Rachel Cusk - The Country Life

Not wishing to shut the door rudely on his retreating form, I strayed out into the garden after him, vaguely imagining that I could busy myself there. I walked around a little, shielding my eyes from the sun, but my botanical illiteracy — as opposed to the domestic fluency with which I was finding my way around the cottage — set me rather at odds with my surroundings. I don’t wish to give the impression that the garden displeased me in any way. It was simply that it seemed far less mine than the house, and I was very glad to recall that Mr Thomas was to take responsibility for subduing it. Still, I stood my ground for several minutes there on the grass, until something large and buzzing swam up before my eyes and collided with my forehead. I recoiled, crying out, although there was no pain. It was then, as my heart thumped with the shock, that I became aware of a menacing edge to the heat of the day, as if the sun had boiled over or burst its confines in some way. All at once I could bear it no longer, and hurried back into the cottage.

The two hours passed there quite quickly. Desperate suddenly to cool myself down, I ran a cold bath in the narrow tub, and lay in it for a while. The intimate sight of my naked body was oddly embarrassing in the foreign bathroom. It was difficult to relax while so exposed in a new place, the timbre of whose interruptions and emergencies were still unfamiliar to me. I was anxiously braced for another knock at the door, or for a face to appear at the tiny window beside me. As I rose, dripping, I realized to my dismay that I had brought no towel with me from London. I cast about, looking for something with which to dry myself, and finding nothing was forced to run, huddled and wet, up the stairs to the bedroom, leaving a dark trail behind me. There I was no luckier. I stood naked in the centre of the room, immobilized by frustration, as when one is unable to accept that a solution to a ridiculous and unforeseen problem does not lie close to hand. Eventually, ashamed and filled with self-doubt, I began to dry myself inefficiently with the papery, flowered edge of the eiderdown on the bed. As I did so, I was reminded of a time when, as a very small child, I had been caught on the lavatory with no paper, and had sat there casting about in a similar manner. Eventually, I had been driven to dab myself with a bath towel. (The very thing which now, of course, I lacked; the thought that I had had one surplus then, and had used it in such a wasteful manner, doubled my frustration.) My parents, although I could not remember how, had found out about my secret gaffe, and standing in the sloping bedroom I was beset by a painful memory of their — quite unjust, in my view — fury.

In the event, the force of the sun streaming through the bedroom window was such that I dried quickly enough. Opening my suitcases, which I had so hastily packed, I was unfortunately reminded that I had brought with me very little appropriate for the hot weather. I am often crippled by dislike of my own clothes, and am possessed by the conviction that for every situation in which I find myself, there is some perfect outfit which I do not own; an outfit, moreover, in which I would best the situation in a manner entirely out of character. Sensing that I stood on the brink of an abyss of self-consciousness — a void into which I often fall, rendering me unable, even over several hours, to dress myself — I dug deeper into the cases and was surprised to find a summer dress I did not remember packing. It seemed imperative that having made this discovery I activate it immediately and with determination, before my first, faint protests — that it was, for example, too smart; that, conversely, it was also rather crumpled — gained any ground. I looked for a mirror and found one on the inside of the wardrobe door; an old and obscure mirror, which gave back so faint a reflection of myself that it was as if the glass were reluctant to admit that I was there. Averting my eyes from the dress so as not to provoke a crisis, I combed my hair, and boldly put on some lipstick.

Finally, after this absorbing interlude, I strode through the garden in my finery, finding to my relief that the heat had levelled off into a more plangent strain of evening. I retraced the route I had taken with Pamela; a more impressive figure, I felt, than had made the outward journey. I twisted and turned along the tall hedges, the gravel sharp and pleasantly noisy beneath my feet, and came out by the big house at what seemed to be the spot at which we had left it. Standing there, I considered the propriety of my entering by the back door unaccompanied. The alternative — ringing or knocking at the front door — seemed, however, too formal. I tried, therefore, the handle of the back door but found to my surprise that it was locked. I tugged at it quite fiercely, to no avail. Now that I looked at it closely, however, the door did not in fact seem to be the same one through which Pamela and I had left the house. Looking about, I saw that there was another door a few paces further along. I hurried towards it and pulled it open, finding myself seconds later in what appeared to be a woodshed, a dark and musty enclosure which smelt of earth and sawdust. My presence in this inelegant place seemed to constitute some deliberate mockery of my attire. I retreated immediately and returned to the gravel path. Now, looking about, I could not even decipher the way around to the front of the house. The path was blocked by a hedge to my left as I faced out, and treading gingerly to my right and peering around the corner, I saw an unfamiliar flank of the building which seemed to be at the back. I stood quite still, having in effect no alternative, and just at that moment heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.

‘Coming in?’ said Mr Madden, stopping at the woodshed door several yards away from me with his hand on the handle. His face was friendly.

‘Oh yes, thank you,’ I said, hurrying towards him. ‘I got a bit lost.’

He opened the door and disappeared. Following through behind him, I saw that I was in the long, narrow corridor I had gone along with Pamela. I closed the door behind me.

‘Easy to lose yourself in a place like this if you’re not used to it,’ said Mr Madden from up ahead. ‘But you’ll soon find your way around.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I will.’

‘I think we’re in the drawing room.’

He opened a door to the left and, following him, I found myself in the great front hall. I heard voices, Pamela’s voice and another, male, voice.

‘How hysterical ,’ said Pamela, a long, light peal of laughter drifting out through the open door.

Mr Madden stopped at the doorway and stood back, his hand out.

‘After you,’ he said.

I entered a very large room painted a dramatic dark red, with two huge windows draped by long, heavy curtains in a gold material looking out onto the front drive. I noticed the ceiling immediately, which was very ornate and covered in leaflike mouldings with a type of flower, a sunflower by the looks of it, at its centre. There was a vast marble fireplace with a mirror above it, and in front of that a richly coloured rug. The room seemed to contain a great deal of furniture, and I had an impression of gleaming, finely carved wood, the delicate legs of velvet sofas and side tables. There were several paintings on the walls, large and dark with carved gold frames. Pamela sat on one of the sofas near the fireplace, her legs tucked by her side, with a glass in her hand. I noticed immediately that she was wearing the same clothes as she had done earlier, a faded shirt and a pair of worn, closely fitting jeans. Opposite her sat a young boy, with shining black hair, like Mr Madden’s.

‘Here they are!’ said Pamela, turning and smiling at us from what appeared to be a great distance. ‘Come in, Stella. Goodness, you look very smart! Piers, would you get Stella a drink?’