Ten White Geese (10 page)

Music filled the house; a large radio-CD player was set up on the kitchen sideboard. The TV was just inside the front door in its box. She’d do that later. There were felt tips and coloured pencils on the table. She did the washing-up, humming along to the songs she knew and thinking,
See you,
not
goodbye
. See you, not goodbye. It could have been a line from a Dickinson poem, although hers mostly alternated between six and eight syllables. The short distance she had
run earlier that morning felt like a marathon. She lowered the milk pan into the suds and stared out through the window. The study. She hadn’t been in the study yet. She quickly dried her hands and went upstairs. She could tell how he’d got up from the way the duvet was lying on the divan: he’d thrown it off in one go and hadn’t straightened it afterwards. I need to rest, she thought. I’m tired. She took off her clothes and lay down on the divan. It was cold in the study, the fire had burnt out long ago. The duvet cover chafed her nipples. The sweetness and the smell of bitter leaves she had noticed earlier came together at the top edge of the fabric. She pulled the duvet over her head and ran her hands over her belly.

*

Later, after she had put her clothes back on and lit a fire, she searched the room. Had the pile of books on the coffee table been disturbed? Had he written on the sheets of blank paper on the table next to the open volume of Dickinson’s poetry? She couldn’t remember if she had left it open at this page. A COUNTRY BURIAL. If, she thought, if this was where he had stopped leafing and reading, then…

She sat down and stared out of the window because she didn’t know what came after ‘then’. The sea was visible again over the tops of the now almost leafless trees. But far, very far away. She remembered something, also vague and far away, and stood up to rummage through a cardboard box of books she hadn’t yet unpacked. She had been almost certain that Habegger’s biography was in her office in Amsterdam, but it turned out to be in the box after all. She sat down at the desk and riffled the pages. On page 249 – where the book fell open – there was a thick red line under ‘since nothing is
as real as “thought and passion”, our essential human truth is expressed by our fantasies, not our acts’. It was a reference to a book Dickinson had read when she was twenty-one which was supposed to have formed her, along with her great-great-uncle’s coughing fit and all kinds of other insignificant events. Habegger was an old gasbag, but she still copied the passage onto the open page of the poetry volume, a little fearfully and with an empty feeling in her stomach, before closing the biography. Not just emptiness, but pain too, a bit higher than usual today, inhabiting her throat and the back of her head. She walked to the bathroom and took two paracetamol. It was almost time for her to see the doctor. She couldn’t go on like this much longer. She wondered if she was up to it. Until yesterday she had been almost certain she was.

That afternoon she pushed the bamboo stakes down into the lawn. She had found a wooden slat in the pigsty, sturdy and more or less two metres long, and was using it as a measuring stick: three lengths into the lawn and one length wide. She turned it into a rectangle by stringing cord between the stakes. Slowly she started to cut a line in the grass. She wasn’t thinking about removing the sods yet, but worked out that it was twelve square metres. Now and then she straightened her back, raising her head to the sun. Suddenly a dog stuck its head between her legs.

‘He missed you too much.’

She turned round. The boy was standing next to the pigsty, one shoulder against the wall. The dog appeared unsurprised by their return. He sniffed around the oil tank, then disappeared behind the house.

‘And now he’s seen you, he’s off again.’ He didn’t move from his spot. ‘Not me though.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. I couldn’t arrange a place to sleep. Everything’s shut around here this time of year.’

‘Did you walk all the way to the mountain?’

‘No. If I had, I wouldn’t be back by now.’ He held up a paper bag. ‘I’ve brought something to eat.’

‘From the baker’s in Waunfawr?’

‘Yes. They’d shut the second time I passed by, but she was still cleaning up. She said to say hello.’

‘How did she know you were coming here?’

‘They asked. They asked where I was coming from and where I was going.’

‘And you told them?’

‘Of course. Why not? She gave Sam a treat too. “A dog for the Dutchwoman,” she said. “That’s good.”’

The dog started barking, probably at the geese.

‘Sam ran ahead the whole way. As if he knew exactly where we were going.’

‘Can you draw?’

‘Yeah. Depends what.’

‘A garden?’

