The Country Life

Chapter Four

I will not go deeply into the state of my mind at this point, nor my feelings as I watched Pamela disappear from view and found myself alone. Indeed, it was not so very long — perhaps no more than an hour in all — since my solitude had been interrupted there at the train station, and returning to this element, made familiar to me over the past few days, I was surprised to notice that I felt more or less the same, despite the violent change in scenery, as I had in London. The brief and brilliant novelty of arriving at Franchise Farm seemed to be no more than a detour on the long, featureless road of my loneliness. Taking the first opportunity to examine myself, I had expected to discover that my metamorphosis had already taken place, or at least was exhibiting sure signs of being in progress. My disappointment when I found that nothing, as yet, had happened to me was intense; but personal change, I now know, is a long and slow process of attrition, its many meticulous blows invisible to the naked eye. My first encounter with the Maddens, though I didn’t see it at the time, was but a wave crashing against a stony flank of rock, whose wet glister dries and fades within seconds in the sun. It would take many, many repetitions for this effervescence to erode hard and stubborn stone; but it would. It had motion on its side, and the moon. There was, of course, a darker destiny written within my metaphor if one cared to look for it; for at the end of it all, these ancient tides would remain unchanged, while I would be diminished.

As it happened, I did not have much time to reflect on this or any other matter. I had closed the door and begun to wander slowly about the downstairs rooms, engaging in the subtle wrestling for dominion which more usually characterizes the first encounter between two humans, urging my surroundings to submit to familiarity and liking. I had begun, rather primitively, I am afraid, to open the kitchen cupboards and pry inside them, when a loud knock came upon the door. In so small a cottage, with the fragile barrier between inside and out which I mentioned earlier, a knock on the door can be a rather threatening thing. In a larger house, a knock or ring is a plea for entrance; in a small place such as my own, it is a demand. I hesitated. The knock came again. I realized then that I had been frightened by the unexpected noise, rather than the identity of the knocker; for who could it be but one of the Maddens, or perhaps dear old Thomas, the gardener? Hurrying now, I skipped through the sitting room and opened the door. There, indeed, stood Mr Madden, tall and rather out of place in my quaint and miniature garden. A blast of heat came in around him.

‘Settling in?’ he enquired. His face was very red, and he was wet. His shirt was sticking to his chest at the front, forming a long, damp delta between his ribs. At first I thought that he must have fallen into a body of water on his way, but soon realized that he was merely sweating profusely. ‘I’ve brought over your cases.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said. I wondered whether I should invite him in, knowing that my decision would ‘set’ all future policy for visits between the two properties. ‘It’s terribly hot, isn’t it?’

‘Going to be a heatwave,’ puffed Mr Madden, wiping his brow. ‘Good news for us, of course.’

He turned and looked at the bright, twittering garden.

‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ he said finally. He picked up the suitcases and heaved them past me just inside the front door, withdrawing immediately from the threshold. ‘You’re coming over later, are you?’

‘Pamela said to come at six.’

‘Righty-ho.’

I saw that our early intimacy was struggling to survive, and that we were now speaking through Pamela, as if on telephones linked by her exchange. Unfortunately, I could think of nothing to say which would rescue our nascent friendship. Mr Madden turned with a sort of lurch, and trod heavily off down the path, raising his hand behind him in farewell.

Not wishing to shut the door rudely on his retreating form, I strayed out into the garden after him, vaguely imagining that I could busy myself there. I walked around a little, shielding my eyes from the sun, but my botanical illiteracy — as opposed to the domestic fluency with which I was finding my way around the cottage — set me rather at odds with my surroundings. I don’t wish to give the impression that the garden displeased me in any way. It was simply that it seemed far less mine than the house, and I was very glad to recall that Mr Thomas was to take responsibility for subduing it. Still, I stood my ground for several minutes there on the grass, until something large and buzzing swam up before my eyes and collided with my forehead. I recoiled, crying out, although there was no pain. It was then, as my heart thumped with the shock, that I became aware of a menacing edge to the heat of the day, as if the sun had boiled over or burst its confines in some way. All at once I could bear it no longer, and hurried back into the cottage.

