The Country Life

Chapter Eight

It was already hot when I left the cottage at twenty-five minutes past eight the next morning and set off through the garden towards the big house. Above a fading veil of dawn mist the sky gave out its challenge in uncompromising blue; and in the vanguard at the brink of the trees the sun trumpeted a rallying cry and set off on its long, brutal march to dusk. I was in poetic mood. Even the heap of vomit, last seen lying pinkly in the fading light directly by the front door of the cottage, could not derail me; for perhaps an hour earlier, while the dew still trembled on the grass and the sun dozed on, I had gone about the business of clearing away that which I had deposited on the doorstep the night before. Afterwards I conducted a burial for the bird, scooping it queasily from the carpet with a dustpan I had found in the kitchen and bearing it out to a corner of the garden, where I dug a small grave with a spoon.

I had smothered the burnt areas of my skin in lotion and put on a long-sleeved shirt and trousers to cover the worst of it; but my face still bore the strange markings of my exposures — the white strip between two broader patches of differing red, a pattern which would not look amiss on a national flag — and all over I was very sore to the touch. As for my lack of nourishment over the past twenty-four hours, I was oddly not at all hungry. I had made myself a cup of coffee before I left, and it was now sitting in my poor shrunken stomach like a balloon. In fact, I was generally aware of a certain thinness about me. I am, habitually, neither fat nor thin. This does not mean that I did not find this tautness pleasurable; nor that it did not give me a measure of confidence at the thought of meeting Pamela, who, as I think I have mentioned, was lean and febrile in form.

So, thin and particoloured, I reached the front gate; and in stopping to open it was quite overwhelmed by the delicious smell of the garden, a smell given off by the countryside, I now know, only in the early morning and evening as a kind of scented fanfare to the arrival and departure of the day. I mention this smell simply because it has occurred to me that my descriptions of rural scenery might have been found wanting. The smell was, I believe, mainly of grass; but there were also hedges nearby, and a variety of flowers which might have contributed to it.

As I approached the back door of the big house, I recalled the problems I had encountered on the last occasion I tried to use it. Having striven so hard to achieve promptitude and a neat appearance, I fervently desired not to be led astray before the day had even begun. As it happened, the door was standing wide open; an omen, I thought, of a resolution on the part of the Maddens to give a more welcoming impression to me. I entered the house and, once I had reached the end of the long, winding corridor, found myself in the dark antechamber I recalled passing through with Mr Madden. I could hear no sound at all, which surprised me; I had expected the house to be abuzz with activity. Not wishing to intrude much further without having informed someone of my presence, I called out, quite cheerfully. There was no response at all, although as my ears strained for one I heard the stentorian ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. I called out again, more loudly, and when nothing happened called out several times one after the other, the volume of each shout growing correspondingly greater. My throat was becoming sore when a door to my right flew open and a woman I did not recognize stood before me.

‘What’s all that noise?’ she said. ‘Why are you making all that noise?’

She appeared to be angry. I had not the faintest notion of who she was; she looked old enough to be Pamela’s mother, although there was no physical resemblance between them. Indeed, this harridan who had confronted me so rudely was decidedly ugly. She was very short and wide, like a barrel, with grey hair forged into a steely ridge upon the top of her head. Her face was peculiarly indented, as if she were drowning in her own fat, and only the tip of her nose and mouth were visible before she disappeared in a wave of chin. Her stance was quite aggressive, her small feet planted astride and her arms ready by her sides.

‘I wasn’t sure if there was anybody home,’ I said. ‘Mrs Madden is expecting me at half-past eight.’

‘Mrs Madden is busy upstairs,’ said the woman unpleasantly. ‘If she is expecting you, she’ll come down soon enough. It would have been better to go and wait quietly in the kitchen, rather than screaming like a banshee out here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Despite my dislike of her, I could see that she was right. ‘I couldn’t find my way to the kitchen. I didn’t want to intrude.’

‘You’ll find it through here,’ she said, turning and pushing open the door through which she had come. I followed her through. From behind she looked like a bus.

‘Oh, here we are!’ I said brightly, for we were now in the familiar kitchen. ‘Thank you very much.’