‘Oh, a plan. Sure. Why not? If I’ve got enough paper.’

‘Can you connect a TV?’

‘I’d say so.’ He looked at the roof of the house. ‘There’s the aerial. You must be able to plug it in somewhere inside.’

‘Can you dig, and push a wheelbarrow?’

‘Of course.’

‘Cook a lamb?’

‘Definitely. With garlic and anchovies.’

‘You can stay another day.’

He nodded and finally came free of the pigsty wall.

‘Anchovies?’

‘Then you don’t need to add salt.’

‘You haven’t had any coffee since this morning, I suppose?’

‘No. If they ever turn this into a long-distance path, the guidebook will have to say it’s less suited for the winter months. Or not at all.’ He gestured at the pigsty. ‘You could turn it into a bed and breakfast.’

‘Come on,’ she said.

‘Sam!’ he called.

The light brown cows had come up to the garden wall without her noticing, but took off in all directions when the dog came running round the corner of the house. The sun was almost setting; her working day was over.

The husband moved his foot. The plaster was heavy and awkward; a chair wobbled. The bar was half full. Lots of couples with their heads close together, the men with beers
in front of them, the women mostly with glasses of Coke. A plastic Christmas tree in one corner, pine branches and fairy lights over the bar.

‘How’d you do it?’ the policeman asked.

‘Box of books.’

They drank their beers.

‘I found out something that made me want to track her down after all.’

‘What?’

‘
Ach
.’ The husband raised his glass to his lips.

‘The police can’t help you,’ the policeman said. ‘She left of her own free will. There aren’t any signs of coercion.’

‘What should I do then?’

‘Hire a private investigator.’

‘A private eye? Do they really exist?’

‘Do you have any idea how often people use services like that?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Look on the Web sometime.’

‘Can you recommend one?’

‘Nope. And if I could, I wouldn’t be allowed to.’

‘Is it expensive?’

‘Quite. But they often get quick results.’

The husband pointed at the policeman’s empty glass.

‘I’ll get them. You can hardly walk.’ The policeman stood up and went over to the bar for two more beers. He said something to the barman, they laughed, then he slalomed back to the table.

‘Are you married?’ the husband asked.

‘No. I’m in a relationship though. With another officer.’

‘Have you ever…Do you ever have someone else?’

‘Of course. That’s dead normal for us.’ The policeman looked him straight in the eye. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious. Man talk, you know.’

‘That’s a disappointment. So you had girlfriends?’

‘
A
girlfriend. Just one. But she did it too.’

‘What’s the big deal? You lot always make it so difficult.’

‘Yeah, maybe. Women are different from men.’

‘No, they’re not. How?’

‘When they’re unfaithful, there has to be an underlying problem.’

‘So your wife had an underlying problem?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want something to eat with this?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ll get some
bitterballen
.’

‘What are we doing here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why do you associate with me?’

‘Aart! One portion of
bitterballen
!’ the policeman called.

The barman nodded. More and more people came into the bar, bringing in the damp. The windows misted over.

The husband drained his glass.

‘Why do
you
associate with
me
? I could ask you the same,’ the policeman said.

‘I thought you were a nice guy.’

‘I am. Have you tried to get hold of that student?’

‘No. I don’t have any contacts at the university. What’s the point? I’d guess he’s not attending lectures any more.’

‘He’d be out of there.’

‘Travelling maybe. Somewhere in Asia. India, probably. To find himself and find enlightenment.’

‘Oh, one of them. Ending up on a mattress on the floor of some filthy hovel with all his Imodium gone. And a kid screaming day and night in the room next door.’

‘Yes. Maybe. Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘My mother-in-law thinks it’s strange me going out for a beer with you. She thinks you should have put me in jail. Is the barman one too?’

‘Yep.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Aart! Two more beers!’

‘There’s a side of her I’ve never understood. A part that was always out of reach. It’s like, it doesn’t really surprise me, her being gone.’

‘What did you find out? To make you suddenly want to register her as missing?’

‘She’s ill.’

‘Ill?’

‘Maybe very, very ill.’

‘And now she’s gone away, like a cat crawling off?’