The two hours passed there quite quickly. Desperate suddenly to cool myself down, I ran a cold bath in the narrow tub, and lay in it for a while. The intimate sight of my naked body was oddly embarrassing in the foreign bathroom. It was difficult to relax while so exposed in a new place, the timbre of whose interruptions and emergencies were still unfamiliar to me. I was anxiously braced for another knock at the door, or for a face to appear at the tiny window beside me. As I rose, dripping, I realized to my dismay that I had brought no towel with me from London. I cast about, looking for something with which to dry myself, and finding nothing was forced to run, huddled and wet, up the stairs to the bedroom, leaving a dark trail behind me. There I was no luckier. I stood naked in the centre of the room, immobilized by frustration, as when one is unable to accept that a solution to a ridiculous and unforeseen problem does not lie close to hand. Eventually, ashamed and filled with self-doubt, I began to dry myself inefficiently with the papery, flowered edge of the eiderdown on the bed. As I did so, I was reminded of a time when, as a very small child, I had been caught on the lavatory with no paper, and had sat there casting about in a similar manner. Eventually, I had been driven to dab myself with a bath towel. (The very thing which now, of course, I lacked; the thought that I had had one surplus then, and had used it in such a wasteful manner, doubled my frustration.) My parents, although I could not remember how, had found out about my secret gaffe, and standing in the sloping bedroom I was beset by a painful memory of their — quite unjust, in my view — fury.

In the event, the force of the sun streaming through the bedroom window was such that I dried quickly enough. Opening my suitcases, which I had so hastily packed, I was unfortunately reminded that I had brought with me very little appropriate for the hot weather. I am often crippled by dislike of my own clothes, and am possessed by the conviction that for every situation in which I find myself, there is some perfect outfit which I do not own; an outfit, moreover, in which I would best the situation in a manner entirely out of character. Sensing that I stood on the brink of an abyss of self-consciousness — a void into which I often fall, rendering me unable, even over several hours, to dress myself — I dug deeper into the cases and was surprised to find a summer dress I did not remember packing. It seemed imperative that having made this discovery I activate it immediately and with determination, before my first, faint protests — that it was, for example, too smart; that, conversely, it was also rather crumpled — gained any ground. I looked for a mirror and found one on the inside of the wardrobe door; an old and obscure mirror, which gave back so faint a reflection of myself that it was as if the glass were reluctant to admit that I was there. Averting my eyes from the dress so as not to provoke a crisis, I combed my hair, and boldly put on some lipstick.

Finally, after this absorbing interlude, I strode through the garden in my finery, finding to my relief that the heat had levelled off into a more plangent strain of evening. I retraced the route I had taken with Pamela; a more impressive figure, I felt, than had made the outward journey. I twisted and turned along the tall hedges, the gravel sharp and pleasantly noisy beneath my feet, and came out by the big house at what seemed to be the spot at which we had left it. Standing there, I considered the propriety of my entering by the back door unaccompanied. The alternative — ringing or knocking at the front door — seemed, however, too formal. I tried, therefore, the handle of the back door but found to my surprise that it was locked. I tugged at it quite fiercely, to no avail. Now that I looked at it closely, however, the door did not in fact seem to be the same one through which Pamela and I had left the house. Looking about, I saw that there was another door a few paces further along. I hurried towards it and pulled it open, finding myself seconds later in what appeared to be a woodshed, a dark and musty enclosure which smelt of earth and sawdust. My presence in this inelegant place seemed to constitute some deliberate mockery of my attire. I retreated immediately and returned to the gravel path. Now, looking about, I could not even decipher the way around to the front of the house. The path was blocked by a hedge to my left as I faced out, and treading gingerly to my right and peering around the corner, I saw an unfamiliar flank of the building which seemed to be at the back. I stood quite still, having in effect no alternative, and just at that moment heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.

‘Coming in?’ said Mr Madden, stopping at the woodshed door several yards away from me with his hand on the handle. His face was friendly.

‘Oh yes, thank you,’ I said, hurrying towards him. ‘I got a bit lost.’

He opened the door and disappeared. Following through behind him, I saw that I was in the long, narrow corridor I had gone along with Pamela. I closed the door behind me.

‘Easy to lose yourself in a place like this if you’re not used to it,’ said Mr Madden from up ahead. ‘But you’ll soon find your way around.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I will.’

‘I think we’re in the drawing room.’

He opened a door to the left and, following him, I found myself in the great front hall. I heard voices, Pamela’s voice and another, male, voice.

‘How hysterical,’ said Pamela, a long, light peal of laughter drifting out through the open door.

Mr Madden stopped at the doorway and stood back, his hand out.

‘After you,’ he said.

