The Other Occupant

by Peter Benson

  ‘Primal screaming,’ Marjorie said. They’re letting it all out so they can get back to their beginnings. It was the same with the M’Bochi. The M’Bochi had style though.’

  ‘What’s style got to do with it?’

  ‘Everything. Do it in style, I say,’ she said.

  ‘I say it’s bollocks,’ I said.

  ‘You would.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We walked as far as a pumping station where the path ran through a grove of trees and led down to the beach. Huge rocks were scattered on the beach. There were patches of fine shingle. We sat down to eat a picnic.

  ‘I used to come here when I first lived at the lodge. The best beach for miles,’ Marjorie said. ‘No one comes here.’

  ‘We’re here.’

  ‘If they do,’ she said, ignoring my remark, ‘it’s because they mean to. They’ve looked for it. Like minds,’ she mumbled, and watched a fishing boat.

  I watched her. The edge of her plaster, where it met her hand, was disintegrating and grey. She refused to take the doctor’s advice and take it easy, but had the best reason not to. She knew the boat was crabbing. The sun was high and bright, but not hot. Behind us, a pipe that ran from the pumping station was throwing fresh water on to the beach. I said, ‘You know all the best places, Marjorie.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was just saying it as a—’

  ‘Say away,’ she said. ‘Just don’t imagine you think you know what I know.’

  I looked at her. She closed her eyes. I looked at the sea. The waves reminded me of my dream, but I didn’t want to bore her. They puddled in pools beyond the shingle. A few birds were pecking around their edges; when I looked back at Marjorie, for a moment I thought she was dead, but when I looked closer I could see her breathing and a small smile crept on to her face.

  The walk back to the car became a struggle for Marjorie. By the time we reached it, it was getting dark, and she was exhausted.

  ‘What a day,’ she mumbled, as I helped her into the seat and did up her belt. 1 want to keep every day. Every minute. Now I know I’m dead…’

  ‘You’re not—’

  ‘Don’t say it! Just don’t say anything!’

  I drove home slowly and didn’t bicker. She was asleep by the time we reached the lodge. I woke her gently, and when she was ready, she climbed out of the car. She refused my arm, but didn’t mind when I offered to make her a bottle and some cocoa. She was in bed when I took them to her, and for the first time I noticed a thinning in her face and a weakness in her voice. The blister on her eye was bigger than I had seen it before. She covered it with her good hand, and sighed.

  ‘Gregory?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll go anywhere tomorrow.’ She sipped some cocoa. ‘There’re too many places I have to see anyway. I can’t see them all. You chop some wood.’

  ‘Marjorie?’

  ‘You can never chop enough wood.’

  She put the cup to her lips again, but lost her grip and spilt it down her front and over the bed. ‘Agh!’ she cried.

  I grabbed a towel from a chair and began to wipe the mess, but she grabbed it and shouted, ‘It’s all right! I can manage!’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Let me do it!’ I backed off. ‘Go on!’

  ‘I’ll fetch—’

  ‘Fetch nothing! Just get out!’

  ‘Marjorie…’

  ‘Get!’ she screamed.

  I stood outside the door and listened to her get out of bed. She went to her chest of drawers - I heard one open. I heard her curse her bad arm. Five minutes later I heard the bedsprings squeak as she got back in. I went downstairs and drank my cocoa.

  A strong wind had begun to blow through the forest. Where it met the right conditions, it threw up little whirls of pine needles and cones, and flung them into clearings. The sky was clear and the moon shone brightly, so the trees looked like bars and bars, stretching away to nothing.

  ‌12

  I was in the newsagent in Charmouth, looking for lettuce seed. They had a dozen different varieties. They called themselves a newsagent, but you could also buy cigarettes, nails, fire cheeks, binoculars, dolls, fishing tackle, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, dog collars, electric drills, alarm clocks, garden forks, maps, etc., there. I chose a packet of Cos lettuce seed and took it to the counter. As I was paying, Sadie came into the shop.

  I had never seen her in a skirt before; she was also wearing red socks. I said, ‘Hello, Sadie.’

  She smiled and said, ‘Hello. How are you?’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  She had seen me in the shop as she drove past - she didn’t want to buy anything. She said, ‘Have you been to the beach?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want to see it?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  I didn’t argue.

  It wasn’t far. We walked down a quiet road, past a school, the village hall and a playing field, to where an empty car-park was being used as a building site. An excavator was working in a field beside the river that ran into the sea, digging a trench for a new sewage pipe. We crossed a bridge over a lagoon, said, ‘Excuse me,’ to some people who were tossing bread at some ducks and walked past signs warning about pollution on the beach.

  The sea was coming in in high, steaming rollers; there was no fishing boat out today. The beach was long and wide. Sadie picked up some stones, threw them into the waves and ran back when the water rushed up to catch her feet. When I caught up with her, she took my arm and snuggled against me as we walked. It was windy.

  ‘Sorry about Nicky last week,’ she said.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘In the pub… you remember.’

  ‘That? You don’t have to apologise.’