The harridan did not reply, but merely went about her buslike business, manoeuvring around the kitchen with swift, greedy movements and being careful to keep her broad, bossy back to me all the while. I lingered, wondering if she would offer me coffee or food — I had deduced, from the fact that she was cleaning the kitchen, that her position in the house was menial — but my stance soon proved to be impractical. The woman turned, her lips pursed, and made her way grimly across the kitchen. I, unfortunately, had planted myself directly in her trajectory, and when she reached me she stopped and waited, without saying a word; like a bus, if I may repeat myself, fuming at a set of traffic lights. I stepped hastily aside, and she automatically continued on her way. Although she had not said a word, I felt her commanding me to sit; and I did so, on the same chair on which I had sat during dinner on my first evening at Franchise Farm.

Presendy I heard the approach of footsteps from beyond the kitchen door, and Pamela came breezing into the room.

‘Morning!’ she cried, her waving hair bouncing on top of her head and her face alight with a genial smile.

‘Morning!’ I replied.

She drew to the other woman’s side. I wondered if her cheerful greeting had been directed not at me but at my nemesis; and indeed if Pamela had noticed that I was there at all.

‘Now, Mrs Barker,’ she said. She lay her slender arm along the other woman’s broad shoulders. ‘I’ve cleared the way for you upstairs so you can just forge through.’ She gestured dramatically with her hands and then replaced her arm, as if she were resting it on the back of a sofa. ‘Martin has promised to evacuate that room of his by ten o’clock. I’ve told him that you are mounting a campaign and he’s promised to keep out of your way.’ She laughed lightly. ‘He offered to be your standard-bearer and roll about the house ahead of you. He’s a great fan of yours,’ she said confidentially.

Mrs Barker made a peculiar noise which I took to be a laugh. It was in fact more of a snuffling smirk.

‘He’s quite a character, that young man,’ she snuffled. ‘Do you want me to do the windows, Pam?’

‘Oh — let me think, do I?’ Pamela put her head to one side, apparently not affronted by Mrs Barker’s free use of a nickname. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think we can just about still see through them. We’ll tackle those another day.’

‘Right,’ said Mrs Barker. ‘I’ll get on, then.’

‘I’ll bring you your coffee in a few minutes,’ said Pamela. ‘I just need to have a word with Stella.’ I had, then, been detected. ‘Have you met Stella, Mrs Barker?’

‘I met her just now,’ said Mrs Barker. ‘Although she didn’t introduce herself. I guessed who she was, though.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Pamela.

When she had gone, Pamela turned to me and heaved a sigh, as if she were already exhausted.

‘And how are you today?’ she said. Something in her failure to pronounce my name made the enquiry seem hostile. ‘You’ve been sunbathing, I see.’

‘I fell asleep in the garden by mistake,’ I confessed. ‘I didn’t realize how hot it was.’

‘I know, wasn’t it glorious?’ said Pamela. ‘You really should have come over for that swim, you know.’

Seeing that she still bore a grudge over this matter, I felt a sense of opportunity, as if I had pinned down the source of her unfriendliness and could now tackle it.

‘I didn’t bring a swimming costume with me,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you had a pool. Otherwise, I’d have loved to have come.’

‘Why didn’t you say!’ cried Pamela. ‘Oh, silly girl! I’ve got stacks of them upstairs, I could easily have lent you one.’ It was, I saw, touch and go as to whether she would think me stupid for not confessing earlier, or would be moved to pity by the thought of my shyness. ‘And there you were roasting away all afternoon on your own and probably dying for a swim!’

I nodded.

‘Oh, poor Stella! We’re not ogres here, you know — you must just shout the minute you need anything. Look, I’ll go and root one out for you later this morning and then we can all go for a swim at lunchtime.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

I wondered if I should broach the small matter of breakfast, and then decided against it. A pause ensued. The subject of my duties, over which we had quarrelled so bitterly, was once again with us. There was, indeed, no way of my avoiding the question of what exactly I was supposed to do next; for there was no further business for me in the kitchen.

‘Now, shall we just run through today? Have you got a moment?’ said Pamela; for all the world as if I might not.

‘OK,’ I said.

She looked at me closely.

‘Are you all right?’ she said, as if concerned. I had thought that I had answered her quite cheerfully. I often have to be on my guard against morosity. ‘You do look most dreadfully burnt.’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I said, gallantly brushing the subject away with my hand. ‘It looks a lot worse than it is.’

‘Shall I make coffee while we have our briefing?’ she said, apparently having forgotten my sunburn instantly. ‘Mrs Barker will be gasping by now.’

