The Country Life

by Rachel Cusk

  The shop was long and narrow, and had shelves arranged along the walls to either side. Their contents represented a miniature supermarket, a hurried alphabet of human needs reduced to basic principles. I had passed cleaning fluids, washing powder, and personal hygiene in only one or two steps, and having arrived at foodstuffs gained an immediate impression of the dominion of instant coffee, which, of course, I already possessed. I was, I soon saw, out of luck. It was hard to decipher the spirit in which the goods before me had been selected; aside from the coffee, they appeared to cater neither for emergency nor desire. Almost everything was in tin cans, which had the air of not being for sale; as if they had been there unwanted for so long that they had been adopted, or permitted to stay, like old and infirm people in a home. The overwhelming presence elsewhere in the shop of newspapers, greetings cards, and the cleaning fluids mentioned above threatened the status of this section still further, as if, over time, the boundaries between the shelves had gradually been eroded and their distinctions become a vague matter of packaging rather than content. The day was too hot for even the more acceptable among these rations, such as tinned soup, to have any appeal; and yet I was so hungry that a choice must perforce be made.

  I had, by this time, been standing there for so long that the whole human contract underlying the existence of the shop, and distinguishing its customers from its owners, was in danger of collapse. The queue had been processed and dispersed. I was, in fact, alone, with the savage eyes of the woman and her husband trained upon me. Their gaze made me uncomfortable, as if all this time I had in fact been standing in their house, mistaking it for a shop. I doubted that the section of shelf before which I stood had ever received so much attention, and this in itself was enough to arouse their suspicions. They did not, however, address me, although the very air around me seemed to vibrate with the suggestion that they might. They had every right and reason to enquire as to whether I needed any help, and this eventuality, predictably, took on in my mind the menace of the newspaper and bell. Keen, then, to be away before ill luck caught me in its talons, I snatched a tin from the shelf and bore it before me to the counter. Once there, I saw something that I had missed: a rack of various breads wrapped in Cellophane packaging. My heart leaped with relief at the prospect of eating something fresh, and I took a package of rolls and placed it on the counter beside my tin.

  The woman examined the two purchases – the man had disappeared by this time, through a doorway hung with a long fringe of plastic, behind which I could just make out a narrow corridor leading to a small room containing a table, at which the man was now sitting reading a newspaper – and began to write laboriously with a plastic pen on a small pad of lined paper in front of her. She was, I saw, doing a sum. Her hair, which was grey and set in a neat, rigid basin of florets, like a brain or a cauliflower, bobbed up and down as she inscribed the figures.

  That’ll be two pounds exactly,’ she said, still with her head down.

  I gave her the money, brushing her dry palm as I did so, and she turned with it to the till. Not requiring any change, I was free to leave, but the transaction appeared to be incomplete. I felt that more was expected of me – or of her – before I could go. She did not seem to agree, however, and was busying herself with her back still to me. Eventually she turned around, and looked surprised to see me still standing there.

  ‘Would you like a bag?’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you!’ I cried, aware that she had solved the puzzle.

  She produced a small blue plastic bag, and there was a moment of tension – for me, in any case – while I wondered who would do the work, in this now fragile situation of role-play, of putting the food into it. I extended a hand, but she stolidly shook out the bag, subtly fending me off with uninterruptible motions which rolled smoothly one upon another, and placed the rolls and tin carefully in it.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said, impressed. ‘Goodbye!’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  I made the walk home quite cheerfully, pleased with the way things had worked out. Several times, as I strode along in the sunshine, I forgot more or less entirely who and where I was: so compelling was the rhythm of my legs going back and forth, and my lungs in and out, that it appeared to drown out my consciousness. Remembering the Maddens, as I did now and then between these phases of oblivion, gave me a slightly unpleasant feeling of temporary, but indefinite, enclosure; not unlike the feeling of being in a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room and looking up from a magazine to see unfamiliar walls, briefly forgotten.

  Eventually I became quite tired; a profound fatigue, which intensified at the thought that I was near, but not yet arrived at, my destination. It being now late morning, the sun was high and very strong. Up until that point I had imagined that my white skin was being gradually toughened up by its exposure to air and light; but presently I sensed the relationship between sun and skin take a nasty turn, most particularly around the left side of my neck and face, and along my bare left arm, where the heat was most brutally concentrated. The road was without shade, and even twisting my body as I walked, I could not shield the afflicted areas from the direct and now aggravating beams of light. I could see that the gates to the drive were not far off, and with no alternative open to me, was forced to turn around so that the sun shone to my right and approach them walking backwards. This may seem ridiculous – it is easier, in fact, than might be thought – but I have always considered it important to protect one’s own body from injury, even at the risk of offending etiquette. From an early age, for example, to my parents’ horror, I developed the habit of spitting out food immediately from my mouth if I found it too hot. I am not, however, insensible to embarrassment, and when I heard the sound of a car engine behind me – or in front of me, strictly speaking – had every intention of righting myself momentarily while it passed. Unfortunately it was going too quickly for me to respond to the warning in time, and passed me still striding confidently backwards. Seeing it speed off along the road in front of, or behind, me, I gained the distinct impression that the car had been of a type remarkably similar to the Maddens’. I gave a moan of shame as I considered the possibility that a member of the family had seen my strange promenade, and this prospect, combined with the feeling of rawness down the left side of my body, dampened the sprightly cheer with which, only moments earlier, I had been going about my business.

