Trembling, I began to turn its dry, yellowed pages where I sat. I must have stayed like that for some time, for when I rose, still reading, to He down on the bed, my legs ached and tingled. In the end it wasn’t about me at all, but about people far away; although it was a fine story, and quite sad. The hours passed, there in the dry, dark pit of the night. Eventually I forgot the abrasive shock of the coincidence; or at least settled into a warmer accommodation with it. My namesake had evidently been a woman of some substance, well travelled, independent, compassionate; and kind, too; for she had thought, all those years ago, to set down this interesting tale, so that I would find it in my hour of loneliness and despair and be comforted.
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.