She fell onto the bed. Fumbling for the covers, she managed to pull them around her. For a long time she lay there staring at the ceiling. The rich food was heavy in her stomach. Her heart ached and a lamb chop pained her colon. She thought of many things. She said out loud, ‘I am grateful after all. I am grateful to all of them.’ It was silent all around the cottage, and the room was steeped in it. Outside darkness stretched beyond. That made her start and shiver in the bed. Struggling against it all, these tidal waves of silence, she thought,
Go back to London
Find a place to stay, explain to Andreas
Phone Liam and ask about the furniture.
Get a job.
Sit down with Jess and apologise for everything
Go to the bank and talk to Sharkbreath.
Hoover the living room
Read the comedies of Shakespeare, the works of Proust, the plays of Racine and Corneille and The Man Without Qualities.
Read The Golden Bough, The Nag-Hammadi Gospels, The Upanishads, The Koran, The Bible, The Tao, the complete works of E. A. Wallis Budge
Read Plato, Aristotle, Confucius, Bacon, Locke, Rousseau, Wollstonecraft, Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and the rest
Understand the stranger verse of Blake.
Read The Vedas.
Write to Whitchurch and explain.
Phone Braze and beg her.
Stop writing these lists that waste your time
And she thought TEMP.
*
Grandfather Tom was dead tonight, untroubled by a sense of failure or banished hope. He had been dead for nearly thirty years. And then she wondered what grandfather Tom had to do with it, and why she was clutching at the covers, terrified. Go to the bank and negotiate an extension on your overdraft, and ask them if you can extend the limit on your credit card. Hoover the living room. Re-develop the carapace. Calm your nerves. Read Marcus Aurelius. Accept the necessary limits of human life. Immortality quite impossible. Eternal life implausible. Wash your clothes. Call Andreas and explain. Develop an awareness of the finer points of pragmatism. Determine whether you will sink or aim to float. Stop bothering people. Find a place to stay. Get a job. Stop writing these lists. Go your own way. It’s hard enough to go your own way without trying to second-guess the others. Read The Republic to the end – no dropping out. Gather names. Forget the longings of the self. Things are considerable but not insurmountable. It’s impossible that you would ever know how the universe was made. So stop worrying. Read Finnegans Wake. You’ve tried it before but this time you might enjoy it. Revere great art. Find a place to stay. Get a job. Sit down with Jess and apologise for everything. Redevelop the carapace. Calm your nerves. Read Marcus Aurelius. Accept the necessary limits of human life. Immortality quite impossible. Eternal life implausible. Call Andreas and explain. Develop an awareness of the finer points of pragmatism. Determine whether you will sink or aim to float. Stop bothering people. Find a place to stay. Get a job. Stop writing these lists. Don’t wait to become perfect. Just do it now. Go your own way. It’s hard enough to go your own way without trying to second-guess the others. Read The Republic to the end – no dropping out. Gather names. Forget the longings of the self. Things are considerable but not insurmountable. Read Finnegans Wake. Revere great art. Honour your father. Plunge into the void, dispense with the world. Accept the thunderbolt. Avoid the bell. OR should you ring the bell? Drop the jewel and pick up the lotus. FIND THE TEMP. Then she thought her grandfather Tom was sitting next to her, quite calmly and quietly, holding her hand. She shook off the thought, but she couldn’t open her eyes. She pulled the covers around her and tried to sleep. But she imagined him again, kindly, tall with his bent nose, explaining to her that she hadn’t behaved well, as he had done when she was a small girl. He wasn’t angry – she had never seen him angry – but he was disappointed. She thought he was there, emanating waves of kindly reproach. Your mother is very tired, and so we’ve left her to sleep. Mummy gets tired sometimes, when she’s had too much of her lovely daughter. That was how he spoke to her when she was a child. So darling, you just be nice to your mummy, won’t you? She’s a lovely girl, quite my favourite in the world, after you of course. And you must understand, Rosa, you haven’t time for this sort of thing. Life is sweeping you onwards. There’s hardly time to look around. You must get on with it. And she imagined – imagined, she knew, because she had her eyes shut tightly, and there was no way she was opening them, though she felt a cold wind around her, like a force gusting from the grave, but she clamped her eyelids down and huddled beneath the covers – her grandmothers behind him, and grandfather