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Authors: Rachel Cusk

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BOOK: Aftermath: On Marriage and Separation
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It is dark by the time we get to the town. The place is deserted: at the house the owner has left us a scribbled note and a key. We stand on the long, sloping cobbled street with our bags. Through the darkness comes the sound and smell of water. A broad river is just below us: it turns like a dark snake in its courses; its black surface gleams. The town is a soundless heaped outline in the night, of roofs and spires and well-kept streets. Its beauty and its desertion are unnerving. It is as though some disaster has just occurred here and all the people have run away.
Inside, the house is a dank-smelling labyrinth of corridors and fire doors. There is torn carpet underfoot and heaps of junk and old furniture piled against the walls. Instantly I know that it has found me out, chaos, malevolent disorder: for the past few months it has shadowed me and I have fended it off, day and night, and now it seems I have opened the door to it. The thing is, I believe in chaos now: it’s normality I’ve lost faith in. It transpires that we have not
rented the whole house but only a section of it: the note directs us upstairs, up steep tenebrous staircases boxed in by irregular partition walls to a door at the top. We let ourselves into a dark flat. The electric lights reveal a crush of brown furniture, some beds with padded floral headboards, some gilt-framed posters of rural scenes. I decide that I’ve over-reacted. I decide there’s nothing actually intolerable here.
It’s quite nice really, I say to the children, as though we make a habit of staying in places such as this, and can compare them to one another. In fact they have had the good fortune never to have been somewhere like it before. But I’m not interested in teaching them a lesson.
Yes, they repeat, standing in the doorway with their coats on, it’s quite nice really.
And tomorrow you’re going riding, I say.
They fall silent. They’re not sure they want to go riding after all. They’re not sure they feel like it.
I make them supper on the two-ring electric burner in the kitchenette. I tuck them up beneath the floral headboards. I sympathise, I console, I sit at their bedsides until far into the night, but in the morning I drive them to the riding school and I leave them there.
 
 
At mid-morning there is a great commotion out in the hall, loud voices and banging and then a thumping sound that gets louder and louder until I realise it’s coming up the stairs. There is a pause, the sound of noisy breathing on the landing; the door to the flat flies open and a woman barges into the cramped hall.
Oh hello, she says at the sight of me sitting at the table. I didn’t realise you were in here.
I take this to be the owner of the building. She is so dishevelled it is hard to get a sense of her. Vaguely I apprehend a large mounded body, a shock of grey frizzy hair, a clutch of big yellow teeth, a red leathery face grotesquely made up. The teeth are bared: she is either panting or smiling, I can’t tell. She has a pair of crutches strapped to her arms on which she leans forward and with which she occasionally gestures, like the forelegs of some gigantic insect.
It’s a long way up, she pants, but I make a point of doing it, no matter what they say. You can’t let things get out of bounds, can you? It happens without you noticing, then all at once you find you’re bedridden.
Looking at her, I’m surprised she did manage to get up the stairs, for she has only one leg. I ask her if she would like to sit down.
Are you all right? she says sharply in response. Her voice is rather loud and braying; I notice her clothes, rainbow-coloured draperies in chiffon and velvet. Like it here? Such a lovely house, isn’t it? These are our best rooms. Her glance darts around. What’s that you’re doing? she says, looking at what’s on the table.
Writing, I say.
I’m a writer too, she says, leering delightedly at me. What a coincidence!
Yes, it is, I say.
Of course, I don’t write under my own name, she adds, significantly.
There is a pause.
Are you all right? she says again. It’s nice up here, isn’t it? Perfect
for writing. Really I should come up here and do some writing myself, only I’m so madly busy all the time. She gives me a hostessy kind of twinkle. Then she says:
But I’m afraid I’m going to have to move you.
Move me? I say.
It’s only downstairs, she says. It’s just that some other people want to be up here. They want to rent it long-term. They’re a family, she says. Lovely people. They’re relocating to this area and they absolutely have to have it.
I tell her that she should have told me this in advance.
Oh, but you see I didn’t know! she cries. They only called last night, and they’re desperate, poor things. The girl is absolutely at her wits’ end – they’ve just come back from Geneva I think it is, where her husband’s some big cheese, and she’s had to make all the arrangements herself, and my heart just bled for her really. The thing is, she’s got the children to think of. Such a sweet family, she says.
I ask her when she expects us to move.
Well, she says, if you don’t mind, then right away would be best. They’re coming tonight and the cleaner needs to get in – you’ll be absolutely fine downstairs. You’re really tucked away down there, she says. Perfect for writing!
‘Downstairs’, it turns out, is the basement, a big windowless room crammed with furniture, whose ceiling is so low the hairs on the top of my head brush it as I walk. It takes me three or four journeys up and down the stairs to bring down the suitcases we had just unpacked. I pass numerous people on the staircase, in the hall. It is eleven o’clock in the morning, but in the basement you wouldn’t know whether it was night or day. I stand in the electric
light from the overhead bulb, the suitcases at my feet. I can hear the thump of the woman descending the cellar stairs. She puts her head around the door.
Everything all right? she says, panting. Got to run now – so much to do! You’ve got one or two people above you, Poles, lovely family, they’re usually very quiet. Oh and by the way, the men are here today doing some building work in the hall, but hopefully the noise won’t disturb you too much. Bye bye!
And with a wink of her fronded eye, she is gone.
 
