The Country Life (8 page)

I returned to my bedroom and found my purse. To my dismay, looking inside it I saw that I had very little money. I counted the coins, aware as I did so that the chances of getting to a bank, considering the transport problems described earlier, were slim. I remembered then that it was in any case Sunday, and at the same time realized that I could always pay for things by cheque. Even as I began to search for my chequebook in this optimistic flurry, however, some deeper instinct told me that it was hopeless. I tried to remember why, and then recalled that I had thrown it out with everything else, believing that I would have no use for it. I cursed my short-sightedness, and the recklessness with which I had effectively cut off all escape routes. The scene with Pamela rose up in my mind, rattling its
chains. I counted the coins again and tried to think clearly. How much food would I need to get me through a day? Surely I could survive until Monday, when I would be able to ask the Maddens for an advance on my salary? I had shelter, after all, and water from the tap; and coffee, which now seemed a great luxury. The very simplicity of these thoughts pleased me, even in my distress. Before long the money began to appear quite ample; and putting it in my pocket, I returned downstairs and prepared myself for my walk. Sensibly, I drank a large quantity of water before setting out, aware that in the heat I might become very thirsty and would not want to waste my funds on a drink. Such practicalities were exciting to me. I closed the cottage door and, noticing for the first time a large key protruding from it, turned the lock and put the key in my pocket alongside the purse.

I strode off across the garden; but although it was still quite early, I had not reached the gate before I became aware of the menacing edge to the sun's heat I had remarked the day before. So forcefully did its rays hammer on the top of my head that I had only been outside a few seconds when it occurred to me to turn around and go back inside again. I ignored this urge – at my peril – and continued resolutely along the gravel path towards the big house. Reaching the end I turned left, even as I did so remembering how I had found the route to the front of the house blocked the previous day. From a closer angle, however, I saw that the hedge, which I had imagined from further away to extend all the way across the path, in fact afforded a small gap through which I was able to slip. Once on the other side of it, I found myself in an area of dense undergrowth. Pushing through it the sharp, narrow claws of branches scraped against my legs. Within minutes, to my satisfaction, I had emerged into the driveway, and could see from the sleepy front of the house that all was still quiet there. I made my way quickly down the drive, stepping gingerly over
the gravel so as not to make any noise, and soon found myself in the long avenue of greenery I remembered from my drive with Mr Madden.

It was immediately apparent that the road was much further away than I had thought; but it was pleasant to be in the shade and I was still uplifted by the ease with which I had escaped the farm without attracting notice. After a while, though, I began to feel slightly anxious at the endless quality of the avenue. I have good eyesight, and the avenue extended in a straight line in front of me for as far as I could see. I trudged on for some time with no change and, not being accustomed to walking, soon became fatigued. I could not for the life of me remember for how long the avenue persisted before it met the road, and cursed myself for not having paid closer attention in the car. Just as my steps were slowing with the temptation of turning back, I saw a large pair of gates ahead of me. I did not remember these at all, but they clearly represented the boundary of the house's grounds. I hurried towards them and on reaching them found the narrow tarmacked road along which Mr Madden and I had driven. We had approached, I judged, from the right as I stood, and having already made the decision to continue along the road from where we had turned off it, I veered to the left without hesitation.

The tarmac was rather less pleasant beneath my feet than the gravel had been, and it was certainly much hotter there than in the avenue, but it was enough of a novelty for me to have reached a second stage in my journey, and indeed to walk along a road that contained no cars, so I was for the time being content. The view from the road was very attractive in the sun. To my right as I walked I could see a marvellous stretch of countryside billowing out beneath me in a kind of mist towards the horizon. Scattered over it were small groups of trees and one or two houses, so miniature that I might have been seeing them from a great height. This surprised me, for I was not, as
far as I could make out, climbing a hill. To my left was a tall bank of hedgerows, which I took to be the continuing boundary of the grounds.

Oriented now, and with no further work to do for the time being, I allowed my mind to focus upon other things. The road, and my memories of my journey with Mr Madden, naturally brought the issue of my inability to drive to the forefront of my thoughts. My deception was still of the greatest concern, but I considered it quite calmly. Now that my arrival at Franchise Farm had been somewhat soured, I was, oddly, relieved of the desire for everything in my new life to be perfect. I had, I suppose, excluded what I can only describe as the human element from my calculations. Although I was disappointed that things had gone wrong at such an early stage of my adventures, still I could see that a measure of imperfection was admissible in, and perhaps essential to, any human situation. You will perhaps find it laughable when I say that I had imagined it possible to exist in a state of no complexity whatever; but a person has a right to their dreams, and this was mine. It had soon proved unsustainable; but I do not regret having had it. Indeed, I find it hard to see how I could be judged harshly, when my willingness to modify my ambitions was so evident. Many people, in the face of such a disappointment, would, I believe, have scrapped the whole thing straight away.

