Short Story: Animal

Short Story: Animal

‘…Oh, and a packet of porridge oats,’ said Amy, taking the carton of milk off the counter and placing it in the bag beside the sliced Hovis and the fresh vegetables. The woman looked over the top of her glasses. ‘Would that be Scottish oats you were wanting or some other kind?’ she inquired with a slight raising of the eyebrows.

‘What other kinds are there?’

‘Ah, there’re many different kinds of oats,’ said the woman, rubbing her plump hands down the sides of the flowery overall, ‘many different kinds. There’re oats from other places for a start, then there’s milled oats, oatmeal, instant oats, barley oats for stews and the like, not to mention rolled oats.’

‘Well, what do you recommend?’

‘It all depends what you want to do with them,’ said the woman. ‘As I mentioned, barley oats is for stews, oatmeal’s good for baking, as well as for coating sprats before you fry the little dears, and instant oats is good for nothing.’

Amy smiled inwardly.

‘I wanted them for porridge actually, I thought I’d said that. A packet of Quaker, or Scott’s if you have it. Maybe I’ll try the others another time.’

‘Ah now, we don’t stock the others, just the Quaker’s,’ said the woman, her head tilted slightly to one side.

Amy stifled a chuckle. ‘Quaker’s will be fine then,’ she replied.

The woman clucked and reached under the worktop for some low steps, which she pushed a short distance along behind the counter with her foot before heaving herself up to reach the red packet on the shelf above. Descending carefully she placed this before Amy and looked directly into her eyes.

‘And how do you like the cottage?’ Nothing like coming straight out with it, thought Amy. She was careful to smile before replying though – no sense in antagonising anyone in this small community if they were to be happy here.

‘Oh, we love it. It’s so good to get out of town – the fresh air, the peace and quiet, the animals. There’s quite a bit to do in the house – I don’t think it’s had a coat of paint for twenty years, but Paul can help me at weekends, and I’m looking forward to getting it just the way I want it.’

‘Just the two of you is it?’

‘Well, yes, at the moment, but we were hoping… working in the city’s so demanding – there’s not much time or energy for anything else. But now I’ve given up my job I’ll have time to get the cottage straight, then… well, we’ll see.’

‘You’ll be needing someone for the garden then? Old Ed had to let it go a bit towards the end – used to grow all his own fruit and vegetables – right up till he was in his eighties he did – but what with Sally popping off so sudden-like, he lost interest after that. They’d been together sixty odd years – it hit him hard. There’ll be a lot to do to put it to rights.’

‘I’m sure that’s so, but I really wanted to try my hand at the garden myself. I’d like to keep it fairly natural – like an extension of the countryside at the back of the cottage – so there shouldn’t be too much to do once it’s tidied up a bit. Later on I can try and grow a few vegetables – maybe even some flowers. So I don’t think I need a gardener just at the moment. Thank you all the same though.’

Walking the short distance back to the cottage Amy tried to imagine what living in the village would be like. London had been so impersonal – they’d been like two small worker ants in a vast anonymous community, and thinking back to that unrelenting pressure of being one tiny part of some great organic machine that kept the city working smoothly, Amy was glad that she’d had the courage to get out before her judgement became distorted by desperation. It would have been easy to imagine that without her salary they’d have to live a life of deprivation, but she’d done her sums and knew that provided they were reasonably careful all should be well. Paul had had some doubts, and in his usual way had made sure that she was well aware of them. Would they fit in with village life? These small communities could be very unwelcoming to newcomers – most of the inhabitants had probably lived there all their lives, or at least their ancestors had – suppose they weren’t accepted? On the other hand there might be so little going on that they could find their every move noted and discussed – the inquisitiveness of country people was well-known – they might never get a moment’s peace. Amy sensibly replied that he couldn’t have it both ways, and anyway, time tended to bring acceptance – they’d just have to be patient and fit in until that happened. The walls of the cottage garden were fairly high at the back, and were bordered by open fields, so privacy shouldn’t be a problem, and anyway, she was used to dealing diplomatically with people – it had been her job after all – and was quite capable of gently deflecting any inquiries that were too intrusive.

Had Mrs Potter been too intrusive? If she had Amy hadn’t really minded. She supposed it was fairly natural for the villagers to take an interest in any additions to the community. It would be good to relax a little – to wind down – having a successful career was all very well but there were deeper more primal instincts to satisfy, and Amy had no intention of becoming one of those dynamic women who had everything in life they could possibly want except the time to spend with their children.

