by Angela Huth
Rachel ate her breakfast at the kitchen table. She would begin the day, she decided, with a long bath. Then, in preparation for Jack’s return at the weekend, she would defrost the fridge. The igloo appearance of the freezer, which somehow she never noticed, annoyed him on many occasions. He said she took no care of possessions. Their attitude to possessions was very different. Their attitude to most things, in fact, was rarely similar. For the hundredth time, that winter morning, Rachel wondered why she had married Jack. Strange how you sometimes make major decisions without meaning to, she thought: strange how you bury your real will beneath a floss of superficial good reasons and act against your instinct. She had met Jack not long after her turbulent affair with the irresponsible David had ended. Exhausted by months of alternating hope and despair, she had in her weakened state settled for the promise of peace and security. They were assets she now regretted. It was danger, she had been forced to admit to herself, that she most relished. Without the possibility of danger her life lacked an element necessary to maintain her spirits. Often, these last, lonely months in the cottage, she found herself wishing for a fire, a burglary, a local drama – anything to menace the dull rhythm of her life.
Upstairs, after her bath, Rachel sat at her dressing-table carefully making up her eyes in the way that had always pleased David. Sometimes she imagined that one day he would arrive, unannounced, to rescue her. She would not want to be caught looking less than her best. And so most days she made an effort with her appearance, in weary expectation.
She was thinking of David – the funny way his left cheek crinkled when he smiled – when she heard a crash downstairs. Then an almighty roar. Her skin shrank icily, pressing tightly over a wild heart. Glancing out of the window she saw the useless wire fence was flattened on the grass. She remembered she had not shut the back door.
With the speed of terror she ran downstairs and into the kitchen. The bull stood by the sink, its huge form blocking the door to the terrace. Beside it on the floor lay the smashed crockery it must have knocked off the draining board. Steam rose from its back, clouding a shaft of pale sunlight. It took a step forward, mud squelching from its hooves on the tiled floor. Then it raised its head to meet Rachel’s look, and gave a deep noisy sigh.
For a moment Rachel was hypnotised into silence. For a moment incredulity overcame her: perhaps this monster in her kitchen was but an hallucination sprung from a despairing mind. The whole room caved about her, the thick stone walls suddenly no protection. All the familiar objects – china, dried flowers, candlesticks, basket of eggs – cracked in their vulnerability. The bull growled. It was no illusion. Rachel screamed.
She fled, slamming the door behind her. But even as she ran to the telephone in the hall she knew it had not closed. With useless fingers she stumbled through the telephone book for the farmer’s number. When the ringing was answered by an unknown voice she shouted an almost incoherent message. She could hear the bull whining and snorting in the kitchen. With great effort of will, as she slammed down the receiver, she forced herself to turn round. The bull had nudged open the kitchen door, was surveying her with malicious intent. It stamped a fore-foot. Mud on the pale carpet. Rachel screamed again.
She ran to the sitting-room, snatched up the poker. While one part of her terrified mind told her to run up the back stairs and lock herself in the safety of the bathroom, another, more reckless part urged her to fight the bull, to protect her possessions. Suddenly, for the first time, they seemed important.
Waving the poker she now approached the animal, shouting obscene threats. Confused, it backed away from her, until it was wholly in the kitchen once more. Rachel was sparked with the adrenalin of courage: with no thought for the foolishness of the action, she struck the bull on the nose. It gave an agonised roar and lowered its swinging head. One of its horns hit the television on the dresser. The screen splintered, cracking the small reflections of the quiet day outside. Further angered, the bull moaned again, prepared to charge. But its muddy hooves skidded on the polished tiles. Its knees buckled. It fell.
Rachel took her chance. She dashed past it, hitting it again on the nose. She dived for cover under the kitchen table, peered through the legs of the chairs, shouting all the time.