  The gates and avenue passed quickly by – I was walking normally now, being in the shade – as I meditated on this new development, and attempted to devise various explanations which might extricate me from it. Presendy I reached the front of the big house, where I saw the Maddens’ blue car parked where it had been when I left. Rather than dwelling on my deliverance from shame, however, I found the train of thought which had borne me all the way from the road to the house abruptly derailed by the sight of an unfamiliar car parked in the drive beside the Maddens’. As at the station the day before, I felt the jolt of a collision in my mind where there should have been a smooth transfer from one concern to the next. What had been an entire subterranean network circulating a multifarious cargo of concerns was apparently now a frustratingly parochial arrangement incapable of conveying more than one thought at a time. All interest in the Maddens’ car immediately vanished, as I laboured over the meaning of the new arrival. To whom did this car belong? Was it anything to do with me? If so, a second route of questioning opened out: had someone come to look for me? Had I been reported for some instance of deviance? Was I to be arrested? If not, one could safely move on to the assumption that the car belonged to visitors of the Maddens, most probably the lunch guests Pamela had mentioned the night before.

  Having no further business there in the drive, I plunged into the undergrowth. After some thrashing about, I emerged, rather breathless, on the path at the side of the house, to find Mr Madden standing a few paces away from me. He was carrying a tray with glasses on it, and had evidently been about to enter the house by the side door
when he had heard my scuffing in the hedge.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said; not unpleasantly, but with a kind of amused astonishment.

  ‘I didn’t want to come through the house,’ I panted. ‘I saw the car in the drive and thought that you might have guests.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Madden, nodding as if he understood. ‘You needn’t have worried, we’re all out in the garden.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Did you know there was a gate?’ enquired Mr Madden.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I replied, although I would have thought that was obvious.

  ‘It’s just there,’ he said, balancing the tray on one hand and pointing with the other, ‘It leads directly to the drive. We don’t expect you to have to fight your way through the hedge every time you want to go out, you know.’

  He gave his peculiar bark.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ I said, with false cheer.

  Just then, I heard footsteps approaching along the gravel path behind Mr Madden.

  ‘Piers!’ called Pamela, as she emerged around the corner. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of me. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’ she said; again, not unpleasantly, but with the same humorous dismay as her husband.

  ‘She had a tussle with the hedge,’ said Mr Madden.

  ‘Good God,’ said Pamela, drawing closer. ‘You’re all scratched – and look, you’ve torn your skirt! What have you been doing?’

  I looked down at my legs and saw that they had indeed been badly scratched. One or two of the scratches were bleeding.

  ‘I came through the hedge,’ I repeated miserably. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Gracious, she must think we’re utter monsters. We obviously frightened the living daylights out of her yesterday, darling,’ said Pamela to her husband.

  ‘No, not at all!’ I cried.

  ‘Didn’t know about the gate,’ interrupted Piers. ‘She thought she just had to hack her way through.’

  ‘Is there any damage? You mustn’t do that, you know,’ said Pamela. ‘Mr Thomas will be distraught if his beds have been trampled under foot.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Pamela. ‘Piers can have a look at it later. You’d better go and get yourself cleaned up. Darling, do you want to get on with the drinks?’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ said Mr Madden, opening the door.

  ‘And put some more of those salmon things on a plate, would you?’ called Pamela after him.

  I moved forward, hoping that I would be able to slip by while her back was turned.

  ‘Stella, don’t creep off,’ said Pamela, turning around abruptly and stepping into my path. She put her arm around me. Her body felt small and hard beside mine. I could smell her perfume. ‘Piers and I very much want you to feel at home here. I know it’s been a bit of a madhouse so far, but everything should quieten down tomorrow,’

  She tightened her arm and bent her head towards mine in a concerned way. I felt very awkward. My plastic bag was still clutched in my hand.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘You mustn’t feel that you have to go sneaking about,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come over and have a swim later, after everyone’s gone? It’s so hot, you could probably do with a good cool down. The pool’s absolutely lovely at the moment. Go on, it would do you good.’

