Sometimes I'll be driving on a long weaving road across marshland, or maybe past rows of furrowed1 fields, the sky big and grey and never changing mile after mile, and I find I'm thinking about my essay, the one I was supposed to be writing back then, when we were at the Cottages. The guardians3 had talked to us about our essays on and off throughout that last summer, trying to help each of us choose a topic that would absorb us properly for anything up to two years. But somehow--maybe we could see something in the guardians' manner--no one really believed the essays were that important, and among ourselves we hardly discussed the matter. I remember when I went in to tell Miss Emily my chosen topic was Victorian novels, I hadn't really thought about it much and I could see she knew it. But she just gave me one of her searching stares and said nothing more.
Once we got to the Cottages, though, the essays took on a new importance. In our first days there, and for some of us a lot longer, it was like we were each clinging to our essay, this last task from Hailsham, like it was a farewell gift from the guardians. Over time, they would fade from our minds, but for a while those essays helped keep us afloat in our new surroundings.
When I think about my essay today, what I do is go over it in some detail: I may think of a completely new approach I could have taken, or about different writers and books I could have focused on. I might be having coffee in a service station, staring at the motorway4 through the big windows, and my essay will pop into my head for no reason. Then I quite enjoy sitting there, going through it all again. Just lately, I've even toyed with the idea of going back and working on it, once I'm not a carer any more and I've got the time. But in the end, I suppose I'm not really serious about it. It's just a bit of nostalgia5 to pass the time. I think about the essay the same way I might a rounders match at Hailsham I did particularly well in, or else an argument from long ago where I can now think of all the clever things I should have said. It's at that sort of level--daydream stuff. But as I say, that's not how it was when we first got to the Cottages.
Eight of us who left Hailsham that summer ended up at the Cottages. Others went to the White Mansion6 in the Welsh hills, or to Poplar Farm in Dorset. We didn't know then that all these places had only the most tenuous7 links with Hailsham. We arrived at the Cottages expecting a version of Hailsham for older students, and I suppose that was the way we continued to see them for some time. We certainly didn't think much about our lives beyond the Cottages, or about who ran them, or how they fitted into the larger world. None of us thought like that in those days.
The Cottages were the remains8 of a farm that had gone out of business years before. There was an old farmhouse9, and around it, barns, outhouses, stables all converted for us to live in. There were other buildings, usually the outlying ones, that were virtually falling down, which we couldn't use for much, but for which we felt in some vague way responsible--mainly on account of Keffers. He was this grumpy old guy who turned up two or three times a week in his muddy van to look the place over. He didn't like to talk to us much, and the way he went round sighing and shaking his head disgustedly implied we weren't doing nearly enough to keep the place up. But it was never clear what more he wanted us to do. He'd shown us a list of chores when we'd first arrived, and the students who were already there--"the veterans," as Hannah called them--had long since worked out a rota which we kept to conscientiously10. There really wasn't much else we could do other than report leaking gutters11 and mop up after floods.
The old farmhouse--the heart of the Cottages--had a number of fireplaces where we could burn the split logs stacked in the outer barns. Otherwise we had to make do with big boxy heaters. The problem with these was they worked on gas canisters, and unless it was really cold, Keffers wouldn't bring many in. We kept asking him to leave a big supply with us, but he'd shake his head gloomily, like we were bound to use them up frivolously12 or else cause an explosion. So I remember a lot of the time, outside the summer months, being chilly13. You went around with two, even three jumpers on, and your jeans felt cold and stiff. We sometimes kept our Wellingtons on the whole day, leaving trails of mud and damp through the rooms. Keffers, observing this, would again shake his head, but when we asked him what else we were supposed to do, the floors being in the state they were, he'd make no reply.
I'm making it sound pretty bad, but none of us minded the discomforts14 one bit--it was all part of the excitement of being at the Cottages. If we were honest, though, particularly near the beginning, most of us would have admitted missing the guardians. A few of us, for a time, even tried to think of Keffers as a sort of guardian2, but he was having none of it. You went up to greet him when he arrived in his van and he'd stare at you like you were mad. But this was one thing we'd been told over and over: that after Hailsham there'd be no more guardians, so we'd have to look after each other. And by and large, I'd say Hailsham prepared us well on that score.
