The Country Life by Rachel Cusk Read Free Book Online Page A

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 andreturned 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m sure I will.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜How
hysterical
,’ said Pamela, a long, light peal of laughter drifting out through