The bull had spent a restless night. Through the shallows of her sleep Rachel had heard him snarling and groaning, sometimes angry, sometimes sad. Now at dawn she peered through the curtain of the small window to look at him: he stood knee-high in mud, curly forehead stiffly silvered with frost, furious pink-lashed eyes staring at the cows on the far side of the field. Maddened by the way they ignored him, he roared again, a sound that ended in a high-pitched whine: a sound pathetically thin from so large an animal.
Rachel shivered and got back into bed. She wished Jack was there. But he was away on one of his conference trips, the Canary Isles this time. She had had a postcard saying wonderful sun for the time of year, and too much wine. He always sent her postcards but never said he missed her. Sometimes Rachel wondered how the evenings on such trips were spent. Jack often said they were very boring, endless talking shop at the bar with the boys, and Rachel liked to believe him. But occasionally the nastier part of her imagination activated itself, and she imagined her husband slapping his thigh in delight at strip shows, or flirting with a passing air hostess. She never, of course, spoke of her suspicions: they only came to her because her days were too empty. In their idyllic cottage, a mile from the nearest village, there was little for her to do: no defences with which to keep lurid thoughts from an empty mind. Every day she wished she had never agreed to leave London. But it was too late now. Nothing on earth would make Jack return.
The last time he had been home, ten days ago, Rachel had mentioned the bull’s restlessness, wondering what it meant. Jack had laughed at her, seeing the unease in her face. He often scoffed at her for her lack of understanding of the countryside. When she could tell an elm from an ash, he said, he would take her fears seriously. As it was, the bull was like a frustrated old man – feeling sexy, but overweight and not up to it. No wonder he bellowed all night. Wouldn’t anyone?
Rachel managed to laugh. Standing in the kitchen in his vast gumboots, Jack seemed very wise. When he was at home there was no worry that the bull, suddenly enraged, might trample over the flimsy fence that divided their garden from the field, and storm the cottage. When Jack was there, throwing huge logs with one hand into the fire, or tapping his pipe on the hearth, any such thoughts seemed absurd. When he had gone for a while, they came back to haunt her, and she made sure she never went into the garden wearing her red skirt.
Back in bed Rachel knew she would not be able to go to sleep again. She stretched a foot into Jack’s cold part of the sheet, and wondered how she would pass the day. Squirrels in the roof scurried about: she tried to imagine the dark warmth of their nest, and felt grateful for their invisible companionship. At first, thinking they were rats, their noises had alarmed her. But now she was used to all the sounds of the cottage, the creaks when the central heating came on, the gurgle of pipes, the flutter of birds nesting in the eaves. Now, none of them alarmed her. Even on stormy nights alone, rain pelleting the windows, wind keening down the chimney, she was not afraid. She was only afraid of the bull.
Smiling at her own stupidity, Rachel got up and put on her dressing-gown. She went down to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Outside, the morning was pale. A yellowy light, reflected in the water-logged field, meant a weak sun was rising. The distant cows, lying down, were almost submerged by mist. The bull stood up at the fence, chest rubbing against it. The wire bent beneath his weight. Rachel could hear the animal’s soft, patient lowing. Hand curiously unsteady, she cut herself a piece of bread and put it in the toaster.
Then she looked at the bull, eye to eye. It jerked its head back, increasing the large folds of reddish skin round its neck. Its dilated nostrils smoked streams of warm breath. The small mean eyes remained on her face.
‘Bugger you, bull,’ said Rachel out loud.
There was a loud roar. Rachel jumped back from the window. The bull moved away from the fence. Turning its back on the cottage it rumbled towards the cows, hunch-shouldered, long scrotum swinging undignified as a bag of laundry against its muddy hocks.
Rachel heard a click behind her. In her nervous state, she jumped again. It was the toast, blackened. Smoke filled the room. She opened the back door, felt a blast of cold air, watched the blue smoke seep on to the terrace. The bull had almost reached the cows by now. So far away, Rachel felt quite safe. The pomposity of his shape reassured her. If that bull had been a man, he would have been a chairman – a stumpy-legged, huge-bellied chairman, rolling down executive corridors chewing on a fat cigar. He would have been disliked, not trusted, but respected for his power. At office dances he would nudge secretaries with plump knee or elbow – even as now the bull nudged one of the cows which, in awe, heaved itself to its feet.