Most of the students I was close to at Hailsham ended up at the Cottages that summer. Cynthia E.--the girl who'd said about me being Ruth's "natural successor" that time in the Art Room--I wouldn't have minded her, but she went to Dorset with the rest of her crowd. And Harry15, the boy I'd nearly had sex with, I heard he went to Wales. But all our gang had stayed together. And if we ever missed the others, we could tell ourselves there was nothing stopping us going to visit them. For all our map lessons with Miss Emily, we had no real idea at that point about distances and how easy or hard it was to visit a particular place. We'd talk about getting lifts from the veterans when they were going on their trips, or else how in time we'd learn to drive ourselves and then we'd be able to see them whenever we pleased.
Of course, in practice, especially during the first months, we rarely stepped beyond the confines of the Cottages. We didn't even walk about the surrounding countryside or wander into the nearby village. I don't think we were afraid exactly. We all knew no one would stop us if we wandered off, provided we were back by the day and the time we entered into Keffers's ledgerbook. That summer we arrived, we were constantly seeing veterans packing their bags and rucksacks and going off for two or three days at a time with what seemed to us scary nonchalance16. We'd watched them with astonishment17, wondering if by the following summer we'd be doing the same. Of course, we were, but in those early days, it didn't seem possible. You have to remember that until that point we'd never been beyond the grounds of Hailsham, and we were just bewildered. If you'd told me then that within a year, I'd not only develop a habit of taking long solitary18 walks, but that I'd start learning to drive a car, I'd have thought you were mad.
EVEN RUTH LOOKED DAUNTED19 that sunny day the minibus dropped us in front of the farmhouse, circled round the little pond and disappeared up the slope. We could see hills in the distance that reminded us of the ones in the distance at Hailsham, but they seemed to us oddly crooked20, like when you draw a picture of a friend and it's almost right but not quite, and the face on the sheet gives you the creeps. But at least it was the summer, not the way the Cottages would get a few months on, with all the puddles21 frozen over and the rough ground frosted bone hard. The place looked beautiful and cosy22, with overgrown grass everywhere--a novelty to us. We stood together in a huddle23, the eight of us, and watched Keffers go in and out of the farmhouse, expecting him to address us at any moment. But he didn't, and all we could catch was the odd irritated mutter about the students who already lived there. Once, as he went to get something from his van, he gave us a moody24 glance, then returned to the farmhouse and closed the door behind him.
Before too long, though, the veterans, who'd been having a bit of fun watching us being pathetic--we were to do much the same the following summer--came out and took us in hand. In fact, looking back, I see they really went out of their way helping25 us settle in. Even so, those first weeks were strange and we were glad we had each other. We'd always move about together and seemed to spend large parts of the day awkwardly standing26 outside the farmhouse, not knowing what else to do.
It's funny now recalling the way it was at the beginning, because when I think of those two years at the Cottages, that scared, bewildered start doesn't seem to go with any of the rest of it. If someone mentions the Cottages today, I think of easy-going days drifting in and out of each other's rooms, the languid way the afternoon would fold into evening then into night. I think of my pile of old paperbacks27, their pages gone wobbly, like they'd once belonged to the sea. I think about how I read them, lying on my front in the grass on warm afternoons, my hair--which I was growing long then--always falling across my vision. I think about the mornings waking up in my room at the top of the Black Barn to the voices of students outside in the field, arguing about poetry or philosophy; or the long winters, the breakfasts in steamed-up kitchens, meandering28 discussions around the table about Kafka or Picasso. It was always stuff like that at breakfast; never who you'd had sex with the night before, or why Larry and Helen weren't talking to each other any more.
But then again, when I think about it, there's a sense in which that picture of us on that first day, huddled29 together in front of the farmhouse, isn't so incongruous after all. Because maybe, in a way, we didn't leave it behind nearly as much as we might once have thought. Because somewhere underneath30, a part of us stayed like that: fearful of the world around us, and--no matter how much we despised ourselves for it--unable quite to let each other go.
