Robbie's Wife

by Russell Hill

  The house was dark and Jack met us silently at the door. Maggie went immediately upstairs and Robbie asked if I wanted a drink.

  “Shot of brandy, Jack? Nightcap?”

  “No, I think I’ve had enough.”

  “Well, I think I’ll have one. See you at breakfast?”

  “Sure.” I went up the stairs, paused at the top and watched the crack of light at the base of their bedroom door. Then I went into my room and undressed in the dark, crawled naked into the bed and thought of Maggie pressing against me on the dance floor, and I wanted her and I grew hard and I imagined her on top of me, her body pressing down against mine, and then I heard Robbie’s footsteps in the hallway and his voice in their room and I buried my head under the pillow, unable to bear the sounds.

  19.

  I awoke to the sound of the Land Rover starting, coughing, running until the engine smoothed out and then pulling out of the farmyard. It was still dark and I wondered why someone was leaving the house so early. I turned on the bedside lamp and looked at my watch. It was five A.M. and I turned off the lamp, lay listening to the house. Outside there was the faint bleating of sheep and above me the click of valves that I had come to know as the water tank in the attic. Someone was using water someplace in the house, either in the kitchen or in the bathroom. Then there was the soft padding of footsteps in the hallway and the door opened. Maggie slipped in, came to the side of the bed and leaned over, touching my face.

  “Awake are you, Jack Stone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Robbie’s gone to the sheep market in Sturminster Newton. He and Jack. Terry spent the night with a school chum. So it’s just the two of us in this old house.”

  She raised the covers and slipped under them. Her body was cold and she curled next to mine, sliding tightly against me for warmth. Her hair smelled musty and she smelled of sleep and when I reached around her to pull her more tightly she took my hand and pressed it against her and said, “Fuck me, Jack Stone.”

  Just like that. Matter of fact. Get me a glass of water. Hold me. Close the door. I lay there, pressing my hand into her and waited for something else, but there was nothing else, only her body warming against mine and the quick banging of a door in the wind that startled me, as if someone had come into the house but she didn’t move, and we made love quietly, almost without effort, until her quickening breath told me she was about to come and afterward we lay, spent, the covers thrown back, our sweaty bodies cooling in the cold bedroom air and she spoke again.

  “What have you done to me, Jack Stone? What possesses me to come into your bed like this?”

  She reached over and turned on the little bedside lamp and turned back so she could look at my face. Her hair was a wild tangle and there were streaks of blood on her thighs.

  “Not to worry,” she said. “It’s that time of month for me. I like making love when I’ve got the curse. It makes me feel closer to myself. I can’t get pregnant, for one thing, and I don’t want to have another child. But there’s something about mixing my blood with your juice that is — I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like swimming in the sea, so much water and it goes all the way to the horizon and you feel like you’re part of something so big that it can’t be measured. Do you understand what I’m talking about, Jack Stone?”

  I didn’t. All I knew was that she had come into my room in the darkness and we had made love and it was as if I had stepped into the labyrinth where the minotaur lived, had gone into a place from which there was no return, a forbidden place I had been warned about. I touched one of her breasts with my finger and she pulled herself tight against my body and I kissed the tangle of her hair and I knew that I was deep in the labyrinth and I knew she had entered too, perhaps by some other opening or perhaps she had always been there.

  “I should take a bath,” she murmured but she made no effort to move.

  Then there was the sound of the motor in the farmyard and she stiffened. “It’s Robbie,” she said, “Why is he back?” She slid out of the bed, her heels thumping on the bare floor.

  “I’ll take care of the sheets later. Just pull the covers up over them.”

  The kitchen door banged open and Robbie’s voice called out, “Mags? Where are you? We’ve got trouble.”

  She was suddenly gone from the room and water was running in the tub down the hall and Maggie’s voice called out, “I’m in the bath. Can it wait?”

  Robbie’s steps came up the stairs and I could hear him clearly, his voice loud and insistent. “The fucking army has blockaded the road to Stur. Nobody gets in or out. We’re in a fucking quarantine area. They claim there’s foot-and-mouth at Stryker’s. Goddam officious pricks telling me no, sorry sir, you can’t cross over, you’ll have to go on back, nobody leaves until we sort this out.”