Rachel ate her breakfast at the kitchen table. She would begin the day, she decided, with a long bath. Then, in preparation for Jack’s return at the weekend, she would defrost the fridge. The igloo appearance of the freezer, which somehow she never noticed, annoyed him on many occasions. He said she took no care of possessions. Their attitude to possessions was very different. Their attitude to most things, in fact, was rarely similar. For the hundredth time, that winter morning, Rachel wondered why she had married Jack. Strange how you sometimes make major decisions without meaning to, she thought: strange how you bury your real will beneath a floss of superficial good reasons and act against your instinct. She had met Jack not long after her turbulent affair with the irresponsible David had ended. Exhausted by months of alternating hope and despair, she had in her weakened state settled for the promise of peace and security. They were assets she now regretted. It was danger, she had been forced to admit to herself, that she most relished. Without the possibility of danger her life lacked an element necessary to maintain her spirits. Often, these last, lonely months in the cottage, she found herself wishing for a fire, a burglary, a local drama – anything to menace the dull rhythm of her life.
Upstairs, after her bath, Rachel sat at her dressing-table carefully making up her eyes in the way that had always pleased David. Sometimes she imagined that one day he would arrive, unannounced, to rescue her. She would not want to be caught looking less than her best. And so most days she made an effort with her appearance, in weary expectation.
She was thinking of David – the funny way his left cheek crinkled when he smiled – when she heard a crash downstairs. Then an almighty roar. Her skin shrank icily, pressing tightly over a wild heart. Glancing out of the window she saw the useless wire fence was flattened on the grass. She remembered she had not shut the back door.
With the speed of terror she ran downstairs and into the kitchen. The bull stood by the sink, its huge form blocking the door to the terrace. Beside it on the floor lay the smashed crockery it must have knocked off the draining board. Steam rose from its back, clouding a shaft of pale sunlight. It took a step forward, mud squelching from its hooves on the tiled floor. Then it raised its head to meet Rachel’s look, and gave a deep noisy sigh.
For a moment Rachel was hypnotised into silence. For a moment incredulity overcame her: perhaps this monster in her kitchen was but an hallucination sprung from a despairing mind. The whole room caved about her, the thick stone walls suddenly no protection. All the familiar objects – china, dried flowers, candlesticks, basket of eggs – cracked in their vulnerability. The bull growled. It was no illusion. Rachel screamed.
She fled, slamming the door behind her. But even as she ran to the telephone in the hall she knew it had not closed. With useless fingers she stumbled through the telephone book for the farmer’s number. When the ringing was answered by an unknown voice she shouted an almost incoherent message. She could hear the bull whining and snorting in the kitchen. With great effort of will, as she slammed down the receiver, she forced herself to turn round. The bull had nudged open the kitchen door, was surveying her with malicious intent. It stamped a fore-foot. Mud on the pale carpet. Rachel screamed again.
She ran to the sitting-room, snatched up the poker. While one part of her terrified mind told her to run up the back stairs and lock herself in the safety of the bathroom, another, more reckless part urged her to fight the bull, to protect her possessions. Suddenly, for the first time, they seemed important.
Waving the poker she now approached the animal, shouting obscene threats. Confused, it backed away from her, until it was wholly in the kitchen once more. Rachel was sparked with the adrenalin of courage: with no thought for the foolishness of the action, she struck the bull on the nose. It gave an agonised roar and lowered its swinging head. One of its horns hit the television on the dresser. The screen splintered, cracking the small reflections of the quiet day outside. Further angered, the bull moaned again, prepared to charge. But its muddy hooves skidded on the polished tiles. Its knees buckled. It fell.
Rachel took her chance. She dashed past it, hitting it again on the nose. She dived for cover under the kitchen table, peered through the legs of the chairs, shouting all the time.
The bull, infuriated by its own foolish position, managed with difficulty to get up. It then spun round with astonishing dexterity and lowered its head towards the chairs that were Rachel’s only protection. Snorting, it banged one with its head, sent it crashing to the floor. Then, seeing that Rachel was out of easy reach, it turned its revenge on the television set. One butt, and it smashed to the ground. China eggs, a jug of leaves, fruit, followed, different-shaped noises piercing the bull’s now constant roaring.
