“Like Newton,” I said. “He gave up too.”
“Did he?”
“It’s not the money that’s the point,” Edward was saying, “it’s not the main thing,” and Mr Prunty, trimming the fat from a piece of ham, pursed his lips, and pretended to be trying not to smile.
“Yes,” I said, “his work, his astronomy, everything. He was fifty; he went a little mad.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said. Michael looked around cautiously and put the jammy blade of his knife into his mouth. “Why was that?”
“Ferns is a family affair,” Edward said grumpily, “there’s a tradition here.”
“Because—”
“Stop that!” Ottilie snapped. Michael slowly removed the knife from his mouth, looking at her.
“Oh true, true,” said Mr Prunty smoothly, “the Graingers have been in this house a long time.”
Charlotte, a hand to her naked throat, gave a tiny shudder. O Isaac, make haste to help me!
“Because he had to have certain absolutes,” I said, look at me, keep looking at me, “certain absolutes of of of, of space, time, motion, to found his theories on. But space, and time, and motion,” beats, soft beats, soft heartbeats, “can only be relative, for us, he knew that, had to admit it, had to let them go, and when they went,” O my darling, “everything else went with them.” Ah!
A vast dark cloud sailed into the window.
“Well,” said Prunty, routed finally, “I’ve made my offer, I hope you’ll consider it.” My lap was damp. Charlotte, as if nothing at all had happened, turned to him coolly and said: “Of course, thank you.”
There was some more chat, the weather, the crops, and then he left. Charlotte saw him out. “Bloody gombeen man,” Edward said, and yawned. Under the table Ottilie’s foot touched mine, retreated, and then came back without its shoe. I suppose she had caught a whiff of rut, and thought the trail led to her. Charlotte returning stopped in the doorway. “Was that lightning?” We turned to the window expectantly. Rain, grey light, a trembling bough. Why do I remember so clearly these little scenes? Because they seemed somehow arranged, as certain street scenes, in quiet suburbs, on dreamy summer evenings, will seem arranged, that postbox, the parked van, one tree in its wire cage, and a red ball rolling innocently into the road down which the lorry is hurtling. A tremendous clap of thunder broke above our heads. “By Christ,” Edward said mildly. He turned to Charlotte. A glass of whiskey had appeared in his hand out of nowhere.
“Well?” he said. “What do you think?” She shook her head. “You’ll have to sell, you know,” he said, “sooner or later.”
There was a silence, and once again I had that sense of them all turning away from me toward some black awful eminence that only they could see.
“We,” Charlotte said, so softly I hardly heard it; “we, you mean.”
I listened to them fighting all evening long, doors slamming, the radio switched full on and as suddenly silenced, and Edward shouting between pauses in which I pictured Charlotte in tears, her face a rain-washed flower lifted imploringly to his. More than once I started to go up to the house, with some wild idea of calling him out, and then subsided helplessly, fists like caricatures clenched before me. The rain stopped, and late sunlight briefly filled the garden, and through the drenched evening an incongruous blackbird began to sing. I felt vaguely ill. A knot of nerves seethed in my stomach. At last I heard the front door bang, and the car bumped down the drive and sped towards town. I drank a glass of brandy and put myself to bed. I was still awake when there came a knock at the door. I leapt up. But it was only Ottilie. She smiled in mock timidity. “Am I allowed to come in?” I said nothing, and poured her a brandy. She watched me, still smiling, and biting her lip. “Listen I’m sorry,” she said, “about the other day. It was a stupid—”
“Forget it. I’m sorry I hit you. There. Cheers.” I sat on the sofa, pressing the glass to my still heaving stomach. I nodded in the direction of the house. “Fireworks.”
“He’s drunk,” she said. She was wandering about aimlessly, looking at things, her hands thrust in her pockets. “I had to get out. She’s just sitting there, doped to the gills, doing the martyr as usual. It’s hard to have sympathy all the time. .” She looked at me: “You know?”
The light was fading fast. She switched on a lamp, but the bulb blew out immediately, fizzing. “Jesus,” she said wearily. She sat down at the table and thrust a hand into her hair.
“What’s going on,” I said, “are they going to sell the place?”
“They’ll have to, I suppose. They’re not too happy with old Prunty. He’ll get it, though, he’s rotten with money.”
“What will you do, then?”
“I don’t know.” She chuckled, and said, in what she called her gin-and-fog voice: “Why don’t you make me an offer? — Oh don’t look so frightened, I’m joking.” She rose and wandered into the bedroom. I could hear the soft slitherings as she undressed. I went and stood in the doorway. She was already in bed, sitting up and staring before her in the lamplight, her hands clasped on the blanket, like an effigy. She turned her face to me. “Well?” Why was it that when she took off her clothes, her face always looked more naked than the rest of her?
“He’s not much of a salesman,” I said.
“Edward? He was different, before.”
“Before what?”
She continued to gaze at me. I suppose I looked a little strange, eyes slitted, jaw stuck out; suspicion, anger, jealousy — jealousy! — itches I could not get at to scratch. She said: “Why are you so interested, all of a sudden?”
“I wondered what you thought of him. You never mention him.”
“What do you want me to say? He’s sad, now.”
I got into bed beside her. That blackbird was still singing, in the dark, pouring out its heedless heart. “I’ll be leaving,” I said. She was quite still. I cleared my throat. “I said, I’ll be leaving.”
She nodded. “When?”
“Soon. Tomorrow, the weekend, I don’t know.” I was thinking of Charlotte. Leaving: it was unreal.
“That’s that, then.” Her face was a tear-stained blur. I took her in my arms. She was hot and damp, as if every pore were a tiny tear-duct. “I want to tell you,” she said, after a time, “when you hit me that day and walked out, I lay in their bed for ages making love to myself and crying. I kept thinking you’d come back, say you were sorry, get a cold cloth for my face. Stupid.”
I said: “Who is Michael’s father?”
She showed no surprise. She even laughed: was that all I could say? “A fellow that used to work here,” she said.
“What was his name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What became of him?”
“He went away. So did the girl. And Charlotte adopted the child. She couldn’t have any, herself.”
No. No.
“You’re lying.”
But she wasn’t really listening, her ear was turned to the steady trickle of misery that had started up inside her. She laid her forehead against my cheek. “You know,” she said, “sometimes I think you don’t exist at all, that you’re just a voice, a name — no, not even that, just the voice, going on. Oh god. Oh no,” furious with herself, yet powerless to stop the great wet sobs that began to shake her, “Oh no,” and wailing she came apart completely in my arms, grinding her face against mine, her shoulders heaving. I was aghast, I was — no, simply say, I was surprised, that’s worst of all. Behind her, darkness stood at the window, silent, gently inquisitive. She drew herself away from me, her face averted. “I’m sorry,” she said, gasping, “I’m sorry, but I’ve never given myself like this to anyone before, and it’s hard,” and the sobs shook her, “it’s hard.”