Martha hadn’t told anyone the truth. It had become so conveniently blurred that she could hardly see it anymore. What happened between her and Arnold closed the space in which possibility had lived and brought on a terrible disquiet.
She had always blamed the delirium of the night. She felt they had made an unspoken pact. It was a game and she was the one who lost. For a long time afterwards, she had tried to see it like that. Then she had tried not to see it at all.
She had been asleep when Arnold heaved himself on top of her and did his jagged dance. She had caught sight of the yellow curtain fluttering and her own confusion all at the same time. The air came in silently. She could still hear Arnold breathing heavily at her neck, after he had finished.
For a while he lay on top of her—a dead weight. Then his body began to shake. He rolled off her and crumpled. He sobbed. She was appalled. She was the one who had been abused. Not him. He wasn’t the man she had thought he was. The sophisticate. The dark gentleman. He had invaded her and now he was playing the feeble and broken one. She said nothing. She turned her back on him and listened to his sobs, each one a fist beating against her ear.
She had never asked Mike where he had been for fear that he would ask her what had happened. And she could never tell him. Their lives had grown from this silence like flesh over a wound.
Mike woke them early in the morning. He had the car and he wanted to leave. Arnold was so hungover that Mike had to almost carry him to the car. They put him in the back seat. He lay on his back, his head to the side and his hand dangling from the seat, limp as an uprooted flower.
Mike ignored Arnold and hardly spoke to her. He just sped her away from it, as if he knew what was needed. He drove the car with a gallant straightforwardness that she was grateful for. When, weeks later, she discovered she was pregnant, she chose him to save her again.
She blamed Arnold for cutting off her youth. Arnold and everything about him became repellent. He had insulted her, first with his body and then with his sobs. In comparison, Mike was all substance. In his arms she was prized; beneath Arnold Buch she had been violated. From this she had lurched, wiped her eyes, and in the struggling light of summer, flung herself towards Mike.
She had loved Mike then. But it became harder as time went on to love the man she came to know and not just the man who had adored her. The man whose opinions and aspirations were predictable and small, the man who pestered her in bed, the man whose competence and conformism had once been appealing, even soothing, but now was so stultifying. He had offered her a worthwhile and feasible happiness. By the time she realised it was an enclosure, she couldn’t get out again.
But she did still love him. She loved him because he was there. His reliable arms wrapped her life up in his, as if they were a present to each other that neither had given. But that love was now tired and old. That was just the way it went. Love frayed like old clothes that you kept because your life had been lived in them. She had made the right decision without ever realising it. She should love Mike back. She should show him that she could.
Despite all her efforts to block him out, Arnold Buch still crept into her mind Especially when Tilly played the piano. He had ensured his own mystique by leaving, but he had left this behind, the musical ability. He was an uneasy memory, who had emerged dusty and formal to perch on a chair in her living room after all these years. He was so harmless, even impotent. And if he suspected anything about Tilly, he didn’t say. Her fear of him asking her meant that as soon as he got there, she had wanted him to leave. It was too much, having them all in the same room and Mike telling him how Tilly played piano and suddenly the awful tangibility of her secret hovering between them, a ghost that only she could see, but which they might glimpse. It was enough that they had had to entertain Arnold. She had put on her dress because she had wanted him to see how well they were doing, she had wanted him to envy Mike, she had wanted to win this time round. In the end, what did she care about Arnold and his opinions? She didn’t want to think about it. Her head throbbed.
It was already midday, and everyone had left her in peace. Mike was playing tennis. Tilly had her piano lesson, Ada was next door and Ben was probably cruising the streets. Martha padded down the hall, still in her nightie. She would go back to bed once she had got a glass of water. She stood at the kitchen window staring out at the garden. The poor trees. Maybe she could sit in the shade of the elm tree. It was no cooler inside than out. Her limbs ached. All she wanted to do was lie down in some dark, cool place.
