.
It seemed that in the eighteen-forties the packet for America set out from Falmouth one October afternoon. Fog came down, she went off course, and was wrecked on the treacherous rocks near the coast — just as I had imagined. Among the people struggling in the water on that terrible night was a young woman who managed to reach the shore with her small girl in her arms. She had just managed to set the child down on a ledge of rock — 'It was in this very cove,' Fran said — when a strong wave swept her off her feet back into the sea. She was rescued and brought ashore unconscious. But no one heard the child crying in the foggy darkness, and when they searched the cove the next day there was no sign of the child. Presumably she had been swept off her ledge into the sea.
`The locals will tell you,' said Fran, 'she still searches.'
I was thankful to reach the cliff top; we were safe from the sea and rocks. But Fran still held Kelly. There was no pretence of politeness as I snatched her away, and jammed her into her push-chair. Our rivalry was out in the open. Kelly began to wail, but was soon satisfied with the return of her teddy — which I had been carrying -- and a biscuit. Fran sat down beside the push-chair. She had become very quiet, dangerously quiet it, seemed to me. She refused to share our picnic. I saw that she was looking at Kelly with an expression which is hard to describe, but which chilled me. Then she looked at me, and held my gaze for a long minute. It seemed that whatever was between us must explode.
She reached out and put her hand on Kelly's head. She spoke only two words:
`My child.'
Her child? What could she mean? Horrible possibilities crowded into my mind.
Fran got up, and without a further look at either of us, walked away towards the cliff edge. I called to her to come back and explain. She just walked on as though she hadn't heard. In a second I was on my feet, rushing after her, screaming out all my hatreds, all my jealous fears about Kelly, about Andrew, things which I had not allowed myself even to think . . . A line of bushes hid her briefly from my view, and when I reached the cliff edge the beach seemed deserted. Then I saw a figure at the water's edge. Even allowing for her knowledge of the cliff paths from a child, I couldn't imagine how she had got there in so short a time. Tears of rage and shock blurred my eyes for a moment. When I could see again, she had gone. I tried to think she must have swum out to sea or hidden behind a rock to frighten me; there must be a logical explanation.
I called her name, several times, my voice cracking with fear. There was no response.
I turned away, dazed and shaky. Then I stared, unable to believe my eyes: the teddy bear, zombie-like, was rolling towards the cliff edge. At the steepest part it fell over, and disappeared. I was horrified to see that Kelly was getting out of her push-chair. She began to run -- but not towards her teddy. She was running towards another part of the cliff edge, as though someone were calling her
I don't know how I got to her in time. When I did, I clung to her, feeling my knees must give way. After a few seconds, I felt strong enough to carry her, protesting, to the security of the push-chair. But as I tried to grasp it, I felt it being pulled away from me as though by a powerful gust of wind. I tried to hang on to it, but my hands were shaking and clammy, and it slipped from my hold. I saw it roll along the grass and follow the teddy bear over the edge. I stood watching its slow, dreadful descent as it was gathered into the shadowy dusk of the cliff. So Kelly might have fallen, had been meant to fall, I now believed.
A drowned child . . . A mother who still searches . . . Had Fran some unimaginable connection with them? For a moment longer I stood as though frozen. Then I began to run as though all the powers of darkness were behind me. Panic — held at bay till now — had me in its grip. As I went running and stumbling along the path, I hardly heard Kelly's wail about her lost teddy, or Andy's short, anxious barks as she ran beside me. I had only one goal in life: to be home. Home was safety. I hardly noticed my aching arms and back, or that my breath was coming in great, sobbing gasps. Home . . . home . . . the word seemed to beat in my head with the banging of my heart.
At last the familiar front door was in sight. I was inside, gasping painfully for breath as I leaned against the door. At last I could put Kelly down. She was safe, we were back in the world I knew. I allowed myself the luxury of nearly fainting.
Kelly's shout of delight made me open my eyes. Her push-chair, undamaged, was standing in the sitting room. She was just lifting her teddy out of it He also looked no more battered than usual. Over the fireplace Andrew's photograph, whole again, stood in its usual place.