THE VETERANS, who of course knew nothing about the history of Tommy and Ruth's relationship, treated them as a longestablished couple, and this seemed to please Ruth no end. For the first weeks after we arrived, she made a big deal of it, always putting her arm around Tommy, sometimes snogging him in the corner of a room while other people were still about. Well, this kind of thing might have been fine at Hailsham, but looked immature31 at the Cottages. The veteran couples never did anything showy in public, going about in a sensible sort of way, like a mother and father might do in a normal family.
There was, incidentally, something I noticed about these veteran couples at the Cottages--something Ruth, for all her close study of them, failed to spot--and this was how so many of their mannerisms were copied from the television. It first came to me watching this couple, Susie and Greg--probably the oldest students at the Cottages and generally thought to be "in charge" of the place. There was this particular thing Susie did whenever Greg set off on one of his speeches about Proust or whoever: she'd smile at the rest of us, roll her eyes, and mouth very emphatically, but only just audibly: "Gawd help us." Television at Hailsham had been pretty restricted, and at the Cottages too--though there was nothing to stop us watching all day--no one was very keen on it. But there was an old set in the farmhouse and another in the Black Barn, and I'd watch every now and then. That's how I realised that this "Gawd help us" stuff came from an American series, one of those with an audience laughing along at everything anyone said or did. There was a character--a large woman who lived next door to the main characters--who did exactly what Susie did, so when her husband went off on a big spiel, the audience would be waiting for her to roll her eyes and say "Gawd help us" so they could burst out with this huge laugh. Once I'd spotted32 this, I began to notice all kinds of other things the veteran couples had taken from TV programmes: the way they gestured to each other, sat together on sofas, even the way they argued and stormed out of rooms.
Anyway, my point is, it wasn't long before Ruth realised the way she'd been carrying on with Tommy was all wrong for the Cottages, and she set about changing how they did things in front of people. And there was in particular this one gesture Ruth picked up from the veterans. Back at Hailsham, if a couple were parting, even for a few minutes, it had been an excuse for big embraces and snogging. At the Cottages, though, when a couple were saying goodbye to each other, there'd be hardly any words, never mind embraces or kisses. Instead, you slapped your partner's arm near the elbow, lightly with the back of your knuckles33, the way you might do to attract someone's attention. Usually the girl did it to the boy, just as they were moving apart. This custom had faded out by the winter, but when we arrived, it was what was going on and Ruth was soon doing it to Tommy. Mind you, at first, Tommy didn't have a clue what was going on, and would turn abruptly34 to Ruth and go: "What?," so that she'd have to glare furiously at him, like they were in a play and he'd forgotten his lines. I suppose she eventually had a word with him, because after a week or so they were managing to do it right, more or less exactly like the veteran couples.
I'd not actually seen the slap on the elbow on the television, but I was pretty sure that's where the idea had come from, and just as sure Ruth hadn't realised it. That was why, that afternoon I was reading Daniel Deronda on the grass and Ruth was being irritating, I decided35 it was time someone pointed36 it out to her.
IT WAS NEARLY AUTUMN and starting to get chilly. The veterans were spending more time indoors and generally going back to whatever routines they'd had before the summer. But those of us who'd arrived from Hailsham kept sitting outside on the uncut grass--wanting to keep going for as long as possible the only routine we'd got used to. Even so, by that particular afternoon, there were maybe only three or four apart from me reading in the field, and since I'd gone out of my way to find a quiet corner to myself, I'm pretty sure what happened between me and Ruth wasn't overheard.
I was lying on a piece of old tarpaulin37 reading, as I say, Daniel Deronda, when Ruth came wandering over and sat down beside me. She studied the cover of my book and nodded to herself. Then after about a minute, just as I knew she would, she began to outline to me the plot of Daniel Deronda. Until that point, I'd been in a perfectly38 okay mood, and had been pleased to see Ruth, but now I was irritated. She'd done this to me a couple of times before, and I'd seen her doing it to others. For one thing, there was the manner she put on: a kind of nonchalant but sincere one as though she expected people to be really grateful for her assistance. Okay, even at the time, I was vaguely39 aware what was behind it. In those early months, we'd somehow developed this idea that how well you were settling in at the Cottages--how well you were coping--was somehow reflected by how many books you'd read. It sounds odd, but there you are, it was just something that developed between us, the ones who'd arrived from Hailsham. The whole notion was kept deliberately40 hazy--in fact, it was pretty reminiscent of the way we'd dealt with sex at Hailsham. You could go around implying you'd read all kinds of things, nodding knowingly when someone mentioned, say, War and Peace, and the understanding was that no one would scrutinise your claim too rationally. You have to remember, since we'd been in each other's company constantly since arriving at the Cottages, it wasn't possible for any of us to have read War and Peace without the rest noticing. But just like with the sex at Hailsham, there was an unspoken agreement to allow for a mysterious dimension where we went off and did all this reading.
