Free Last Guests of the Season by Sue Gee

me.’ Tom tried to wrench away, but he couldn’t. He stood panting, like an enraged bull, fighting back tears.
    â€˜Baby,’ said Jack.
    â€˜Okay, okay.’ Clare moved towards him, brushing past Jess. ‘Jack, will you stop teasing.’ She held out her hand. ‘Walk with me, please. Come on, we’re all getting hot and bothered, we’ll feel better as soon as we get to the river.’ She was aware of the children in the yard behind them, hanging over the gate, fascinated. She gave them a cheery wave, and took Jack firmly by the hand. ‘Let’s go.’
    â€˜Sorry about that,’ said Oliver.
    â€˜Please. It was Jack’s fault.’
    â€˜No, it wasn’t,’ said Jack.
    They went on their way, Claire and Jack in front, Robert and Jessica behind, Oliver, Frances and Tom bringing up the rear in silence, looking about them.
    The front doors of the houses on either side of the narrow street were almost all raised up above ground level, entered, like the barn, by flights of stone steps. A few of them had roof terraces, or tiny gardens; most had balconies, shaded with vines, hung with washing above pots of geraniums. From hard straight chairs in doorways hung with plastic strip curtains, women smiled down at them. They wore print overalls, and showed gaps in their teeth when they answered Robert’s greetings.
    â€˜Bom dia!’
    Men in their fifties and early sixties leaned in doorways on frames, and walked stiffly over the cobbles on sticks.
    â€˜You see,’ Robert said to Oliver, ‘the effect of a lifetime’s labour in the fields.’ He winked at Tom, trying to cheer him up, but Tom, like Frances, it seemed, had long since stopped listening, and there was no returning wink.
    â€˜Indeed,’ said Oliver. ‘Did you write about that in your project, Jessica?’
    â€˜About what?’
    â€˜All these workers old before their time.’ He nodded towards a man in a doorway, leaning on a frame as he surveyed the morning.
    Jessica shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
    â€˜I shouldn’t think she did,’ said Robert, ‘she was only eleven.’
    â€˜Dad …’ said Jessica, flushing. He patted her arm affectionately. ‘Only trying to help.’
    They were passing the last few houses in the street: ahead, walled on one side, an earthen path, soft and broad, dappled with sunlight, ran towards the fields beneath a dense canopy of vines. Heavy clusters of milky green and cloudy purple grapes hung down; the air was warm, languid, caressing and seductive; from the fields beyond came the hot buzz of cicadas. And entering this shady, tranquil haven the group relaxed, walking slowly.
    â€˜I’d forgotten,’ said Robert, stretching. ‘I really had forgotten.’
    â€˜But this is perfect,’ said Frances, smiling at him. ‘How can we thank you for inviting us to such a place?’
    â€˜Wait till you see the river,’ said Claire. She gave Jack’s hand a squeeze. ‘Be nice to Tom,’ she said under her breath.
    â€˜Okay.’ He let go of her, and went over to Tom, who had stopped and was working on the wall with a stick, digging out loose cement with slow concentration.
    â€˜There’s grasshoppers in the fields.’
    Tom looked up. ‘Where?’
    â€˜Everywhere – there’s masses. You can catch them in the fishing nets sometimes.’ He turned, and began to move off again; Tom followed. Together, with upright nets, they walked towards the fields, and Claire lifted her camera and took them: two straight backs, one slender, one sturdy, two floppy sunhats, moving out of the shade and on to the hot open path.
    â€˜Why don’t you join them?’ she said to Jess, lowering the camera again.
    Jess shook her head. ‘They’re better on their own. Anyway, I don’t want to.’
    Claire looked at her. This time last year Jess, at eleven,