‘Yes, maybe. She’s gone away anyway. From me. And from her parents.’

The barman put two glasses of beer down on the table. ‘The
bitterballen
are coming,’ he said, laying a hand on the policeman’s shoulder for a second.

‘That’s awful.’

‘At the end of the last academic year she started
something with this student.’ He looked around. ‘Maybe because she was ill.’

‘The one whose dick you wanted to cut off.’

‘Oh yeah, sorry. You already knew that. We were just talking about him.’

‘I said it wasn’t allowed.’

The husband looked at the policeman. ‘It’s only now that I realise it must have been funny. For you.’

‘It wasn’t the least bit funny.’

‘No, of course not. But I was angry.’

‘Even though you weren’t much better yourself?’

‘No. I’m not angry any more. And I want to understand why she did it.’

A woman put a plate of
bitterballen
down between them. ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Hot.’

‘Thanks,’ the policeman said.

‘It’s not even what she did,’ the husband said. ‘But her having done it. Someone doing things, secret things, things from which you – me in this case – are completely excluded.’

They both ate a
bitterball
.

‘Go online when you get home,’ the policeman said. ‘Find one and give them a call.’

‘Yes.’

‘You really have no idea where she’s gone?’

‘No. Abroad, I think.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘How long can you stay in hiding here?’

‘For all we know she could be round the corner. The closer you are, the further away.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So your mother-in-law wanted you in jail.’

‘Yeah. She thinks it’s all my fault.’

‘And your father-in-law?’

‘He says “no”, “yes” and “
ach
, woman”. He takes it all in his stride.’

They ate the rest of the
bitterballen
in silence, washing the heat off their tongues with beer.

‘Shall we take in a disco?’ the policeman asked.

‘Jesus, man.’

‘How much longer?’

The husband looked down at the cast on his foot. ‘Three weeks or so. It was her books.’

The policeman laughed.

The bar grew busier, noisier. The barman gestured at the policeman in a way the husband didn’t understand. He stood up, grabbing his crutches. ‘I’m off before it’s too crowded for me to get through.’

‘Keep me up to date.’

‘I will.’

They shook hands. The husband paid the tab on the way out and when he turned back at the door, he saw the policeman sitting at the bar. The barman watched him go. It was raining. He hobbled to the tram stop, trying to imagine what a real-life private investigator would be like. In the glass hoarding there was a poster of a skater in a vest, advertising bread. A taxi sped by in the tram lane, splashing water up over the plaster cast.

‘Rotterdam,’ Bradwen said. ‘Is that a nice city?’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Not really. It’s ugly actually.’

‘Is that why you’re here now?’

His hair was tousled, he’d come straight from the divan, and never before had she so longed to run her fingers through it. She had already noticed the particular way he had of sighing, and when he did, it was almost impossible to resist touching him on the head. The dog seemed to have picked up his sigh. It was only natural for him to ask questions; people talk to each other. Maybe she needed to pre-empt him. ‘
Ach
,’ she said, pouring the coffee.

‘I think that’s a beautiful word,’ he said.

‘
Ach
?’

‘Yes. We don’t have a word like that. One that means “Shut up, you”.’

‘Eat,’ she said.

He cut the bread, tossing a crooked slice to Sam, who had found a fixed spot in front of the cooker. He smeared on a thick layer of butter. The traffic news was on the radio. While he ate, he drew circles on a piece of paper, alternating between yellow and brown felt tips. ‘What are we going to do today?’ he asked.

‘The garden.’

‘And the TV?’

‘Oh, yes. Do that first.’

‘Fine.’ He passed her a slice of bread. ‘You’re not eating.’

‘I’ve never eaten much in the mornings,’ she said.

‘OK.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go and brush my teeth.’ The dog went upstairs with him.

She got up and went over to the kitchen window. It was misty again and still. Good weather for working, but she had to lean on the draining board. She lit the two candles on the windowsill and hummed along with the radio. The cooker warmed her. Water ran in the pipes. He turned off the upstairs tap, sending a loud clunk through the whole system. The boy and the dog came back down. She heard him open the front door. ‘Go and catch some grey squirrels,’ he said. Before he came back into the kitchen, she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.