I entered a very large room painted a dramatic dark red, with two huge windows draped by long, heavy curtains in a gold material looking out onto the front drive. I noticed the ceiling immediately, which was very ornate and covered in leaflike mouldings with a type of flower, a sunflower by the looks of it, at its centre. There was a vast marble fireplace with a mirror above it, and in front of that a richly coloured rug. The room seemed to contain a great deal of furniture, and I had an impression of gleaming, finely carved wood, the delicate legs of velvet sofas and side tables. There were several paintings on the walls, large and dark with carved gold frames. Pamela sat on one of the sofas near the fireplace, her legs tucked by her side, with a glass in her hand. I noticed immediately that she was wearing the same clothes as she had done earlier, a faded shirt and a pair of worn, closely fitting jeans. Opposite her sat a young boy, with shining black hair, like Mr Madden’s.

‘Here they are!’ said Pamela, turning and smiling at us from what appeared to be a great distance. ‘Come in, Stella. Goodness, you look very smart! Piers, would you get Stella a drink?’

‘What will you have?’ said Mr Madden.

‘We’re on G-and-Ts,’ said Pamela helpfully, raising her glass.

‘Or you could have wine,’ interposed Mr Madden, ‘or vodka, or sherry. What would you like?’

‘G-and-T will be fine,’ I said hurriedly.

‘Come over here,’ said Pamela, patting the sofà beside her. She laughed, the residue of the hilarity I had overheard. ‘Martin’s just been telling me such a funny story.’

I looked at Martin. He was looking at Pamela. He had a very large mouth, and a bad complexion. Curled beside him in a glossy black heap was Roy; an alliance, I felt, to be feared. I hesitated before sitting down, wondering whether Pamela would introduce us formally, and if so, whether I would be expected to get up again. I felt she had behaved slightly improperly in not introducing us, and so with the boldness which an unknown situation can sometimes grant instead of shyness, I held out my hand.

‘I’m Stella,’ I said.

He turned his face rather menacingly towards me. With a frenzied pang it occurred to me that perhaps he did not have the use of his arms. Eventually, though, after long seconds, he reached up easily and took my hand. I was surprised at finding the dry, warm vastness of his hand at the end of his thin, tentacle-like limb. Slowly, again, he turned his head away from me and resumed looking at Pamela. I felt as if I had committed a social misdemeanour, and sat down awkwardly.

‘I think you two will get along very well,’ said Pamela. ‘Perhaps some of Stella’s good manners will rub off on you, Martin.’

Everything was very quiet suddenly.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Martin finally; quite casually, I tell you, his large chin jutting out from his shrunken, compacted chest, which appeared to be directly joined to his head without any neck. I glanced down secretly and saw his legs, which hung thin and tapered like roots from the tuber of his small body. His head, and facial features, were out of proportion with the rest of him; much bigger, that is, like the great lolling wooden head of a puppet on a stick of body. His exaggerated features made his face very expressive, like that of a cartoon character. The only other part of him which seemed to have any life were his long arms.

‘How did you get on?’ said Pamela, turning away from him.

‘Oh, fine,’ I said, too loudly. I was straining to penetrate the atmosphere of tension in the room.

‘Here we are,’ said Mr Madden, striding through the door with a tray. He handed me a heavy glass, made of carved crystal. ‘Get that down you, m’girl.’

He sat down heavily on the sofa opposite ours.

‘How are you, old chap?’ he said, leaning over and ruffling Martin’s dark hair.

‘All right,’ said Martin. His voice was sullen, but his lips flapped open, showing a sudden gap. His mouth was very dark inside. He shook his head slightly after Mr Madden’s petting.

‘He was very rude to Stella,’ said Pamela.

‘Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it,’ said Mr Madden cheerfully. ‘Did you, old chap?’

‘No,’ said Martin, loudly. ‘Can we just drop it?’

‘No, we can’t just bloody drop it,’ said Pamela. Her voice bolted with anger from her throat so suddenly that it made me jump. I could feel the sofà begin to vibrate beneath us. ‘Stella’s been very kind and left everything to come all this way just for you, and you can jolly well give her a proper welcome.’

‘Brrr!’ said Mr Madden, looking at the ceiling.

Martin had put his hands on the wheels of his chair and begun to rock himself back and forth.

‘You will damn well apologize to Stella!’ said Pamela.

Martin continued to rock, his head buried in his chest and his hair flopping to and fro over his face.

‘Go on!’ said Pamela. ‘Or it’s supper on a tray in your room! I’m not having this sort of behaviour in my house. I’ve got a good mind to send you back to the centre and you can bloody well stay there overnight.’

‘It’s fine,’ I interjected; I was, as you can imagine, extremely uncomfortable.

