by Rachel Cusk
It was difficult not to have the most desolate thoughts about my predicament as I lay there. Determined as I was not to regret my decision to come to the country, the effort of will required to prevent myself plunging into an abyss of despair was considerable. So occupied had I been with damming the pressing flood of my past life that I had been unprepared for assaults up ahead; and it was tempting, oppressed as I now was on all sides, to relinquish my control of the situation entirely. There are moments at which great blocks of life seem to hang on the slenderest of threads; at which whole limbs of future and past pivot on the tiniest of fulcra. I trembled in that moment in just so exiguous a place. Like someone crouching on a lofty window ledge, I sensed that the slightest movement could undo me. I dared not even shift about on the bed, lest it provide the wing-beat of doubt required to topple me.
In the event a twinge of cramp in my empty stomach drove me to flop over onto my side; and it was then that my eyes fell on the bookshelf propped against the wall opposite. I am not a particularly keen reader, but my thirst for distraction was such that I was prepared to labour over this primitive receptacle to wring from it even a few drops. I got up and went to the bookshelf, squatting down beside it. Idly running my eyes over its offerings I saw several tides that I recognized, and some that I had already read. I dithered, pulling out first one then another from the mêlée of battered spines; and was about to make off with quite an exciting-looking detective story when a most curious thing happened.
At the far end of the shelf, tucked in amidst a crowd of rather tawdry romances, was a book that had my name on it. I blinked, thinking that I must be mistaken, and indeed lost it for a second or two; but there it was again. Stella Benson. Quivering and somewhat afraid, I drew it from the shelf. It was quite an old book, with a hard, mildew-green cover. In gold script on the front was the tide: The Runaway Bride. Transfixed, my heart pounding, I sat crouched on the floor with the book in my hands. What could it mean? Was it a joke, or magic, or something more sinister; an inexplicable collision of worlds, a piece of jetsam tossed up by a mocking wave from an inscrutable sea? Opening the cover, I looked at the flyleaf. The mystery accrued substance, became concrete. The Runaway Bride by Stella Benson.
Trembling, I began to turn its dry, yellowed pages where I sat. I must have stayed like that for some time, for when I rose, still reading, to He down on the bed, my legs ached and tingled. In the end it wasn’t about me at all, but about people far away; although it was a fine story, and quite sad. The hours passed, there in the dry, dark pit of the night. Eventually I forgot the abrasive shock of the coincidence; or at least settled into a warmer accommodation with it. My namesake had evidently been a woman of some substance, well travelled, independent, compassionate; and kind, too; for she had thought, all those years ago, to set down this interesting tale, so that I would find it in my hour of loneliness and despair and be comforted.
Chapter Eight
It was already hot when I left the cottage at twenty-five minutes past eight the next morning and set off through the garden towards the big house. Above a fading veil of dawn mist the sky gave out its challenge in uncompromising blue; and in the vanguard at the brink of the trees the sun trumpeted a rallying cry and set off on its long, brutal march to dusk. I was in poetic mood. Even the heap of vomit, last seen lying pinkly in the fading light directly by the front door of the cottage, could not derail me; for perhaps an hour earlier, while the dew still trembled on the grass and the sun dozed on, I had gone about the business of clearing away that which I had deposited on the doorstep the night before. Afterwards I conducted a burial for the bird, scooping it queasily from the carpet with a dustpan I had found in the kitchen and bearing it out to a corner of the garden, where I dug a small grave with a spoon.
I had smothered the burnt areas of my skin in lotion and put on a long-sleeved shirt and trousers to cover the worst of it; but my face still bore the strange markings of my exposures – the white strip between two broader patches of differing red, a pattern which would not look amiss on a national flag – and all over I was very sore to the touch. As for my lack of nourishment over the past twenty-four hours, I was oddly not at all hungry. I had made myself a cup of coffee before I left, and it was now sitting in my poor shrunken stomach like a balloon. In fact, I was generally aware of a certain thinness about me. I am, habitually, neither fat nor thin. This does not mean that I did not find this tautness pleasurable; nor that it did not give me a measure of confidence at the thought of meeting Pamela, who, as I think I have mentioned, was lean and febrile in form.