A fox slid past the trees. Or was it her foggy head not seeing properly? Surely a fox would not be there in the middle of the day? It must have been someone’s dog, a red heeler. But then it came out from the shadows of the hedge and sniffed at the base of the olive tree, in broad daylight, just as a dog would, but with its blackened socks, brushy black-tipped tail and the unmistakeable fox face.
Martha was astonished. Here was the fox that killed her chickens. Seeing it was like finally seeing the unseen. The hidden showing itself, the darkness standing there in the light. It was the fox of all her childhood stories. The fox that tried to eat Henny Penny, the fox that cunningly lured the duck from the pond, the bird from its perch, the lamb from its mother. The one that had bitten off Peachie’s head and broken Bolshie’s neck. She was filled, almost childishly, with a primal fear. It was as if her very own dark secret showed itself in the blank, white sunlight, sniffing, as if it were only a dog. Martha’s skin prickled.
She opened the door. The air was unbearably hot. She would be sunburnt in an instant. She should forget it, but she was walking quietly towards the fox, and the fox had stopped sniffing and was looking at her. It was larger than she had expected—probably a male. Martha stopped and stood still. She expected it would slink away, but it came closer. She stood still, waiting to see how close it would dare to come. It walked towards her, its head at an angle of inquiry. It was now so close Martha leaned back, momentarily frightened by how close it was and how it looked up at her. Foxes were scared of people. She shouted shoo and kicked out at it.
The fox sprang at her foot and sank its teeth into the bare skin.
Martha screamed. The scream came again as if from someone else. This didn’t happen. Foxes didn’t attack people. Martha shook herself from her own disbelief. She dropped down, and her hands pulled at its jaws. The pain was terrible. She shouted at the fox now, as if it was a dog. As if it would obey. Stop it. Blood ran from its teeth, her blood. Its grip was like a steel trap. It was quiet, experienced, a calm predator. It didn’t growl or writhe, it just bore down, ignoring her commands. Her fingers weren’t strong enough. Her palms sweated. It was her strength against the fox.
No one would come. Martha realised this with horror. Did animals fight till the death? This was killing. She was being attacked, just as the chickens had been. The fox that killed Peachie was trying to kill her. She kept screaming at it, as if the fox would respond. It had made a terrible mistake, an error of judgment. She was a person. She wasn’t prey.
Her hands worked desperately to open the jaws. Then, without warning, the fox let go and with a flicking snap latched onto her hand. She heard her screams as if they belonged to the air; they were hysterical, mixed with breath, high-pitched. She ran towards the large trunk of the pine tree, dragging the fox, she slammed it against the tree, her cries now like grunts. Still it held. She sank to the ground; the fox was on its side. Its yellow eye staring intensely at her. Her knee pressed heavily on its throat. The fur was warm. She felt the animal beneath her and leaned all her weight onto it. Now it was she who was crushing. Her breath came fast. Between them, Martha and the fox, something locked, as if neither could give way without giving everything. She pressed down harder.
The fox lay motionless on the ground. Could it be dead now? She felt a hot rush of relief, and her head dropped. Her foot throbbed. All she wanted was to get away from it. She lifted her knee slightly. The fox didn’t move. Its mouth fell open, and she took her bloodied hand away. The fox lay still. Martha stood up and her knees buckled. She closed her eyes for a moment.
Suddenly the fox was just a small animal that had made a terrible mistake.
Martha stumbled to the house and slammed the door. Her breathing was still fast. She put her hand to her chest, tried to slow it. She was covered in sweat and blood. Her nightie clung to her. She had to look at the foot. The blood was thick and sticky around the jagged wound. There were gashes on her hand where the teeth had dragged. She went to the bathroom, stuck her foot under the bath tap, and washed her hand at the same time. The blood ran; translucent red ribbons of it poured over her foot. She found a bandage and wrapped her hand in it and then plugged the holes in her foot with cotton wool and wrapped a sock around the foot. She limped to the phone and rang the hospital. A woman answered.
‘Do you mind waiting, please?’
‘No, I can’t wait, no.’ Martha’s voice choked.
‘All right. How can I help you?’ she soothed.
‘A fox attached me.’ A sob escaped her. ‘And I killed it.’