The Unmapped Country

by Ann Quin

  They met in the foyer and walked out along the Front. On to the pier. In silence. Watched the men fling their fishing lines in. A few fish struggled. Thumped around on the iron grilles. Gave a final twitch then slid down with the others in the basket.

  The castle surrounded by a moat of dryness. The guide asked if they wanted to be shown around. They walked round together. The guide went back to sleep. Round walls with scaffolding. Crumbling walls. Walls that were no longer walls. Large rooms with wooden floors. Jewellery and fossils under glass. Please Do Not Touch notices everywhere. Smell of must. Please Do Not Smoke round every corner. Endless passage that was not so endless. The castle was round. A dungeon she quietly went into while he looked up at a sword. She heard him go past. She shrank into the darker corner of the cell. His footsteps grew fainter. Above her. She looked through the narrow bars. At the triangle patch of grass. Please Do Not Throw Litter Here. Please Keep Off The Grass. She saw him standing on the fortress. He leaned against a cannon. His hand thrust upwards. Shielded his eyes. He must be looking out to sea. She heard his footsteps approach. She stifled a giggle. And walked out. Oh there you are were you hiding? No I wondered where you were. Well we’ve seen just about everything I think. What about the other dungeons? OK. They walked again the narrow passage. Where no sun had entered. God what a place I could imagine a murder here—in fact you could well… She sprang back. Her mouth open. Closed into a closed smile as his hands came out. Oh don’t frighten me like that. Stupid—God your imagination love. All the same it is frightening. And she sprang from the wall. Ran past him. Laughing. Screaming out. You won’t catch me never ever never. She heard her voice bounce back. And his laughter. His gasps. Until he had caught her up. They held hands. Crossed the drawbridge. Thanked the guide who gave them a pamphlet history of the castle. Who went back to sleep behind his desk.

  They went into a seafront cafe and ordered coffee. Lovely day Sir—Miss. A group of girls entered and went over to the juke box. Hypnotised by the choice. Oh there’s nothing here not even the Rolling Stones. They sat down. Nudged each other. Giggled. I have to go back. Oh love. Well. They stared into their cups. He looked up. Across. She looked down. His shoes were covered in seaweed. Sand. She nodded. Give it a day just another day love I mean we’ve hardly been here and

  They walked through streets. Past houses that never varied with their lace curtains. Back gardens. Shrubberies. Back yards with washing. Parts of bicycles. Spare parts of cars. Boys in fields played football. Curtained windows. People still in bed. Or yawned over newspapers. Or watched the television.

  In the restaurant their table was occupied by the young couple. The middle table surrounded by women. Middle aged with hats. Hats with feathers. Without feathers. Bits of veil. One woman stood up to give a speech, They all clapped. The young couple leaned towards each other. Their plates full of unfinished food.

  The afternoon came. Went. And the night. Repetitive of the night before. Yet not quite. They got drunk. But didn’t attempt to make love. Attempted to sleep. And the morning faced their faces now white. They walked by the sea. She finally said they would go could go back together. They went for a final drink in the large hotel. Sat encased by glass and aspidistras. Without talking. If accidentally they touched they apologised. Looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking. The sky expanded in blueness. Their mouths sucked in as the plants sucked in the water the waiter sprayed from a plastic watering can.

  They packed their things. She waited outside. Watched him pay the bill. Smile at the woman behind the desk. The elderly bellboy brought out the luggage. Winked with both eyes. Had a good time Miss—glad the weather cleared up for you—come back again won’t you—taxi Sir? No thanks we’ll walk. They walked up the street. Away from the sea. Past the pub with the glass topped tables. Shall we have a drink? Have one at the station I think love if there’s time. The bar closed. They sat in the buffet and had a cup of tea. Lukewarm. The train roared in. The carriages separated by glass doors. A corridor. They went into an empty carriage. Hope no one gets in. So do I. He brought out half a bottle of whisky and opened it. Passed over. She took a tiny sip then a longer one and handed it back. The train moved out. Wheels clanked along. Past the sun-splashed sea. Pale green slice of land that spread out into deeper green. The deeper blue. I’m sorry love really I am. So am I. But I can see you—I mean we will still see each other after we get back? I think not I mean it is impossible isn’t it you can see that. At each station they looked out. No one got in. Or if they did they looked once into the carriage then passed on along the corridor. She leaned over. Held his hand. Pressed. He sighed. I hate it to end like this but