‘No it’s not fine!’ snapped Pamela, turning her angry, wrinkled face towards me.

‘Darling,’ said Mr Madden hopefully.

‘Sorry, Stella,’ said Martin loudly. The words came from his chest, so low was his head bowed. ‘All right?’

‘Thank you,’ said Pamela.

Martin muttered something.

‘What was that?’ said Pamela.

‘Nothing,’ said Martin.

‘I heard you!’ said Pamela, her body rigid beside mine on the sofà. ‘Go on, say it out loud, you coward!’

Martin raised his head slowly and looked at her. His eyes were positively frightening.

‘Silly cow,’ he enunciated clearly.

There was a terrible moment of silence. Then, to my astonishment, Pamela burst out into loud laughter. Martin’s eyes, which had been dark and narrow, dilated with humour as he looked at her and his mouth split like a wooden mouth into a huge smile. The two of them looked at each other, laughing.

‘When’s dinner?’ said Mr Madden.

‘In a minute,’ said Pamela, still laughing. She leaned over and pulled Martin’s hair affectionately. ‘You are a bloody nuisance.’

‘Bloody bloody,’ said Martin.

I had become very nervous during this exchange, and was gripping my drink and sipping from it as if it offered some refuge from the inappropriateness of my presence at a family quarrel. It was a great relief to me when Pamela rose and summoned us all to dinner. I left my glass on a side table, as the others had done, and turned to file out after Pamela. Martin, however, unnoticed by me, had spun his wheelchair around the back of the sofa as a short cut and emerged from behind it in my path. Fearing a collision, I stopped and let him go first. He didn’t look at me, but sped off into the hall, with Roy trotting heavily behind him. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Mr Madden dutifully gathering the discarded glasses onto his tray.

‘Do you want a hand?’ I said, in an attempt to ally myself with him.

‘What?’ He looked up, surprised, as if he had thought himself alone. ‘No, no, just go ahead, I’ll be along in a minute.’

In the hall, there was no sign of Pamela and Martin, and my solitary steps were loud as I headed for a doorway at the end. Again, however, I seemed to have become lost. The door opened only on to a cupboard, filled with umbrellas and coats and the ends of hockey sticks. I returned to the hall, and as I could see no other door but that leading to the drawing room, had no choice but to await Mr Madden. After long minutes, during which I stood agonized in the hall, he appeared with the tray, and I thought I saw in his expression a slight exasperation at the sight of me.

‘Lost again,’ I said quickly, with a laugh.

‘We’ll have to draw you a map, won’t we?’ he replied, really quite cheerfully. ‘We’re eating in the kitchen tonight, I think. It’s through here.’

I concentrated closely, not wishing to be so foolish again. Mr Madden pushed with his shoulder against the wall on the right, and as he did so I saw my mistake. Part of the wall was in fact a door, panelled with dark wood like the rest of the wall and thus camouflaged from view. Also, it had no handle, being a swinging door, which was why Mr Madden had been able to open it by pressure from his shoulder. I followed him through it and it swung shut behind me. We were now in a dark antechamber. Mr Madden opened the door directly in front of him, and there we were in the bright kitchen. Pamela and Martin were at one end of it, close together as if they had been talking. They were not talking now. Pamela looked around and smiled. There was something in her smile, taking in both of us as it did, which unnerved me.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said.

We ate at the large kitchen table, myself and Mr Madden on one side, Pamela and Martin, who ate with his wheelchair drawn up to the table, on the other. The food was excellent — country food, I suppose you would call it, in that it was quite plain — and with it we drank red wine. I cannot tell you how much I drank, for Mr Madden seemed to be refilling my glass without my really taking account of it, but after a while I felt less nervous and rather remote. I wondered whether I would always eat with the Maddens, and decided straight away that I would not — my cottage had its own kitchen, after all, and I remembered something Pamela had said about coming over in the evening and watching television if I wanted to, which sounded more like the exception than the rule. It then occurred to me that the meal might be docked from my wages, and I experienced considerable anxiety attempting to estimate its value. I realized then that the Maddens hadn’t made my position quite clear to me. In my mind I recalled the advertisement anew — I could remember it word for word — and found it interesting to notice how different the few lines I had scanned so closely for clues seemed to me now that I was actually here.

WANTED: Kind, intelligent and considerate girl to help parents with their disabled son. A good companion is mainly required, but there will also be some menial duties. Aptitude for the country life an advantage. Driving licence essential. Accommodation and small salary provided, as well as one free day per week.