The bull, infuriated by its own foolish position, managed with difficulty to get up. It then spun round with astonishing dexterity and lowered its head towards the chairs that were Rachel’s only protection. Snorting, it banged one with its head, sent it crashing to the floor. Then, seeing that Rachel was out of easy reach, it turned its revenge on the television set. One butt, and it smashed to the ground. China eggs, a jug of leaves, fruit, followed, different-shaped noises piercing the bull’s now constant roaring.
From her position under the table Rachel watched the bull’s campaign of destruction. She saw in close-up its spongy hooves slide in the mess of egg yolk and mud. She saw the dark matted hair of its belly and knees as it slid about in monstrous fashion, slashing at everything with its head. But by now all fear had left Rachel. With only the small risk of the bull reaching her, its livid roaring and thrashing thrilled rather than terrified. At last an outside force was smashing up her life. Here was reason to go. The brief protective feeling towards her possessions had disappeared. For all she cared, the bull could destroy as much as it liked. When, all too soon, she heard voices, and saw two farm labourers enter the back door, armed with pitch forks, she felt the chill of anti-climax.
The men’s appearance calmed the bull, or perhaps its rage was already spent. Willingly it allowed itself to be led by the ring in its nose on to the terrace, and back over the fallen fence into the field. The men were full of apologies and concern: the farmer was coming over at once, they said, to see about the damage. But the damage, for the moment, was of no concern to Rachel. Clearing up her shattered kitchen would nicely fill the days until Jack came home, then, with the weight of good reason on her side, she would make her announcement.
The men set about mending the fence. It would be replaced later in the day with a stronger one, they said. No need, Rachel replied: the bull’s curiosity is sated. He wouldn’t attack again. They chuckled knowingly, and said you can never trust a bull. It was pointless to argue. With a sense of real purpose – a strange and unfamiliar sensation – Rachel set about the long task of clearing up the mess.
When Jack came home two days later Rachel patiently listened to his week in the Canaries before telling the story of the bull.
Consumed by his own dreary tales of seven innocent evenings of drinking at the hotel bar, he failed to notice the television set was missing, as were many pieces of china and other objects long established in their place on the dresser and shelves. When Rachel told him what had happened, he was incredulous and concerned. His concern, however, was not so vital as to cause him to suggest a change of life. No: he merely guaranteed he would assess the strength of the new fence himself, and have some pretty sharp words with the farmer about damages. Rachel mustn’t be frightened in future: it would never happen again, he could assure her.
In return Rachel assured Jack she would certainly feel no fear in the future, because she would be far away. She was leaving him. There was no point in Jack making promises for the future, or trying to persuade her to stay. It would be a waste of breath. Her mind was made up. Also, as it would be pointless to spend the weekend together, she would be grateful if he would run her to the station in the car. She would leave her own car behind and go by train to London. She had no idea where she was going. She would make up her mind on the train.
Seeing the seriousness of her intent, and knowing she would change her mind in a few days’ time when the reactions of her nasty experience had spent themselves, Jack, with a small secret smile, obligingly took her to the station. He handed her the suitcase – rather a large one, admittedly, but then she had to play out her silly game to the full, of course – in a friendly manner, and kissed her on the cheek. As for his part, he congratulated himself on playing it im
peccably. He said he would send extra money to their joint bank account, and Rachel should feel free to draw on it as she wished. Driving back to the empty cottage he felt full of understanding. Rachel had always thrived on a bit of drama: perhaps in future when this silly incident was over, he would try to provide a few more excitements in her life. What an effort, though: the price of not having married a peace-loving wife, as he had always intended, after all. Ah, well. He looked forward to a quiet evening by the fire.
Rachel arrived at Paddington just before midnight. She lugged her suitcase to the taxi rank. Before she had time to think – which she had resisted doing on the train – a taxi appeared. The driver asked where she wanted to go.
Rachel had not been in London for a long time. It was too late at night to arrive on the doorstep of friends she had not seen for many months. There was only one place she could be certain of being received with real pleasure, wasn’t there? She gave David’s address.
