by Rachel Cusk
When we got back to the barns Beverly was cleaning out one of the empty pens with a shovel. She didn’t eat with us at the house; instead she produced a Tupperware box neatly packed with things segmented and wrapped, which she ate sitting on an overturned bucket in the yard. She kept the radio on, tuned to a station from which only the sound of human voices emanated, embedded in endless conversation. There were usually three of them talking, two men and a woman, or sometimes two women and a man, on which occasions I noticed a certain intimate aggression crept into the proceedings, so that the air was filled with the possibility that this verbal ping-pong could at any moment transform itself into something else.
‘I’ll finish that,’ I said. I held out my hand for the shovel.
Beverly was the healthiest human I had ever laid eyes on. She was twenty-five or so, and she looked as I imagined people were meant to look. Her broad, brown body was distinctly female and yet there was nothing slender or shiny about her. She was like a piece of oak. Her hair was light matt brown and curly and her eyes were bright, friendly lozenges of green. I didn’t think she was married. I imagined her associating only with a menagerie of animals, like a girl in a children’s story.
‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘You can dig a hole for that when you’re done.’
She tapped a big yellow bucket in the straw with her boot. Inside it was a dead lamb. Its eyes were closed. Its woolly muzzle was pursed. Its rigid legs were all crossed like poles.
‘What happened to him?’ said Adam.
‘I expect it was a heart defect,’ said Beverly flatly. ‘He’s one of triplets. The mother’s too ill to take them. I’m going to try fostering the others out.’
She shrugged, having delivered herself of this tale of woe. She wore men’s clothes, big canvas jeans belted at the waist, a checked shirt and an oversized padded waistcoat. I noticed the shirt was ironed. I wondered how she managed to look so neat, spending her nights in the camper van.
‘Well, it wasn’t your fault,’ said Adam. He had his back to her and hence missed the look Beverly gave him, which signified that she found his remark idiotic.
‘Round by the fence at the back is a good place,’ she said to me, tapping the bucket with her boot again.
I started shovelling dirty straw into a mud-spattered wheelbarrow. The straw gave off a deep, rancid smell and sent up yellow clouds of dust and flaky matter that slowly sank back down through the inhospitable, cold air to the concrete floor. After that I stood in the wind at the back of the barn and dug a hole for the dead lamb. The crumpled body had shrunk from its exposure to air and light. It looked embryonic, as though it were reversing out of existence. Beverly said that the lambs were usually born at night: most things were, she said, and they died at night too. I thought of the dawn we had seen hours earlier: the strenuous emergence of light, the reconfiguration, the recalculation of the sum of what there was. I upended the bucket and the body rolled out into the dirt. Closing my eyes I shovelled more dirt on top of it. Presently I went back to the barn, where Adam was filling the big trough for the ewes that were still pregnant. They barged into one another to get to the food, as broad and brainless as sofas.
‘There’s another just been born,’ called Beverly from the far corner. ‘It’s ever so sweet. I’m going to call it Muesli, because it’s all speckled. Come and have a look.’
We went to look at Muesli. It was staggering gamely around in the straw and fixed me with the accusatory eyes of the new-born. In the next pen was a ewe with a black lamb like the one I had just buried. The ewe’s shaggy coat was matted with dried mud. She was butting her head against the wooden door and making the metal bolts and hinges rattle. The lamb was angling at her underside and trying to nip her teats. Every time it got hold of her she threw herself against the door and finally rolled around the pen to shake it off. The tiny animal followed her automatically round and round, pecking her belly with its soft little muzzle. I found its persistence more disturbing even than the mother’s aggression. She bent her head and shoved it away so that it fell against the side of the pen. It levered itself up on its knees and shakily unfolded its rigid sections of leg. It darted for the mother’s belly again. The sound of her big body bruising around the pen and causing the hinges to rattle was deafening.
‘You’ve got a problem here,’ I called to Beverly.
The ewe had packed herself into a corner and was showing her hind quarters to the lamb like a closed door. Beverly didn’t come over. She barely even looked up.