We had progressed to the gooseberry pie by now, and seeing the advertisement as if before my eyes I began to choke on a mouthful of it. I had, unfortunately, received a shock at the very moment when a large piece of pastry was making its way down my throat, and with the surprise it lodged there, causing me to cough loudly. There was a clatter as the assembled company laid down their spoons.

‘Goodness!’ said Pamela.

‘Hold still!’ said Mr Madden, grabbing my arm firmly.

‘Give her a good slap,’ said Pamela.

Mr Madden administered a firm pat to my back and the piece of pastry flew into my mouth. I closed my Ups tightly to prevent it from travelling out onto the table, and managed awkwardly to swallow it.

‘All right?’ said Mr Madden.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, coughing slightly. My eyes were watering. The imprint of Mr Madden’s fingers remained warm on my arm. ‘Thank you.’

As you can imagine, I was mortified by my performance, even though the Maddens had been very kind; except for Martin, whose eyes I had felt unmoved upon me as I choked. There was something malevolent in his gaze which turned even the smallest and most natural gesture into a false act. There was a flutter around the table, nevertheless, as a result of my accident, and in these distracted seconds I was able to return undetected to my contemplation of what had precipitated it. The fact was that I had no driving licence. Of course, it occurred to me that I might have misremembered the advertisement, for my ability to drive had not actually been mentioned by the Maddens in my dealings with them thus far; but in my heart, I was sure that the words I had recalled were correct. I found it hard to picture my original reading of the fatal fact; or rather, I remembered it glancingly, like something casually and unconsciously witnessed which later becomes crucial evidence. I shook and dredged my memory, wanting more from it than it seemed to contain. I had just, I supposed, trodden the requirement underfoot in my great hurry for the job; and the Maddens had, of course, assumed that I wouldn’t be applying for it at all had I not possessed the specification which was, though ‘essential’, too mundane to mention.

Horror upon horror unfolded in my thoughts as I considered the consequences, and had the Maddens not now been engaged in a lively conversation on another matter, I believe I would have confessed my deception there and then. As I have often found to be the case, however, having missed my moment I found myself less and less able as every second passed to hold on to the courage necessary to an act of assertion. This first compromise with falsehood led to others, and as one minute became ten I found my revulsion for untruth slowly settle into a sly accommodation with it. I was already thinking how I could get around the obstacle without actually declaring it, and as my mind was working in this devious manner Pamela looked at her watch.

‘Bedtime for you, young man,’ she said. She stood up and began piling plates on top of one another. Roy, perhaps with the hope of availing himself of the meal’s detritus, issued from his basket and drew sniffing to the table.

‘Why?’ wailed Martin, fondling his muzzle. ‘It’s still early!’

‘I’ll take him up,’ said Mr Madden, stretching his large frame and yawning. He got up and, pushing back his chair and walking round to the other side of the table, grasped the handles of Martin’s wheelchair. From my seat I could see them both, father and son, and although Martin appeared to submit willingly to the prospect of his removal, this sudden vision of his dependence aroused my pity. For a moment I forgot my troubles, feeling nothing but shame for my early dislike of the boy. His eyes met mine, and seeing as Pamela was distracted by the clearing of plates I risked giving him as kind a smile as I could summon. After the smile had been there for some time, I saw that he was not going to smile back. Then, to my dismay, he put out his tongue; quite slowly, and not at all secretively, as if he didn’t care who saw him do it. His tongue was long and thick, like a dog’s, and I found it difficult to dislodge the memory of it even after he had replaced it in his mouth.

‘Goodnight, darling,’ said Pamela, bending down from behind him to deposit a kiss upon his head. An unpleasant smirk appeared on Martin’s face. Mr Madden began wheeling him towards the door. ‘Say goodnight to Stella, you rascal!’ cried Pamela.

‘Goodnight, Stella!’ called Martin mockingly from the door, without turning his head.

I stood up and began clearing plates from the table. I was desperate to be away from the house and on my own; parched of my own company, I felt as if I could drink down hour after hour of solitude. To my disgust, I saw that Roy had risen on his hind legs and was licking the insides of the dishes on the sideboard.

‘Oh, you revolting creature,’ said Pamela genially, apparently with no intention of stopping him. ‘Don’t worry about Martin,’ she added, to me. I saw that she liked to think of herself as being able to read other people’s minds. ‘He’s a little monkey. He likes to give everyone a real going-over before he lets them anywhere near him. He’ll be devoted to you before long, I promise you.’

