The Country Life Read online

‘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.

  ‘Her
e’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.

  Chapter Nine

  Turning left at the top of the stairs, I arrived at a closed door which I guessed was the entrance to Martin’s bedroom. I stood outside it for a moment in order to collect myself. The abominable rudeness with which Martin had behaved, not only towards me but also towards his mother, on the last occasion we met, returned to my mind and filled me with apprehension.

  I summoned up the courage to knock on the door – two swift raps – and was surprised when a cheerful ‘Come in!’ was relayed to me from the other side. I entered, noticing the well-polished brass doorknob, and found myself in a large room, above whose clutter rose two tall windows which looked out to the front of the house. At the foot of each window was an indented seat, with long panelled shutters on either side folded back like birds’ wings. In spite of its elegance, the room was very untidy; so much so, in fact, that for a few seconds I was unable to locate Martin. Bookshelves sagging with their cargo lined an entire wall; adjacent to them was a desk piled high with more of the same. Strewn across the floor was the usual detritus of adolescence: brightly coloured record sleeves littering the carpet as indiscriminately as fallen leaves, knotted items of clothing, ancient, corroded coffee cups. Stray, small shoes, as dejected and heartbreaking as a child’s shoe found on a beach, were the only evidence of Martin’s abnormality. Mrs Barker would, I felt, take no prisoners here when she stormed the barricades at ten o’clock.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Martin. He was sitting in his wheelchair by the bookshelves, as camouflaged as a forest creature in foliage.

  ‘It’s me,’ I replied, quite sternly; in my moment of contemplation outside the door I had decided on a firm approach.

  ‘Come in.’ He wheeled round in his chair and gestured with his long arm. ‘Sit down.’

  There was a leather armchair beside him and he leaned forward from his chair – so steeply that I feared he might fall out of it – to sweep it free where the tide of jumble had risen over the seat. I weaved my way across the room and sat obediently beside him. The chair was most comfortable. I was aware of the fact that in a matter of seconds any authority I might have possessed had been wrested from me; but curiously, I did not mind. There was something righteous about my charge’s presence in this sunny room which his presence in other rooms had so far entirely lacked. I had the feeling that all who entered here abided by his law.

  Now directly beside me, Martin was engaged in a close examination of my face. I caught a glimpse of his, the terrible, preternatural spectacle of his features, before I was compelled to look away, embarrassed by my recollection of the sunburn. Immediately I became anxious that he might think me repelled not by my own appearance but by his, and so directed myself to yield to his gaze once more.

  ‘You look nice,’ said Martin finally, as if he had arrived at this judgement by a complex means of assessment which I might well have failed.

  It is hard to describe the way in which Martin’s mouth moved when he laughed or spoke – I have attempted it before – but it was unlike any physiognomical procedure I had witnessed before in my life. His lips incised in parallel almost the entire span of his face, and gave it the odd appearance of being divided into two parts or blocks connected, perhaps, by a hinge at the back of his head; so that one had the feeling, particularly when he opened his mouth wide – which he did frequently – that the upper section of his head could at any moment flip open, revealing his brain sitting like a steaming cauliflower on a platter. Some possible obstruction in his larynx gave his voice a nasal, remote quality; rather like a ventriloquist’s dummy, which reiterated the resemblance to a puppet or doll I noted some time ago. His thick tongue, whose unfortunate appearance in the kitchen had left its image firmly engraved on my mind, gave him a slight lisp.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, surprised. Disingenuously, I added: ‘So do you.’

  ‘Ha! Ha!’ Martin’s mouth opened so wide that I genuinely feared the flipping mentioned above. His laughter was loud and I caught a gust of his breath, which was surprisingly sweet. ‘Ha! Ha! That’s very funny.’

  He said this as if he meant it; and I saw, somewhat to my dismay, that he had taken my compliment as an ironical joke; and, what’s more, found it amusing.

  ‘Stella,’ said Martin abruptly. ‘Stel-la. Stella.’

  ‘Yes?’ I said, trying to sound encouraging, although I was somewhat confused.

  ‘Will you open the windows, Stel-la? It’s got rather pongy in here.’

  He said this last comment in a mock-aristocratic voice. I got up, keen for something to do, and threw up first one sash and then the other. The drive below lay deserted in the heat. A faint, warm breeze drifted in.

  ‘Are you happy, Stel-la?’ he said, when had I sat down again.

  ‘I see no need to continue pronouncing my name in that way,’ I replied. I was taken aback by his question, and wondered what mischief he meant by it.

  ‘Are you?’ he repeated.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said, settling back in my chair. I was surprised to feel myself on the brink of quite a lengthy reply. ‘How would one ever know? I’m as happy as anyone should be, living in a civilized country with no real disadvantages; but whether I am as happy as I could be, I see no way of finding out. I don’t happen to think that happiness is the be-all and end-all of everything.’

  ‘Then what is?’ said Martin.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Coming to an accommodation with oneself, I suppose. Not injuring others. Living a good life. Why ask me?’

  ‘Well,’ said Martin, putting his large hands on the wheels of his chair and rocking back and forth. ‘You did say that you thought happiness wasn’t that important. It’s an unusual thing to say, Stel-la.’

  ‘I didn’t say that I thought happiness was unimportant. Merely that it wasn’t the most important thing. I happen to believe that the search for happiness is often itself the greatest cause of unhappiness.’

  ‘But if you were happy, you wouldn’t be searching,’ said Martin.

  ‘I didn’t say I was. I was speaking generally. I think it is almost impossible to be ha
ppy and to know yourself to be so at one and the same time. People believe that happiness is a goal, as opposed merely to the absence of problems. Looking for happiness is like looking for love. How do you know when you’ve found it?’

  ‘I always imagined they came together,’ said Martin.

  ‘Nonsense. Love makes people more miserable than anything else.’

  ‘Have you been made miserable by love, poor Stel-la?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Oh, go on.’ He smiled, and began to rock himself a little faster. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘I should hope not. No.’

  ‘Tell,’ he said. ‘Tel-la, Stel-la. Tel-la, Stel-la.’ He rocked himself to the rhythm of the words. ‘Tel-la me-a Stel-la.’

  ‘Stop that immediately,’ I said.

  ‘Only if you tel-la me-a—’

  ‘I will not be blackmailed. Please behave yourself.’

  At this moment the door flew open, and Mrs Barker, incandescent with sanitary fury, appeared upon the threshold.

  ‘Getting the better of her, are you?’ she said, grinning, to Martin.

  ‘Get-ta the bet-ta of Stel-la,’ chanted Martin.

  ‘I’ll need you both out,’ commanded the hag. ‘I’ve got to set this pigsty to rights. Go on, off with you.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, Mrs Barker,’ said Martin, while I boiled with anger beside him at the woman’s imperious manner. ‘Don’t get those elephantine bloomers of yours in a twist.’

  ‘You watch your lip,’ said Mrs Barker mildly. She positioned herself beside the open door and extended an arm towards the corridor. ‘Out.’

  Martin rolled dutifully towards the door and I followed. As we passed the bulk of Mrs Barker, he looked up at her and made several loud kissing noises. I kept my head down until we were on the landing. We paused at the precipice of the stairs, and I remembered Martin’s disability; a fact which made me feel ashamed for the severity with which I had spoken to him just now.