Read Online Unexplained Laughter by Alice Thomas Ellis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice Thomas Ellis
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– and she resented her own blinding mortality. ‘I know God originally intended me for an angel,’ she said crossly, brushing wood shavings from her knees. ‘I wonder what dreadful thing I did to end up as a human being?’
‘I’m never sure you are a human being,’ said Betty repressively. ‘You’re very peculiar.’
‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ said Lydia. ‘I saw the Molesworths outside their house. I’d rather be a rat than a Molesworth. I’d rather live in Farmhouse Grim than Château Molesworth. I’d rather be a rat and his wife than be April or a doctor.’
‘April?’ said Betty. ‘The Molesworths’ daughter is called April. It must’ve been her.’
‘Oh help,’ said Lydia. ‘What a good thing I went all quiet. I could’ve said something frightful.’
‘As if you cared,’ said Betty.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Lydia. ‘I do know where to draw the line.’
The day of the Agricultural Fair approached and passions rose in the village. In the shop Lydia heard rumours of men who sat up all night amongst their carrots, a shotgun across their knees for fear of jealous rivals who would come under cover of darkness to pour paraquat on the feathery fronds; of women who stood all night in their kitchens baking, baking in the quest for the one, the perfect, cake or loaf. In the hills men and women were combing and washing and polishing chosen animals to a
Vogue
-like perfection of appearance, winners determined to hold their titles, aspirants determined to displace them.
‘Oo-er,’ said Lydia. ‘They alarm me. I begin to get some idea of what the Roman games must’ve been like.’
‘All villages are the same,’ said Betty. She had acquired a copy of the rules of the various competitions and was reading it. ‘There’s a section here for the most prettily arranged salad. Shall I try?’
‘You wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance,’ said Lydia. ‘It’s all rigged beforehand.’ She had now grown quite used to Betty who had, on the whole, been very patient with her; and, once accepted, it was restful having someone around to do the cooking and the washing-up. She had so far relented towards Betty that she did not wish to see her disappointed. ‘We’ll just go along as onlookers,’ she said, ‘and cheer whenever it seems appropriate. Then they won’t be cross with us for interfering in their primitive rituals.’
‘Do you want to go to it?’ asked Betty, looking up in surprise. ‘I’d have thought you’d be bored.’
‘Nothing would persuade me to miss it,’ said Lydia. ‘I always go to tribal events, wherever I am.’
For some reason this made her think of Finn, and she stood still for a moment, again waiting cautiously for any twinges of anguish, any signs of unhealed wounds. There were none. She didn’t even wish he’d break a leg. She didn’t care if he broke a leg or not. She looked across the stream, through the leaves at the distant field; at the nettles and the meadow-sweet and the wild roses; down at the camomile daisies crushed under her feet.
‘Very, very pretty,’ she approved, aloud. She was cured. Oh, the relief.
‘You’re looking much better recently,’ said Betty, observing this show of gladness. ‘Have you quite stopped hearing things?’
‘Not so much as a titter,’ Lydia answered her, breathing deeply. Now she could get on with life, concern herself with the large airy matters like God and death and the problem of suffering; forget, for a while, the goblin things – sex and money and regular meals.
Beuno was standing in the stream with his back to them, not doing anything.
‘What’s Beuno doing?’ asked Betty, mop in hand, sweating slightly from the exertion of housework, Martha to the life.
‘He isn’t doing anything,’ said Lydia. ‘He’s just standing in the stream.’
‘I wonder if he’d run me to the shop,’ said Betty. She had asked Elizabeth and Dr Wyn to come in for a drink that evening.
‘I’m never sure you are a human being,’ said Betty repressively. ‘You’re very peculiar.’
‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ said Lydia. ‘I saw the Molesworths outside their house. I’d rather be a rat than a Molesworth. I’d rather live in Farmhouse Grim than Château Molesworth. I’d rather be a rat and his wife than be April or a doctor.’
‘April?’ said Betty. ‘The Molesworths’ daughter is called April. It must’ve been her.’
‘Oh help,’ said Lydia. ‘What a good thing I went all quiet. I could’ve said something frightful.’
‘As if you cared,’ said Betty.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Lydia. ‘I do know where to draw the line.’
The day of the Agricultural Fair approached and passions rose in the village. In the shop Lydia heard rumours of men who sat up all night amongst their carrots, a shotgun across their knees for fear of jealous rivals who would come under cover of darkness to pour paraquat on the feathery fronds; of women who stood all night in their kitchens baking, baking in the quest for the one, the perfect, cake or loaf. In the hills men and women were combing and washing and polishing chosen animals to a
Vogue
-like perfection of appearance, winners determined to hold their titles, aspirants determined to displace them.
‘Oo-er,’ said Lydia. ‘They alarm me. I begin to get some idea of what the Roman games must’ve been like.’
‘All villages are the same,’ said Betty. She had acquired a copy of the rules of the various competitions and was reading it. ‘There’s a section here for the most prettily arranged salad. Shall I try?’
‘You wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance,’ said Lydia. ‘It’s all rigged beforehand.’ She had now grown quite used to Betty who had, on the whole, been very patient with her; and, once accepted, it was restful having someone around to do the cooking and the washing-up. She had so far relented towards Betty that she did not wish to see her disappointed. ‘We’ll just go along as onlookers,’ she said, ‘and cheer whenever it seems appropriate. Then they won’t be cross with us for interfering in their primitive rituals.’
‘Do you want to go to it?’ asked Betty, looking up in surprise. ‘I’d have thought you’d be bored.’
‘Nothing would persuade me to miss it,’ said Lydia. ‘I always go to tribal events, wherever I am.’
For some reason this made her think of Finn, and she stood still for a moment, again waiting cautiously for any twinges of anguish, any signs of unhealed wounds. There were none. She didn’t even wish he’d break a leg. She didn’t care if he broke a leg or not. She looked across the stream, through the leaves at the distant field; at the nettles and the meadow-sweet and the wild roses; down at the camomile daisies crushed under her feet.
‘Very, very pretty,’ she approved, aloud. She was cured. Oh, the relief.
‘You’re looking much better recently,’ said Betty, observing this show of gladness. ‘Have you quite stopped hearing things?’
‘Not so much as a titter,’ Lydia answered her, breathing deeply. Now she could get on with life, concern herself with the large airy matters like God and death and the problem of suffering; forget, for a while, the goblin things – sex and money and regular meals.
Beuno was standing in the stream with his back to them, not doing anything.
‘What’s Beuno doing?’ asked Betty, mop in hand, sweating slightly from the exertion of housework, Martha to the life.
‘He isn’t doing anything,’ said Lydia. ‘He’s just standing in the stream.’
‘I wonder if he’d run me to the shop,’ said Betty. She had asked Elizabeth and Dr Wyn to come in for a drink that evening.
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