‘I’ll do it,’ I said, getting up.

‘You’re a love,’ said Pamela. My heart swelled absurdly at the words. ‘You mustn’t be afraid of Mrs Barker. She’s a dear old thing.’

‘Has she worked here for long?’ I said, unable to concur.

‘Oh, aeons,’ said Pamela. I put on the kettle. ‘Since the Flood. She was here when I was born. She’s very precious and I’d hate to lose her.’

There was something accusatory about this comment, as if I might be liable to take Mrs Barker away and then forget where I’d put her.

‘I’m sure you would,’ I said.

‘Shall we start?’ said Pamela after a pause.

I wondered what had wrought this change in Pamela’s attitude. She was as efficient now as she had been obfuscating before; and I interpreted this, to my satisfaction, as proof that she regretted the harshness with which she had treated me during my first evening in the country.

‘Obviously your priority has got to be Martin,’ she continued, enunciating her words clearly. ‘He’s a darling, but he does get bored just sitting around the house all day, so you have to take him out or find things to do with him at home. Now, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays he goes to the centre for the afternoon. Sometimes Piers or I take him, but usually I’d expect you to do it.’

‘Where is the centre?’ I said.

‘Oh, it isn’t far — in Buckley. You’ll take him there in the car, and then one of the carers drops him back when he’s ready. They’re terribly nice there. It’s such a boon having it, and Martin loves it.’

I calculated that, it being Monday, my downfall might lie only a few short hours away.

‘Actually, on second thoughts I think I’ll probably take him down myself this afternoon. I’ve got some shopping to do,’ said Pamela.

My hands, which were bearing the brimming coffee cups to the table, trembled with relief, and some of it slopped to the floor.

‘Careful!’ said Pamela.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll mop it up.’

‘Look, do just sit down for a minute while I finish,’ said Pamela wearily. ‘We can mop it up later.’

‘OK,’ I said, keen not to aggravate her.

‘Now, there are various things Martin can do for himself, such as go to the lavatory, so you needn’t worry about that unless he asks you. You might need to be on hand if he’s in the bath and gets stuck. The other difficult thing is getting up and down the stairs. He usually just shuffles down himself, but you may need to help him up if he’s tired, and you’ll need to carry his chair. We did think,’ she continued, ‘of getting a second chair for downstairs, but they’re such beastly things to have about and they do clutter the place up. It’s quite light, in any case. Generally, he’ll tell you what he wants you to do. He’s not shy.’ She put her hands around her coffee cup and raised it to her lips. ‘The real thing in the mornings is to get behind him to do his homework. He’s a lazy bugger. Always trying to talk his way out of it.’

‘Homework?’ I said. ‘What sort of homework does he do?’

‘The same as everybody else,’ snapped Pamela, flashing her bright eyes at me. ‘He’s not retarded, Stella. He goes to school just like other children. It’s very dangerous to assume things about disabled people, let me tell you.’

I could sense that we were in steep decline.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘When you said “centre” I didn’t realize you meant that it was a school.’

‘It isn’t!’ cried Pamela, banging her hand upon the table. ‘It’s you who isn’t clear, not I! The centre is a day centre for children like Martin to go to during the school holidays,’ She punctuated her words with further sharp slaps upon the table. ‘And school is school, just the same as for everybody else.’

I had not, of course, realized that it was the school holidays; nor, if I were to be honest, that Martin even went to school.

‘Right, so I’ll help him with his homework,’ I continued quickly, in an attempt to stem the tide against me.

‘He won’t need help. He just needs to be told to do it.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that. And what about when he’s at the centre? I mean, what do you expect me to do?’

‘Well!’ Pamela gave a sort of snort. ‘Obviously I can’t give you a timetable for every spare minute. Personally, I find that I barely have time to catch my breath, but if you think that you’re going to be at a loose end then I suppose you can come and find me and I’ll give you something to do,’

‘Fine,’ I said; and regretted it as soon as I heard the unfortunate way in which it had issued from my mouth. I suppose that I had been feeling quite cross at the way Pamela was speaking to me, and some of this resentment had exited inadvertently with my reply. It was impossible that Pamela should not have noticed my tone, and indeed her head shot up at the sound of it and she met me with a steely eye. In her expression, I could see dawning the memory of our exchange in this very kitchen the other night; a sight which surprised me, for I had of course imagined that she had thought a great deal about the scene and made certain resolutions concerning it. It was now apparent to me that she had not given it a moment’s consideration; until now.

