by Rachel Cusk
‘I was beginning to wonder where you two had got to!’ said Pamela, when we presented ourselves, wan and subdued, in the kitchen. ‘I suddenly realized after you’d gone, Stella, that Piers forgot to insure you to drive the car. And then when you didn’t come back I got dreadfully worried that something had happened to you.’
‘Oh!’ I put my hand over my mouth, as something was peeled up off the trampled floor of my memory. ‘I meant to ring you and say that I was staying at the centre for the afternoon! I completely forgot.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Pamela genially. ‘I phoned and they told me you were there. It was fine. No, we’re the batty ones, forgetting that insurance. Thank God you didn’t have a crash.’
With Pamela being so kind, I was tempted to fall upon her with a weeping confession; but her mention of the insurance had set my mind once more to cunning. I wondered if she and Piers could be encouraged to keep forgetting it, only to be reminded too late each time Martin required ferrying to Buckley.
‘So what did you make of it down there?’ she enquired, putting on the kettle. ‘Was Mrs Miller at the helm?’
‘Mrs Miller?’
‘Karen. Red hair. Rather tarty, in a hippyish way.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ With a rush of shame I remembered the afternoon’s speculations concerning Karen Miller. ‘I didn’t realize she was married.’
‘Oh, goodness yes. Her husband’s a local cheese. Councillor. Frightful bore called Roger. She’s pretty frightful too, actually. Martin’s got some noise he makes for her.’ Martin, his face bright with approval, made a series of loud, lowing noises. Pamela laughed. ‘That’s it. I suppose we’re being horribly unkind. She means well. And she really does such good work.’
The centre, I could see, was the object of one of Pamela’s unshakeable loyalties. It required little more for me to keep my opinions of the place to myself.
‘I’ll tell you something about her, though,’ said Pamela, then, drawing to the table with the empty teapot held distractedly in her hands. ‘Martin, you’re not listening, are you?’
‘No,’ said Martin.
‘Apparently,’ said Pamela in a confidential tone, ‘she and Roger are involved in some extraordinary club in Buckley. You’d never think it to look at them in a million years, but somebody told me it’s true.’
‘What sort of club?’
‘Oh, you know, the ones where a group of friends get together once a week and swap.’
‘Swap what?’
‘Wives’ whispered Pamela. ‘It’s got a funny name.’
‘Swinging,’ said Martin.
‘That’s right. Swinging. What they do is all get together at one of their houses, and the men put their car keys down on the table and the women pick them up. And off they go.’
‘Where to?’
‘What? Oh, they don’t go anywhere in the car!’ Pamela gave a peal of laughter. ‘They go to one of the bedrooms and have it off.’
It could just have been the albeit minor car element, but I found the notion of what Pamela had described absolutely nauseating.
‘That’s disgusting,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Pamela delightedly. ‘Some horrible little semi in Buckley just shaking. Apparently it’s frightfully common.’
It took me some time to realize that she meant widespread rather than vulgar.
‘In a way, you can see why they do it, though,’ continued Pamela. ‘In many ways it’s safer than having affairs. Everybody’s equal and it’s all out in the open. As long as there wasn’t somebody you dreaded getting. I suppose they couldn’t be that fussy. Or perhaps they learn to recognize the car keys. They all have to agree to keep frightfully mum about it, though.’
‘In case the police find out?’
‘It’s not against the law, darling,’ said Pamela, giving me a look of amazement. ‘No, it’s just so that they don’t get jealous. The men start having punch-ups, apparently. It all sounds absolutely exhausting to me.’
I remembered then what Karen Miller had said about Pamela having ‘had her fair share’. A whole new dimension, a subterranean realm of operations of which I had been unaware, was revealing itself to me.
‘Where are the others?’ said Martin.
‘Over at the field. They’ll be back before long and then we’ll have supper. Do you two want to go and amuse yourselves until then?’
‘I won’t be staying to supper,’ I falteringly interjected.
‘Why ever not?’ said Pamela.
‘I’m – busy.’
Martin made several kissing noises. Pamela looked at me slightly oddly. Suddenly a smile dawned across her face.
‘Oh, it’s your date!’ she said. ‘How wonderful. Although I shouldn’t go on an empty stomach if I were you. Jack will have had his tea on the dot of half-past six. He won’t be wining and dining you. In fact, you’ll probably be lucky if you get a packet of beer nuts out of him. He’s notoriously tight.’
At Pamela’s words something started to plague me. I reached for it, trying to remember what it was, but it hovered tantalizingly just beyond my compass.
‘Well, I’d better go,’ I said.
‘Good luck!’ cried Pamela.
‘See you,’ mumbled Martin, an injured expression on his face; for all the world as if my assignation were a betrayal of him, rather than the reverse.