‘I know,’ she said.
‘For some reason the mother doesn’t want to feed it.’
‘She’s not the mother,’ said Beverly. ‘I’m trying to get her to foster. It’s not working, though.’
‘What shall we do?’
‘Not much you can do.’
‘What about feeding it by hand?’
‘Maybe. Then you’ve got to feed them all night too. It’s a lot of work. Sometimes it’s best just to let nature take its course.’
Hamish had a story in which a child looked after an orphaned lamb. The story made it clear that compared with everything else, the nurture of small animals ought to be rudimentary.
‘I probably will, though,’ continued Beverly flatly. ‘Those black ones are sort of cute.’
I took another load in the wheelbarrow and pushed it out into the open yard. Adam was there raking the pile up against the wall in the wind. Little scratchy shreds of matter were whirled up into the air and came barrelling against our faces.
‘We drew the short straw, you know,’ he said in a low voice. ‘All this shovelling and tidying up – the nights are much better. Brendon got them, of course. Him and Beverly light all these candles and sit in the straw drinking beer.’
I was surprised.
‘I didn’t know Brendon was still here.’
‘He never left. He lives in the lodge. They’ll give you hot water at the house, you know,’ he called over to Beverly.
Beverly was sitting in the yard lighting the little gas burner she’d brought with her in her van. It made a hoarse noise of great exertion against the wind. She had a tin kettle she stood on it to make tea.
‘I’m all right here,’ Beverly called back.
‘Brendon,’ Adam continued in a discreet voice, ‘isn’t viable.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He isn’t capable of independent life. He’s never even had a job! He just sits there talking to his chickens. And for that,’ Adam concluded grimly, ‘he gets all the perks.’
I found that I felt defensive of Brendon: something in the way Adam spoke about him made me think of Hamish. I remembered the little white face of the forgotten boy I had glimpsed in the chicken house the first time I came to Egypt.
‘I remember he liked chickens.’
Adam laughed and shook his head.
‘Incredible, isn’t it? No one’s ever lifted a finger to help me and Lisa. Everything we’ve got, we’ve got for ourselves. Some people have to be carried through life,’ he added, looking at me significantly, as though to ascertain whether I was one of those people. ‘I’m going over there now, actually. I’ve got to ask him to help Vivian with the dogs. Should be entertaining – he’s got some kind of dog phobia. We’re just going down to the lodge,’ he called to Beverly.
‘See you,’ she said, lightly but with resignation. ‘Tell Brendon I’ll see him at the pub.’
I followed Adam out of the barn. He raised his arm beside me in assent but when we got out on to the track he said:
‘That’s the first I’ve heard of her seeing him at the pub.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘There’s nothing morally wrong with Brendon seeing a woman,’ admitted Adam after a while.
‘Is this where the artist used to live?’
We were going down the track towards the stone gates.
‘Which artist?’
‘The one who painted Caris.’
‘Oh, him. I don’t know
what happened to him. He sort of disappeared.’
‘I thought he was going to be the next Frank Auerbach.’
‘Well, he wasn’t.’
A single-storey grey stone building appeared on the side of the hill. A feather of wood smoke came out of the chimney, bent sideways by the wind. As we approached I saw that a big wire structure was attached to the side wall. It was like a tunnel or hangar following the line of the building. There were three large wooden hen houses inside. A number of fat, ruffled birds were pecking the ground around them.
‘You’ve been busy,’ said Adam when his brother opened the door.
A set of bamboo wind chimes hung from the lintel. They made a crazy knocking noise and writhed about in the wind. Brendon wore an expression of astonishment. He regarded us, wild-eyed, for a full ten seconds.
‘You mean the new run,’ he stated.
‘It’s pretty close to the house.’
‘Right by it,’ nodded Brendon, emphatically.