  Maggie said something and Robbie came out into the hallway again, calling back, “Where’s Terry? Where’s the fucking American?”

  Maggie said something again and Robbie went down the stairs. I could hear clattering in the kitchen and then his voice talking loudly on the phone.

  I lay for a few minutes more, trying to sort out what had happened. It seemed as if it hadn’t happened, that I lay in bed half-awake, fantasizing making love to Maggie, that she hadn’t actually come into the room and the soiled sheets were some sort of crazy magic and the stains would be gone in a few moments, fade until they disappeared and I would wake and go downstairs and have breakfast and Maggie would say, “Slept in, did you, Jack Stone? Having wild dreams, were you?” But there was no doubt what had happened and Maggie was in the tub washing herself and Robbie was downstairs in the kitchen, his voice persistent and angry.

  I wiped myself off with the sheets, stripped them from the bed and folded them flat so that the stains were hidden. I made the bed, dressed and went out into the hallway. I could hear the sounds of Maggie in the bath and I went down the stairs, trying to be noisy enough to announce my arrival. Robbie was still on the phone.

  “That’s what they told me, Michael. I swear he said they were going to start putting down cattle and sheep before the day was out. They had a fucking big skip loader on a lorry.”

  Robbie looked at me, rolled his eyes, and listened intently.

  “No! I don’t care what Ian Brooks says. He couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel. He sees some sheep snot and he thinks he’s found the fucking plague!

  “Well, get the vet in there before those arseholes begin their slaughter. Brooks could be wrong, you know.”

  Robbie slammed the phone down. “Goddam county agricultural officer says that Michael Stryker has foot-and-mouth in his flock. They’ve quarantined everything between here and Mappowder, all along Bulbarrow to Sturminster and clear over to Shilling Okeford. Nothing goes in or out. The fucking army has moved in and it looks like you aren’t going anywhere, Jack. Shit!”

  He pulled the electric kettle off the counter, filled it with water and turned it on. “Cuppa tea?” he asked. He reached into the cupboard, took down the bottle of scotch and poured a generous slug into a teacup. He looked at me questioningly. I shook my head. He downed the scotch, poured another slug and put the bottle back in the cupboard. The electric kettle began to hiss.

  Maggie came into the kitchen, Her hair was wet and shiny and she smiled at me as if she were seeing me for the first time that morning, and said to Robbie, “So, what does this mean for us?”

  “They’re culling to make a firebreak. It means if they put down Michael’s flock they’ll probably put down ours as well. They’ve been in a common field. It’s that fucking Ian Brooks, he’s panicked, thinks he’s found the sickness. Michael says it doesn’t look like it but they’re taking no chances, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t just go ahead and kill every living thing that walks on four legs!”

  “It won’t help to go off half-cocked.”

  “I saw Billy Gray in the village. They told him his flock had to go, too, and he looked like he
’d been set on fire and put out with a wet chain. Christ, Maggie, if they put down our sheep, we’ve got nothing. Not a fucking thing.” He turned to me. “Sorry, Jack, you picked a good time to get locked up in a Dorset sheep farm.”

  “You mean no one can leave the village?” Maggie asked.

  “Something like that. Until they figure out what they’re dealing with. If you want to get out, Jack, you probably could. They’re setting up ponds in the road, using straw, filling them with some sort of poison so that anyone who drives through it gets disinfected. At least that’s the plan. Seems bloody stupid to me.”

  “I’ll stay on, Robbie.”

  “Suit yourself. Maggie, I’m going to take Jack and bring back the sheep up at The Poplars. No point in having that many of them that close to Stryker’s.” He looked at my puzzled expression. “Not you, the other Jack. You’d be about as useful as tits on a boar.”

  He paused, then said, “Sorry, Jack. Oh, Christ, Terry’s off at Finchum’s. Can you fetch him Maggie?”