David had said so often he would always love her. They had not communicated for nearly a year, but that would not change things, surely. He was a man who kept his word. She did not doubt he would be alone: he was not the sort of character who would replace his women in a hurry. Rachel was certain he would be pleased to see her again, for all the ugliness of their parting.
No: it wouldn’t be too late, she was sure. But as the taxi sped through the empty streets towards his house, Rachel felt the thrill of fear again, the snarl of danger in her bones. She was reminded of the bull – its rage spurring her own excitement and fear. She felt grateful to it for rousing her from an apathy which had gripped her for far too long. Had it not been for the bull’s attack, she would never have been here, now, boldly returning to her old lover with no idea of what kind of future awaited her. As the taxi drew up at David’s house – a light on in his bedroom – for one last moment Rachel imagined Jack, alone in the kitchen at home, smoking his pipe by the fire, listening to the roar of the bull outside. Smiling to herself at the thought, she rang David’s bell and waited.
Balloons
At eleven-thirty the night before Timothy’s party, Catherine was still blowing up balloons. The ones she had already finished, all colours and shapes, drifted slightly about the room, pushed by a breeze from the open window.
It was a mild night for October. Catherine felt hot, and her head ached from all the blowing. She had not bothered about dinner, so was also hungry. Some of her friends threw themselves gleefully into preparations for their children’s parties, she reflected, and she wished she was one of them. But she found the whole thing a great effort, and worried for weeks about the birthday cake and expensive bags of going-home presents and the bloody balloons … The fact that Timothy’s friends always enjoyed themselves made no difference to her annual anxiety. Still, this time tomorrow the whole thing would be over.
Seven, she thought. Timothy. Seven years ago. Unbelievable. The passing of every year, in middle age, grows more unbelievable.
Catherine picked up the last yellow balloon and blew into it with a final effort. Her head cracked with renewed pain. To hell with it. There were quite enough. She let it wither back into her hand with a little snorting noise. It lay there, a deflated caterpillar, slightly warm. And where was Oliver? Unlike him to be so late, knowing he was needed to help. He had a tedious amount of evening meetings and dinners, since he had been made managing director, but was rarely very late. Catherine felt a surge of annoyance. He knew what she was like about parties, what a nervous state they caused her. He knew she would have wanted his support this evening, though, of course, he could not know what sort of day she had had – a flat tyre, the dentist, four shops to find white candles … and just very tired.
But there he was, the familiar bang on the door. He hurried in, carrying a huge parcel.
Timothy’s train set,’ he said. ‘I managed to get it just before they closed.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Catherine.
His sudden presence demolished in a trice the resentment that had built within her.
‘I’ll wrap it up in a moment. I’ve written a card. You’d better sign it, though he won’t bother to read it.’
Oliver was pouring two glasses of whisky. ‘I’d rather thought it was my present, actually,’ he said, throwing ice carelessly into the glasses. ‘I mean, it was my idea. I found it. I paid.’ He turned, watched the incomprehension shift across his wife’s face. ‘Oh, all right, then. It’d better be from us both.’ He passed Catherine a glass.
‘Well, our big present is always between us, isn’t it? Thank you.’
Oliver sat in his usual chair by the fire. He gave a small kick to a couple of balloons at his feet, watched them jump along the carpet.
‘You’ve been hard at work,’ he said. ‘Everything under control?’
A small pulse ticked in his neck. Catherine stared at it, fascinated. She had never seen it before.
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I picked up the cake, a pretty good chocolate engine, though goodness knows what the sponge will be like. I had a bit of trouble getting the right candles …’
Catherine cut short this story, knowing it was the kind of event in her day that would not interest Oliver and for which she could expect no sympathy.
‘There are still the strings to put on the balloons, but I’ll do that in the morning and hang them about the place. Timothy insisted I wasn’t mean with the balloons. Well, I haven’t been, have I?’
