Rachel Cusk - The Country Life

During this colloquy, Martin had been slowly turning around again in his chair.

‘Who,’ he said, with a gravity which was entirely out of proportion, ‘is Edward?’

‘He’s my — he was just somebody I knew for a long time.’

I turned and looked awkwardly out of the long window. Outside the afternoon was fading, and a strange, floury light hung over the front lawn. Far in the distance a violent red stain, the aftermath of the sun, clung to the rinsing sky; and watching that remote drama I felt suddenly that it held everything from which I had run away; that although for now I was harboured safe in the private splendour of other people’s lives, the immanence of that other world, the bloody recrudescence which hung patiently at the horizon, would one day claim me again.

‘Where is he now?’ said Martin behind me. ‘Do you still see him?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where he is. Well, I do, he’s in London, but I’m not in touch with him.’

Benighted, shameful thoughts stirred like smoking craters in the darkness of the back of my mind.

‘Why not?’ said Martin, with childish naivety. ‘Did you have an argument?’

‘Not really. I just had to get away from him.’

‘Why? Was he nasty to you?’ Martin drew a record from the rack. ‘I think we’ll have this.’

‘Of course he wasn’t nasty,’ I snapped. ‘He was just — wrong for me, I suppose. I don’t know. I don’t really want to think about it, if you don’t mind.’

Just then, the room froze with the sound of the most exquisite music. It was piano music, of such lovely pathos that I experienced it almost as a physical pain. I had been expecting Martin to put on some teenage cacophany; and being taken by surprise, I found myself close to tears again, as I had been in the kitchen, with a kind of alloyed joy.

‘What is it?’ I said.

‘Do you like it? It’s the best piece of music ever written. Why don’t you sit down, Stel-la? You’re making me nervous standing there.’

I sat down in the leather armchair and closed my eyes. I felt very weary suddenly; not physically tired exactly, but shut down as if by some internal device, like an overheated machine. The music was the perfect balm for this condition and I drank it in, wondering why I had spent my life disdaining this free and accessible pleasure when all along it could have been mine.

‘Tell me more about yourself, Stel-la,’ said Martin. His voice was closer now, and although I had my eyes closed I guessed that he was nearby.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What makes you tick.’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue, high-low, high-low, like a clock.

‘If I knew that,’ I said sleepily, ‘I wouldn’t be here.’

I felt straight away that this last comment had been inappropriate, straying as it did beyond the boundaries of my role at Franchise Farm. I opened my eyes and sat up. Martin was sitting directly in front of me, so close in fact that I could feel his breath on my neck.

‘How old are you?’ he said.

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘You’re too old for me,’ he sighed. ‘I’m only seventeen.’

‘You’ll get over it,’ I said lightly, although I was surprised by what he had said, and curiously, both repelled and flattered at the same time. I was surprised, too, by his age, having thought him at least two years younger.

‘Did Edward love you?’ he enquired, emphasizing the word ‘Edward’; for all the world as if his own feelings were now established in the public domain.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Did you love him?’

‘Not really.’ It was hard to get the treachery out of my mouth, like expectorating a large and jagged chunk of metal. ‘No.’

‘Hmm.’ He put his hands on the wheels of his chair and began to rock back and forth. There was something slightly lewd in the movement, given our proximity. Seeming to realize this, he stopped. ‘How long were you — you know.’

‘A long time. Eight years.’

He whistled admiringly.

‘Did he ask you to marry him?’

There was a long pause.

‘Yes.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said yes.’

Martin opened his eyes wide. His jaw was ajar, like a door.

‘Are you married, Stel-la?’ he said. His voice was confidential. His lips twitched, half gleeful and half dismayed.

‘Yes.’

Martin gave a tentative little giggle. As if some small bird were nesting undetected in an internal crevice, I heard an answering trill rise up from my throat. In all the course of my brief but tumultuous acquaintance with the fact of my marriage, among the countless shades of feeling, the range of shame and guilt and regret — and even, once or twice, exultation — with which I had cosseted, fed and bludgeoned it, the spectrum of lights in which I had considered it, of backgrounds against which I had viewed it; in this noisy, crowded jamboree of emotions, it had never even once occurred to me to laugh about it. But that was precisely what Martin and I did now; and the more we tried to stop, the harder we laughed. Our chests heaved, our mouths opened wider to let the torrent out. Occasionally one or other of us would hold out a hand or try to say something; but then a new ascent of mirth unfolded above us, and we would be paralysed by an inarticulate glee which seemed to encompass not merely my revelation, but everything once thought unbearable. With every volley I felt another tract of anguish relieved, and yet sensed that there were reams of it still to come. I knew my laughter, curiously, to be a form of expiation, although I could not comprehend why this might be, or how levity could begin to atone for what I had done.

‘Oh dear,’ I said finally, wiping my eyes.

‘You are funny,’ said Martin, sounding rather like his mother. The phrase set off a tremor of retrospective uncertainty in me, suggesting as it did that I had been the object rather than the author of our laughter. ‘Imagine not telling us that!’

‘You won’t tell anybody, will you?’ I said. The plea sounded ineffectual. ‘I would prefer it,’ I rephrased, ‘if you kept this strictly between the two of us.’

‘OK,’ said Martin lightly; too lightly, although I felt it would make things worse to press him further for an assurance. ‘Although I don’t see what’s so bad about it.’

‘Just promise me,’ I said. I was beginning to regret my honesty; indeed, with every passing minute my revelation seemed more foolhardy.

‘I promise,’ said Martin.

The record had finished and was spinning silently on the turntable. Martin lingered, as if hoping that I would volunteer more information. When I didn’t, he wheeled around and propelled himself to the other side of the room. I wiped my eyes again and sniffed surreptitiously.

‘Ahhhh!’ he groaned suddenly, bringing himself up short. ‘I completely forgot.’

‘What?’ I said, rather irritable now.

‘The dogfucker,’ he said, his head tilted back so that he was looking at the ceiling. ‘He’s supposed to be coming tonight.’

‘The who?’

‘Toby. The dogfucker. My brother,’

‘What a dreadful word!’ I exclaimed. ‘You can’t call him that!’

‘What do you know?’ said Martin, leaning forward and taking the record off the turntable. ‘It suits him, anyway. And he deserves it.’

‘Why?’

Martin turned around in his chair with exaggerated portentousness, the record held aloft.

‘Why do you think?’ he said, grinning horribly.

‘I can’t imagine,’ I retorted primly.

‘Oh, come on, Stel-la,’ he leered. ‘Don’t be such a goody-goody.’

‘I’m being nothing of the sort. I just don’t believe you. It’s not possible.’

‘Tell that to Roy!’