Don, and she saw them in the garden of a small suburban house, the kind of place they had worked a lifetime to buy, saying Come on, Rosa, look at you – you! In a room, drunk and out of control! She was hearing them as a discordant chorus, and she kept her hands down by her waist, she curled into the covers and hid herself, afraid that she would feel something, a real hand coming towards her, a real voice sounding through the silence of the room. She imagined him again, this kindly old man, her mother’s father, Please, Rosa, understand this, a jovial, talented man, a loyal friend, a good sportsman, who worked so hard to bring up the daughter who had died so suddenly, her death predestined or merely meaningless, she would never know, never never never and then she sat up in bed and with her eyes shut, still clamped tightly shut because she was a coward and drunk and still more cowardly in her drunkenness or intoxicated with fear, she thought TEMP must mean CONTEMPTIBLE and that means you and now she was shouting, ‘HELP! HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP!’ She grabbed at the covers and tore them off her. She tumbled out of the bed and found she was bent double on the floor, shaking in the cold air, crying loudly. For a while she was quite beside herself; she couldn’t think at all. She was drooling and rubbing spittle across her face, trying to push back her hair, which was falling into her mouth. She said HELP HELP! again, down below the iron bed and she put her head down so sharply on her knees she bit her tongue. She came round, slowly, and realised that there was a danger Judy might come in and find her. Still, they frightened her, the cold white sheets and the stone room. And she was kneeling on the floor, speaking quickly, saying, ‘Mother, I understand, I am failing to enjoy the experience of being here. After all the trouble you went to, the years you passed in my birth and nurture. I am sorry for having deviated from the path. You spent decades trying to make me happy. And now! And NOW!’
‘And now!’ she cried, and stood up suddenly. ‘It has gone too far!’ She had let things slide. And now Rosa said, ‘It has gone too far!’ again. There was a thick feeling in her head, as if she couldn’t think fast enough. Agitation, rich in her veins. Her body was busy breaking down proteins, filling her cells with oxygen, her heart was busy pumping blood round her body. ‘To what end?’ she cried. ‘Why?’ She pushed the lamp off the table, grabbed Judy’s collection of classics and hurled them on the floor, stamped and shouted and it was only when she hurt her foot that she came to her senses. Then she sat down and looked at the mess she had made.
Hiccoughing loudly, and aware that she was far from heroic, she turned on all the lights. With the lights on she felt less afraid. She lay down on the bed, dragged the covers around her. Then drunkenness overtook her, and she fell into a snorting dreamless sleep.
*
She woke before dawn, coughing. Her head ached and she thought she would be sick. For a while she lay with her face above the floorboards, unable to move, hanging there like a warning to others. She had certainly lost her poise. She was blushing as she fished for her watch and reeled it in. Dragging herself up, she lay on her back. Once she had her watch in her hand, she saw it was 6 a.m. She tumbled out of the duvet and, finding she was still in her clothes, was glad she had saved a little time. At the window she stared into the darkness. When she pushed up the sash the stillness soothed her. She could hear the vibrant songs of birds in the hedgerows, the wind tousling the leaves. The sound of the ghyll, sweet and
clear. When her nausea had passed, she packed up the few objects she had used. The goggles and walking boots hadn’t quite been necessary, but she had at least been prepared. She tidied the bed. She folded the sheet carefully over the duvet, as if that would save her. She drank the water down. The fresh flowers in the vase made her want to crawl to Judy and Will and beg their forgiveness. But going quietly seemed the only thing to do. Anyway, she couldn’t face the tight politeness of the closing scene, the benign protestations. They would drive her to the station and she would talk hopelessly on the platform, promising to write, then she would spend the journey rephrasing everything, muttering into her scarf, disturbing her neighbours. She saw the sky was growing lighter. Soon dawn would break. So she picked up the books and stacked them on the shelf. She tidied up the lamp. Then she crept out of the room, dragging her bag, trying not to scuff the walls. She moved slowly along the corridor. A creak in the timbers made her heart flutter, but after a few seconds with her face pressed against the wall, no one came.