It was, as I say, a little game we all indulged in to some extent. Even so, it was Ruth who took it further than anyone else. She was the one always pretending to have finished anything anyone happened to be reading; and she was the only one with this notion that the way to demonstrate your superior reading was to go around telling people the plots of novels they were in the middle of. That's why, when she started on Daniel Deronda, even though I'd not been enjoying it much, I closed the book, sat up and said to her, completely out of the blue: "Ruth, I've been meaning to ask you. Why do you always hit Tommy on the arm like that when you're saying goodbye? You know what I mean."
Of course she claimed not to, so I patiently explained what I was talking about. Ruth heard me out then shrugged43.
"I didn't realise I was doing it. I must have just picked it up."
A few months before I might have let it go at that--or probably wouldn't have brought it up in the first place. But that afternoon I just pressed on, explaining to her how it was something from a television series. "It's not something worth copying," I told her. "It's not what people really do out there, in normal life, if that's what you were thinking."
Ruth, I could see, was now angry but unsure how to fight back. She looked away and did another shrug42. "So what?" she said. "It's no big deal. A lot of us do it."
"What you mean is Chrissie and Rodney do it."
As soon as I said this I realised I'd made a mistake; that until I'd mentioned these two, I'd had Ruth in a corner, but now she was out. It was like when you make a move in chess and just as you take your finger off the piece, you see the mistake you've made, and there's this panic because you don't know yet the scale of disaster you've left yourself open to. Sure enough, I saw a gleam come into Ruth's eyes and when she spoke41 again it was in an entirely44 new voice.
"So that's it, that's what's upsetting poor little Kathy. Ruth isn't paying enough attention to her. Ruth's got big new friends and baby sister isn't getting played with so often..."
"Stop all that. Anyway that's not how it works in real families. You don't know anything about it."
"Oh Kathy, the great expert on real families. So sorry. But that's what this is, isn't it? You've still got this idea. Us Hailsham lot, we have to stay together, a tight little bunch, must never make any new friends."
"I've never said that. I'm just talking about Chrissie and Rodney. It looks daft, the way you copy everything they do."
"But I'm right, aren't I?" Ruth went on. "You're upset because I've managed to move on, make new friends. Some of the veterans hardly remember your name, and who can blame them? You never talk to anyone unless they're Hailsham. But you can't expect me to hold your hand the whole time. We've been here nearly two months now."
I didn't take the bait, but said instead: "Never mind me, never mind Hailsham. But you keep leaving Tommy in the lurch45. I've watched you, you've done it a few times just this week. You leave him stranded46, looking like a spare part. That's not fair. You and Tommy are supposed to be a couple. That means you look out for him."
"Quite right, Kathy, we're a couple, like you say. And if you must intrude47, I'll tell you. We've talked about this, and we've agreed. If he sometimes doesn't feel like doing things with Chrissie and Rodney, that's his choice. I'm not going to make him do anything he's not yet ready for. But we've agreed, he shouldn't hold me back. Nice of you to be concerned though." Then she added, in a quite different voice: "Come to think of it, I suppose you haven't been that slow making friends with at least some of the veterans."
She watched me carefully, then did a laugh, as though to say: "We're still friends, aren't we?" But I didn't find anything to laugh about in this last remark of hers. I just picked up my book and walked off without another word.
收听单词发音 |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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motorway
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| n.高速公路，快车道 | |
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nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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frivolously
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| adv.轻浮地，愚昧地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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paperbacks
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| n.平装本，平装书( paperback的名词复数 ) | |
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meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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