So, thin and particoloured, I reached the front gate; and in stopping to open it was quite overwhelmed by the delicious smell of the garden, a smell given off by the countryside, I now know, only in the early morning and evening as a kind of scented fanfare to the arrival and departure of the day. I mention this smell simply because it has occurred to me that my descriptions of rural scenery might have been found wanting. The smell was, I believe, mainly of grass; but there were also hedges nearby, and a variety of flowers which might have contributed to it.
As I approached the back door of the big house, I recalled the problems I had encountered on the last occasion I tried to use it. Having striven so hard to achieve promptitude and a neat appearance, I fervently desired not to be led astray before the day had even begun. As it happened, the door was standing wide open; an omen, I thought, of a resolution on the part of the Maddens to give a more welcoming impression to me. I entered the house and, once I had reached the end of the long, winding corridor, found myself in the dark antechamber I recalled passing through with Mr Madden. I could hear no sound at all, which surprised me; I had expected the house to be abuzz with activity. Not wishing to intrude much further without having informed someone of my presence, I called out, quite cheerfully. There was no response at all, although as my ears strained for one I heard the stentorian ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. I called out again, more loudly, and when nothing happened called out several times one after the other, the volume of each shout growing correspondingly greater. My throat was becoming sore when a door to my right flew open and a woman I did not recognize stood before me.
‘What’s all that noise?’ she said. ‘Why are you making all that noise?’
She appeared to be angry. I had not the faintest notion of who she was; she looked old enough to be Pamela’s mother, although there was no physical resemblance between them. Indeed, this harridan who had confronted me so rudely was decidedly ugly. She was very short and wide, like a barrel, with grey hair forged into a steely ridge upon the top of her head. Her face was peculiarly indented, as if she were drowning in her own fat, and only the tip of her nose and mouth were visible before she disappeared in a wave of chin. Her stance was quite aggressive, her small feet planted astride and her arms ready by her sides.
‘I wasn’t sure if there was anybody home,’ I said. ‘Mrs Madden is expecting me at half-past eight.’
‘Mrs Madden is busy upstairs,’ said the woman unpleasantly. ‘If she is expecting you, she’ll come down soon enough. It would have been better to go and wait quietly in the kitchen, rather than screaming like a banshee out here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Despite my dislike of her, I could see that she was right. ‘I couldn’t find my way to the kitchen. I didn’t want to intrude.’
‘You’ll find it through here,’ she said, turning and pushing open the door through which she had come. I followed her through. From behind she looked like a bus.
‘Oh, here we are!’ I said brightly, for we were now in the familiar kitchen. ‘Thank you very much.’
The harridan did not reply, but merely went about her buslike business, manoeuvring around the kitchen with swift, greedy movements and being careful to keep her broad, bossy back to me all the while. I lingered, wondering if she would offer me coffee or food – I had deduced, from the fact that she was cleaning the kitchen, that her position in the house was menial – but my stance soon prov
ed to be impractical. The woman turned, her lips pursed, and made her way grimly across the kitchen. I, unfortunately, had planted myself directly in her trajectory, and when she reached me she stopped and waited, without saying a word; like a bus, if I may repeat myself, fuming at a set of traffic lights. I stepped hastily aside, and she automatically continued on her way. Although she had not said a word, I felt her commanding me to sit; and I did so, on the same chair on which I had sat during dinner on my first evening at Franchise Farm.
Presendy I heard the approach of footsteps from beyond the kitchen door, and Pamela came breezing into the room.
‘Morning!’ she cried, her waving hair bouncing on top of her head and her face alight with a genial smile.
‘Morning!’ I replied.
She drew to the other woman’s side. I wondered if her cheerful greeting had been directed not at me but at my nemesis; and indeed if Pamela had noticed that I was there at all.