‘I hope we’re not going to have trouble with you,’ she said; not particularly nastily, although it was not a very pleasant thing to say. ‘We’ve had problems with girls in the past, and we were very much hoping that you were going to be different.’

It was difficult for me to restrain myself from remarking that the ‘problems’ encountered in the past all had one thing in common — Pamela — and that perhaps she should look to herself if she wanted to solve them. This kind of honesty was not available to me. Still, I could see that Pamela’s ill temper, rather than a unique occurrence, was to be a central feature of my dealings with her; a fact which demanded, risky and unpleasant though this prospect was, the immediate formulation of some policy with which to confront it.

‘Mrs Madden,’ I said boldly. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve had problems in the past. I don’t intend to cause you any trouble, and I very much want things to work out well. This kind of life is very new to me, however, and if you remember that this is only my first proper day, then you will understand why I might need my duties to be spelled out for me clearly. It’s obviously very important that things go smoothly with Martin,’ I continued; ingeniously, I must admit. ‘And I don’t want to learn by making mistakes. I’d rather know everything I have to know before we start, and that way he will hopefully not be too disrupted.’

This speech was exhausting; and as I delivered it I trembled at what Pamela might be thinking of me. It was impossible to deduce anything from her expression, which was one of openmouthed astonishment. She seemed to be thinking. Finally, to my relief, she began to nod her head energetically.

‘Yes. Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I see what you mean. Yes, you’re quite right, Stella.’ She was still nodding. I wondered when she would stop. ‘Yes, it is better this way, isn’t it?’

‘I think so,’ I said, quite warmly; although I was still panting from my oratory. ‘Now,’ I continued, pressing my advantage, ‘shall I take Mrs Barker her coffee? And then perhaps I can go and find Martin and see what he’s doing about that homework.’

‘Yes, why don’t you?’ said Pamela meekly.

‘Where will I find him?’

‘What? Oh, upstairs in his bedroom, I should think. Mrs Barker will show you the way if you get lost.’

You may be surprised by this evidence of my assertiveness. Perhaps you have assumed that because I was inferior to Mrs Madden — in many ways, and not only because of my position in her house — that I would never find it within myself to stand up to her. My story so far could be regarded, indeed, as a history of oppression, one of those old-fashioned stories in which a poor, plain heroine endures all the misfortunes that social and material disadvantage can devise for her, but lives to be triumphantly rewarded at the last moment for her forbearance. Mrs Madden, for example, might finally meet with a terrible accident, falling beneath the wheels of a tractor or being murdered by Mrs Barker, who would be revealed to be an anarchist working under cover; leaving me to be installed at Franchise Farm as Pamela’s successor, Mr Madden having confessed that he hated her all along. I will not pretend that I myself have never entertained daydreams of this type; but one’s first duty must always be to reality.

To return to the subject of my unexpected act of self-assertion, I had been in the world; and in the course of my twenty-nine years had encountered all manner of people there. I am not stupid; and as I watched Pamela work herself into a fever of ill temper for the second time was able to observe the phenomenon more closely. I did not do this entirely consciously, of course; I am a sensitive person, and in situations of confrontation find it easier to be emotional than scientific. Let us just say that I was not so disconcerted by Pamela on this occasion; and by remaining calm, that I was able to detect several similarities in the two outbursts which pointed at some kind of pathology on the part of my employer. In order to conduct this experiment, I had, obviously, to be sure that my own position was of the utmost rationality; and I believed that it was. Having established, then, that Pamela had no specific cause to be angry at me, I could deduce that the source of her irritation lay elsewhere. Who, indeed, could blame Pamela for being touchy? No matter how much she appeared to dote upon Martin, to have a disabled child is to carry one of life’s heavier burdens. Among the feelings which it might provoke, I could identify guilt and resentment in a matter of moments; and who knew what else might be found if one dug deeper?