Back at the cottage I entrenched myself in the bedroom, sensing that a long and bitter sartorial struggle lay ahead. Ploughing through my suitcases, I realized that most of my clothes were dirty, although I had barely worn them. The extreme heat had rendered my things limp and odiferous, mostly after only a single outing. I wondered how I was expected to do my washing, and whether Pamela would bring the subject up or wait until I was driven by desperation to do so myself. I was keen to give a more decorous impression to Mr Trimmer, after the shameful episode of the cut-off trousers; not because I cared particularly what he thought of me, but because I wanted firmly to retrieve any undesirable notions they might have introduced into his head. In the event, I had no choice in the matter: my smart dress was the only thing clean enough to withstand public scrutiny, although as I put it on I felt that it gave unwanted and wholly inaccurate prominence to an entirely different range of motives; namely that in it I gave the impression of having made an effort. I was bewildered, after I had done up the buttons, by the fact that the material hung about me in great folds. Finding no other explanation, I realized that I appeared to have shrunk quite drastically. That this should have happened in the few days since I had last worn the dress, without cause and without my really noticing, was profoundly disturbing. It was as if I were disappearing; or rather, as if the space I was entitled to occupy were being gradually withdrawn. The change made me nervous, as if without weight I might be overlooked or swept away.
At ten minutes to eight I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path and I hurried downstairs, eschewing lipstick in the hope of offsetting the excessive glamour of my attire. A thunderous knock shook the cottage door, and I opened it to find Mr Trimmer standing legs astride and arms held rigidly by his sides in the falling dusk. I was surprised to see that despite the warmth of the evening he was wearing a sweater. It was blue with a red stripe around the V of its neck; the sort of thing that might be worn as a school uniform.
‘Good evening,’ I said stiffly.
‘Land Rover’s over in the drive,’ he replied. He seemed embarrassed. ‘We’ll have to walk there first.’
He turned abruptly and set off. I followed, my chest hollow with dread and disappointment. The evening, I felt sure, was going to be far worse than I had anticipated. From behind, Mr Trimmer had an unusual appearance. His hips were low-slung and his backside so broad that his legs splayed slightly beneath it. He waddled as he walked, like an overfed bird. I ran to catch up with him, so that I would not be left to the contemplation of this view; but the path was narrow, and it was impossible to walk beside him without drawing too close. I fell behind ag
ain. He trod heavily and silently ahead of me, as if I were a prisoner being led to a cell. The noise of our footsteps and the tall, oppressive hedges on either side put me in a strange trance. For a moment I forgot entirely where I was, and what phase of my life I was occupying. Presently we emerged on the front drive and I saw a battered pale-green Land Rover parked beside the Maddens’ car. Silently, Mr Trimmer opened the door and got in. As I progressed around the front of the vehicle to the other side, I saw him through the window sitting and staring straight ahead. As soon as I had passed him, he started the engine.
‘We’re off!’ I said with false cheer, once I had climbed up to my seat. The inside of the Land Rover smelt of straw and animals. On the floor at my feet was a single, mud-encrusted shoe. Mr Trimmer did not reply to my observation. He seemed to be having some trouble getting the vehicle into gear. The controls were very widely spaced, and as he stamped on the pedals with his outstretched feet and thrashed the far-flung gearstick, his strange body stiffened on a diagonal plane above his seat.
‘Come on, you cow!’ he broadly exclaimed, his face grim with exertion.
With a great grinding sound, we shot forwards and began clattering at high speed down the drive. Jostling up and down on my seat, I surreptitiously groped for the seat belt but couldn’t find one.
‘You won’t find it,’ bellowed Mr Timmer over the noise of the engine. ‘Long gone.’
I worried that he might have interpreted my action as a criticism of his driving, but couldn’t think of anything to say which might erase this impression. Lost for words on one count, I then found myself locked into a larger silence. Search as I might, I could find no subject on which even a brief conversation might be built. We reached the bottom of the drive and turned left along the road to Hilltop. Mr Trimmer began to drive at an alarming speed. The engine’s roar rose to a scream and the Land Rover rocked this way and that. The darkening road rushed up at us and I gripped the dashboard in front of me and closed my eyes, my heart pounding. For longer than seemed possible, we raced along the knife-blade of certain death; until finally the shriek of the engine descended one key and then another, and I dared to open my eyes. We had arrived, I saw, at Hilltop; and after hurtling some way along the High Street, Mr Trimmer gave a brutal wrench of the wheel and brought us up short, almost flinging me from my seat, in front of the pub. My immediate reaction to this entirely unnecessary display of bravado was intense anger. So forceful and righteous was my fury, and so overwhelming the dislike for Mr Trimmer it caused to surge up in my mouth, that I felt I would be justified in turning around there and then and marching back to Franchise; a course which had the added advantage of sparing me the gruelling evening to come. It is far easier, however, to entertain these thoughts than to act on them; and seconds later I found myself following him, brimming with the consciousness of how unbearable my situation was, towards the pub.
The chairs and tables outside were all crowded, but I hoped that we would still be able to find a space among them; not because I wanted particularly to enjoy the warm evening, but because the thought of being enclosed with Mr Trimmer threatened to turn my agony to torment. Trailing after him, I was buffeted by strong waves of feeling, from which my relative happiness with the Maddens so far had protected me: homesickness, longing for Edward, self-pity, all the predators of the heart which even a momentary weakening of the spirits can unleash. So miserable, in fact, did I begin to feel that I became careless of my own behaviour. Mr Trimmer’s boorishness had given me the impression that he was insensible. As I stood beside him at the bar, I made no effort to disguise my unhappiness, and even attempted, by means of sullen looks and meaningful sighs, to communicate it to him. By doing so, I knew, I was presenting a challenge to his imperviousness; a sort of childish game which, in my state of self-absorption, I had elected to play with myself. I did not, in any case, expect him to respond to my taunts; I imagined, in this infantile mood, that he would not even notice them. He stood at the bar, looking straight ahead, while the chatter of the pub grew louder and louder around us.