  “He’ll be fine there,” Maggie said.

  “I want him back here,” Robbie said, his voice rising. “I want to know that he’s here in this house. It’s all sixes and sevens, Maggie. The village feels ugly. Go get him. Please,” he added. “For my sake.”

  He turned to me. “Put on some wellies, Jack, and come along. You’re probably not as useless as you look and you can see how smart the other Jack is. That is, if you want to. Be something for your movie, now, won’t it?”

  I wanted to stay with Maggie, talk with her about what had happened, but it seemed hours ago that she had slipped into my bed and she was putting on her mac, stepping into her wellies. She reached out her hand for the keys to the Land Rover.

  “Terry’s fine, Robbie,” she said. “We’ll all be fine.”

  Robbie and I went off up the hill toward the copse where I had seen the travelers. The rain had stopped and it was slippery going until we crossed the lane at the top of Robbie’s field and moved into a sloping field that tapered off below the copse. Soon there were sheep and I watched as Jack shot to the far side of the flock, responding to sharp whistles from Robbie. Occasionally Robbie raised a hand in one direction or the other and the dog reversed, running at the sheep, hurrying them together. Once, when a bunch of them worked their way up against the hedge, Jack ran at them, bounding up onto their backs, scrabbling over them until he disappeared at the far side and suddenly they were moving toward us, Jack ranging back and forth along the hedge. By the time we got back to the lane there were fifty sheep in a tightly bunched flock. I hadn’t done much except keep Robbie silent company, once or twice standing where he told me so that the sheep wouldn’t make a run at an opening in the hedge.

  The sheep spilled into Robbie’s field and spread out and Jack came to Robbie’s heel, sat there looking pleased with himself, and we came down the slope to the farmhouse. Terry came running out, breathless, full of talk about the army in the village, army lorries, soldiers with guns. We took off our muddy wellies and wet macs in the hallway and went into the warm kitchen where Maggie already had tea for us.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  “Fine,” Robbie said. “They’re in the near field and the rest of them are up to the enclosure by the Manor House so we’re a long way from Michael’s flock. I don’t know if that makes any difference. What was it like in the village?”

  “Lots of army lads about, car park at the pub is full, Jean said Nick had been up to Gillingham and the roads were nearly empty.”

  “Maybe I’ll go in and see what’s happening.”

  “Have something to eat first.”

  “I’m not hungry, Mags. You can feed Terry and Jack. I want to find Michael Stryker and see what’s happened to his flock.” He got up from the table, drained his tea mug and put on his mac. “They say it’s airborne so the rain is good for us. I’ll be back by tea time.” He turned as he touched the doorknob, the dog crowding his heels, and said, “Jack. You were useful. I’m happy you’re staying. Not just the money for the room, mind you. You’re a decent chap. Some day you’ll have to let me see what it is you’re writing. See if you’re as good at it as this Jack is at working sheep.”

  Robbie and the dog left and it was quiet in the kitchen. Maggie said little. She fixed Terry bread and jam and asked if I wanted anything, but I said no.

  “You had no breakfast,” she said.

  “It was a busy morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “It started early.”

  She didn’t reply. Terry went into the front parlor and turned on the television. Maggie busied herself. Finally I said, “Do we talk about this morning?”

  “If you want,” she said. “What’s there to say?”

  “Jesus, Maggie, you act as if it were an everyday occurrence!”

  “No, Jack Stone. I don’t shag all my guests. Just the ones who rub magic dirt in my eyes.”

  “And how many is that?”

  “Just one so far. I’m not some hussy who sleeps around. You’re the first one in all the years I’ve been married. Oh, I’ve fancied one or two others, but this is the first time I’ve lost myself. I thought about you most of the night and this morning, when Robbie went off at the crack of dawn I lay there and I thought, no, Maggie, he’ll think you’re a slut, but my body betrayed me and I can’t explain it. It happened, Jack Stone. You brought magic dirt from your make-believe Los Angeles and I can’t help thinking about Terry in there and Robbie and his sheep. He isn’t really a sheep farmer, you know. He went to Cambridge and he’s a brilliant scholar. He’s a sheep farmer by accident. This morning I slept with you by accident. And watching you right now, I’d do it again. I’m sliding down a slope, Jack Stone, and I need to hold on to something. But I’m not sure what it is.”