  The fields. Hedges vanished. Suburbs crawled in and out. The football fields now dry. Now empty. The river red flecked with white. The power station powered out its smoke. They walked through the barrier. Paused in the half empty station. Well. Well? Well I’ll ’phone you. No it won’t be any use will it? Well then it’s goodbye—goodbye love. And he rushed into the underground. She caught a bus back. Asked the conductor for change. Climbed the stairs to her room. And lay on the bed. The telephone rang. She opened the door quietly. Heard someone talk. She took out a cigarette. Put it back. And collapsed on the bed. Got up and searched for the change. Went down on to the second floor and put the money in the box. His voice. As though he had a cold. She heard her own. That was not her own. Voice. Look let’s meet up some time this week and talk about it. When? Thursday? What about tomorrow? Tonight? OK I’ll come round? Yes—see you later then. She put the receiver carefully down. Went up to her room and unpacked. Washed her face and applied makeup. The face she saw was smiling little smiles that broke into a wide grin.

  ‌

  ‌Every Cripple Has His

  Own Way of Walking

  The house was old. They were older. The sisters. They celebrated Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. Cried at her funeral. At least if they hadn’t actually seen these events they witnessed it all in the newspapers. The house full of newspapers. Paper bags within paper bags. Letters. Photographs. Pieces of brocade. Satin. Ribbons. Lockets. Hair. Broken spectacles. Medicine bottles. Empty. Foreign coins. Trunks. Cases. Cake. Biscuit tins. And mice. The child never knew whether it was the mice or one of her aunts wheezing in the long nights. Or maybe just the wind from the sea. The downs. Whistling in the chimney. Other nights she knew it was Aunt Molly battling with her asthma. Or Aunt Sally sucking tea from a saucer. And the bed creaked in the room below. As grandma turned over. Back again. From the waist up. Did she have legs? The child thought of them. Thought she saw them like sticks under the sheet. About to thrust up. With barnacles and millions of half-dead fish clinging. The old woman’s flesh. Scaly. Her eyes like someone just risen from the ocean bed. But then she was grandma. And all grandmothers must look like that. Confined to an enormous bed. Yet not so enormous. For she filled all parts. At all times. As she filled the house with her demands. Commands. In her little girl’s voice. When not eating. Not sleeping. Whined for the bedpan. Another cup of tea. And if Aunt Sally stopped making kitchen noises then she whined for the bedpan again and accused her younger sister of indulging in forty winks. For the house belonged to grandma. Every item down to the shrimp pink corset and purple dress Aunt Sally wore had been billed to grandma. She after all had married. And no one now would point out she had stolen Aunt Molly’s intended. That a long time ago. And he who had made the mistake by proposing in a letter from India to the wrong sister had long since departed. They lived as best. The three. In the worst. Through thick and thin. They lived their roles. Respected. Detested. Each other’s virtues. Little vices. Whims. And waited for the day the child’s father would pay a visit. That day would surely be tomorrow. If not tomorrow then the next day. When Nicholas Montague. Monty to them all. Would tread the path. Into the house. Receive their love. And tell them of his travels. Successes. Though Aunt Molly would look past him. As if she recognised in his shadow some remembered dream. Go on sorting out little bundles of letters
. Comb her long white hair. Thin. So thin it was more of a veil covering her head. Face of crushed carnation that sprouted from the black bent root of velvet. The child would look past him too. Perhaps. At the portrait. For comparison. While Aunt Sally clucked round him. Teeth clicking. Little bird eyes upon the nephew who could do no wrong. If he did a wrong in others’ eyes then he did it because there was no alternative.

  The days grew into each and out of each night. With the habits. Dreams. Tales of days gone by. The horse-drawn buses. Dinner. Tennis parties. Musical evenings. Picnic outings with cousins by the Thames. Sunday strolls in Kew Gardens. And the Crystal Palace. For the child these stories merged with those of The Goose Girl. The Snow Queen. And Cinderella. Each of these she was. Saw her aunts as grown ancient but with a wave of the magic wand they would change into beautiful queens with quick queenly steps. She felt sure her father would have this wand. Transform the old castle on the hill. The old ladies. Herself. Into a magical world where they would all live together happily ever after.