It would be great if things happened quickly. Paul wanted to get the cottage straight first, but Amy had privately decided that pregnancy would be no hindrance to her efforts in that department. It would make it all the more worthwhile to know that she’d be preparing the nest for a new arrival.

A small group of children, all around the same age – nine maybe – tumbled laughing and pushing at each other across the lane in front of her. The village seemed a fertile place – there were always lots of children around even though the adult population seemed fairly evenly balanced, with more or less equal proportions of young, middle-aged and elderly. Still, it was the school holidays, so the children were bound to be more in evidence than during term time. It was funny Amy thought, how alike they were; there seemed a nebulous resemblance between all the village kids she had seen so far. Something to do with inbreeding perhaps – cousins marrying – that sort of thing, or possibly some common ancestor. Or maybe it was just the look of robust good health from living in such natural surroundings. Amy put it out of her mind. The next job was to get home and cook something wholesome and tempting before Paul got home. He was looking pale these days, she’d have to build him up a little, get him to work in the garden and improve his fitness. And it’d be an excuse to buy him some boxer shorts – far healthier than those thongs he imagined turned her on. She hadn’t had the heart to put him straight.

Amy positioned the candles and stood back to admire the table. She’d had a long and languid soak in the bath and taken care with her appearance, selecting the green silk that set off her red hair, and discreetly applying Obsession to pulse spots. She’d found some buddleia among the mugwort and dandelions that proliferated in the garden and had arranged the purple spears in a low vase in the centre of the table, and the chianti was chilling in the fridge. The aroma of spicy chicken wafted through from the kitchen, all she had to do was to blanch the vegetables julienne as soon as Paul arrived. He was late today, he should have been home half an hour ago. She crossed to the CD player and soon the Summer Concerto from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons gently danced through the warm air that drifted in past the open French windows. Amy stood looking out at the back garden. It was certainly overgrown – the trees and shrubs had encroached upon the lawn to create a shadowed sanctuary from the midsummer sun, but summer didn’t last forever and they’d need to be cut back. Giant hemlocks thrust their great stems up towards the light in the spaces between the trees, and blackberry runners groped their way past them to the edges of the straggly grass that passed for a lawn.

The soft swish of tyres on gravel woke her from her reverie, and she met Paul at the door, drawing out their customary kiss of greeting until he took her by the shoulders and gently held her from him.

‘Hey, that’s nice, but I’m knackered. Is there any vodka? Make me something long and cold, will you darling? I’ve been sitting in a tail-back for half an hour – an accident I think. I suppose I’ll get used to all this travelling, but…’

‘You’ll be fine. It’s a pity about the hold-up, but it won’t happen too often, and we’ve got the whole weekend together to look forward to. Let’s have dinner – it’s almost ready and then…’ Amy gave Paul her special look and he smiled, then she went to fix the drinks, returning with two tall glasses of vodka and freshly-squeezed orange juice tinkling with ice.

Later, after finishing their drinks and discussing Paul’s day over a candlelit dinner Amy led him to the sofa, leaving him with a brandy and a whispered taste of her intentions before disappearing to prepare herself for a night to remember.

It took her less than half an hour to fix her hair and make up, re-apply the Obsession and slip into the black lace and satin basque, black stockings and suspenders and her precious Manolo Blahnik’s, and her heart felt like a butterfly trapped in her chest as she stood in the doorway opposite the French windows. The candles had burned down and the room was in semi-darkness. Paul was where she had left him on the sofa, the brandy untouched on the side table. His mouth was open and the gentle and rhythmic sound that issued from it told her that he’d gone to a place where their corporeal bodies (well, hers at any rate), couldn’t satisfy each other. She stood watching for a moment, then with a sigh took a throw from one of the chairs and covered him tenderly. Then she went to bed.

They slept in the following morning – Paul had somehow managed to get himself to bed without waking Amy, and was lying on his stomach with one arm hanging over the side of the bed. She stretched out a hand to hover uncertainly over the pale back and bent as if to kiss a shoulder, but in the end decided to let him sleep – he’d been up at five every day that week and had some catching up to do.

It was midday before he appeared, still in his pyjama bottoms. Amy had already given the other bedroom its second coat of paint, prepared breakfast, and was now thinking about the garden. Paul stood stretching in the kitchen doorway.