As I was trying to take this in, I heard Andy give a low growl. My eyes were drawn to the mirror. I could swear that for a fraction of a second I saw Fran's reflection, a look of sadness in her eyes. A waif, as someone had said. Then she had gone.
Yes, Fran has gone. There is no sign of her carpet bag, her Indian ornaments. I don't believe I shall see her any more. The cottage is my own again.
Yet it is not the same, and never can be. My world of familiar things, predictable days has been shattered. Fear has moved into my home with me. Staring at my distraught face in the mirror, I wonder, did it happen? Is loneliness driving me out of my mind? How can I begin to explain it to Andrew? I have passed the evening writing this down. But now darkness is enclosing the cottage. I have put on every light, but the night is still ahead.
The Visitor
by Elizabeth Elliot
From the first I loved the cottage. This was the one I wanted, and I was deaf to all suggestions that I might feel lonely here, with Andrew — my husband — away at sea one month out of every two. The whitewashed walls, uneven ceilings and thatched roof were as different as possible from the suburban home we had left. I thought I should never be tired of looking out of the windows each one framing a different fascinating view of the Cornish countryside. Beyond the cottage, less than a mile away, great Atlantic rollers hurled themselves against a rocky coastline. I had not quite lost my childhood idea that people who actually lived at the seaside were outstandingly lucky, their lives a perpetual holiday.
We are nearly a mile from the village, and our only neighbours are an elderly couple down the lane. I would be solitary here, I thought — but not lonely. And of course I would have Kelly, our three-year-old daughter, and Andy, a sedate collie who takes her responsibilities seriously. Andrew had bought her before he went away. To protect me, he said.
How good those first days were. I locked up the car in the garage, bought some stout shoes, and made up my mind to become a walker again. Most mornings I went up to the village — Kelly in her push-chair and Andy at my side. I had expected the villagers to regard us with reserve — we were foreigners from London after all — but a three-year-old is a great breaker-down of barriers. Soon they knew her name — and her teddy's name — and she would be greeted with a smile, and sometimes the offer of an apple or a lollipop in the village shop. I felt I had been quietly accepted too.
In the afternoons we went further afield, making the most of a spell of fine autumn weather. We walked through leafy woodland paths, smelling of wet moss. Kelly called them 'green tunnels'. She saw her first seagull and I shared her delight in discovering beaches almost empty of holiday makers. We picked our way among stones sea-washed to an exciting smoothness, 'popped' seaweed, and watched little crabs scuttle away under the rocks.
Towards evening, I would light a fire in my small sitting room, and with Kelly asleep upstairs and Andy gravely watching the crackling wood from her place on the hearth rug, I would sit down to write to Andrew -- a daily chronicle of small events. Writing to him was so easy, then. And always I would be looking ahead in my letters to the time when he would be home to share it all with me.
Peaceful, ordinary days. A little too peaceful, I began to think. With no adult company -- none of the friends who had said they would visit me seemed able to get away at that time — my life had shrunk to the scope and focus of three-year-old. Kelly was with me all day, for there is of course, no nursery school near us. Eventually I asked the woman down the road if she would do a bit of cleaning and baby-sitting for me. She and Kelly had taken to each other, and I could confidently leave Kelly in her charge some afternoons while I explored further afield.
One day, taking my usual way along the cliff top, I noticed a narrow track, almost overgrown with grass and gorse — a hidden path but definitely a path, and I could see that it led gently downhill. I followed its gradual descent, Andy bounding ahead. Country smells seem to make her quite young and skittish again. I could hear the reverberating boom of the breakers, and caught glimpses of the sea between the trees. In a few moments I was standing at the entrance of a little secret cove. The rocky cliffs, rearing up on each side, seemed to cut it off from the rest of the world. The waves made lace ruffles along the edge of a beach peppered with large stones. With a wonderful sense of freedom, as though I had re-entered my own childhood, I strode and ran about the beach, glorying in the great expanse of sand, the little shining pools around the rocks, and the tremendous sound of the wind and waves. I felt a child's pleasure in seeing my shadow stretch ahead of me, knife-sharp, as I followed Andy to the edge of the sea.
