Rachel Cusk - The Country Life

‘He hasn’t really killed anybody, has he?’ said I, alarmed.

The creature snapped its head round to look at me, aggrieved. The cliff of its forehead creased into fleshy ridges and its lower lip protruded, like that of a child about to cry. I wondered then if Mr Madden really had, incredible as it seemed, murdered some close relative or associate of the creature; or at least was suspected of having done so.

‘Of course,’ nodded the creature, as if to itself. ‘You’re new around here. You wouldn’t have heard, would you?’

‘No,’ said I. ‘But even so, I find it frankly unbelievable that Mr Madden could have hurt anybody.’

The creature looked away sharply, as if in pain.

‘Tell that to Geoff!’

‘Who is Geoff?’ I ventured.

‘Was. Was.’ It looked down at its slippers and raised a weary hand to the great pale flank of its forehead. It heaved a sigh. ‘Geoff,’ it said, ‘Geoff was my friend. My best friend. And now he’s gone.’

‘What — what happened to him?’

‘Gone!’ The creature buried its mouth in its palm. Its shoulders heaved up and down. ‘Three years ago this bank holiday Monday! And not a day goes by that I don’t think about him!’

‘What do you mean, gone?’ I cried urgently.

‘Dead,’ said the creature, matter of factly. ‘Murdered.’

This seemed too fantastical to be true.

‘Are you sure? Mightn’t he just have gone off somewhere without telling you?’

‘Ahhh!’ The creature let out a long breath and rubbed its eyes with its hands. ‘Buried him myself on the Monday night. Just out there in the yard.’ It jerked a thumb over its shoulder. ‘Shot clean through the head, he was. At least he didn’t feel any pain. I found him up on the top field. He loved it up there, used to go chasing rabbits. He could have lain there for days. But I knew something was wrong. When he didn’t come back I went out looking for him. Carried him in my arms all the way back to the village. Everyone came out and stood at their doors. You never heard it so quiet.’ It swiped a tear or two from its eyes. ‘I’ll never find another dog like him. Wouldn’t want to. He was only a mongrel, you know. But I loved him.’

‘How do you know that it was Mr Madden?’ I sombrely enquired. ‘It could have been someone else. It could have been a mistake.’

‘It was no mistake!’ said the creature fiercely. ‘Trimmer had warned me about Geoff before. Was dying to take a pot-shot at him, he said as much.’

‘Who is Trimmer?’

‘You not met him yet?’ The creature looked at me quizzically. ‘No, I suppose you haven’t. You’ve only been up at Franchise since Saturday. Trimmer’s the manager. It’s him puts those down.’ It nodded towards the nooses. ‘Fast as I take them away, he replaces them.’

‘Well, it was probably Mr Trimmer who killed your dog!’ I cried, frustrated at the creature’s stupidity.

‘Maybe,’ admitted the creature stubbornly. It folded its arms and looked at me. ‘But it’s the institution that should take the blame. You ought to be going, dear. The cripple will be back from Buckley any minute.’

I looked at my watch and saw to my horror that it was a quarter to six.

‘Before you go,’ said the creature, turning and waddling off, ‘I’ll give you something to put on that skin of yours. You’ve had too much sun. You should be more careful. It ages you something terrible.’

‘But I’ve got to go!’ I wailed, as it opened a cupboard camouflaged by a crust of leaflets on the far wall. ‘I’ll get into trouble!’

‘Won’t take a minute.’ The creature took a jar from the top shelf and came back towards me, unscrewing the lid. ‘Hold still a jiffy and shut your eyes.’

I closed my eyes and seconds later felt the most astonishing caress upon my cheeks, as if the coolest silk were being gently drawn across the skin. I immediately forgot about the necessity for hurrying back to the farm, and indeed about everything that I had seen and heard during the past hour, longing only for the sensation to continue. It descended to my neck and then beneath the collar of my shirt, and then out again and up my sleeves, up my arms and down again right to my fingertips.

‘That’s better,’ I heard the creature say. ‘You can open your eyes now.’

I opened them, feeling as if I had been asleep.

‘Thank you,’ I said, miraculously cooled. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

‘Off you go, then.’ The creature jerked its thumb again. ‘I’d keep quiet about our little meeting if I was you. I’ll be seeing you again, I’m sure. You’ll excuse me if I don’t show you out.’

I turned and opened the door. As I did so a newspaper clipping pinned beside the frame caught my eye. It bore a grainy picture of Pamela. She was smiling and I could just make out a disembodied arm curled about her shoulders. Lovers ’ tiff behind farm attack, say police , read the headline.

‘What’s your name?’ I cried, turning back.

The creature was screwing the lid back on to the jar. It looked up, surprised amidst the mayhem of paper, and gave me its terrible grin.

‘You can call me Al,’ it said.

I ran down the dark corridor without looking back, and, crossing the deserted shop floor, stumbled blinking into the glare of the High Street with the bell shrilling in my ears.

I came up the back passage as quietly as I could — having remembered to remove my tar-stained shoes at the door, my movements were virtually silent — hoping to be able to replace myself in the kitchen, where I had last been sighted by Pamela, unseen. Having no idea of how the Maddens would regard my tardiness — it was by now almost half-past six — my nerves responded to the most exaggerated scenarios imagination could devise. The sound of voices coming from the kitchen froze me outside the door with dread for some time, although eventually I realized that this was merely making my predicament worse.

I opened the door on an idyllic scene; one which filled me with pleasure but also, unexpectedly, with the bitterness of envy and regret. Pamela and Piers were standing side by side beside the ‘Aga’, their bodies not actually touching but proximate in a way which suggested comfort and fondness. Both were looking with palpable affection at Martin, whose chair was positioned directly in front of them, and who was relating to them some incident which was making them laugh, his hand placed on the glossy head of Roy who sat contentedly beside him. In glimpsing this scene of familial love I also, inevitably, disturbed it. Pamela and Piers looked up in unison at the sound of the door opening, and whatever narrative Martin was embarked on was lost for ever as he twisted round in his chair and gave me his strange, flapping smile.

‘Here’s Stella!’ Pamela cried, as if overjoyed.

‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ I said, filled suddenly with the sorrowful desire to be excluded. ‘You all looked so lovely over there,’ I continued, unable to stop myself. ‘You looked like a proper family.’

‘Goodness!’ said Pamela. ‘That is a compliment!’

‘Where have you been, Stel-la?’ interjected Martin plaintively. ‘I’ve missed you.’

At this I was driven almost to weep, especially given the reasons for my absence, which now I profoundly regretted. Had my skin not still been luxuriating in whatever cream it was that the creature had applied to it, I would have been tempted to believe that the whole interlude at the post office had been a hallucination.

‘You look so well!’ exclaimed Pamela, continuing in the friendly vein which seemed to have been established. ‘Doesn’t she, Piers?’