He was taller and more slender than Adam. His pale blue eyes were startled and round. His blond hair stood up in spikes. He looked like a doll that had been too energetically played with. I had last seen him as a child and I could still see that early version of him within the man he had become. It was like seeing someone imprisoned in a very small cell. On his feet he wore big lace-up boots that had been clumsily hand-painted in the colours of the rainbow.
‘This is Michael.’ Adam gestured towards me.
‘H-hi. Welcome.’
‘The birds’ll scratch a trench along the wall,’ Adam said.
Brendon stared at him.
‘Thought of that,’ he gasped, nodding. ‘I l-lined it with bricks. Want to see?’
We followed him round to the side of the house, where the wind desisted a little.
‘They love the s-s-space,’ stammered Brendon, red with pride. ‘My yields have sh-shot up.’
He was wearing a shirt which had on it a pattern of buxom, dark-haired women with garlands around their necks.
‘You should change your cartons,’ said Adam. ‘You’d get more business.’
‘I don’t think I can. I’ve got a new customer that likes them.’
Adam lifted his head suspiciously.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sh-shelby’s.’
‘You can’t supply someone like Shelby’s from here,’ said Adam. ‘There isn’t the infrastructure.’
Brendon moved his mouth, as though he were ingesting the word.
‘Come inside,’ he said finally. ‘You look a bit stressed out. Beverly says it’s pretty manic up there.’
We followed him through the door of the cottage and into a cramped sitting room. The ceiling sagged perilously in the middle. On one wall a large dark patch of rot was smeared across the plaster. A decrepit-looking sofa and a malformed armchair were the only furniture. The room smelled of damp and wood smoke. It didn’t look like a place where a person could live. I remembered what Adam had said about Brendon receiving perks, and wondered if this was meant to be one of them.
He went through a doorway into a lean-to that housed the kitchen. I watched him pick up a hot-water bottle that lay on the counter and unscrew the plug. With his back to us he emptied the contents into the kettle and switched it on.
‘We should sort this place out,’ said Adam, looking around. ‘People are getting a fortune for this kind of thing. They rent them out as holiday cottages. The Brices say theirs is booked nearly the whole year round.’
‘You can’t do that here,’ said Brendon from the kitchen.
‘Why not?’ Adam demanded.
‘You can’t. Dad w-wanted to. He got someone to come and look at it and they found, you know, asbestos. In the roof. So officially the building’s a, um, health hazard.’ Brendon appeared in the doorway. ‘It isn’t harmful so long as you don’t touch it.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Asbestos.’
The kitchen was so small that when the kettle boiled it sent a jet of steam out into the sitting room.
‘Bloody typical,’ muttered Adam. He seemed to think Brendon had put the asbestos there himself. ‘How much is that going to cost to sort out, I wonder?’
‘I d-don’t know. A lot. Dad decided it wasn’t worth it. It would have h-halved the price.’
‘What price? We’re talking about renting it out, not selling it.’
‘No.’ Brendon shook his head. ‘No, it was to s-sell.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘He wanted to sell it,’ repeated Brendon. ‘With some land. Half the l-little field down the hill and –’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Adam again.
‘The problem was,’ Brendon continued, tentatively coming further into the room like something being slowly lured out of its burrow, ‘they’d have knocked it down.’
‘Who would?’
‘The new owners. And built something else. An eyesore.’ Brendon tugged at his eye with his middle finger and disappeared into the kitchen again.
‘Brendon doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ said Adam, to me.
Brendon did not contradict this, although he was now standing right beside his brother with two cups trembling in his hands. Some of the hot, light-brown liquid spilled over the brim of one of them and pattered over the carpet.
‘It’s not as if he needs the money,’ Adam persisted. ‘He’d never let a piece of the farm go, not in a million years.’
He seemed distressed, as much by the fact that he hadn’t been told about it as by the inadmissibility of the idea itself. I felt sorry for him: this was a state into which I was frequently thrown by Rebecca.
‘I was glad,’ Brendon said. ‘I didn’t want them to knock it down. This place stands on a l-ley line, you know. It’s a s-sacred site. Bad luck to harm it. Did you know Caris is coming?’ he added.
