by Angela Huth
That evening, having told her of Prodge’s fears, George was keen to leave the subject of cows. Instead, he turned to horses. Had she always, he asked Lily – a question he had been meaning to put to her for a long time – been such a keen rider? Lily shrugged. None of her old exuberance had returned, but he could see she was making an effort to be warm, friendly.
‘No, not always. It’s a case of having to make myself,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to be beaten.’ She was silent for a while, summing up in what vein to tell her story, George imagined. This was a habit of hers he had grown accustomed to.
‘I had a nasty experience with a horse when I was a child,’ she said at last. ‘At home. Norfolk. I was walking along the marsh path to the staithe – hurrying along, actually, hoping to see some boy I’d met on the water the day before. I was twelve or thirteen, can’t remember which.’
She gave George a look, a half smile.
‘There were always a few horses grazing on the marsh. They didn’t take much notice of visitors, though sometimes they’d come up, want a pat, nuzzle you then turn away, bored. Anyhow, this particular day there were three of them. I saw them far ahead of me, bashing their tails against the flies. It was terribly hot, overcast. Perhaps they were irritated by so many flies.
‘They looked up at me with one accord – rather odd, that, I thought. Then they began to move towards me. I stood still for a minute, not in the slightest alarmed, but thought the best thing to do was to get off the path. Which I did. The first two horses, only yards away from me, suddenly veered back on to the marsh, bucking and squealing, which seemed to inspire the third one. That was a great black ugly animal, much larger than the others.
‘I was now completely exposed to its view, and it began to gather speed with a kind of vicious intent. It covered the ground between us very quickly – I was still rooted to the spot beside the path, not knowing what to do, but some instinct told me not to run. It was slashing its head from side to side, nostrils flared like a charging warhorse, its great long yellow teeth bared, spittle flying from its mouth. I was sure it was going to kill me – do horses ever kill people? I don’t know – but terror made me incapable of any decision. When it was about five yards from me, without thinking I should do this – I just did it – I threw myself to the ground, shut my eyes and screamed. Thank God, this seemed to work, confused the maddened horse. It swerved away from me, bucking, hooves thunderous in my ears. I could feel the air they cut whipping across my face. Then it was gone. Squealing off to its companions. It was the greatest moment of terror in my life so far.’
Lily paused again, gave a small, self-deprecatory laugh. George filled her glass with wine.
‘God knows how long I lay there shaking. Eventually I crawled on my stomach to the hedge. The horse was far away by now, grazing with the others as if nothing had happened. But I was too scared to stand up in case it turned and saw me and had another go. Silly, I know. But it had been a very … and then I began crawling to the staithe. Several hundred yards to go. I don’t remember if I caught sight of the boy. I certainly didn’t take my boat out, but ran home along the road. My father reported the vicious horse to its owner and it was taken away. Otherwise I might never have walked along that path again.’
She paused once again, shrugged.
‘So after that I decided I must make a big effort to go on liking horses, keep on riding – never a passion of mine, as with some children. But I’d always enjoyed it. I had to fight terrible nerves for a while, but I think I’m OK now. Though I still rather dread hot days, flies pestering, swishing tails …’She trailed off.
George took her hand. She didn’t, as she used to, respond by weaving her fingers through his, or kneading his knuckles with her thumb. But she didn’t withdraw it, either.
‘What a terrifying experience,’ he said at last, conscious of the feebleness of his words. ‘But Nell tells me you’re a really good rider – you’ve become much better, more confident, since you’ve been here. She mentioned you might even hunt this winter.’
This startled Lily. She looked at George with apprehensive eyes.
‘Did she say that? She’s been trying to persuade me. But I’ve never definitely agreed. I’m not sure I’m brave enough. Though I’d love to try. Perhaps. Maybe, maybe… ’
She shifted her chair so that she was close enough to George to lay her head on his shoulder.