She allowed herself a tiny smile of self-congratulation to make up for Oliver’s indifference. He did not smile back. Catherine had learned long ago that efficiency in domestic matters was not the way to his heart, though inefficiency provoked his displeasure. No: he was a man whose objects of admiration were set on higher things, and she had come to accept that in this he would never change.
‘But I must admit,’ she heard herself saying, ‘I could have done with a bit of help blowing them up. They’re so hard, these days.’
‘Sorry I was late.’
Oliver held his glass in both hands, looking down into the liquid as if studying a magician’s magic ball. His fine, soft face, in this light, scarcely seemed to have changed in the fifteen years they had known each other, thought Catherine. Their eyes met.
‘I’m leaving you, Cathy,’ he was saying. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going.’
As when a limb is broken in an accident, or an icy snowball breaks on warm skin, and there is no pain, no feeling, no immediate reaction of what is taking place, so all sensation but incredulity drained from Catherine. She stared at her husband, unblinking.
‘What about Timothy’s party?’ she said at last. ‘Leaving for where? You can’t let Tim down like that, whatever the business.’
‘Oh, the party. I’ll be there for that. But you don’t seem to have understood. I’m not going anywhere on business. I’m leaving for good. Leaving you and Tim, this house, our life. Finally going. Do you realise what I’m saying?’
‘No,’ said Catherine.
‘How can I make myself more clear?’ Oliver was trying to curb a flash of impatience. ‘I’m going. For good.’
Catherine felt her hand freeze on her glass. She looked at it. The fingers swelled up and quavered, like fingers seen through a distorting mirror that makes you laugh. Her mouth, when she opened it to speak, puckered and trembled against her teeth.
‘What have I done?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. At least, nothing I can really complain of. You’ve been a good wife to me in so many ways. That’s been part of the trouble, the reason I’ve taken so long in deciding. That’s what makes it so difficult a decision.’
‘Difficult,’ repeated Catherine.
The reality was beginning to seep through now, chilling her veins. In the blind alley of her mind she struggled to formulate another looming question.
‘Why, then?’ she asked.
Oliver gave a small shrug, an awkward smile. ‘I can’t lie to you. Another woman. I fell in love with her four years
ago. I did try very hard, I promise you, to resist –’
‘Four years ago? I don’t believe it!’ Catherine was on her feet now, scarlet and shouting. ‘You’ve been deceiving me with someone else for four years? I don’t believe it! Four years of no clues, no hints, carrying on being so ordinary to me, same as ever, loving, happy, I thought. It’s not possible!’
‘These things happen,’ began Oliver. ‘And stop shouting, or you’ll wake Timothy.’
‘Why do they happen? They don’t have to happen if you don’t want them to happen. You could have stopped – ’
‘I tried to at first. Very hard. In the end I didn’t want to any more.’
He was quite flushed. A wisp of hair stuck out behind one ear. For the first time in her life, it occurred to Catherine that her handsome husband looked absurd.
‘I see,’ she said.
In the long silence that followed, she looked about her, at the familiar room made unfamiliar by the bright balloons shuffling about, drowning her in her own house. Glancing in the looking-glass above the fire, she saw her wracked face, and was horrified: in middle age, shock or great despair are brutal to unfirm faces – she had seen the quivering of troubled flesh on others’ jowls, hated her own lack of demeanour. She knew her appearance would do nothing to endear her to Oliver, either. She sat down again, needing the steady hug of a chair.
‘I always thought,’ she said, ‘we were absolutely all right, you and me, Ol. So many friends breaking up, but you and me … We’ve always said how lucky we are, haven’t we?’
‘Well, we were. We’ve had good years, I don’t deny that.’
Another silence. I can’t believe this, Catherine repeated to herself. Then eventually, she said, very quietly, ‘This is madness, isn’t it? Insanity. It’s not true. It’s not happening. We’re going to wake up in a moment from this nightmare.’
‘It’s no nightmare,’ said Oliver, curtly, ‘though I can understand your shock. But didn’t it ever occur to you that things hadn’t been well, how shall I put it, quite tickety-boo for some years?’