‘Sorry about last night – I must have fallen asleep. It’s been a hectic week. I’m not used to getting up so early, and the drive into work, well… Come here...’

Amy smiled as she breathed in his sleepy warmth and gently took his earlobe between her teeth, stroking it with her tongue before releasing it to say matter-of-factly; ‘OK, here’s the deal. A shag before breakfast, then we make a start on the garden, what d’you say?’

‘Why, you little slut…’ The rest of the sentence was lost in Amy’s squeals as he lifted her feet from the floor and stumbled with her back to the warm bed.

Amy stood looking out at the garden. Paul had left for work extra early this morning in an attempt to avoid the rush hour traffic on the M25. In spite of all their good intentions very little had been achieved in the past two days – the garden remained untouched in spite of their ‘deal’ – they’d gone outside to discuss what needed to be done, had a couple of drinks before lunch and somehow never got round to actually doing any work. Sunday had been spent entertaining friends who’d dropped in to see the cottage and hadn’t left till late the previous evening. Somehow, thought Amy, I’ll just have to manage what needs to be done myself.

A narrow path that led to what had been the vegetable garden ran between the trees and shrubs that surrounded the lawn, and as Amy gazed at the patterns of sunlight that fell dancing between the leaves to flicker restlessly on the dark earth in shifting shapes of brilliant orange, she somehow became aware that something or someone was moving at the top of the garden. She stood at the French windows with narrowed eyes, but just as she’d decided to go and see who or what it was, a man appeared between the trees and stood at the edge of the lawn looking at the house. He was tall and had the look of a labourer about him – maybe it was the clothes; cord trousers, working boots and a collarless shirt open at the neck to reveal skin tanned the colour of russet apples. His arms showed strong and muscular below the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt. His hair was a mid-brown greying at the temples, curly and slightly sun-bleached, and fell almost to his shoulders. Pushing down a small flutter of fear, Amy stepped through the open French windows and addressed him with an anger she didn’t feel.

‘Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my garden? This is private property – you’d better clear off before I call the police.’

The man spread his large hands in a disarming gesture, and approached. He seemed to be in his late forties, although he might have been younger – the way he was dressed had a timeless quality, as if he’d stepped from a Millet painting of peasants working on the land, and his skin showed the effects of a life lived in the open air.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Mary Potter said you’d be needing a gardener, so I just thought I’d come and see what wanted doing. Vegetable garden’ll need some sorting out, but you’ll be serving home-grown in a month or so once I get started.’

He smiled suddenly, a glimpse of white teeth in the tanned face, and the creases round his eyes deepened until his eyes were no more than flashes of yellow-flecked hazel surrounded by spiky lashes.

‘Look, I’m sorry too, but I never said I needed a gardener. I want to do the garden myself. How did you get in?’

‘There’s an old door in the corner there, under the ivy. It’s near rotten now, I could fix that too if you liked.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it. Maybe there are a few things that need fixing. Do you live in the village? I’ll give you a call if I need anything doing.’

He extended a hand, and Amy took it with only a momentary hesitation. It was hard and warm, and gripped hers with a quiet strength.

‘Judd. Judd Blackstone. Everyone knows me hereabouts. I live in the cottage, back of Henty’s farm. Just say the word to Mary in the shop and I’ll be round the next day.’

He nodded then, and turning back towards the trees disappeared between them and was gone. Bloody hell, thought Amy. I’d better get that door mended.

She forgot the garden for the next two days; finishing the empty bedroom was a priority, as she’d decided it was the better of the two larger ones, and intended it for their own. Paul still seemed tired in the evenings, and Amy’s planned celebration for their first night in the newly decorated bedroom ended before it had begun, with Paul asleep before she’d returned from cleaning her teeth. It was extraordinary how much energy she had now that she no longer had to work in the city. The cottage was basically sound; they’d had central heating and new wiring installed before they moved in, and the wooden floors had been stripped and polished, all that needed doing was the decorating, and Amy felt she was making rapid progress. Country living suited her, she felt alive in a way she’d never felt in town. She explored the footpaths that led to the woods and river, spent countless moments gazing at the sheep in the fields behind the cottage and still had the time and energy to keep abreast of the shopping and housework and continue with the painting.

It was Wednesday before she began her first determined assault on the brambles that were thrusting their long prickly runners from the dense green beneath the trees out onto the lawn. They seemed to be stretching their fierce organic limbs to reach in and invade the cottage, and Amy could have sworn that their growth was so fast as to be visible to the naked eye.

