Rachel Cusk - The Country Life

‘Stel-la. Lunch.’

I opened my eyes to see a vast sandwich being projected by Martin’s arm through the sunlight towards my face. From the curious angle afforded by my horizontal position the thick lips of bread with their lolling tongue of filling looked gargantuan and rough-hewn, like great slabs of stone. My stomach clenched in resistance.

‘Wine?’

A proffered glass joined the sandwich on its airy platform. I sat up painfully and took it, placing the sandwich on the grass beside me. Despite my biliousness, my mouth sought the glass as if it contained some elemental fuel without which the normal course of things could not resume. The wine was strong and potent and prickled against my palate. I felt an immediate and comfortable sense of dissociation, as if I had removed a pinching shoe.

‘This is very civilized,’ I said, making an effort to speak above the loud but private rhythm of my physical needs.

‘This is the country life,’ said Martin. He raised his glass. ‘Ambrosia in arcadia. How are you feeling, Stel-la?’

‘All right.’

‘Tell me about last night.’

Complicitly, he shuffled closer over the grass. Out of his wheelchair Martin looked tiny and grotesque. Before I could stop myself, I had permitted a shade of disgust at the memory of him touching me to fleet across my mind.

‘What did you and Mr Trimmer talk about?’ he persisted.

‘Not much. Your family, mostly,’ I added unguardedly. ‘Everybody seems to want to talk about your family.’

‘I know.’ He seemed quite proud of the fact. ‘Just because we live in an old house they think we walk around with our heads under our arms.’

‘Not quite,’ I said, surprised by his naivety.

‘What, then?’ He leaned forward on one arm so that his shoulder joint bulged, and picked up his sandwich. ‘Cannibalistic dinner parties? Ritual torture of au pairs? I hope you’ve not been putting ideas into people’s heads, Stel-la.’

‘Of course I haven’t! Actually, it’s more to do with sex.’

‘Ha! Ha!’ barked Martin, with his mouth full. ‘That’s funny,’ he added.

‘Why?’

‘It just is. We’re a family. What do they think we do? Have sex with each other ?’

Martin could be very obtuse at times, and oscillated alarmingly between wisdom and immaturity. In this case it was fortunate that he had misunderstood me, given that I now felt myself to have been mistaken in bringing up the subject.

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘It’s just gossip.’

‘What gossip?’

‘Forget I said anything.’

‘Tell me.’

‘No!’

‘What does Trimmer know, anyway?’ said Martin presently. ‘He’s retarded. Did he try and kiss you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he?’ said Martin delightedly. ‘What was it like?’

‘Revolting.’

‘I bet!’ He puckered his lips, like a fish. ‘It must have been like kissing a piece of raw liver.’

‘Don’t be disgusting.’

‘You’re the disgusting one, kissing Mr Trimmer.’

‘I didn’t kiss him! I fought him off. I think he was angry with me.’

‘You should watch out, Stel-la. He’s a lunatic. So was his father. There’s brothers, too, mad as snakes. That whole family. Inbred. They hate each other. They’ve got loads of guns. One day someone will go over to that house and find them all laid out flat in a pool of blood in the orchard.’

‘He won’t hurt me, will he?’ I found Martin’s image sinister.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Martin. ‘He’ll kill his mother, though. He can’t get away from her. He tried to move to Buckley once, took a flat and all that.’

‘What happened?’

‘He came back after about six months. Very sheepish. I think Dora beats him.’

‘How could she? He’s enormous!’

‘Dunno. I once saw him with his shirt off. He had marks on his back.’

The blowsy meadow, and beyond it the luxurious reaches of the garden, cushioned our solitude. A breeze overhead stirred the trees and a deep rustling, almost like thunder, gathered and rolled across the meadow.

‘Do you know the person who runs the post office?’ I presently enquired.

‘What, that weirdo? Not really. I’ve seen him around. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’

I considered telling Martin about the creature’s room and the leaflets, but something stopped me. It was as if, as I summoned the words to my mouth, the images which had seconds earlier been so clear in my mind melted away. I was gripped by feelings of uncertainty; and could no longer be sure whether the leaflet, and my visit to the creature, and indeed all of the things that I had done on my own since being in the country, had been real or were the product of my invention.

‘Stel-la,’ said Martin, after a while. ‘What are you going to do about Edward?’

‘What do you mean, do?’ I said nervously. ‘There’s nothing to do.’

‘Of course there is.’ Martin leaned forward with the bottle of wine and sternly administered it. ‘You can’t just disappear. You’ll have to face him some time.’

‘I don’t see why,’ I replied. My voice had the hollow sound which signifies the proximity of some strong emotion. ‘What would be the point?’

‘You made promises, Stel-la. It’s not worthy of you.’

A feeling of panic stirred in my chest.

‘It’s shaming for him,’ persisted Martin. ‘What’s he supposed to tell people?’

‘I wrote him a letter.’

‘You disgraced him. In front of all his friends and family. He deserves some explanation.’

‘He does not!’ I said viciously. I felt suddenly as if my face were wrapped tight in Cellophane, at which I would have to tear like a maniac in order to breathe. I had had this feeling before. The memory flashed across my thoughts, too quickly to see. Other things came too, pieces of recollection which seemed familiar but didn’t belong anywhere.

‘All right,’ said Martin. ‘But I do think at least that you should do him the courtesy of telling him where you are.’

‘And I think you should mind your own business. What do you know about anything, anyway?’

The wine was making me feel loose in the head, as if stitches were coming undone. My mouth was dry. My heart thudded uncontrollably. I thought of getting up then and there and running, across the meadow and the fields beyond, until I was exhausted beyond thought and far away. I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, everything seemed so unreal to me that I began to wonder if I had even imagined the exchange I had just had with Martin.

‘I just think—’

‘Don’t you understand?’ I cried. ‘I don’t want to think about it! All I want is to be left alone! All right? I just want to be left alone. Like a pair of eyes in a jar.’

Why I made this last remark I can’t imagine, although in my overwrought state I might merely have thought that I said it.

‘You can’t live like that. Firstly, it’s cowardly.’ He enumerated using his fingers. ‘Secondly, you’ll regret it. Thirdly—’

‘How dare you lecture me?’ I was by this time quite angry. ‘What gives you the right to do it? Other people don’t judge themselves harshly — your own family least of all! Why should I?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ sniffed Martin.

‘Just because you live a life of luxury.’ I snapped, ‘you think you’re all beyond reproach. But you’ve got problems! Anyone can see that!’

‘Well, of course we do. Nobody said we didn’t.’

‘At least I’ve been honest.’ I began ripping up handfuls of grass. ‘At least I don’t sit around hating everything and pretending I don’t.’