  ‘I know. But—’

  ‘Sadie,’ I said. ‘You’re falling into his trap. You think you’re responsible for him.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘If you don’t like him, forget him. Go somewhere else. You don’t have to go to the same pub every night. You—’

  ‘I know. I—’

  ‘Sadie.’ I stopped walking and turned her to face me. She didn’t want to look at me. ‘Make your own choices,’ I said. ‘You don’t owe anybody anything.’

  She hung her head for a moment before lifting it, sweeping her hair from her face and saying, ‘I know.’

  ‘Then do it,’ I said.

  ‘But what’s it?’

  ‘Make your own mind up about that one. I can’t help you there.’ I shook my head. ‘Choose.’

  ‘Choose?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  We walked beneath tall, crumbling cliffs. Rivers of blue mud ran off the fields above us, down the cliffs, across the beach and into the sea. A few men were chipping at rocks that were lying around.

  ‘I’d choose you,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d choose you, given the choice.’

  ‘Between what?’

  ‘Any of the blokes around here.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I stopped this time. ‘Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m just tired.’

  ‘Marjorie been working you hard?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not too good. She loses patience with herself. It wouldn’t be so bad if she had two arms.’

  ‘I think it would be just as bad.’

  Clouds raced above us; in a gap between them I saw an aeroplane trail across blue sky. ‘I suppose so,’ I said.

  We came to a place where flat rocks lay on the shore, and we sat down. Sadie threaded her arms around me and kissed my cheek. I could tell she wanted more, but I didn’t feel like it. I was enjoying the sound of the waves, and the sight of the gulls tumbling through the grey sky. The scene was wild and desolate,
and from that shore you could get the feeling of power in nature. She was used to it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not myself today. Give me a day or two and I’ll…’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘…I’ll take you out. Fancy it?’

  She brightened at this. ‘Wednesday?’ she said.

  ‘OK. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘I don’t know. Surprise me.’

  As we walked back, a cold, driving drizzle blew off the sea, and though it was very fine we soon got soaked.

  I sowed the lettuce in seed trays in Marjorie’s greenhouse. It was pleasant working in there as it rained. The smells were earth, creosote and rust. I did as I was told: sift the compost, spread in clean trays, sow the seed thinly.

  The rain ran down the glass in torrents, but none leaked in. When I’d finished, I washed my hands and had a cup of tea.

  ‘You must think I’m mad,’ Marjorie said. She was drinking whisky at half past two in the afternoon. I had moved a sofa into the kitchen. She was lying on it with the cats on top of her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Planting a vegetable garden when I’m not going to live to see it grow.’

  ‘It’s me that’s doing the planting,’ I said.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  She insisted on buying decent tea. That afternoon, I was drinking a China Caravan blend. ‘I had wondered,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think you’re mad.’

  ‘It’s what you’ve got to do,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Life goes on.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  In the last months of his life, apart from developing a taste for car trips to Kent, Dad took up smoking. When she first met him, Mum had been attracted to his fresh smell and his healthy lungs. As he died, he decided to see ‘what’s in it’, and bought a packet of Woodbines. He smoked one, puked up and threw the rest away.

  ‘Odd thing to do,’ he said to me later, and Mum reminded him that she liked his fresh smell. He laughed at that, said to her, ‘I smell rotten,’ and said to me, ‘When I’m gone, make sure she gets herself a dog.’

  ‌13

  I met Sadie in a pub in Charmouth, but she didn’t want to stay there, so we drove to a wine bar in Bridport.

  She loved the car and said, ‘You’re a better driver than Nicky. He’s a show-off.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Yes.’ She leant forward and fiddled with the radio. ‘But you don’t want to hear about him, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘If it’s not you, it’s Marjorie.’

  There was a spontaneous atmosphere in the wine bar that spilled over us. Some people called The Brid Valley Formation Drinking Team were drinking pints, chasing these with shorts, and playing with ravioli. One of them sang an obscene song about a parrot while the others balanced glasses on their heads.

  After I’d drunk a few glasses of wine, eaten some lasagna, and complained about the noise, the team suggested that I sing a song.

  ‘I can’t sing,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got a voice, haven’t you?’ one slurred.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ask him if he knows any songs.’

  ‘Do you know any songs?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then sing.’

  The Formation Team were waiting. Other customers looked at me. I was sensible. I sang ‘Your Letters’, an old number none of them had heard of:

  Empty eyes, empty books,

  Empty beds, empty looks,

  Faceless photographs that I took,

  Of you standing with your empty look.

  This is all that memory can offer,

  The memory part of love gets tougher

  and rougher every day;

  I remember your letters.

  The rhyming part of our lives has gone,

  Everything we do someone else has done,

  I don’t remember you ever telling me,

  That I was your ship on a sinking sea.

  This is all that memory can offer,

  The memory part of love gets tougher

  and rougher every day;

  I remember your letters.

  I sang loudly, hit all the high notes, and phrased the verses with feeling. The applause was rapturous. The owner fetched me a bottle of wine but didn’t offer me a job. Sadie said, ‘That was great.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ and she stuck her tongue in my mouth.