‘Now, Mrs Barker,’ she said. She lay her slender arm along the other woman’s broad shoulders. ‘I’ve cleared the way for you upstairs so you can just forge through.’ She gestured dramatically with her hands and then replaced her arm, as if she were resting it on the back of a sofa. ‘Martin has promised to evacuate that room of his by ten o’clock. I’ve told him that you are mounting a campaign and he’s promised to keep out of your way.’ She laughed lightly. ‘He offered to be your standard-bearer and roll about the house ahead of you. He’s a great fan of yours,’ she said confidentially.
Mrs Barker made a peculiar noise which I took to be a laugh. It was in fact more of a snuffling smirk.
‘He’s quite a character, that young man,’ she snuffled. ‘Do you want me to do the windows, Pam?’
‘Oh – let me think, do I?’ Pamela put her head to one side, apparently not affronted by Mrs Barker’s free use of a nickname. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think we can just about still see through them. We’ll tackle those another day.’
‘Right,’ said Mrs Barker. ‘I’ll get on, then.’
‘I’ll bring you your coffee in a few minutes,’ said Pamela. ‘I just need to have a word with Stella.’ I had, then, been detected. ‘Have you met Stella, Mrs Barker?’
‘I met her just now,’ said Mrs Barker. ‘Although she didn’t introduce herself. I guessed who she was, though.’
‘Jolly good,’ said Pamela.
When she had gone, Pamela turned to me and heaved a sigh, as if she were already exhausted.
‘And how are you today?’ she said. Something in her failure to pronounce my name made the enquiry seem hostile. ‘You’ve been sunbathing, I see.’
‘I fell asleep in the garden by mistake,’ I confessed. ‘I didn’t realize how hot it was.’
‘I know, wasn’t it glorious?’ said Pamela. ‘You really should have come over for that swim, you know.’
Seeing that she still bore a grudge over this matter, I felt a sense of opportunity, as if I had pinned down the source of her unfriendliness and could now tackle it.
‘I didn’t bring a swimming costume with me,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you had a pool. Otherwise, I’d have loved to have come.’
‘Why didn’t you say!’ cried Pamela. ‘Oh, silly girl! I’ve got stacks of them upstairs, I could easily have lent you one.’ It was, I saw, touch and go as to whether she would think me stupid for not confessing earlier, or would be moved to pity by the thought of my shyness. ‘And there you were roasting away all afternoon on your own and probably dying for a swim!’
I nodded.
‘Oh, poor Stella! We’re not ogres here, you know – you must just shout the minute you need anything. Look, I’ll go and root one out for you later this morning and then we can all go for a swim at lunchtime.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
I wondered if I should broach the small matter of breakfast, and then decided against it. A pause ensued. The subject of my duties, over which we had quarrelled so bitterly, was once again with us. There was, indeed, no way of my avoiding the question of what exactly I was supposed to do next; for there was no further business for me in the kitchen.
‘Now, shall we just run through today? Have you got a moment?’ said Pamela; for all the world as if I might not.
‘OK,’ I said.
She looked at me closely.
‘Are you all right?’ she said, as if concerned. I had thought that I had answered her quite cheerfully. I often have to be on my guard against morosity. ‘You do look most dreadfully burnt.’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I said, gallantly brushing the subject away with my hand. ‘It looks a lot worse than it is.’
‘Shall I make coffee while we have our briefing?’ she said, apparently having forgotten my sunburn instantly. ‘Mrs Barker will be gasping by now.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I said, getting up.
‘You’re a love,’ said Pamela. My heart swelled absurdly at the words. ‘You mustn’t be afraid of Mrs Barker. She’s a dear old thing.’
‘Has she worked here for long?’ I said, unable to concur.
‘Oh, aeons,’ said Pamela. I put on the kettle. ‘Since the Flood. She was here when I was born. She’s very precious and I’d hate to lose her.’
There was something accusatory about this comment, as if I might be liable to take Mrs Barker away and then forget where I’d put her.