To return to the problem of my driving, I made, as I walked, several plans. This practical side of my nature often comes in handy. It was this very quality, in fact, which had allowed me to list among my attributes, although it was not in the strictest sense true, the ‘aptitude for the country life' specified by the Maddens in their advertisement. What I meant was that I possessed the aptitude for any kind of life, country or otherwise. To continue, my several plans were designed to cater for the ‘human element' I had now detected in my situation, and would, singly, variously, or in numbers, be adopted according
to which way the wind was blowing. The first and least favourable plan was to confess fully to the Maddens if and when the opportunity arose. The second plan, a more subtle version of the first, was to construct, quite carefully, an atmosphere of reluctance around the issue of driving. I could, for example, say that I had not driven for a long time and was nervous. From this atmosphere, one of two things could emanate: either the Maddens would dismiss me from my driving duties; or they would teach me – or remind me, in their eyes – how to drive themselves. Neither outcome was particularly satisfactory, not least because even if I learned to muddle through behind the wheel, this still did not procure me a driving licence. Within minutes I had put together a corollary to the latter half of this plan. While muddling through behind the wheel during the week, I could, on my day off, take proper driving lessons. This plan was expensive, and its detail burdensome, but it was at least feasible.

My remaining plans were rather more drastic. I could feign an injury, such as a broken leg or pulled tendon, which would excuse me from driving. Alternatively I could say nothing at all, and merely drive, come what may. I could adopt a mixture of all these plans; put off driving, say, on the pretext of a broken leg, while secretly learning how to drive on my day off, and then assume my driving duties as soon as I possessed a modicum of skill, taking my test later.

By this time I had come quite a long way along the road. I was extremely hot, but no longer so tired. Indeed, after that first bout of lethargy I had felt new life spring into my limbs, and now was walking with considerable energy. The road was sloping very slightly downhill, and I swung my arms by my sides with a feeling of great physical suppleness. I had noticed some time before a definite settlement ahead of me, but not wishing to disappoint myself I held off from the certainty that it was the village of Hilltop. I had begun to understand that things were invariably much further away in the country than
one imagined them to be. My scheme paid off, for within minutes I had entered the village, passing a small sign reading ‘Hilltop' for good measure, and was delighted and surprised to have reached my destination so quickly.

The village was very pretty, and quite full of life. It was arranged mainly along the road, which became a sort of quaint high street at its centre, and consisted of a collection of very old houses – mostly red-brick or painted white – many of which had lovely baskets of flowers hanging around their doorways or in pots adorning their window sills. My first thought on seeing these pots and baskets was to smash them. I have no explanation for this impulse, other than that my thoughts were still, at this early stage, essentially urban in nature. In London, I was probably thinking, these pots would almost certainly have been smashed, and perhaps I was, while imagining such an act of vandalism, assuming part of the vandal's character in the process.

At the centre of the village I found a small post office, which was of course closed, it being Sunday, and a very attractive pub with tables and benches outside at which one or two people were already sitting. Quite a few people were also walking about, mainly children and people of about the Maddens' age or older. Several of the children had bicycles and were describing carefree circles on the road. I stopped for a moment, enjoying the sun on my face and the quiet contentment of the place, before remembering that I had come to find food and could as yet see nowhere to buy any. I walked along the road a bit further, and just then had a curious sensation of confidence; confidence, I suppose, in the village being such a charming place that it would provide me with what I required as if by magic; but confidence also in myself, as if my very desire was transformative and would create what it needed to satisfy it. Just as this confidence rose up in me, a small and evidently busy shop appeared on the road ahead. I accept that this was merely a happy coincidence. As I caught sight of this shop, however, I had a strange vision – strange because I could not imagine from
where it had come – a vision, I repeat, of the shop door tinkling with a little bell as I entered. This bell would mark me out as an alien, an intruder, and as it gave out its warning those inside the shop would turn and stare with the blank, unfriendly stares of cows. Before long, I had decided that if I opened the door and heard that tinkle, I would go in some way mad. At the same time, I was filled with a dreadful certainty that all this would in fact come to pass; and, moreover, that the outcome was loaded or symbolic, although I could not tell you of what.

Imagine my relief, then, and also my sense that I had ‘won' in some obscure fashion, when I came abreast of the shop and saw that its door was wide open; propped open, in fact, by a kind of news-stand displaying the Sunday papers. Jauntily, I had plucked one of these papers from the stand and was bearing it indoors when I was again assailed by this strange symbolical sense of my own activities. As with the tinkling bell, the buying of a newspaper threatened to invite some indeterminate menace. I replaced it quickly on the stand, attempting a vague pantomime of indecision and then resolution, and entered the shop for a second time.

There were several people inside, all of them with their backs to me, for they were forming a queue at a counter at the end. Behind the counter stood an elderly woman and man, both separately busy, but matched in a way – like a pair of dolls – which made it obvious that they were a married couple. The woman wore a blue housecoat, like a school dinner lady or cleaner. The man was thin, as his wife was correspondingly plump, and had grey hair slicked neatly back from his forehead. From behind, the people in the queue did not look entirely real. They were all very quiet – their silence surprised me, for I had thought that country people were invariably acquainted with one another – and stood patiently, rooted to the spot, the purchases clutched in their arms giving them from behind the appearance of strange, goods-bearing plants: a spray of newspaper here, a box of eggs there, a carton of milk depending
from white fingers. Their bodies did not look at all normal – they were all different shapes, as if they had been cut from paper – and gave the impression of being, beneath clothes which again had that ‘cut-out' look and came uniformly in shades of dove grey and pale blue, made not of human flesh but of something extraneous: mattress ticking, perhaps, or whale blubber, or cardboard. The woman behind the counter talked fairly continuously, but I could not make out anything that she said. This was not because she possessed an unusual accent; rather, I could not distil the meaning of her words because their subject was unfamiliar to me. I have often found this to be the case when people are talking about other people I don't know, or places to which I have not been.

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.