I felt buoyant with energy, and after a bit, wanted to climb the rocks and possess myself of the whole place. I easily clambered up, and was soon looking down on my cove --- as I thought of it — from a rocky platform. I decided to bring Andrew here as soon as he got home. I could just see him climbing up to the ledge with Kelly on his shoulders. I have always specially enjoyed the times we can share our daughter's company. I took my book from my pocket, and spent a lazy hour or so alternately reading and gazing round me. The beach was empty now, but I tried to picture the people who might have been there in the past. It was just the sort of cove that might have been used by smugglers, I thought. One could imagine the boat grating on to the shingle under cover of darkness, the laden figures making their silent way up the cliff path. Then I wondered if ships had ever been wrecked on those cruel-looking rocks. I knew this coastline was famous for wrecks. That would have been a different kind of landing — the air full of shouting and cries and the sound of splintering wood.
Perhaps my imagination became too active. I began to be aware of how isolated I was in my new-found eyrie. There was no one in sight over the whole landscape — nothing but sea and cliffs and swooping, screaming gulls. The sun had gone in, and — suddenly it seemed — the rocks took on a sombre, menacing look. I felt inexplicably uneasy, and thought longingly of my cosy sitting room. I called Andy, who had clambered up after me, put my book in my pocket, and we began making our way down to the beach again. As we set off, I thought I heard something in the wind; it sounded like a cry. I stopped and looked back. It had seemed to come from the rocks. But there was no sign of anyone there. I started off again. Then — there it was again; unmistakably the cry of a child. This time I didn't look back; I walked on as quickly as I could without breaking into a run. It must have been a gull, I told myself. Gulls can sound extraordinarily human. After all, there had been no child or in fact anyone at all in the vicinity all afternoon. But my spine was tingling with fear.
It was a relief to reach the road again, and meet a couple of fellow walkers. I was back in the world of people and familiar sights. By the time I reached my own front door, the memory of the desolate cry had faded, and I was almost ready to laugh at my fright.
As soon as I walked in, I smelt cigarette smoke. Then
I saw an unmistakable carpet bag in the sitting room, and I knew with a sinking heart that Fran had come. I was surprised — yet not surprised. We had parted on cool terms, and I had thought I might not see her again. But Fran always turns up.
She first came into my life when I was working in London at one of the big hospitals, sharing a flat with two other physiotherapists. None of us can ever remember how we first got to know her. Was she a cousin's friend, or a friend's cousin? Anyway, after that unremembered first meeting, she was always dropping in. Perhaps our stable, well-organized lives fascinated her. She would get us to talk about ourselves: 'You really did play hockey every day at school?' 'You really do clean the flat every Saturday?' It was not a friendly interest. Of her own way of life we knew very little. She seemed to have no settled occupation, but never to be out of funds. We gathered she did odd jobs from time to time including a little modelling and film extra work. She had a face to interest a photographer, with its slightly slanting eyes and secretive smile. A fascinating face, somebody called it. Another of our friends said there was something waif-like about her. He was mad about her — but none of her relationships with men seemed to last long. Whether she ended them or they did, one didn't enquire.
One Christmas time, she arrived unexpectedly with three young men in tow. One of them was Andrew, who had only met her that evening. It was love at first sight with us, and within weeks we were engaged. I rather hoped that after we were married, I should see no more of Fran. But she continued to drop in at our new home, and Andrew didn't seem to mind. He said she interested him. I used to tease him about her — I knew she just wasn't his type. Andrew is a warm, outgoing person, energetic and practical, good at every kind of sport. I share his interests, which is what makes our marriage so good.
I looked through the window and saw that Fran was in the orchard with Kelly. There was no sign of Mrs Kims. I assumed, with annoyance, that Fran had sent her home. I steeled myself to seem welcoming as I went out to join them. Kelly was clinging around her, as usual, and had no eyes for me. I suppose I have always slightly resented the way my daughter abandons me as soon as Fran appears. Fran cares nothing for children, I know. But she has quite a way with her when she sets out to please. And she certainly was sparing no pains to please Kelly. They were playing hide-and-seek as I joined them. I hung about for a few minutes, feeling almost an intruder, then suggested we should go into the cottage and have some tea.
