There is a madness in the air. The land has hurled itself into spring with a kind of reckless abandonment, like a young lover careless of all consequences. Everything is growing, faster than I can keep up with. There’s a feral whiff of sex in the air too, musky and earthy. When I walked along to Farm late one afternoon, I noticed a new addition in the field nearest the house: a bull, thickset, solid, burnished reddish-brown. Its bulk was so dense it made me think of black holes, or whatever it is in the universe that is so compact, so heavy, that it sucks everything else into it. I could see the muscles bunched under its taut skin and my eyes fell inevitably to the tuft of hair on its belly and to the enormous penis that hung like a bell-pull, dragged down by gravity. I felt a tingling in my breasts, a tightening in my groin, and with a flash remembered when, as a young girl, I would watch the bull mounting a cow, its hips bunching and thrusting. It had excited me. How ridiculous.
Thick breath on my neck. ‘Fine bit of flesh, eh?’
I spun round, feeling the flush rise from my chest to my face.
‘Badger. You startled me.’
‘Getting more cows see? Her idea. Came from old man Hardling. E’ll do the business. Look at the balls on ‘im.’
‘I thought it was all done by artificial insemination nowadays,’ I said, immediately wishing I could take the words back, looking swiftly away across the field, more nettles and docks than grass.
‘Don’t hold with that. Not natural is it? No, you need a bit of the old jiggery-pokery.’ And he raised his hands, square and thick, the fingers tinged yellow from tobacco, and thrust his solid thumb in and out of a ring made with the index finger and thumb of his other hand. My cheeks burned.
“Well, I must get on with my walk. Give my love to Hazel.’
‘Love eh?’ He laughed coarsely. ‘You don’ wanna love ‘er.’ I turned and walked off as briskly as I could, feeling his eyes following my hips down the road.

When I got back, I found Ben in the kitchen, finishing off grouting the tiles. He smiled easily and I felt my heart give a flutter as I caught sight of his arms, bulkier than Aidan’s but strong and with that easy tan of olive skin.
‘Looking good.’
‘Nearly done.’ He rubbed in a final line of grout and stepped back.
‘I’m happy. Are you?’
‘More than happy. It’s fabulous.’
‘I’ll get on my way then. See you in the morning.’
‘Yes, sure.’ I paused.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes. I was just wondering….do you fancy a glass of something?’
‘I should be going. I’ve left Monty at home.’
‘It’s organic.’ I don’t know why I said that. I laughed and he gave a broad grin.
‘Oh, OK. So it doesn’t get you drunk?’
‘Well, it’s supposed not to give you such a bad hangover. No conveners or whatever.’
‘So….’ He paused and then shrugged and picked up two glasses and moved over to the new French doors.
‘Are we intending to get drunk so we can test out the theory?’
I shrugged in return. ‘Why not? I’ve got a case of the stuff.’
We drank the first bottle very quickly. I’d never seen Ben do anything so hastily before – usually he moves through life in a strictly measured way.
‘Shall I get another bottle?’
‘No, better not,’ he said, his voice a tone lower than usual. He looked uncertain and a little uncertainty in a strong man is a very attractive trait.

I leaned towards him. He looked at me and I couldn’t break his gaze. I tried to think of Aidan. I tried to remember that I was married but, at that moment, all I wanted in the world was to feel his arms around me, to taste that smooth olive skin. A slight frown thickened around his forehead. I drew back, trying to read him. Then, as if on cue, a voice came chiming from the front door.
‘Helloooo. Anyone there?’
Judith. Well, who else would have such impeccable timing?


Thank God she came when she did. What was I thinking of? I go cold, imagining what would have happened if we’d kissed, if we’d gone to bed. Judith looked mightily disappointed that she hadn’t found us in a compromising situation. A juicy bit of gossip like that would have made her year. She was collecting for something or other and I shoved a fiver in her tin and bundled her off, ignoring her pointed glances at the wine bottle and strong hints about it being a warm evening.
‘I must be going,’ said Ben, smiling tautly.
‘Of course.’
He was almost out of the door when he stopped. For one moment I thought he was going to change his mind, ask to stay. I felt panic rising up in my throat.
‘Ben…’ I put out my hand, palm facing him, as if to warn him off.
‘No, no…it’s just that I meant to say….. I brought that cradle down. I thought I might give it a quick clean.’
I froze. Did he know?
‘I’m not sure I want it, Ben. I thought I might sell it.’
He looked stunned. ‘But it’s living history. It belongs to this house.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘when I cleaned the carving I found something really strange. Come and look.’

Reluctantly I followed him into the sitting room. The cradle sat, squat, like a toad, in the centre of the rug. Maybe it was my imagination but the atmosphere seemed heavy, thick.
‘Look here. I don’t know if it is some kind of mistake. It must be.’
I bent down and saw immediately what he meant.
Now the grime had been cleared from the inscription you could see a distinct line between the R and the Y making the wording stray somewhat from the biblical quotation.
The cot now read: ‘Suffer – ye little children.’
‘Ugh, that’s horrible.’
‘I know. But it can’t have been intentional, can it?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want it here.’

He looked puzzled and I fought the urge to tell him everything. But how do you admit that you’re infertile to a man you’ve so nearly kissed? I shook my head and moved away from the crib.
‘Well, it’s yours to do with as you wish. It’s a nice piece though. Would fetch a fair price, I’d think.’
And with a brisk smile, he turned and went.

The sitting room felt horrible. I couldn’t relax in there with the crib. Every time I sat down and tried to read I could feel it there, at the periphery of my vision. Once or twice I thought I heard a creak, imagined I saw it starting to rock. But of course there was nothing. I couldn’t face touching it either, to move it out of the way. I couldn’t shake off the idea that it was evil, contaminated.
So I sat in the kitchen instead.

The scrabbling was getting worse. Starting earlier. It was no longer confined to the attic either – it now seemed as though the walls were seething with life. Chewing, scratching, biting. It was horrible. Rommel was becoming more and more reluctant to be in the house. Left to himself, he’d sit outside the front door. When I called him in, he would creep, belly low to the ground, ears flat back, tail (what there was of it) squashed between his legs).
I turned the music up louder to drown out the sound. Roxy Music – uplifting, bright, breezy. The Cure and Joy Division were too gloomy, far too reminiscent of my mood. I ought to have eaten something but my appetite was vanishing. Instead I opened the other bottle of red.

I am drinking too much. I know that. Initially I found it helped with my sleeping. It stopped the dreams and would hurl me into oblivion with a blessed speed. But it’s not as effective as it was now. I’ll go to sleep alright but will wake a few hours later, heart pounding, thoughts whirring. By then the noises would be nearly deafening. It felt like at any moment they would break out from the walls and spill into the room, a moving tide of dark fur.
So I’ve started taking sleeping tablets. Aidan has a constant prescription and he’d left a packet behind. I suppose I should go to the doctor’s but the surgery is about seven miles away and I don’t want to ask anyone for a lift. Anyway, I don’t think there is anything really wrong with me. Just stress. Why am I such a fool? I should call a cab and get on the next train up to town. Make it up with Aidan. Sell this bloody house and everything in it.