‘Oh, George,’ she said. He could feel the brief but strong shudder that went through her. Then she sighed, and he sensed a releasing of some long-harboured wistfulness, or melancholy. Or, perhaps, some profound unhappiness that she had chosen not to share with him. He gripped her, kissed the top of her head with kisses that smudged into each other. She allowed him to do this, but did not respond in kind.
Now it was his turn to be on a path facing some unknown beast that charged towards him, he thought. Frozen by fear, like Lily long ago, he had no idea what to do.
Ten days later there was a telephone call from Nell. Please come quickly, she said. Prodge had been right. The signs he had seen in Bessie were not his imagination.
Again Prodge and George stood looking at the huge cow. They leant on the rails of a small pen where she had been put away from the rest of the herd.
‘Nothing I could be really sure about after you left,’ said Prodge. ‘Then last night she fell. I thought she’d just skidded on the muck. But no. She had quite a job to get up. Then she fell worse, legs splayed out like – well, like nothing I’ve ever seen. She managed to get up again, trembling all over, head jerking, frightened. I knew, then. Not much doubt, I thought.’
‘Christ, Prodge. You called the vet?’
‘He’s on his way’
They stood in silence contemplating Bessie. Her great head was lowered, her eyes flickered. Her left shoulder, fretted with an intricate pattern of black and white, trembled. The skin puckered like water in a pond stirred by a breeze. Then suddenly the trembling raced from shoulder to body, hide moving over ribs that had not been visible on George’s last visit. Bessie lifted one foreleg, as if intent on moving, then thought better of it. As she returned her hoof to the ground the entire leg began to shudder.
‘You know what this means?’ Prodge’s hand – great muddy fingers – half covered his mouth, making it difficult for George to hear him. ‘You know what this bloody means, George? Simon’ll call some MAFF vet. She’ll be slaughtered by this evening. They’ll cut her head off, send the brain for analysis. Look: that great fine head chopped up. Makes you sick. Then what? I’ll get something from the government one day. Oh yes: I’ll get a cheque eventually. Money in return for Bessie. Some compensation.’
George, hearing the break in his friend’s voice, did not turn to look at him, but continued to regard the frightened animal. He remembered Prodge’s excitement when, some years ago, Bessie, in her prime, had won first prize at a large agricultural show. She had produced God knows how many high-quality calves. She was Prodge’s finest milker. And now, after another half-day terrified and confused by her own juddering limbs, she was to be beheaded in order to extract the neat tunnelled ball of her brain. This would be sliced by someone in a white laboratory coat, peered at through a microscope, analysed, discussed by those who had no picture of her life on Prodge’s farm. George felt cold.
‘And after that,’ Prodge went on, ‘will come the real tumble. The reckoning. No more exporting beef calves. French won’t exactly be wanting them for their veal any longer, will they? We’ve been getting good prices, no one can say we haven’t. But now they’ll be useless, worthless. I’ve heard a farmer further west took a gun to his own bull calves. Can’t blame him. It’s curtains for a lot of us. Beginning of the end.’
Before George could gather any words of comfort they heard footsteps behind them. It was Simon, their local vet for the past decade. He wore a stiff blue overall that looked as if it had been through a rigorous laundering process. His mouth was a downward curve that almost touched his jaw. Bessie,
seeing the stranger, uneasily raised her head and gave a great bellow. Its anguish thundered through the stillness. The three men looked on, appalled, at her lashing mauve tongue, black nostrils running with slime. Then the sound was cut off as Bessie clamped shut her mouth and let her head fall again. A moment later came answering cries from her companions in a nearby field.
‘Morning, Simon.’ Prodge nodded at the vet, folded his arms. His whole face slid about as he fought for control. ‘I’ll leave it to you,’ he said. Then he walked away quickly without looking back.
George stayed at the Prodgers’ farm for several hours. He and Nell sat indoors drinking cups of tea, hardly speaking. George took it upon himself to ring the Ministry about procedures while they awaited the official vet. Prodge was out on the farm somewhere, avoiding both Bessie’s pen and the arrival of the unknown vet. Nell said it would be best to leave him. He’d work it off, somehow, she said, slashing at saplings in the north hedge, mixing feed, whatever.
