Ten White Geese (21 page)

‘Just wait here,’ he said. ‘Really. I’ll be back soon.’ He turned and walked off.

She watched him go. He strode up the slope like a mountain sheep, reaching the line where the grass gave way to snow. She turned back to the view and peeled the banana, stuffing it into her mouth and throwing the skin over her shoulder. ‘I’m fine,’ she said to a couple of concerned hikers. ‘Just enjoying the view.’ That last bit was a mistake because the man and woman turned and began to provide a commentary on all they could see. They were in her way, they were mosquitoes, annoying blowflies.

‘What a lovely knitted cap you have,’ the woman said before they finally walked on. She pulled the strip of tablets out of the front pocket of the rucksack and took one with a couple of mouthfuls of icy water. She breathed in and out deeply and rubbed her legs, then rummaged through the front pocket again for the packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. She sat with her hands on her lap, then lit a match.
It kept burning, there was virtually no wind. She braced herself. The tar and nicotine that assaulted her throat were almost liquid. She had just enough time to hurl the cigarette as far away as possible before bending over to one side and vomiting up the banana. She sat up straight, breathed in and out again deeply and looked at the thin plume of smoke. She drank a few mouthfuls of the sweet-tasting water, spitting out the last one, then stood up and started to walk downhill. She didn’t look at the drop or the model train station, but at the path, her shoes, the alder branch and the purple tassels waltzing around her head.

*

Later – she didn’t know how much later – the boy walked up onto the platform. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall of the waiting room. The door was locked. A group of hikers was standing a bit farther along. Every now and then they had looked at her. For a long time she’d stared at a construction next to the tracks: a red tank on very tall black legs, with a spout. She got up to her feet. When the boy was standing in front of her – he had warm cheeks and was giving off the metallic smell of thin mountain air, the only thing missing was for him to let his tongue loll out of his mouth like a happy dog’s – she asked, ‘What do you see?’

It took him a second to answer. ‘A woman with a very nice purple beanie. She’s tired. She didn’t make it to the top, but that’s not the end of the world. It’s Christmas, and time she went home. There is cooking and drinking to be done.’

Bradwen turned into the drive and stopped. He pointed at the letter box. ‘Have you ever looked in there?’

‘No.’

‘Shall I?’

‘No.’

He drove on.

She saw sheep in the field along the road. ‘Stop,’ she said.

The boy braked.

‘I do want to.’

‘Shall I drive back?’

‘No, I’ll walk.’ She pushed the car door open. It was very heavy. A few sheep looked up, but most kept grazing the grass that was new to them. She lifted the lid of the letter box. There was very little in there. Had they given up on advertising here? Or did the postman know that Mrs Evans was no longer reading her letters? When she picked up a couple of brochures, an envelope slid out from between them, landing with a clunk on the bottom of the letter box. She put the brochures back and pulled it out. Her name and the name of the house.
Gwynedd
. Was that the county? The postmark was clearly legible. She tore open the envelope and pulled out a card. ‘I’m coming,’ it said, with her name and her husband’s. She turned the card over and stared at the dog on the front. It was a puppy in a basket. She
looked south, at the mountain. Yes, it looked very easy…From here.

‘Anything in there?’ the boy asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Rubbish. Advertising.’

*

I moved the sheep (not that it is of any concern to you). Williams and Goodwin, Estate Agents, Valuers, Surveyors and Auctioneers, and I will come round on the 1st of January. Be sure to have enough cash for the lost geese.
Stuck to the window of the front door with a piece of chewing gum.

‘Does that man smell it when we’re away?’ she said.

The boy didn’t answer, he sniffed.

She leant the alder branch against the wall and went inside. The kitchen clock said quarter to four. The Christmas-tree lights were on. Bradwen walked over to the stove, put in a few logs and started to stoke the fire. She stood in the kitchen looking at his back. The wiry lamb’s body, ready to leap. She had to restrain herself from rummaging through the sideboard straight away in search of things that would be useful. First things first, she thought.

‘You’ve done something to the sofa,’ the boy said. ‘It’s like it’s bigger.’

She didn’t say anything.

He walked to the fridge and got out the open bottle of white wine. He hadn’t yet taken off his coat. He still had his hat on.

Now, she thought. But how? ‘Wait,’ she said.

‘What for?’

‘Come with me.’ She walked ahead to the front door.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Come.’ She crossed the slate path to the old pigsty. She
heard him following her. There was an orange glow over the goose field, the pigsty wall on the garden side was already in shadow. She pulled open the door and flicked on the light. ‘There,’ she said, pointing to the concrete steps.

