Case Histories

Everyone in the village talked about what a hard job it was being headmistress of the school but it couldn't have been easier. The kids were sweet, nice country children, just one mild case of attention deficit, a couple of scabby kids, one wee shit, and statistically there should be at least one abused kid in there, but so far Caroline hadn't identified him or her. They were nearly all up to speed on reading (a miracle), they knew old-fashioned playground games, and their lives ran on an agricultural calendar so that harvest festival was a proper harvest festival and someone brought an honest-to-goodness, real-life lamb into show-and-tell in spring. There was even a maypole on the village green that the kids danced around, innocent of all phallic connotations. She loved the job and hoped that if she got divorced she'd be able to keep it because everything was so damned feudal around here that it was probably in the gift of the lord of the manor, who for all intents and purposes appeared to be Jonathan. Not that she was intending to get divorced, but it was hard to be-lieve that this would go on forever. Nothing else did, so why should this? And you couldn't stay one step ahead all the time. It didn't mat-ter how long you were lost. Sooner or later you would be found.

And it would be impossible to live here and not work. What would she do all day long? Jonathan made up things to do. He was always in and out of the farm office or striding around the hills, looking at fields and fences – although not doing fencing (of any kind), but he had a manager to run the farm and everything would go on just as well if he never went into the office or looked at a fence. He went out a lot with his shotgun and killed things, as if that were somehow an important part of running a farm, but in fact it was just because he loved shooting (or killing). He was a good shot and a good teacher, and Caroline discovered she had quite a talent as a markswoman – not that she shot anything living, not like Jonathan, just targets and clay pigeons and tin cans off walls. She liked the guns, she liked the heft of them in her arms, she liked that moment of fine poise just before squeezing the trigger when you knew your aim would prove to be true. It was astonishing that you could wander around the countryside (even though it was countryside you owned) brandishing lethal weapons and no one stopped you.

When he wasn't pretending to run the estate or shooting something smaller and more helpless than himself, Jonathan went out on one or other of his mother's hunters. Everyone was always saying to Caroline, "Do you ride?" and couldn't believe it when she said no. Rowena was a "wonderful horsewoman" of course (as if she were a centaur) and Jemima had spent most of her marriage on horseback from the sound of it. People seemed to find it hard to believe that Jonathan would marry someone who didn't know a forelock from a fetlock, but actually he didn't give two hoots whether or not she liked horses. That was one of the really good things about him – he was totally indifferent to anything she did. In fact he was pretty much indifferent to anything anyone did. There was a connection loose there, she was sure, an absence of social bonding. In another life he might have found himself branded a psychopath. Psychopaths were everywhere – they weren't necessarily killing and raping and practicing a trade as serial killers. Psychopathic tendencies, that's what they said Caroline had. Well not Caroline, of course, the person that she used to be. Caroline considered it a serious misdiagnosis. Now, James, he was definitely a sociopath, that's what breeding did for you.

Jemima, their mother, had visited last summer. She was a perfect little piece of English porcelain who clearly got on famously with Rowena, bonded over girths and martingales, and the Red Devons and the problem with the "upper meadow" – Caroline didn't even know they had an upper meadow, let alone a problem with it.

"So you got divorced… why exactly?" she asked Jonathan, holding him in a slippery, sweaty postcoital embrace while half a mile down the road Jemima was laying her delicate blond head onto the one-hundred-and-twenty-pounds-a-pop Hungarian goose-down pillows in one of the three spare bedrooms of the dowager house. "Oh, God," Jonathan groaned. "Jem was so boring. You have no idea, Caro," and he laughed a dirty kind of laugh and rolled her over and took her from behind – say what you like, the man had stamina – and as she half suffocated in their own pillows (slightly less expensive, but only just) she wondered if Jemima ever took it up the arse and thought probably not, but you never knew with posh girls, they were capable of all kinds of depravity that was unsuspected by oiks.