 
I go for a walk. I have to: I can’t stay in the basement for even a few minutes. The clear skies of the night before have been succeeded by blustering wind and cloud. It starts to rain. I think of the children riding their horses in the bad weather. I can’t find a path out of the town into the countryside and I end up walking along busy roads, and then through a kind of forest where broad sandy tracks pass amid shaved stretches of felled trees, and lorries piled with pale logs trundle to and fro.
When I return I call the witch, as I now think of her. It takes time to track her down: I have to try several different numbers.
Oh it’s you, she says.
I tell her she needs to find us somewhere else to stay, immediately. I tell her I wouldn’t keep a dog in that basement. I tell her her conduct has been fraudulent. She needs to rectify the situation by the time my children return from the riding school.
While I’m speaking she makes little exclamations, ‘yes’ and ‘oh’ and ‘oh dear’ and ‘of course’. The more she whimpers, the more
brutal I am. I enjoy it: this must be what it feels like to beat someone up. Yet I think about her missing leg and feel afraid.
She says that we can come and stay in her very own house, a lovely place out in the countryside. She’d like us to; she’d like to make amends. I don’t trust her: I say I want to see it first. She offers to drive me out there in her car to look. I sit on a suitcase in the basement and wait. The building is full of the sounds of drilling. There are footsteps going to and fro across the ceiling, voices, the noise of a television on loud. The witch arrives, clad in a miscellany of crushed velvet draperies of purple and cerise; I follow her out to her car and get in. The car is filthy. She has a special arrangement of gears and levers for driving. On the journey she talks. I don’t listen. I am silent, except to ask her how far it is. Oh, not very far, she says. It’s really very close. Just a few miles.
We pass over the snaking river and out of the picture-postcard town, out into unfamiliar countryside. I sit and stare out of the window. In the rain the patchwork of fields and buildings looks desolate. At a petrol station she stops, and I stare out of the window as she hobbles around the pump, the crushed velvet lurid in the drizzle. She goes inside. I watch her talking to the girl behind the till, watch her mouth moving, watch her throwing her head back to laugh. She talks for a long time. Eventually she returns. We drive for half an hour, forty-five minutes. I ask her when we will be there. Oh, any minute now, she says. It’s just around the corner.
Finally, as we are driving along a section of dual carriageway through low hills, she veers unexpectedly off the road and draws to a halt outside a house, so abruptly that we are thrown forward in our seats. We have pulled up at a cottage with crooked chimney-pots. There are pieces of broken furniture in the front garden, and
rags hanging at the tiny windowpanes. The road lies so close to the front gate that the passing traffic makes it swing on its hinges. We get out of the car.
I need to get back soon for my children, I say.
Oh don’t worry, she says. There’ll be plenty of time for that.
We go in through the gate, through the front garden. The witch jerks open the front door.
Welcome to my humble abode, she says.
She leads me through dark dusty rooms filled with furniture, her crutches thumping across the floorboards; along crooked low-ceilinged corridors, up a creaking staircase with a cobwebbed window at the top. I look out of it, down on to a concrete yard where a big mangy Alsatian is tied by a chain. We pass a cluttered room with a wheelchair in it and a mechanical hospital bed, unmade. There is a man on the landing, holding a little girl in ponytails by the hand. He smiles, says something in a language I don’t recognise. We pass through a low doorway, into a small room with a narrow single bed, whose tiny window looks out on to the dual carriageway. On the floor there are empty wine bottles. The room is cold and smells of rot. There are bits of dirty newspaper tacked to the walls.
Well, nothing will disturb you in
here
, she says. Enjoy your writing!
And with that she limps out and closes the door.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands in my lap. An hour passes, perhaps more. Then I hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. I go to the window and look. A woman comes through the front gate and up the path. She is very fat. She wears tight clothes, a short skirt, a spangled top with a plunging neckline. Her plump neck is roped in jewellery. Her synthetic black hair is piled up on
her head. She waddles to the front door and knocks. Below me the door opens. I hear the two women conversing. There is what sounds like an exchange of obscenities, then cackling laughter. Presently I see the two of them going off together down the path. The witch has dressed herself up too: she wears a tight carmine-coloured dress in which her misshapen body takes on a mournful kind of beauty. They get in the other woman’s car, a tiny battered hatchback into which it seems the two of them can’t possibly fit, and they roar away, a plume of black smoke at the exhaust.
 
 
Much later, when I am back at home and the children have returned to school, I find a novel in a second-hand bookshop. It has a bright red cover with silver writing on. It is garish, splashy – I turn it over in my hands. The novel is self-published; I vaguely recognise the name on the cover, and standing there read a chapter or two. Their subject is a woman’s loss of value as she ages, the decay of the body that was once the source of her human authority, her feelings of rage at being left alone, men and children having gone away. She shocks people with her desire to live: they expect her to give in, to go quietly, to hide herself away somewhere and politely rot. And so she has come to enjoy their shock, their disapproval. She dresses herself in garish colours. She goes out, out to skirmish with the world, and whether or not she is wounded on that battlefield, whether she is brought down and beaten and meets her end, that end is better than the end society has in mind for her, is a suicidal kind of rebellion, an attempt to go out in a blaze of glory.
I talk to my friends sometimes about my imprisonment in the
witch’s house. What did you do? people say. How did you get away? What happened to the children? I don’t tell them – not quite – how difficult I found it to leave, how I stayed there while dusk fell over the hills and the rooms darkened; how I felt that this was something I ought to make right, the ugliness and disorder of this place. I felt I ought to love it, for all at once I understood that its failure came not from some evil intention but from the fact that it was unloved. That failure had frightened me, menaced me, more than the most direct threat to my safety would have; I wanted to protect myself from it, protect my children, but sitting alone in that house, I felt that the true achievement, the true safety, the true authority might lie beyond the instinct to safeguard what was mine.
I called a taxi. I wrote a note saying I was sorry and left it on the table. I called the riding school and explained. Then I waited there, in the dusk, until the taxi’s headlights swept like search-beams across the front windows as it came off the road to find me.
BOOK: Aftermath: On Marriage and Separation
7.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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