She still had time and now she drew herself through the house and moved softly down the stairs. She arrived in the living room, sweating with the strain of moving so quietly. Her bag was heavy and hastily packed. Bits of it bulged as she walked. She left the presents she had forgotten to give them the previous evening, the chocolates, books and bath salts tied up with string. She stacked them in a pile on the living room table. She thought she should leave a note. So she stood there with her pen above the paper, thinking what to write. Dear Judy and Will, Thanks so much for your unstinting, humbling hospitality. I’ve had a lovely time. The sort of evening I haven’t had in ages. You have shamed me with your generosity. You are wonderful parents, and I admire you. You use your time so well. Your children are beautiful. Your idyll, this community you have created, makes me feel ashamed and as if I have been wasting my time. All is Vapour. Thanks so much again, Rosa. She stopped. She took the piece of paper and folded it into her pocket. Then she wrote: Dear Will and Judy. Thanks so much. I remembered in the middle of the night – oh horror! HORROR! I promised – ages ago – to meet someone today. I’m so sorry to have left without seeing you. These presents are no return for your great kindness. It made a huge difference, to see you here, so happy and tranquil. I’ll remember it with great fondness. I’m sorry about the small scene – I was merely drunk, nothing more – and wish you so much luck with the next baby. You have a wonderful set-up here. Fucking vapour. Thanks so much again. Love, Rosa.
So she tore that up. Dear Judy and Will, Thanks so much. I remembered in the night – I have a meeting in London. I’m so sorry to leave without seeing you – I didn’t want to wake you. The presents are small return for your kindness and warmth. Good luck with the new arrival. Thanks so much again. Love, Rosa.
And now she thought she heard a sound, so, abandoning the note on top of the presents, she turned. She was still for a moment, trying to listen. Furtive in the fresh dawn, she tiptoed past the table. Passing through the kitchen she felt sick again. She twisted herself out of the door, trying to keep everything as quiet as she could. Now the sky was grey. There was mist on the hills; white trails were falling across the trees. Her feet crunched on frost. A layer of ice had formed on the mud. She walked quickly down the drive, through the mist. At the road she stood and looked back at the farm. A light was on upstairs. Any minute now, she thought, a search party might issue from the solid walls – Will with a torch, flashing a light towards her. She stumbled and started to run. She wasn’t sure where she was running, but as she went, fumbling with her bag, she saw the sky growing paler. The stars were receding into the clear dawn. Ahead she could see the misty valley, mist-draped fells, the ghyll tumbling down the rocks. She could hear the river and the sound of it made her run faster. She heard a door slam behind her, and thought it must be Will. Trembling with shame, imagining him finding her there with her bag scuffed with mud, she thought she had to hide. Like a fugitive, she dived off the road and ran down the bank of the river. Her heart was beating unsteadily and the nausea had returned. She dropped her bag into long wet grass and soaked her feet. Now she thought she heard soft enquiring footsteps on the gravel, but she couldn’t raise her head to look. Shivering, she huddled by the river, wondering who it was.