  I hadn’t known that the Maddens had a swimming pool, but at that moment, as if to prove it, I heard faint splashing sounds and cries of laughter coming from the back of the house.

  ‘I might do,’ I said. ‘I’ve got quite a few things I want to do this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you,’ said Pamela, releasing her arm.

  ‘If not, I’ll see you in the morning,’ I added, worried that she was angry with me.

  ‘Right,’ said Pamela remotely, looking through the door to the house as if anticipating the appearance of Piers.

  ‘At eight thirty,’ I continued.

  Pamela glanced at me again, as if she had forgotten I was there.

  ‘Well, come if you feel like it,’ she said, turning and crunching off down the path.

  I stood for a moment, confused. Had she meant come in the morning if I felt like it, or come swimming? I headed quickly towards the cottage, not wishing still to be standing around when Mr Madden returned.

  Chapter Six

  The damage I had done to myself during my walk surprised me, for I had been overwhelmed by feelings of good health both on the outward and return journey. Reflected in one of the cottage windows as I came up through the garden, I looked positively wild. What must they have thought of me in the respectable village of Hilltop? Worse still, what impression of myself could I have given the Maddens? My legs were the worst, particularly about the calves and ankles, which were raw and cross-hatched with a pattern of scratches. I had also been bitten by insects in various places, and my skin had risen there in a series of small red bumps.

  I went to the bathroom, intending to run cold water over my legs. As I took off my shoes, I noticed that they were spotted with patches of a sticky black substance. I touched it lightly and then smelt it, after some time deducing that it was tar. Retracing my steps to the front door, I found that I had tracked tar across the sitting room carpet and kitchen floor. The carpet was quite a pale beige colour, and more or less mined. For a moment I was bewildered by this scene of destruction. Being very tired, I resisted fiercely the idea of doing anything other than rest, and as I stood there gazing at the floor found myself overcome by feelings of denial and indifference. Even though I was harried by the sight of the damage done to the Maddens’ property, and despite the fact that I knew responsibility for erasing it to be mine and mine alone, I could not, in that moment, bring myself to do anything about it. I did, however, work out that the tar must have come from the surface of the road, which had felt remarkably soft beneath my feet in places and must, I now saw, have melted in the heat. I had not known that roads could do that; indeed, never having really walked on one, I had not given roads even the slightest consideration before in my life.

  I opened the front door and placed my ruined shoes outside it, and then returned to the bathroom. Looking in the battered little mirror above the sink I was met by a terrible vision. The short walk to the village and back had given me the appearance of a savage. My hair resembled a nest built upon my head, a distressed basket adorned by twigs and leaves, which gave off a light shower of seeds when I shook it above the sink. The sight of my skin – which I had fancifully imagined, during my walk, to be acquiring a healthful burnish – was a considerable shock. The right side of my face was morbid white, and had taken on an unpleasant texture, the pores enlarged, the tone blotchy, a sheen of sweat giving it a resemblance to raw dough. The left side, meanwhile, was badly scorched: the skin, not just over my face but also down the side of my neck and arm, had sprung up a furious red, and was emanating heat as if it were aflame.

  My predicament was rapidly approaching the point at which the misery of a situation outweighs the desire to put it right. It seemed incredible that so much could have gone wrong in so short a time; a disappointment made all the more bitter by the high hopes with which I had embarked on my life in the country. It already seemed as botched to me standing there in the bathroom as everything I had left behind; and while, under normal circumstances, the desire to escape is propelled by a dissatisfaction with the world, to feel it in a place of refuge trains the dissatisfaction inwards. Having understood this, I knew that I was trapped and must confront my problems, those being the ruined carpet and shoes, the scratched legs, the tangled hair, the severe burning of one half of my face and body; and on a larger scale, the mean provisions on which I was hoping to survive until Monday; the offer of a swim, which I must turn down on account of having no costume or towel; the hostility which was beginning to characterize relations with the Maddens; the as yet unresolved matter of the driving licence; and the fact that on top of all of this I was far from h
ome, with neither friend nor family to comfort me, and with no means of escape.

  The tar stains were impossible to remove entirely from the carpet, but with a knife and the clever rearrangement of some furniture I managed mostly either to reduce or conceal them. I bathed my scratches and rinsed my hair with water, using a teacup from the kitchen. My lack of a towel did not actually trouble me, for I was still so overheated that I was content to let the water dry on my skin. My shoes I elected to throw away when the opportunity arose, and my torn skirt was folded and placed at the bottom of my suitcase to await some future surge of industry. Cleansed and orderly, my sunburn felt rather better, but I daubed it liberally with some lotion I had fortunately brought with me just for good measure.