‘I’m sure you would,’ I said.
‘Shall we start?’ said Pamela after a pause.
I wondered what had wrought this change in Pamela’s attitude. She was as efficient now as she had been obfuscating before; and I interpreted this, to my satisfaction, as proof that she regretted the harshness with which she had treated me during my first evening in the country.
‘Obviously your priority has got to be Martin,’ she continued, enunciating her words clearly. ‘He’s a darling, but he does get bored just sitting around the house all day, so you have to take him out or find things to do with him at home. Now, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays he goes to the centre for the afternoon. Sometimes Piers or I take him, but usually I’d expect you to do it.’
‘Where is the centre?’ I said.
‘Oh, it isn’t far – in Buckley. You’ll take him there in the car, and then one of the carers drops him back when he’s ready. They’re terribly nice there. It’s such a boon having it, and Martin loves it.’
I calculated that, it being Monday, my downfall might lie only a few short hours away.
‘Actually, on second thoughts I think I’ll probably take him down myself this afternoon. I’ve got some shopping to do,’ said Pamela.
My hands, which were bearing the brimming coffee cups to the table, trembled with relief, and some of it slopped to the floor.
‘Careful!’ said Pamela.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll mop it up.’
‘Look, do just sit down for a minute while I finish,’ said Pamela wearily. ‘We can mop it up later.’
‘OK,’ I said, keen not to aggravate her.
‘Now, there are various things Martin can do for himself, such as go to the lavatory, so you needn’t worry about that unless he asks you. You might need to be on hand if he’s in the bath and gets stuck. The other difficult thing is getting up and down the stairs. He usually just shuffles down himself, but you may need to help him up if he’s tired, and you’ll need to carry his chair. We did think,’ she continued, ‘of getting a second chair for downstairs, but they’re such beastly things to have about and they do clutter the place up. It’s quite light, in any case. Generally, he’ll tell you what he wants you to do. He’s not shy.’ She put her hands around her coffee cup and raised it to her lips. ‘The real thing in the mornings is to get behind him to do his homework. He’s a lazy bugger. Always trying to talk his way out of it.’
‘Homework?’ I said. ‘What sort of homework does he do?’
‘The same as everybody else,’ snapped Pamela, flashing her bright eyes at me. ‘He’s not retarded, Stella. He goes to school just like othe
r children. It’s very dangerous to assume things about disabled people, let me tell you.’
I could sense that we were in steep decline.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘When you said “centre” I didn’t realize you meant that it was a school.’
‘It isn’t!’ cried Pamela, banging her hand upon the table. ‘It’s you who isn’t clear, not I! The centre is a day centre for children like Martin to go to during the school holidays,’ She punctuated her words with further sharp slaps upon the table. ‘And school is school, just the same as for everybody else.’
I had not, of course, realized that it was the school holidays; nor, if I were to be honest, that Martin even went to school.
‘Right, so I’ll help him with his homework,’ I continued quickly, in an attempt to stem the tide against me.
‘He won’t need help. He just needs to be told to do it.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that. And what about when he’s at the centre? I mean, what do you expect me to do?’
‘Well!’ Pamela gave a sort of snort. ‘Obviously I can’t give you a timetable for every spare minute. Personally, I find that I barely have time to catch my breath, but if you think that you’re going to be at a loose end then I suppose you can come and find me and I’ll give you something to do,’
‘Fine,’ I said; and regretted it as soon as I heard the unfortunate way in which it had issued from my mouth. I suppose that I had been feeling quite cross at the way Pamela was speaking to me, and some of this resentment had exited inadvertently with my reply. It was impossible that Pamela should not have noticed my tone, and indeed her head shot up at the sound of it and she met me with a steely eye. In her expression, I could see dawning the memory of our exchange in this very kitchen the other night; a sight which surprised me, for I had of course imagined that she had thought a great deal about the scene and made certain resolutions concerning it. It was now apparent to me that she had not given it a moment’s consideration; until now.