When there was nothing left for him to do, George walked to his car in the yard. Nell came with him. He felt reluctant to leave her, but she said it was time she went and helped Prodge.
‘He’s not usually down for long,’ she said, ‘though this is a blow on a different scale. Much worse for him than for me, really. I mean, he’s the genius behind the cows. I’m just the labourer. He’s put his entire being into working up this herd: they’re his life. If they’re wiped out… it’s hard to imagine the consequences.’
She made a sudden, unpremeditated move towards George: put her arms round his neck, laid her head on his shoulder much as Lily had done so recently. It was the first time George had been this close to her since his marriage – their physical contact had been reduced to social kissing, their hugs of old abandoned. It felt odd. Her hair smelt of hay, animal, chicken feed, vegetables – smells he was as used to as Lily’s flower scent but certainly not unpleasant. Her arms, unlike Lily’s, were heavy. George felt awkward, embarrassed. Then quickly he chided himself for such selfish sensations. Nell needed his comfort.
George put his arms round her, increasing his clasp. For a moment he laid his head on top of hers, surprised to find her wiry-looking curls were as soft as Lily’s. In response, she clutched more tightly at his shoulders. He could feel the hard beating of her heart, and the strength of her distress.
Their union lasted only for a second or two, then Nell pulled back. She looked up at George, mouth open as if to speak – or wanting to be kissed? – he could not be certain which. But she backed away further, leant against the car.
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, crying on your shoulder. I’m all over the place.’
‘You’re not crying,’ said George. ‘You never cry’
‘True.’ Nell managed a smile. ‘But I nearly am. Goodness knows what this’ll do to Prodge.’
‘He’s strong. He’ll… Anything, anything at all I can do?’
‘Not really. Thanks for being here.’ She looked down, then up at him again. ‘Lily all right?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know’ Nell shrugged. ‘I had the impression she’s been a bit – I don’t know. Not her usual self.’
‘Has she said anything?’
Nell shook her head.
‘I must be off,’ said George, getting into the car. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow. Let me know if you need us before then.’
As he drove away he could see the figure of Nell in the driving mirror, watching him, legs planted apart, unmoving, all expression gone from her face. It was impossible to put aside the memory of the intensity of her clinging to him just now – a mixture of unhappiness and … fear, wasn’t it? George could not be sure. During his marriage to Lily she had shown nothing but friendship, kindness, to them both. She had never appeared to be jealous of his marital status. But today, with her defences down due to the tragedy of a doomed cow, he had sensed feelings of vulnerability, wordless yearning.
*
Lily’s car was not in the yard: it was the day she took three old people from the village to collect their pensions. Often she had tea with one of them on their return, and did not get home till just before supper. George hurried to the cowshed, anxious to break the news of the Prodgers’ cow to Ben.
The parlour was thick with the warm sickly smell of newly drawn milk. There were the familiar sounds: the muted clank of machinery, the music of milk pulsing from udder to tube. Ben was bent over one cow, releasing its udders from the rubber teats that had finished their job. When he stood, hands full of what looked – from a distance – like a mechanical octopus, his face brimmed with satisfaction. Day after day, George had noticed, young Ben seemed to gain pleasure from the completion of a farm job, whatever its nature.
Ben, keen to hurry on to the next cow, scarcely acknowledged his employer. George went nearer. To make himself heard he had to speak more loudly than he wanted.
‘One of Prodge’s cows,’ he said. ‘BSE. Gone down with
Ben blinked very fast. He put a hand on the backside of the cow nearest to him. A pale sheen flared through the weatherbeaten bronze of his face.
‘Shit,’ he said at last. George nodded. Ben looked up and down the parlour. ‘We’re all right here, touch wood. No signs. I check every morning and night. Sometimes I go out in the field dinner time—’
‘I know you do,’ said George. ‘Thanks.’ Then he left to walk back to the house.