As she waited by the river, she found she was questioning the Romantic assumption that nature was reviving to the soul. It was possible for a particularly dark and miserable soul to resist even the consolations of a perfect view. She thought of Wordsworth walking the fells. He had gone up – was it Helvellyn? – on his seventieth birthday, limber and bold-hearted. That was a fine man! Hwaer cwom Wordsworth, she thought. Whither Wordsworth. She snorted quietly and held her head. It felt swollen. Swollen with booze, she thought, her capillaries quite flooded with the stuff. The light seeped across the sky. Later, she dragged herself along the bank and threw up. That felt cathartic, so she walked upstream and washed her face. She stood and gripped her bag. Looking at the slender shapes of the winter trees, Rosa understood perfectly well that the scenery was ancient and she was very small. She was adequate to the task of perceiving the beauty around her, the lovely contours of the hills, the cold glinting waters. She saw no one when she raised her head above the bank, so she started to walk slowly. She found the road, no longer mist-clad, and followed it down the valley. She kept low on the ground, hoping they couldn’t see her, and when she lost sight of the farmhouse she began to breathe more easily. Through the gaps in the trees Rosa saw the sky, and then the sky looked like a lake, with the shapes of the hills spread around its shores. Then it started raining, and she turned sharply down the hill towards Broughton, passing a few houses with their curtains drawn. The rain slapped her face, and she held up her hands as she ran; through sheets of rain she could see the valley, grey and wind-blown. She stumbled slightly and brushed against the damp hedges, feeling the branches on her face. She watched the trees moving in the wind. The rain cooled her head, and made her feel better. The sheep were standing on the hills, sheltering under trees. Their funny faces turned towards her. In front of an audience of sheep she went over a cattle grid and slipped on the metal.
Then she felt a low boom of thunder across the valley, she could feel the vibrations under her feet and deep in her stomach. The sky flared, and thunder rolled around the valley, drawing echoes from the rocks. The rain was falling in thick white lines, more like flowing milk than water. She heard a gate slamming in the wind, and the thunder and the rain. The valley was drenched by the downpour, and now she could smell the bracken. Brackish, she thought, and she noticed the interwoven smells of grass and trees and the taste of dampness in the air. Another flash of lightning, followed by a round ricochet of thunder, and the trees shuddered under the wind and the fresh force of the rain. Now the rain sounded like a river in full flood. Above she saw a chastened sky, and the deep green colours of the leaves, the stained trunks of the trees.
Drenched and weighted down by her clothes, Rosa ran. She was revived by the forces around her, the wind blasting against her, volleys of thunder resounding deep within her. The sky flashed again. She saw a line of oaks bowing and shaking their leaves. Rain hissed at her feet, falling as steam. She darted around a puddle, brushed a wet hedge, lifted her bag higher on her back, heard the all-shaking thunder burst around the valley again, felt the rage of the wind and said, ‘Crack Nature’s moulds!’ Dense shards of rain. White steam and a cold sky. She moved through mud and newly created streams of water. She skidded at a corner and fell against a trunk to steady herself. Ingrateful man, she thought. Everything was monochrome, the trees and low houses dark against the blank sky. She turned onto a road where the cars lashed her with water.
Another throb of thunder, and the rain slapped her face and arms. When a woman in a car wound down her window and shouted out, ‘Do you need a lift?’ she tried to speak and found her lips were rigid with cold.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to say, shaking her head. She stepped aside as the woman drove off. The
thunder was rich and raw; she was a sounding block, nothing more than another surface for the thunder to echo from. She saw the dusty sides of the rocks, doused to blackness by torrents of water, and she saw a flock of birds hanging in the air, sweeping a course across the furrowed mass of clouds. Then she felt a sense of great joy, of something glorious and ancient beneath everything. She was beginning to say, ‘But this is the sublime’, and then she said, ‘You have to be quite determined, not to become ridiculous.’ She shook her head and walked on.
She arrived in the village of Broughton as the clocks chimed 10 a.m.. She had lost a lot of time, hiding by the river and walking in the rain. She hadn’t noticed how far the morning had advanced. Now the rain was easing off. Her clothes were wet; her bag was heavy on her back. The local baker was just opening her shop, and Rosa briefly explained her predicament – terrible mess – she had come to borrow a friend’s house, forgot to bring the key, no one had it, would have to go back home to get it, have invited friends for the weekend, can’t break in, tragic start to a holiday. Never mind, she said, stoical in response to polite sympathy. Yes, it was a bit of a fuss but it would be fine in the end. The baker – a woman called Sue with perfect teeth and a thick Lancashire accent – called a taxi. Rosa waited in the shop, sipping coffee. She found herself writing in her notebook, though the pages were greasy with rainwater.
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