She had been working for an hour, oblivious to the bloody scratches that scored her arms and legs and the sweat soaking her shorts and T shirt when a voice cut in upon her concentration and made her start.

‘You shouldn’t be doing that yourself. That’s no work for a woman, and if no’un else’ll do it for you, you should’ve asked Judd.’

Amy looked up to see Judd Blackstone himself standing in the sunlight on the path between the trees. She tried to summon up some annoyance at this second intrusion, but found it too elusive to speak as harshly to him as she might.

‘Oh, it’s you. Well, I suppose you’d better fix that bloody gate, I can’t be doing with you appearing like some spectre from Lady Chatterley every five minutes.’ She straightened and looked him in the eye, and he laughed. Amy chuckled in spite of herself. Shit. Why the hell had she said that?

‘Do you want me to start now? There’s a few tools in the old shed and some wood stacked against the wall, but I’ve got anything else needed back at the farm, so it won’t cost much. A day should fix it, I’d say. Tomorrow? But I can start straight off if you’d rather.’

‘Tomorrow will be fine. And do you think you could come round to the front door next time? It’s a bit unnerving to have you keep appearing like that. I might be sunbathing or something.’

Judd looked directly into her eyes, and she saw her face reflected in his pupils.

‘You don’t want to be lying in the sun with your skin. It’s not healthy. And well, I don’t use the front door, not me. They like me to come round the back – no use treading the dirt through now, is there?’

Amy said no, she supposed it wasn’t and she hadn’t thought of that, and with a gesture somewhere between a salute and a wave he was gone.

The following day Amy stood at the French windows watching as Judd continued the war against the brambles. The overhanging ivy had been trimmed and the door mended, but she somehow hadn’t the heart to speak to him about fitting a new lock as she’d intended. It seemed a bit brutal, rude, untrusting. The crime rate was fairly low in this part of Sussex, and the cottage was secure, so it shouldn’t really be necessary.

She gazed at the movement of muscles on his back as he thrust the spade into the ground, lifting his knee to ram it deep into the earth before stooping to lift the root and shake it free of soil. There was something beautiful about the rhythm of digging and bending that kept her there by the windows when there were things that needed doing in the cottage. At last she turned away and went to start preparations for dinner. When she returned to the French windows he’d gone.

By the time the weekend arrived the garden was looking decidedly less rampant. Paul noticed and congratulated her on the difference she’d made in just a few days. She hadn’t told him about Judd Blackstone, and later, thinking about their conversation she’d wished she had – it would have been the right moment. But Paul was inclined to worry about money and might have objected to paying someone for work they could do perfectly well themselves, so Amy reasoned that it was probably just as well he didn’t know. Once the heavy jobs were done she could tell the man she didn’t need him any more.

The weekend passed quickly. Paul seemed to need the two days to recover from the daily drive into town, so very little was achieved in the cottage as far as decoration was concerned. During the week that followed Amy found herself drawn more and more to the French windows to watch Judd Blackstone as he worked in the garden; mowing and raking the lawn, cutting back the trees and shrubs, and digging up the pernicious roots of blackberry and ground elder. He had the habit of disappearing through the garden door when he’d finished for the day – he’d never say he was going – Amy would just go outside and find that he wasn’t there.

She’d been watching for longer than usual. He’d been reaching up to cut down some overhanging branches, and she’d gazed almost mesmerised at the thick brown torso as it stretched and contracted with the raising and lowering of his arms, the three bottom ribs standing out like geographic features on a human landscape, the ubiquitous cords falling lower around his hips to reveal the line of curly hair that ran down from his navel. She turned her head as a fly brushed her cheek, and suddenly he was gone. So startling was this event that Amy ran into the garden to look for him, thinking perhaps he’d stepped into the shadow under the trees, but he was nowhere to be seen. Returning to the cottage she found herself overcome with such urgent desire that it seemed the only answer lay in immediate self-gratification. Afterwards the momentary guilt was easily quashed – Paul had been too tired all week, and after all, it wasn’t as if she was having an affair. Just a much needed release for her libido and newly found energies. OK, so she’d been watching Judd, and that had started it, but what harm was there in that?

The trouble was that now she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She stood at the French windows for an hour at a time, and as the excitement built longed for him to leave so she could obtain release in the only way possible. On the few occasions that they’d made love Paul’s face had developed the frightening tendency to metamorphose into Judd Blackstone’s rather animalistic features – who or what did he remind her of? The answer was there on the razor edge of accessibility, but somehow just out of reach.