From her position under the table Rachel watched the bull’s campaign of destruction. She saw in close-up its spongy hooves slide in the mess of egg yolk and mud. She saw the dark matted hair of its belly and knees as it slid about in monstrous fashion, slashing at everything with its head. But by now all fear had left Rachel. With only the small risk of the bull reaching her, its livid roaring and thrashing thrilled rather than terrified. At last an outside force was smashing up her life. Here was reason to go. The brief protective feeling towards her possessions had disappeared. For all she cared, the bull could destroy as much as it liked. When, all too soon, she heard voices, and saw two farm labourers enter the back door, armed with pitch forks, she felt the chill of anti-climax.
The men’s appearance calmed the bull, or perhaps its rage was already spent. Willingly it allowed itself to be led by the ring in its nose on to the terrace, and back over the fallen fence into the field. The men were full of apologies and concern: the farmer was coming over at once, they said, to see about the damage. But the damage, for the moment, was of no concern to Rachel. Clearing up her shattered kitchen would nicely fill the days until Jack came home, then, with the weight of good reason on her side, she would make her announcement.
The men set about mending the fence. It would be replaced later in the day with a stronger one, they said. No need, Rachel replied: the bull’s curiosity is sated. He wouldn’t attack again. They chuckled knowingly, and said you can never trust a bull. It was pointless to argue. With a sense of real purpose – a strange and unfamiliar sensation – Rachel set about the long task of clearing up the mess.
When Jack came home two days later Rachel patiently listened to his week in the Canaries before telling the story of the bull.
Consumed by his own dreary tales of seven innocent evenings of drinking at the hotel bar, he failed to notice the television set was missing, as were many pieces of china and other objects long established in their place on the dresser and shelves. When Rachel told him what had happened, he was incredulous and concerned. His concern, however, was not so vital as to cause him to suggest a change of life. No: he merely guaranteed he would assess the strength of the new fence himself, and have some pretty sharp words with the farmer about damages. Rachel mustn’t be frightened in future: it would never happen again, he could assure her.
In return Rachel assured Jack she would certainly feel no fear in the future, because she would be far away. She was leaving him. There was no point in Jack making promises for the future, or trying to persuade her to stay. It would be a waste of breath. Her mind was made up. Also, as it would be pointless to spend the weekend together, she would be grateful if he would run her to the station in the car. She would leave her own car behind and go by train to London. She had no idea where she was going. She would make up her mind on the train.
Seeing the seriousness of her intent, and knowing she would change her mind in a few days’ time when the reactions of her nasty experience had spent themselves, Jack, with a small secret smile, obligingly took her to the station. He handed her the suitcase – rather a large one, admittedly, but then she had to play out her silly game to the full, of course – in a friendly manner, and kissed her on the cheek. As for his part, he congratulated himself on playing it impeccably. He said he would send extra money to their joint bank account, and Rachel should feel free to draw on it as she wished. Driving back to the empty cottage he felt full of understanding. Rachel had always thrived on a bit of drama: perhaps in future when this silly incident was over, he would try to provide a few more excitements in her life. What an effort, though: the price of not having married a peace-loving wife, as he had always intended, after all. Ah, well. He looked forward to a quiet evening by the fire.
Rachel arrived at Paddington just before midnight. She lugged her suitcase to the taxi rank. Before she had time to think – which she had resisted doing on the train – a taxi appeared. The driver asked where she wanted to go.
Rachel had not been in London for a long time. It was too late at night to arrive on the doorstep of friends she had not seen for many months. There was only one place she could be certain of being received with real pleasure, wasn’t there? She gave David’s address.
David had said so often he would always love her. They had not communicated for nearly a year, but that would not change things, surely. He was a man who kept his word. She did not doubt he would be alone: he was not the sort of character who would replace his women in a hurry. Rachel was certain he would be pleased to see her again, for all the ugliness of their parting.
No: it wouldn’t be too late, she was sure. But as the taxi sped through the empty streets towards his house, Rachel felt the thrill of fear again, the snarl of danger in her bones. She was reminded of the bull – its rage spurring her own excitement and fear. She felt grateful to it for rousing her from an apathy which had gripped her for far too long. Had it not been for the bull’s attack, she would never have been here, now, boldly returning to her old lover with no idea of what kind of future awaited her. As the taxi drew up at David’s house – a light on in his bedroom – for one last moment Rachel imagined Jack, alone in the kitchen at home, smoking his pipe by the fire, listening to the roar of the bull outside. Smiling to herself at the thought, she rang David’s bell and waited.