As we strolled across the grass, Fran told me she had just come back from 'wandering around India', and thought she would come and see how I was making out in Cornwall. She seemed amused at the idea of my living in an isolated cottage. But then she has always taken a slightly mocking attitude towards me. She said she had spent part of her childhood in Cornwall. Where you live as a child, she said, with one of her odd looks, is home. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I knew very little about her past life, though mine was an open book to her. She never spoke of any family or relatives.
When I came into the sitting room with the tea, she was already settled in my chair. Her presence — although she had gone into one of her silent moods — changed the room. Her reticence made me chatter on about the first things that came into my head. But I was not at ease. All the time I was wondering, why had she come again? What did she want?
It was obvious that, for whatever reason, Fran was here to stay for a while. She had soon made my pretty spare room her own. It was filled with her clutter, including some strange things she had brought with her from India —masks and ornaments. Although I've known her for several years, I have never felt comfortable with Fran. There is something alien about her. I wanted her out of the cottage. Yet, as always with her, I couldn't bring myself even to ask how long she was staying.
So the days went by . . . The rhythms of her life were quite different from mine. She would still be asleep when we went to the village in the mornings. Later in the day she would go wandering off on her own. I never knew where. Certainly she didn't seem to be known to the locals. At night, long after I was in bed, the melancholy haunting chords of her guitar kept me awake. I could imagine her long fingers twanging the strings as she stared into the fire, half-tranced, as I'd often seen her do.
Her attitude to Kelly was quite inconsistent. She would completely ignore the child for a couple of days, then spend hours with her, swinging her tirelessly in the garden, making daisy chains, telling her stories which stopped abruptly as soon as I appeared. It irritated me that Kelly still appeared devoted to her.
Between Fran and me there was little communication. She remained the most remote and secret person I have ever known; in my house but not of it.
One day, a disturbing thing happened: I came back from the village to find Andrew's photograph smashed to pieces on the sitting room floor. Fran was sitting in my armchair looking particularly dreamy. It must have been the wind, she said. But the windows were all shut against a sudden shower of rain. I was sure she had deliberately broken it. But why should she do such a thing?
All this time I was waiting for a letter from Andrew. Usually, his letters arrived every few days. But now, when I especially longed to hear from him, I had to wait over a week. At last, I came• down one morning to find the envelope waiting on the mat. I took it to my favourite seat in the garden to read, feeling light-hearted for the first time for days. This should give me details of his arrival next week. And once he was home I knew he would help me, tactfully but firmly, to get rid of Fran. The first part of the letter was full of allusions to our pet jokes. His letters always make me laugh. But in a moment I was trying to keep back tears. His leave had been postponed. We must now wait five weeks to see each other. Five weeks! It seemed an eternity. I felt unaccountably desolate.
For once I needed Fran. I had to pour out my disappointment to somebody. I started up to go into the house and wake her— she was sure to be still asleep at this hour. Then I saw a curtain move upstairs and saw her move away from her window. I had only caught a glimpse of her expression, but somehow I was sure my news was known to her. Was it then that I began to feel frightened?
It was a fine day of wind and glinting sunshine. After lunch, I decided to pack up a picnic for Kelly and myself and get away from the cottage for a long afternoon. A good walk, I told myself, would get rid of this bout of depression. I was in the kitchen, looking for Kelly's favourite biscuits when Fran appeared in the doorway, and for a minute stood watching me. Then she asked if I was going out. Yes, I said, getting milk out of the fridge. I did not elaborate.
THE VISITOR
After another pause, Fran said she thought she would come along with us. I opened my mouth to tell her she was not wanted, that I particularly needed to be on my own with Kelly. But that sort of remark doesn't come easily to me. I said nothing.