‘Do you want to go home?’ he said suddenly, to my horror. His face was expressionless in profile, and his tone of voice suggested that I might want to go home because I had left something there, or was expected back.
‘Of course not!’ I exclaimed; although, still in a malevolent humour, I could not prevent my protest from sounding slightly insincere.
‘You were doing that,’ he observed flatly, in response to what I had no idea. He put out his arm in a clutching motion.
I realized that he was referring to my behaviour in the Land Rover.
‘I’m a nervous passenger,’ I said.
‘Do you want something?’
He gave no indication as to what this something might be. Eventually, I realized that he was asking me whether I wanted a drink; and at that moment I remembered the forgetful itch I had experienced in Pamela’s kitchen. I had no money; and had been trying, I now knew, to remind myself to ask her for some. I wondered what I should do. Were I to permit Mr Trimmer to buy me a drink, he would surely expect one in return during the course of the evening. Meanwhile, my failure to respond to his offer had caused him to turn and look enquiringly at me. His face really was quite extraordinary. It looked as if a door had been repeatedly slammed on it. Not wishing to offend him further, I decided on a plan.
‘I’ll get them,’ I said, gushingly.
His head gave a perky twitch.
‘Very kind,’ he said, nodding.
With the exaggerated gestures of a pantomime artist, I began clutching at my hip, as if feeling for a handbag. Not finding one, I looked this way and that, my face displaying carefully calibrated degrees of surprise, disbelief, and then outright panic.
‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘I’ve forgotten my handbag!’
It was not the cleverest of ploys, and I am not the best of actresses. Mr Trimmer did not respond enthusiastically to the news. In fact, he looked as if he wished that I had taken him up on his offer of a drive home. At first I feared that he didn’t believe me; but then I remembered what Pamela had said about him being ‘tight’.
‘They’re on me, then,’ he said.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I added, although it would probably have been sensible to have said nothing more. ‘I can’t think what came over me. It’s not like me at all to be so disorganized.’ Mr Trimmer regarded me dumbly. ‘Oh,’ I said, as I realized that he was waiting for me to tell him what I wanted. ‘I’ll have a G-and – a gin and tonic, please.’
Mr Trimmer bought a half-pint of beer for himself, and carried it, without consultation, to a small table at the back of the pub. We sat in silence, our drinks untouched between us. The pub itself was very pleasant, although slightly gloomy for a summer evening. With its low ceiling and phalanx of black beams, it was like sitting in the ribcage of some vast animal. Fruit machines pulsed steadily in the shadows.
‘Have you been abroad?’ said Mr Trimmer presently. He picked up his glass and sipped from it.
‘Yes,’ I said, unsure whether a fuller confession, listing locations and frequency, was required.
‘So you speak Spanish, then.’
‘No, I don’t, I’m afraid.’ I said, bemused. Taking my cue from Mr Trimmer, I picked up my own glass. ‘Have you ever been abroad?’
‘No,’ he said, nodding. ‘My friend has. He speaks Spanish.’
‘Oh.’
‘Would you agree,’ he enlarged, after a lengthy pause, ‘that tourists have a … detrimental effect on the local … communities?’
‘It depends,’ I said.
‘So you don’t agree.’
‘It depends on the extent of the tourism, and the type of tourist who goes to a place,’ I said. Even as the words were coming from my mouth I had a sense of their futility. I felt as if I were chewing dry bread.
‘My friend thinks it does. He says all the locals want to do is get their hands on your money.’
‘Because they have so little in
comparison?’ I hazarded.
‘That’s right!’ Mr Trimmer seemed genuinely pleased by my reply. I had evidently confirmed his friend’s opinion, elevating it to the status of a theory.
‘But tourism itself can bring money,’ I added cautiously. ‘So it’s not entirely a bad thing.’
Mr Trimmer’s enthusiasm was abruptly snuffed out. His eyebrows drew together, creasing his forehead; an alarming expression, as if someone were pressing hard on either side of his face. I noticed that, while I had drunk half my glass, he had barely skimmed his.
‘How long have you worked for the Maddens?’ I said, feeling that a change of subject was required.
‘Five years, about,’ muttered Mr Trimmer. His expression had modulated to one of resistance, like a child at whose lips a medicine spoon is probing.
‘And do you like it there?’
He did not reply at all to this. I glanced at my watch, and saw to my dismay that barely half an hour had passed.
‘Madden,’ he said suddenly. ‘Mad-den. Mad ’un. Get it?’
‘Oh yes!’ I trilled.
‘Are you mad?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Women say they are. Axe you?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Another long pause. ‘Her, his missus, she’s a bad one.’