‘I liked him,’ I said, weakly.

‘That’s very sweet of you,’ said Pamela. ‘He’s a dear boy. He can be very rewarding.’ She turned around abruptly and caught me leaning against the table. ‘Poor Stella, you must be exhausted after an evening in this madhouse. Why don’t you just turn in?’

‘I ought to help,’ I said, hoping that she would refuse.

‘Don’t be silly. Piers loves fussing about down here late into the night. He contemplates the meaning of life and all that. We’ll just put everything in the sink for him.’

Almost resentfully, I resumed my clearing. Seeing my opportunity, however, I decided that this might be the time to approach Pamela about my duties.

‘What time shall I be here tomorrow?’ I said.

‘Tomorrow?’ Pamela looked surprised. ‘We aren’t expecting you tomorrow. It’s your day off on Sunday.’

‘Oh,’ I said, overwhelmed by relief.

‘Of course, you’re free to wander over. We’ll be having people for lunch, but you can come and go as you please. You’ll probably want a day to yourself just to get your bearings.’

‘All right.’

‘On Monday we’ll start properly. Martin’s usually raring to go by about eight thirty. Poor Stella!’ she said. Pamela was remarkably self-sufficient in conversation, and seemed to require few prompts from her interlocutor. ‘We haven’t really explained anything to you, have we? It’s all been such a rush, I can’t quite keep track of things.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. Hearing my own voice, I was shocked by how terribly dull I sounded. ‘It’ll all work itself out.’

‘But it won’t!’ said Pamela sharply. ‘Don’t you see that with a boy like Martin, things can’t just be left to work themselves out? It all has to be carefully planned and considered. He’s quite helpless without us, and he needs his routines, so don’t think that we can just muddle along somehow, or work it out, as you say, as we go along.’

Things had suddenly, and without my quite knowing how, taken a turn. I felt my heart begin to pound again with embarrassment and anxiety. Pamela did not appear to be entirely in control of herself.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Well,’ said Pamela, unkindly. ‘Just so long as we understand one another.’

‘If you could just tell me,’ I continued, close to tears, ‘what exactly his routines are, then I’ll find things much easier.’

This comment was clearly spoken in my own defence, making it evident to Pamela that it was through her fault, not mine, that my sense of my own duties was muddled. I had judged her to be a good-natured woman, but whether through tiredness or simply the wearing off of her initial veneer of politeness, I now saw that she had somehow become committed to a brittle and ill-tempered mood which my very presence was guaranteed to inflame. Even her figure seemed to have taken on sharp edges and angles, and as she spoke she gestured quite violently with her thin hands.

‘Stella, I really didn’t expect to have to mollycoddle you and lead you by the hand every minute of the day. We need to have someone here to help us, not double the load. If you don’t think you’re going to be up to it, and be able to take responsibility, then you’d better tell me now rather than later.’

‘Mrs Madden,’ I said. The evening had taken on a surreal character. I was unable even to gauge my own mood, and just then had no idea of what I might do. We had both, I remembered, been drinking, and I for one felt no confidence in my ability to keep my temper. ‘I think you might be getting things a bit out of proportion.’

It really seemed possible, in that moment, that I might have a fight with Pamela. The lateness of the hour, the featureless darkness outside the kitchen windows, the despoilt table and blur of food and drink; all this, as well as our unfamiliarity with each other, seemed to permit anything. She wouldn’t look at me, and was furiously busying herself at the sink. ‘I don’t see how I can take responsibility if you haven’t explained what you expect of me. Perhaps,’ I said, ‘we had better both just go to bed, and talk it all through in the morning.’

Pamela did not reply.

‘Would that be all right?’ I persisted.

‘Look,’ she barked suddenly, her back still to me. She stopped what she was doing and leaned with both her hands on the kitchen counter, her head down. Her shoulders were rigid. ‘Just be here at eight thirty on Monday. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I was both furious and upset. I could not understand how all this had taken place. ‘Goodnight.’

She said nothing, and did not turn around. I hurriedly left the kitchen, and through some stroke of instinct or good luck found myself immediately outside on the gravel path. I ran along beside the hedges in the dark, my heart jammed against my ribs, my breath heaving in my mouth, my head awash with confusion. The black mass of trees flew by me and suddenly I was at the cottage gate and then through it, and then thudding up the path to the door. I opened the door and slammed it behind me and tore up the narrow stairs, without switching on the light, to my bedroom. There, in the dark, I threw myself upon the bed and wept.