I filled a thermos, added another cup to the basket, and we set off, Kelly in her push-chair clutching her teddy, which she had insisted on bringing. I was fond of Teddy —he had been mine as a child, and age had given him a sort of battered leering charm — but he was a large creature, and I usually ended up having to carry him. Andy walked close to my side, between me and Fran. She did not share Kelly's affection for Fran. In fact her distrust of my visitor could have been embarrassing if I had cared about it. I had not mentioned Andrew's letter, and did not now. Nor did Fran. We were an oddly silent party.
For a while we walked along with no discussion of where we might go. Then we passed the beginning of the path I had followed on the day Fran arrived. She stopped and said she was sure she had been this way before. Didn't it lead to a cove? There was something tense about her attitude. I felt strongly against going there again — especially with Fran. It was not worth seeing, I said, and too long a climb up again with the push-chair. But she walked ahead, taking no notice. I need not have followed her, but Kelly began demanding to 'get out and walk with Fran'. I almost pushed her out, and let them go ahead, while I followed with the push-chair and picnic. My jealousy had become an obsession. I recognized, but could not control it. It seemed to me that Fran was trying to take over my child. I felt she had some sort of power over all our lives which I could not shake off.
Fran went ahead, more and more purposefully. Soon she seemed oblivious even of Kelly. I dropped further and further behind, hampered as I was. When I got to the cove, I at first could not see either of them. Then I saw Fran, a motionless figure, looking out to sea. Kelly was playing at the edge of a pool. Some instinct of danger made me leave the push-chair and hurry across the sand to her. It was not until I caught up with her that I felt she was safe again. Fran hardly seemed to notice when I called Kelly to come and look at some seaweed. For a while Kelly and I played on the edge of the ocean as though it were an ordinary afternoon. But all the time I was aware of the silent, rapt figure looking out at the waves.
At last she came towards us, holding a piece of drift-wood, which seemed to interest her. It might have come from a wreck, she said Gulls were circling, screaming, above our heads, almost drowning her words. Fran glanced up at them.
`You know,' she said, 'there's a legend that seagulls are the souls of dead children?'
`No, I didn't,' I said composedly. I knew she meant to frighten me, and was determined not to show it. But I remembered the mysterious cry I had heard before, and felt as though cold water were being poured down my spine.
I asked her if she did remember the cove.
`Oh yes,' she said. 'It's just as I remember it.'
That was all. But I was sure it was no ordinary childhood memory which had kept her tranced beside the sea.
Suddenly she swooped on Kelly and picked her up. Kelly shouted happily as Fran ran off with her towards the sea. I ran after them, pretending to join in the game; but it frightened me to see my child in her arms. The mood of the beach had quite changed since the sunny afternoon when I had discovered it. The stones and rocks now looked to me like part of a stark, primeval landscape. And I was possessed by the most primitive emotions — fear and anger. Anger had liberated me at last: I was ready to tell Fran to clear out. But while she still had Kelly I dared not speak, could only call out that it was time to climb the path again for our picnic.
At the suggestion of a picnic Kelly began struggling to get out of Fran's arms. Fran did not put her down, but changed course, and we all set out for the cliff top.
`I suppose you've heard the local story of the shipwreck and the child?' Fran said, as we climbed. Her question sounded rehearsed, as though this were another attempt to frighten me. I shook my head, looking uninterested. But Fran went on to tell me the tale whether I wanted to hear it or not.
It seemed that in the eighteen-forties the packet for America set out from Falmouth one October afternoon. Fog came down, she went off course, and was wrecked on the treacherous rocks near the coast — just as I had imagined. Among the people struggling in the water on that terrible night was a young woman who managed to reach the shore with her small girl in her arms. She had just managed to set the child down on a ledge of rock — 'It was in this very cove,' Fran said — when a strong wave swept her off her feet back into the sea. She was rescued and brought ashore unconscious. But no one heard the child crying in the foggy darkness, and when they searched the cove the next day there was no sign of the child. Presumably she had been swept off her ledge into the sea.
`The locals will tell you,' said Fran, 'she still searches.'