  Weeks. Months. Years. Came. Went. After hours of anticipation. The child saw the calendar only in the mirror. She was still not taller than Aunt Sally. She thought the day would never come when she would be. Though she forgot this problem when she didn’t have to bend to peer through the keyhole at Aunt Molly. Whole mornings spent on the landing. Watching her aunt go through the never-changing rituals. Always the child hoped that some morning. Some time the white-haired apparition would do something different. Or maybe not do anything at all. Lie motionless in her black velvet. This the child hoped for more than anything. The door then would surely magically open. The room at last hers to explore. There were the corners. Dimensions. She never saw from her one-eyed viewing. Then there were the cupboards. Drawers. These must be filled with all kinds of mysterious things. Boxes her aunt bent over. But never brought out whatever lay there. Her hands shook. Hovered over something. Then the lid closed and her aunt locked the box. Held the box. Nursed it in her lap. Her lips moved. Drawn in. The child tiptoed away along the landing where the wind mocked the carpet. Played with the carpet on the stairs. Down into the kitchen the child crept to make Aunt Sally jump in the larder. Oh you wicked child you’ll be the death of me yet here take this into your grandma her tongue’s hanging out for a cup of tea quick now and I’ll give you a piece of bread and butter pudding.

  The child took the tray. Tried not to spill the tea into the saucer. If she did before reaching grandma’s door then the lions would eat her up. But they were preferable to the lioness with the little lion’s growl that greeted her offering. So there you are well bring it over here that’s right now care—ach child you’re so clumsy and what’s your Aunt Sally doing taking another nap I suppose well don’t stand there child like an imbecile just like your…

  Her mouth filled with cake. Tea. Denture coping. Body manoeuvres. Just her eyes. Waterlogged. Stared at the child. Her head moved in time to the munching. Sipping. Swallowing. Plump ringed fingers filled the space between eiderdown. The small hole that presumed to be a mouth. The child held her breath against the smells. Urine. Stale food. And medicines. She counted the flies on the limp strips of sticky yellow near the curtained windows. Listened to cupboards. Drawers being opened. Closed. In the room upstairs. Unable to hold her breath any longer she rushed out. From grandma’s munching. Grinding. Into the kitchen where Aunt Sally hardly bent over the oven. Drew the baking tin out. Blinked in the warmth. Her own warm approval. Pleasure. Ah it looks a good one this time. She tested with a knife. The two of them bent over this treasure of golden brown. With little smiles. Hands of assurance. They ate. Hardly two mouthfuls when the child begged her aunt to sing. Sing anything. But you know all I know is Little Brown Jug. Well sing that then. The child clapped her hands. Licked the sticky remains from around her mouth. And felt even the wind under the back door sounded friendly now. Plants in the outhouse nodded in their full row of participation. Clouds danced lightly on the brow of the hill. Poppies and blue flowers bowed in acknowledgement towards the house. And the child knew if the sea was nearer that too would chuckle in the warm conspiracy. Sing sing Auntie and do that little dance you do. Ah you little devil I haven’t got all day to play with you get along with you now go and play in the garden. The child laughed. Made to hug her aunt. Made all kinds of promises. Pretended to cry. Tickled her. Until the demanded song burst out and her aunt skipped one. Two. Three oops there now you’ll be the death of me oh my oh dear little brown jug don’t I love theeeee there I’m worn out and there’s your grandma calling. Off she went muttering. Dress dusted the floor. Caught in the door as she wiped the tail ends of pudding from the corners of her moustached upper lip.

  The child amused herself in the garden. Mud pies. Went in search of the tortoise. Poked sticks in mole hills. Lifted stones from the path. Watched the ants go this way and that. Some took cover under her shoes. When she pressed down. Stared for a long time at the little red stains on the stonework. The house stared back. With heavy-lidded eyes. She looked up and thought she saw the sea had rolled itself into the sky. Then down. She saw Aunt Molly draw back from the window. Hands that came from the dark space behind. On their own. Drew the curtains closer together.