The second strand of my analysis of Pamela’s instability involved separating the reality of Pamela’s situation from the manner in which she represented it. I had noticed the frequency with which she resorted to dramatic and exaggerated terminology in general; and to expressions of chaos and overwork in particular. Pamela, according to herself, was busy every minute of the day; the house was a ‘madhouse’; she was left with no time even to ‘catch her breath’. This, as far as I could see, was far from actually being the case. What, in fact, did Pamela have to do? She had Mrs Barker; she had me. Even Martin, whose helplessness was the cause of my presence here, seemed fairly self-reliant, with his homework and aptitude for shuffling and going to the lavatory alone. When I asked for specific assignments for the afternoons when Martin was absent, Pamela could give me none; and this, being the school holidays, was high season as far as looking after Martin was concerned. What was I supposed to do all day when Martin went back to school? The next question, though cruel, was unavoidable: why couldn’t Pamela manage on her own?

In this way, I arrived at the conclusion that Pamela was not the self-possessed and frightening person she seemed. It was this realization that permitted me to stand up to her; but in finding the solution to one of my problems, I created many more. Having discovered Pamela’s weakness, I was in a sense electing to carry it, and I had come to the country with the express purpose of avoiding burdens of this type. I did not want to be embroiled in complexity; and it was hard to see how I could continue to use a ‘firm hand’ with Pamela — for that, I now knew, was the way to tame her — without assuming some responsibility for the consequences. Pamela was unhappy. Should I remain the slave of this unhappiness, and continue to endure the more unfortunate aspects of her treatment of me without complaint, I would, I felt sure, suffer every torment the despotic nature can visit upon the submissive. Things would go from bad to worse. Were I, however, to become its master, I would be accepting a certain amount of power; and with power comes accountability. In other words, if I assumed control of my relationship with Pamela, she would eventually come to expect certain things of me which I was not sure I wanted to provide.

I left the kitchen as speedily as Mrs Barker’s laden coffee cup would allow, with Pamela forlorn and subdued at the table. Being rather more familiar now with the route by which the rooms at the back of the house connected with those at the front, I found my way to the hall without too much difficulty. At the far end of it I spied Mrs Barker, who was standing at the front door with her back to me engaged in some extraordinary form of activity. I could not be clear of what exactly she was doing; but whatever it was, she was doing it so energetically that her ample rear portion was vibrating. I was surprised, and somewhat disgusted, to find myself suspecting her of performing there in the hall in broad daylight the act I had carried out in the secrecy of my bedroom the day before. As I drew closer — she was so absorbed in her task that she did not notice my approach — I found myself growing horribly fascinated by her oscillations, and stood for some seconds with my eyes fixed upon her posterior. A moment of some embarrassment was, then, to be mine when finally she sensed my presence behind her and turned from her labours to confront me. I saw that she held in one hand a cloth and in the other a tin of polish; evidence, if any were needed, that she was indulging not in the practice of self-gratification but rather of cleaning the brass doorknob. Her rhinal glare strove to wither me where I stood; but no amount of hostility, not even the threat of actual physical assault which her ready bulk seemed to proffer, can justify the words with which I chose to address her.

‘Here’s your coffee, you cunt,’ I said.

Although I am prepared to admit, and even swear, that I spoke this terrible word, some greater and mysterious force denied it. On the radio they have a button which can be pressed if some indiscretion or obscenity is uttered on air; a ten-second delay, I think it is called. In other words, things are happening, on the radio, ten seconds in the future, by which means the present moment can be cleansed. I have always thought that this would be a useful device to have in life; and on this occasion I seemed to have been provided with it. I am not saying that some kind of magic, scientific or otherwise, came into play in my encounter with Mrs Barker; rather that denial, which after all is the essence of this button, did the work in extremis of this ingenious invention. I denied that I had said it; Mrs Barker denied that she had heard it; in short, our situation denied that such a thing could be possible; and voilà! It never happened.

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Barker. She seemed slightly uncomfortable, as if she knew that something had occurred but couldn’t remember what it was, like people in films who are abducted by aliens or go travelling through time, returning to the exact moment at which they left and with only a void or vacuum of memory to show for it.

‘Could you direct me to Martin’s bedroom?’ I politely enquired; tempted to try the trick again but not daring to.

‘You’ll find it to the left at the top of the stairs,’ said Mrs Barker. She hesitated, her fleshy brow still slightly crinkled with confusion, and then turned her attention once more to the doorknob.

Quickly I made my way up the capacious staircase, noting as I climbed the fine, deep carpet which softened my tread and proclaimed the upper realm to be one of comfort and repose. On the landing above, pale walls and delicate framed watercolours continued this theme. A Victorian rocking horse stood beneath the window directly ahead of me, a nursery motif. Pamela really was a dab hand at interior decoration.