I was thankful to reach the cliff top; we were safe from the sea and rocks. But Fran still held Kelly. There was no pretence of politeness as I snatched her away, and jammed her into her push-chair. Our rivalry was out in the open. Kelly began to wail, but was soon satisfied with the return of her teddy — which I had been carrying -- and a biscuit. Fran sat down beside the push-chair. She had become very quiet, dangerously quiet it, seemed to me. She refused to share our picnic. I saw that she was looking at Kelly with an expression which is hard to describe, but which chilled me. Then she looked at me, and held my gaze for a long minute. It seemed that whatever was between us must explode.
She reached out and put her hand on Kelly's head. She spoke only two words:
`My child.'
Her child? What could she mean? Horrible possibilities crowded into my mind.
Fran got up, and without a further look at either of us, walked away towards the cliff edge. I called to her to come back and explain. She just walked on as though she hadn't heard. In a second I was on my feet, rushing after her, screaming out all my hatreds, all my jealous fears about Kelly, about Andrew, things which I had not allowed myself even to think . . . A line of bushes hid her briefly from my view, and when I reached the cliff edge the beach seemed deserted. Then I saw a figure at the water's edge. Even allowing for her knowledge of the cliff paths from a child, I couldn't imagine how she had got there in so short a time. Tears of rage and shock blurred my eyes for a moment. When I could see again, she had gone. I tried to think she must have swum out to sea or hidden behind a rock to frighten me; there must be a logical explanation.
I called her name, several times, my voice cracking with fear. There was no response.
I turned away, dazed and shaky. Then I stared, unable to believe my eyes: the teddy bear, zombie-like, was rolling towards the cliff edge. At the steepest part it fell over, and disappeared. I was horrified to see that Kelly was getting out of her push-chair. She began to run -- but not towards her teddy. She was running towards another part of the cliff edge, as though someone were calling her
I don't know how I got to her in time. When I did, I clung to her, feeling my knees must give way. After a few seconds, I felt strong enough to carry her, protesting, to the security of the push-chair. But as I tried to grasp it, I felt it being pulled away from me as though by a powerful gust of wind. I tried to hang on to it, but my hands were shaking and clammy, and it slipped from my hold. I saw it roll along the grass and follow the teddy bear over the edge. I stood watching its slow, dreadful descent as it was gathered into the shadowy dusk of the cliff. So Kelly might have fallen, had been meant to fall, I now believed.
A drowned child . . . A mother who still searches . . . Had Fran some unimaginable connection with them? For a moment longer I stood as though frozen. Then I began to run as though all the powers of darkness were behind me. Panic — held at bay till now — had me in its grip. As I went running and stumbling along the path, I hardly heard Kelly's wail about her lost teddy, or Andy's short, anxious barks as she ran beside me. I had only one goal in life: to be home. Home was safety. I hardly noticed my aching arms and back, or that my breath was coming in great, sobbing gasps. Home . . . home . . . the word seemed to beat in my head with the banging of my heart.
At last the familiar front door was in sight. I was inside, gasping painfully for breath as I leaned against the door. At last I could put Kelly down. She was safe, we were back in the world I knew. I allowed myself the luxury of nearly fainting.
Kelly's shout of delight made me open my eyes. Her push-chair, undamaged, was standing in the sitting room. She was just lifting her teddy out of it He also looked no more battered than usual. Over the fireplace Andrew's photograph, whole again, stood in its usual place.
As I was trying to take this in, I heard Andy give a low growl. My eyes were drawn to the mirror. I could swear that for a fraction of a second I saw Fran's reflection, a look of sadness in her eyes. A waif, as someone had said. Then she had gone.
Yes, Fran has gone. There is no sign of her carpet bag, her Indian ornaments. I don't believe I shall see her any more. The cottage is my own again.
Yet it is not the same, and never can be. My world of familiar things, predictable days has been shattered. Fear has moved into my home with me. Staring at my distraught face in the mirror, I wonder, did it happen? Is loneliness driving me out of my mind? How can I begin to explain it to Andrew? I have passed the evening writing this down. But now darkness is enclosing the cottage. I have put on every light, but the night is still ahead.
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