  She raced with the wind round the house. Jumped over the path. Crawled through the long grass. Weeds. Startled a blackbird that was after her nose. The army of wallflowers shook with astonishment. Behind them the overgrown hedge held strange shapes. Shadows fell out. Crawled towards the child. Knocked on the windows. At night. Noises of the dark joined the nightly noises of those who inhabited the house. And those who didn’t. If only she had wings she could fly away from them all. And then.

  Well then she could search for the one who would be sure to wave them all away with his wand. Flapping her arms she ran screaming into the house. Up and down the stairs. Two. Three. At a time. The wind joined in. Grandma collaborated. Until the house screamed its way out of the day.

  The night noises entered. Tomorrow I think he’s coming I can feel it I can sense it. Who’s coming Auntie? Why your father of course. And Aunt Sally’s eyes rolled away. Back. Towards her flushed nose. What’s he like? He’s a good man and he’s your father yes Monty is…

  The child turned away from her aunt’s mutterings. From the glazed eyes that would soon be dabbed with a handkerchief smelling of mothballs or the sleeve of her purple dress. She crept up to the landing. For her last goodnight spying on Aunt Molly. Who dipped fingers into her dinner. Surrounded by her boxes. Letters. Coughing. Her whole body heaved as she stretched up. Bent over. As though attacked by some unseen spirit. Strange noises came through the keyhole. Came from her aunt’s open mouth. The child turned into the noise of the wind that attacked all sides of the house. All corners. Gaps. Cracks. In doors. Windows. Struggled with something. Someone. Way up in the loft where the hotwater tank hissed. Where the mice waited. In her own room the child rearranged dolls. Told them tales of the magician they would see tomorrow.

  Tomorrow came as yesterday. And the next day. With the wind. Rain. The child stayed in the house. Listened to what the wind told to the walls. And then again to what the walls told. Showed. What was shown when a door flew open. When closed. At times the house had secrets the child found were not revealed to her. When the place wrapped itself up. As if wounded. Like an animal refusing to show itself. At such times the child curled up with a favourite toy and tried to sleep. Often she did sleep. Feeling that if she ignored everything then they would emerge. Give their secrets to her once again.

  Such an afternoon when she woke up. Heard laughter. Strange tinkling laughter as though the house had suddenly filled with young girls. She ran downstairs. The laughter came from Grandma’s room. She peered in. Aunt Sally sat on the end of the bed. Legs swinging as if she were on a swing. Her face expanded in smiles. She nodded over a piece of paper. Well well he’s really coming tomorrow oh my goodness oh dear. About time too. The child heard her grandma grunt then whisper. Saw her aunt frown. Of course he will after
all she’s his child there’s no denying that and my goodness how surprised he’ll be to find what a big girl she is now. Well see she’s dressed properly the way she goes around why it’s a scandal a proper little tomboy and see she washes behind the ears tonight Sally. Yes yes oh my goodness he’s really coming Monty’s really coming I must make a nice bread pudding perhaps we should get a little wine in I mean just oh well I have a little port left I think Monty likes port just a little port. Her words lost somewhere in the small piece of paper she brought up. Adjusted her glasses. Nodding. Lips moved. While the bed creaked under her. Oh Sally for heaven’s sake you’ve read that at least half a dozen times you must know it off by heart now go and make some tea I’m dying for a nice cup of tea and don’t forget to ring Goodmans order a chicken Monty likes chicken I remember as a little boy he…

  The child went quietly into the lounge. And looked at the portrait. Bent closer. She whispered. In front of the grand piano she put her wet thumb on a black note. Held there. Put all her fingers on black and white. Leaned over and watched the insects with white fuzzy heads rise to greet her. Up. Down. Until her aunt trotted in. Shouted stop that your grandma’s trying to sleep and you know you mustn’t touch the piano Monty will—your father doesn’t like his piano touched by anyone except himself and he’s coming tomorrow we’ve had a telegram yes Monty will…

  The child swung round on the stool. Kicked up her legs. Will he bring me a present? Perhaps perhaps but he’s bringing himself and that’s enough now upstairs with you it’s late.

  In the dark. In bed. The child thought she heard the laughter again. Thought she heard steps on the path. She leaned out of the window and watched the gate swing. The shadows swung out. The shape on the hook attached to the door grew a monstrous head. But tomorrow everything would be all right.