Lily still had not returned. Passing through the kitchen George noticed that the table was already laid for supper, linen napkins folded on side plates, a jug of tulips – Lily’s standards never failed. He decided, unusually, to have a bath before eating – to clear himself of some of the day, renew his strength and calm before breaking the horrible news.
He spent a long time in the bath, sorting through a vision of eyes he would never forget: Bessie’s, frightened in her lowered head; Prodge’s, miserable, full of foreboding; Nell’s, impossible hope and irreparable hurt in equal measure; Ben’s, the pupils huge with shock and sympathy. How would Lily’s be? Full of tears, perhaps. Unlike Nell, she sometimes cried on behalf of others.
George stirred himself at last. He put on a clean shirt, hurried downstairs. He needed a drink. He needed to embrace his wife, watch her busying from table to stove, chopping, stirring, as she did every evening.
But the kitchen was still empty. George went to the dresser, poured himself a whisky. He was both anxious and impatient. It was unlike Lily to be so late. Where was she? Why hadn’t she rung? As he moved past the table again to the chair by the fire, he noticed a letter propped up against the roses, half hidden. George, it said, in her writing on the envelope.
George picked it up. He held it warily, as if it were poisoned, or contagious. For the second or third time that day his heart began to pound. He sat down, finished his drink in two gulps. Then he tore open the envelope and opened the wodge of pages. He began to read.
Darling George,
I’ve gone. At the time of writing this I don’t know where I’m going, but wherever it turns out to he I’ll be all right. I promise you that. So whatever else you have to deal with, because of my flight, you can at least always be sure that I’m safe, provided for. No cause whatever to worry about my well-being …
How can I ever begin to explain? I tried on so many occasions. I thought it was only fair to make some attempt to let you know what was going on. But each time I determined to take the plunge, I failed. I was convinced you wouldn’t understand, or would try to make me change my mind or wait patiently till this odd, frightening phase (if it is a phase) is over. How many times did I sit opposite you at the kitchen table, yearning to begin, to tell you … and was never able to bring myself to do it? On each occasion silence engulfed me. I couldn’t do it. I dreaded too much your reaction, your face, your hurt. But it wasn’t just that. I could never find the words. And I can’t now, really.
In brief, the happiness
just ran out. For me, that is. I’m not sure about you. I’ve observed you closely and seen that perhaps the edge has dulled a little, but you still seem to love me as always, find daily pleasure in our lives. This running out of happiness is absolutely not about anything you’ve ever done: you must believe that. I promise you it’s the truth. Were that the case – had you done something dreadful – I would have forgiven you because I love you so much, and would have gone on from there. The running out of happiness is both more frightening than that and more mysterious. Simply, it’s this: I don’t feel anything any more – about you, about us, about the farm, the animals, the garden I planted, the Prodgers, the friends I made in the village … nothing. To feel absolutely nothing, darling George, when I’ve spent my entire life feeling so much, is absolutely terrifying. I don’t know what to do.
Perhaps, I thought, it’s an illness. I dreaded the idea of consulting a doctor and nothing in the world would get me to a psychiatrist or a therapist. Perhaps it’s a sort of metaphysical melancholy that swoops upon a chosen few then, capriciously, recedes again. One just has to wait, I thought. But I’ve been waiting almost two years, and the mist hasn’t risen one jot, and I’m desperate.
It would be mean not to describe how and when, as far as I know, it happened. But before that, let me remind you of what went before. If you remember, I was the happiest creature alive. Everything contributed to keeping my irrepressible spirits high. I only had to see a bright early sky, or swallows gathering, or a bowl of peonies, or you with shaving soap silly on your cheek, and happiness tore through me. On reflection, perhaps too much, too long. Perhaps I was too high all the time – wanting others to share the high, wanting them to look, to see as I saw. (I think I must vainly have thought that seeing was my only talent. How wrong I was! I can see nothing, now.) That’s why I kept urging you, and others, to do so. I wanted you all to share in the extraordinary joy, in finding, that looking brings.