It was on a Thursday. She’d been watching as usual but the desire, instead of building slowly and deliciously had swept over her with the force of a tsunami, and she’d left the French windows and run to the bedroom, flinging herself onto the white linen almost before she’d discarded the thin summer dress. Some moments later as the soft explosion burst and shook her body and the earth slowed almost to a standstill, she became aware as if from some distance of a voice, deep and unhurried.

‘You shouldn’t be doing that yourself…’

Later, it seemed to Amy that their coming together had had a primordial inevitability about it. She was a modern woman – there had been others before Paul, but she had never known a man like this one. He spoke little – words seemed unnecessary between them. All that existed was an urgent animal need that was so basic it overwhelmed any other emotion or reserve she might have had. The smell of him set her panting like a bitch in heat, she grew wild and wanton, and after he’d taken her that first time and they lay side by side on the white linen she was amazed to find desire stirring again, and turning to wonder if her skills were equal to arousing him anew grew wide-eyed at the evidence of his readiness to satisfy her yet again. It seemed there was no exhausting his capacity to be of service to her.

She continued watching him at work, standing naked at the French windows until she could bear it no longer, when an incoherent cry would leave her lips to alert him to her need. There was no guilt – Amy’s desire was a part of the land itself, something savage, ancient, beyond thought or reason.

Paul noticed the difference in her, and a frisson that had been missing in their relationship for some time seemed suddenly to spring up between them, and he’d rush home from work to make love to her with a passion she barely remembered. Her abundant energies increased – by the end of the summer all the rooms had been decorated, curtains and covers made, and all that remained to be done were the finishing touches.

One warm September day, as Amy lay with Judd on the white linen, he raised himself on his elbow, and placing a large brown hand on her belly gently stroked its smooth curve.

‘You won’t be needing me now. There’s nothing much you can’t handle yourself in the garden – just keep it weeded, that’ll do. I’ve got some work on – I won’t be far away, but I won’t be able to come around. Maybe next summer, if you want me…’

Amy looked up into those strange eyes, but something kept her from speaking. Perhaps it was his expression. She just reached up to pull his head down to her breast.

Much later she stood at the garden door looking out into the field behind the cottage. Henty had opened the gate at the end and was driving the tractor through, pulling a small trailer. He stopped, got down, shut the gate and lowered the tailgate. The sheep, overcome by either curiosity or expectation had gathered to watch, and were standing in a line some yards away. The ram needed no urging down the ramp. He sauntered into the field tossing his magnificent curled horns, and walked nonchalantly towards the waiting ewes, stopping to gaze for a long moment to where Amy stood at the garden door. Henty raised the tailgate and slammed it shut before walking the short distance over to her.

‘Look at them – they can hardly wait. Great animal that – every one of those ewes’ll lamb next year – some’ll have twins. Never known a stud like him.’

‘What’s that harness strapped around his shoulders?’

‘Dye bag – lets us know which ewes he’s serviced. Come morning most’ll have blue marks on their backs. Not that it’s needed with that ‘un – he knows what he’s about. A great animal.’

Henty departed with a last admiring glance towards the famous ram, and Amy returned to the cottage to prepare dinner. What the hell was she going to do without Judd? Luckily her emotions had never become involved – it had just been raw sexual need, and there was always the consolation of solitary pleasures, but…

Amy awoke the following morning and stretched; deliciously, sensuously. The sun filtered through the pale curtains to reveal Paul still asleep in his customary position, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. They’d made love last night to symphonic bleating from the back field, and it had been good. And she’d dreamt about Judd, and it had been so real that she could almost smell him now, and feel his sweat on her belly. She reached down to stroke the place his hand had rested yesterday, and it seemed to Amy that her body had filled out, become more rounded, more natural. She sighed and sat up in bed. The memories of this summer would stay with her always, and hadn’t he said ‘maybe next summer’? Something to look forward to. But now Paul was waking. She felt his hand reach out to touch her shoulder, and desire began to stir again.

‘Amy, What have you done to yourself?’

She turned to look at him.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘What’s all that blue stuff on your back?’

Her eyes widened, and suddenly she began to laugh.

‘What the hell are you laughing at? Stop it Amy, you’re scaring me. You sound just like those bloody sheep.’

‘Nothing. Come here. I need…’