I sat down in the armchair. It was covered with a length of cloth, like something in a morgue.
‘I had heard,’ said Adam.
‘She’ll tell you. She’s s-seen things here.’
Adam put a hand to his head, as though he were in pain.
‘What sort of things?’ I asked.
‘E-emanations. Lights. Do you know Caris?’
‘A little.’
‘She’s very porous. She’s always seeing things.’
‘Well, she hasn’t seen Isobel,’ Adam said. Isobel was the name of his baby. ‘She’s had distinct trouble seeing her. She’s never once laid eyes on her.’
Brendon stared at him with his mouth open.
‘I know she got someone to do her solar chart when she was born,’ he said reasonably. ‘She’s bringing it with her from London. It’s, ah, good news apparently.’
The windows of the little room were wet with condensation. A pall of odorous steam was suspended at its centre. There was a dirty, boiled-roots smell.
‘What’s that smell?’ I asked.
‘Hot mash,’ Brendon replied. ‘For the birds. Apparently it stops them pining for a cockerel.’
‘Who told you that?’ said Adam.
‘M-mum.’
‘I thought so. Show Michael your cartons.’
‘Oh. All right.’ Brendon hopped off the sofa and vanished into the kitchen. He returned with a carton and handed it to me. ‘Th-there you go.’
The carton was bright pink. It had a turquoise label which read ‘Funky Chickens’.
‘A friend of mine makes them for me,’ said Brendon proudly. ‘They s-stand out a mile in the shops.’
‘You should have seen dad’s face when he saw them,’ said Adam, to me. ‘He thought he’d never be able to show himself in Doniford again.’
‘He just had to get used to them,’ said Brendon. ‘He likes them now. He saw Lady Higham buying some and she said they were the l-latest thing.’
‘The latest thing,’ Adam repeated, shaking his head. He put his hands on his knees and stood up heavily. ‘The latest thing in eggs. That reconciled him
, did it?’
I stood up too. The dank steam was much thicker towards the top and centre of the room so I went and stood by the cast-iron fireplace. On the mantelpiece there was a small brass Buddha, grinning insanely. Next to it was an inlaid incense holder with a little grey worm of ash lying beside it.
‘I came to ask you a favour,’ Adam said.
Brendon looked frightened. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Vivian needs the dogs walking.’
‘All right,’ said Brendon doubtfully. ‘They don’t like me, though.’
‘She can’t see to the end of her arm. They’re spending all day shut in.’
‘I’ll t-try,’ said Brendon.
‘They’re a bit temperamental with dad away.’
Brendon looked aghast.
‘It’s all right,’ Adam said. ‘It’s only for a week.’
‘What am I supposed to do with them?’
‘Just take them to the top of the hill and back.’
‘But what if they run away?’
Adam opened the cottage door and let us out on to the windy hill. A belch of steam was let out with us and was instantly drawn upwards into the sky.
‘If they run away you’ll just have to go and find them,’ he said.
We set off back up the track towards the barns.
FOUR
Adam’s house stood in a delta of tarmac, new, black and pristine. It lay at the end of a black, pristine tarmac river that meandered grandly out of the east side of town, beyond the old grid-patterned streets of residential Doniford, which looked infirm by comparison. There, the coast road passed through a fuming, hooting, rattling cascade of metal the narrow, decorous terraces struggled to contain. Great lorries like dinosaurs manoeuvred on the small roundabouts. Dirty trucks freighted with skips and scaffolding roared past, driven by men who gazed blankly through their spattered windscreens. Beside them the pavements and brick walls of front gardens looked miniature: the gardens and the facades of the houses shook like toys as the lorries passed and the daffodils seemed to jolt from side to side in the grass. The houses looked so vulnerable next to the pounding road that it was difficult to believe in the world in which they had been constructed. Some of the terraces were only fifty or sixty years old but they seemed rooted in a past that had become meaningless. Great weights hurtled back and forth at high velocity past the little, unaccustomed rows of houses, four feet from their front gates.