  “I never meant to make you unhappy.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman. There are probably a lot of men who have fallen in love with you.”

  “Rubbish, Jack Stone.”

  “It’s not rubbish. You carry yourself as if you know you’re beautiful. There’s a grace about you that’s hard to describe. I’ve tried to write it down for days now, but it eludes me. I can’t find the words.”

  “Maybe what you need to write down is that you had a quick fuck before breakfast. Maybe that’s what you see, Jack Stone.”

  “Don’t make fun of it, Maggie. You know it’s not that.”

  I wanted to cross the room and hold her but she rose up on her toes, leaned against the table with her arms crossed and shook her head until her hair tumbled around her shoulders, a gesture that was at once defiant and self-deprecating.

  Suddenly Terry was in the kitchen and Maggie swept him into her arms. “How’s my lovely shaggy boy?”

  “Mum, are they going to kill all our sheep?”

  “No, love. If they come for them, we’ll hide them under the beds.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mum. We haven’t got that many beds!”

  “Then tomorrow we’ll have to go to Poole and buy a hundred beds. It’s as simple as that.”

  20.

  Robbie didn’t come home for tea. Terry and I ate bangers and mash, much to his delight. Maggie ate nothing. She stood at the window looking out, and when we heard the Land Rover come into the farmyard she went to the door, opened it, and waited. Robbie came in, brushing past her, and it was obvious that he was drunk. He lurched to the table, sat down heavily, and shucked his wet coat off over the back of the chair into a heap on the floor.

  He looked at me and at Terry, then gravely announced, “Withering and keen the winter comes. You know who said that, Jack?”

  “No.”

  “That was poor mad John Clare. Peasant poet. Poor fucking barely literate farm laborer who wrote poetry. Spent the best years of his life in the insane asylum. You know why, Jack?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Because he couldn’t feed his family and he left what lit
tle they had for them to eat and he went off into the fields to work and he only had a potato to eat and that went on for days and he saw things in the air and they thought he was mad and they committed him.”

  He bent down, put his elbows on the table and propped his chin on them, looking directly at Terry. “Terry, me lad, round about the cauldron go, in the poison entrails throw.”

  “That’s enough, Robbie,” Maggie said. “Go off to bed. You’ve had too much.”

  “Not yet, Maggie my love. The tyrannous and bloody act is done. They dug a bloody big pit on Michael Stryker’s farm and they killed half his sheep and they threw them in and they burned them. Threw petrol on them and set fire to them. We must have a hunchback king on the throne.”

  “That’s enough,” she said again. “Leave it alone.”

  “Oh shit,” he said. “Have I offended anyone?”

  Maggie took his arm, and he rose unsteadily. “How’s this one, Jack? Do you know where it comes from? Farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell! A long farewell to all my greatness. The third day comes a frost, a killing frost! Damn, I forgot a line in there someplace.”

  Maggie took his arm and guided him toward the hallway. He stumbled, fell to his knees and shouted, “And then he falls, as I do.”

  21.

  The next morning when I came down to the kitchen Robbie was there, Terry was finishing his breakfast and Maggie was nowhere to be seen.

  “This morning you’ll have a belting good English breakfast,” he said, “fixed by the Lord of the Manor himself.”

  “Where’s Maggie?”

  “She’s punishing me for my transgression last night. She’s lying about up there reading a bad novel so here I am at the cooker. Feed our guest proper, she says, but you’ve become sort of like family, Jack-o, and if this keeps up we’ll have to give you a weekly rate.”

  “You don’t look any the worse for wear.”

  “Oh, I was that pissed, was I? Well, the Stryker boys were pissed as a newt, I kept up with them all right and I never lost my wits. This morning I’m going over to Stryker’s and see what the army’s doing with the rest of his flock. The boys said it was a bloody awful sight yesterday.”