  One of the Formation Team came over, spilt his beer over a friend, waited for Sadie to finish, slapped me on the back and said, ‘Nice one!’

  The slap winded me, but I managed to wheeze, ‘No problem.’

  I was sharing the wine with Sadie and the people on the next table when a couple approached. ‘Sadie? That you?’ said the woman.

  ‘Jo!’ said Sadie. ‘Reg!’

  Jo and Reg were young farmers who enjoyed a laugh. They thought I was one. In a huddle, I heard Jo say, ‘He’s nice,’ to Sadie, meaning me. Reg said something about a fertiliser spinner, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. He was a huge man, but quiet. He asked me where I came from, what I did and how long I was staying. I couldn’t answer any of these questions, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  He told me about ratios of nitrate relative to the season, and thought I was interested. He wanted me to have another drink, but I said, ‘No, thanks, I’m driving.’

  Jo heard this and said, ‘He’s a good boy,’ to Sadie. She agreed. She had another glass of wine and slipped her arm around my waist. I put one of my hands between her legs.

  I drove and Sadie directed. We left the main road outside Bridport, and drove through Symondsbury, Broadoak and up to Shave Cross. Just before Whitchurch Canonicorum, she told me to slow down and watch for a gateway. She wanted to check some sheep… ‘There!’ she said, and slapped my knee. I parked.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You can help me.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Counting!’ She laughed. ‘I was never any good at maths.’

  ‘Nor was I. I was hopeless.’

  ‘Great!’ she said. ‘We’ve got something in common.’

  ‘We’ve got lots in common,’ I said, but she was gone.

  It was dark. I followed her over the gate and across a muddy field. She had drunk too much – I was just under my limit. The moon was waning but bright. The grass was sodden. A few sheep weren’t interested in us. Sadie wasn’t interested in them. We came to a stone shed by a gate. She kicked the door open and said, ‘Hey! Look at this!’

  ‘What?’ I joined her.

  ‘Looks comfy, doesn’t it?’ she said, and pointed to some broken bales of straw that lay scattered around the floor. She took my hand and led me in.

  As soon as she’d shut the door, she threw her arms around me and kissed my neck and lips. I stroked the back of her head. A small window threw a chapter of moonlight on to the floor.

  ‘Here,’ she moaned, and stuck one of my hands up her shirt. ‘Like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. It’s great.’ I squeezed her.

  She put one of her knees between my legs and shoved against me for a moment before breaking away and saying, ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘Why?’ I whispered.

  ‘Here.’ She went to a pile of unbroken bales in the corner of the barn, and pulled out a blanket. ‘Straw gets in all the wrong places,’ she said.

  ‘I bet.’

  She laid the blanket over the straw and took her trousers off. She was naked by the time I got mine off, and waiting for me. In the moonlight I could see her hair, part of her neck, one breast, some of her stomach, one thigh, both her knees and a foot. I lay down.

  She was enthusiastic and athletic, and grunted like a pig. You never know what you’re going to find out about a woman when you get naked. When she was dressed she seemed sad and insecure. When I was dressed, she thought I was cool. When we were
naked she was wild and I was cold. I rubbed my arms and legs.

  ‘That’s my job,’ she said. ‘And you do me. Remember?’

  Some straw worked its way on to the blanket, and when she got me on my back, it irritated me. She took my squirming for lust, and pinned me down, like I was a groundsheet.

  ‘Go on, then,’ I said. ‘Ride me!’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Fool!’ I said.

  ‘That feel foolish?’ she said, and clenched me.

  ‘No…’

  ‘What about that?’

  I shook my head, but couldn’t say anything, as a gap opened in my heart.

  We ground into each other for half an hour before the climax. I had never met a naked woman like her. It was the fresh air, or dairy produce, or animals mating in the fields. She screamed, dug her finger nails into my back and bit my neck. At the time this didn’t hurt. I bruised her buttocks.

  As we were walking back to the car, I trod in some sheep shit. We resolved to meet again, but I said, ‘Let’s find somewhere comfortable next time.’

  ‘Wasn’t that?’

  ‘Yes. But…’ I fiddled with my trousers. ‘That bloody straw gets everywhere.’

  ‘I know! But you’ve just got to learn to avoid it. It’s easy when you know how.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘That and an aspirin,’ she said.

  ‘What? Have you got a headache?’

  ‘No, Greg. Not a headache.’

  ‌

  ‌‌Part Three

  ‌14

  Hardown Hill, a few miles from the old lodge, is one of the hills that dominate the landscape of West Dorset. Although it’s skirted by the A35, it’s a wild, reminding place, shaped like a blackbird’s head, or a potato.

  Marjorie remembered it as ‘Gorse, heather and broom. Windy too. Very windy.’ She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Take me there, Gregory,’ she said.

  She had been suffering pains in her gut, and headaches, but she insisted. She refused to let me help her do anything - get dressed, get down the stairs, eat breakfast…

  I was eating muesli when she came into the kitchen carrying a shotgun. ‘Gregory,’ she said. ‘If it ever gets to the point where I need help dressing, I want you to use this on me.’ She propped it against the larder door and sat down.