Rachel Cusk - The Country Life

Given what I had just seen in the kitchen, I didn’t have the impression that Pamela was particularly concerned about guarding her own privacy; nor, if I were honest, that she thought my presence important enough to want to conceal things in it.

‘We didn’t agree not to discuss it,’ said Martin. ‘I just promised not to tell anyone else about it.’ His hands fiddled in his lap and he looked at them sulkily. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t trust me, Stel-la.’

‘I don’t trust you,’ I said, crossing the room and sitting down in the leather armchair. The sun from the window fell directly on it, and an ache sprung up immediately across my forehead. ‘I don’t know you well enough to trust you.’ This sounded unkind. ‘Although I’m sure I will,’ I added wearily, ‘eventually.’

I was feeling rather unwell, having had no breakfast. Pamela’s failure to offer me coffee grated on my memory.

‘You look tired,’ said Martin sweetly. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Yes,’ I automatically replied. Seconds later I remembered that a trip downstairs would necessitate a further confrontation with the love-birds. ‘No, it’s too much bother.’

‘It isn’t. I’ve got everything up here. I’ve got biscuits,’ he said, leaning forward and whispering the word seductively in my ear, ‘which might tempt you.’

I had a strong feeling that I was about to be blackmailed. Unfortunately, so importunate were my hunger and thirst that I was obliged to accept Martin’s offer.

‘OK,’ I grudgingly acceded.

‘One lump or two, Stel-la?’ said Martin, launching himself off across the room. I saw his pumping arms below his T-shirt as he passed; thin, articulated by muscle, like animals’ limbs.

‘None.’ He reached a cupboard with a slatted door, and when he opened it I saw a neat, minuscule arrangement of sink, fridge and kettle. ‘You’ve got everything!’ I exclaimed, surprised.

‘Well, I can’t go downstairs, silly Stel-la, every time I want something,’ he said, in an amplified version of his pantomime whisper. ‘Can I? I’d have no independence. Would I?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘You should think ’ — he tapped his forehead exaggeratedly — ‘about what it’s like to be me. No fun , Stel-la. No fun at all. Nothing to think ’ — again the tapping — ‘about except my little Stel-la and her secrets —’

‘Stop that instantly,’ I said, sitting up in my chair.

Martin gave a high-pitched giggle and began filling the kettle at the sink.

‘I was only joking,’ he said, in a more normal voice. ‘It’s for your own good, Stel-la. It’s bad for you to bottle everything up. You’ll get cancer.’

‘If I get cancer,’ I replied, ‘it won’t be because I have refused to sate your curiosity about my private life. In any case, that was a very tactless thing to say. How do you know my parents didn’t die of cancer?’

‘Sorry.’

‘In fact,’ I continued, rather unworthily determining to get my own back on him, ‘I was going to tell you a bit more about it. But now that you’ve said that, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Oh, Stel-la !’ Martin wheeled round in his chair, his mouth opened wide in astonishment. ‘You can’t do that!’

‘I can.’ The pregnant, silent kettle began to stir behind him. ‘You must think me very stupid if you doubt that I can beat you at your own game. And a very silly game it is too, I might say.’

Martin ducked his head and began busying himself with cups.

‘You should know by now,’ I continued, ‘that the best way to find things out is to listen. If people feel they are being tricked or interrogated, they won’t tell you anything. If you give them time and silence, they’ll come out with it eventually. Either because they’re embarrassed or because they’re offended at your lack of interest. Most people are fairly selfish. They like to talk about themselves. And the more invisible you are, the more they’ll do it.’

The click of the kettle punctuated this soliloquy. Martin said nothing more, although for a while I barely noticed this above the clatter of his preparations. When finally he had loaded everything onto a tray, however, and was bearing it back across the room in his lap, I saw from the compressed seam of his mouth and his too-nonchalant expression that he was implementing my policy in a manner which could soon become infuriating.

‘It doesn’t work if you make it that obvious,’ I remarked. He handed me a cup, and with the other proffered a plate of biscuits. I glimpsed his imploring eyes. ‘What on earth could you want to know?’ I said. ‘It can’t be that interesting.’

He nodded energetically. I took one of the biscuits. I was rather impressed by Martin’s hospitality. It was, I had to admit, more pleasant being in his room than in any other room in the house. I shifted around slightly so that I was out of the sun and raised the biscuit to my mouth. As I did so, I caught Martin’s eye. He was watching me so intently that it was impossible for me to eat it. Instead I took a sip of coffee. He tipped his head back slightly, miming my action, and swallowed air.

‘What?’ I said finally, in exasperation. He shook his head mutely. ‘I met your brother just now,’ I continued conversationally, in the hope that it would jolt him from this irritating course. ‘In the kitchen.’

‘The kitchen ?’ mouthed Martin silently, raising his eyebrows in mockery and putting a fluttering hand to his lips.

‘If you don’t desist from this unreasonable behaviour, I am going to leave you to do your homework.’

There was a long pause, during which I could not restrain myself from putting the biscuit in my mouth and chewing it as unobtrusively as I was able. Its sweetness was unimaginable, delicious.

‘What did you think of him, then?’ enquired Martin eventually. His face was sullen. ‘Did you fancy him? Everybody fancies him.’

‘He is very handsome.’

‘More handsome than Edward ?’

‘Yes.’

‘Girls are so stupid.’

‘I was merely stating a fact.’

‘Did he try and get off with you?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Of course he didn’t. Anyway,’ I added incautiously, ‘I’m not his type.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

‘Was Edward your type?’

I saw instantly Martin’s latest tactic, which was to lead me by a ladder of association to the precipice of self-revelation.

‘I suppose he must have been. I don’t know.’

‘You’re my type,’ he said then, sitting back firmly in his chair and folding his arms.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘It’s true! What’s wrong with me, anyway?’

‘You’re too young.’ I wondered what this self-deluding boldness signified. ‘And besides, I work for you. This kind of conversation is inappropriate.’

‘I think it’s romantic,’ said Martin dreamily. ‘So what was wrong with Edward? You’re very fussy, Stel-la.’

‘If I was fussy I wouldn’t have married him,’ I said smartly, before I could stop myself.

‘That’s not very nice.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. He had — he had many good qualities.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, he was clever.’ I tried to think of something else to say about him. ‘He was pleased with himself, I suppose. Yes, that probably describes him best.’

‘Were you in love with him? I can’t imagine you in love .’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I crossly replied. I was troubled by this remark, coming as it did so close to what I had often suspected was the truth. ‘Anyway, you’ve asked me that before. I don’t know what love means. If it’s just a feeling, then it can stop. I don’t see the point of trying so hard to preserve it.’