‘What’s down there?’

‘Go and look. At the back.’

‘Have you got another Christmas present for me?’

‘Not so many questions. Just look.’ She stepped aside. The boy went down the steps, bending, one hand on the edge of the opening. ‘It’s dark,’ he said. He looked up at her. Like a dog, she thought. Like Sam after he’s been given an order he doesn’t entirely trust.

She turned her head away, looking for the wooden slat she’d used weeks before to measure the rectangle on the lawn.

‘You’ll get used to it in a minute.’

She saw his blue hat disappear, then pulled on the top of the trapdoor, slamming it shut. It bounced a couple of times. She stood on the trapdoor and, taking the wooden slat, got down on her knees to slide it through the two brackets on either side. Then she braced herself, waiting for the pounding and the yelling. Nothing. The boy kept quiet: maybe he thought she was playing a game. She stood up as carefully as she could, as if sound from her would evoke sound from him. She took a step back through the open door. Another step. She was outside. It’s over in no time, she thought. A lot sooner than I thought. She left the light on: maybe it would be of some use to him, through the cracks and the chinks. She might switch it off later. She turned and walked back to the house.

*

She poured herself a glass of wine and took her time over the first mouthful. The radio had to be on, but not on a station playing Christmas evergreens. She adjusted the frequency until she heard classical music. Then she went down on her knees a second time and started to go through the contents of the sideboard. Soon after, she started on the big job of moving the mattress, duvets, bin bags, an old-fashioned lamp she could put a candle in and a bottle of water. The wheelbarrow had been a good buy: once she had it balanced, she could even wheel the mattress. It seemed dark, but the time it took her to reach the goose field was enough for her to realise that there was still some light, even if the orange glow was gone. Somewhere behind her the geese clucked excitedly as she prepared it all, working stubbornly, without thinking. She had brought pliers to remove a plank and bend back the chicken wire, but spreading the bin bags was unexpectedly difficult and her hands and knees were soon filthy. She was sweating and breathing heavily. During the short walk from the gate back to the house, she felt like the empty wheelbarrow was the only thing keeping her upright. The gate had been open for quite a while and still the stupid birds hadn’t fled. She tiptoed over to the pigsty and turned off the light. No sound from downstairs. She left the door open.

*

It was still classical music. She was no expert and never recognised anything, but classical music seemed to have more eternal value than Christmas evergreens. She turned it up a little. It was quarter to eight. The Ordnance Survey map lay spread out on the kitchen table.
Snowdon / Yr Wyddfa
. Now and then she looked at the dotted green lines,
screwing up her eyes to make them blur and come together on her land and, if possible, in the goose field. Her husband’s postcard was lying on the map with the written side up. Dickinson lay next to it as if it had to be there, open. In the living room, the fire in the stove was slowly dying. Even if she’d wanted to add some fresh wood, she couldn’t; the pile was gone. She ate two more bananas, which she kept down. An empty stomach wasn’t a good idea, she guessed. Now and then she got up to pace between the table and the sink or the sideboard, on which she’d stood a torch she’d dug out of a drawer that had also contained new batteries. Slowly, in half-glasses, she drank the white wine until the bottle was almost empty. Chardonnay. Alcohol. She suspected that would help. The boy had bought it. She didn’t have the slightest inclination to turn on the TV. At eight o’clock she went upstairs.

*

The water was on the verge of being too hot. And clear. No Native Herbs tonight. She’d opened the bathroom window. If she didn’t splash too loudly she could hear the stream flowing. She stared at the scar on her foot. It had healed beautifully. Despite the open window, the mirror was already steaming over. She was glad of that. She tried to relax, but kept listening carefully. The
I’m coming
on the postcard was disquieting. Rhys Jones’s
Be sure
was an imperative and had nothing in common with
Be its mattress straight
. She closed her eyes. Bees, clover, white roses, a woman making a bed, shaking out a bottom sheet so that it spreads wide and descends over a firm mattress, a crisp pillowcase on a feather pillow.
Ample make this bed
. She opened her eyes, staring
at the ceiling light. Subjunctive mood. It was a subjunctive. Just as Dickinson didn’t write
Make this bed ample
, she didn’t write
Its mattress be straight / Its pillow be round
. Hold on. Don’t think. Stay lying here until my whole body is hot through and through and it will take a long time for me to get cold again. So hot, I’ll wish I was cold. Twenty minutes later she pulled on clean clothes: trousers, blouse, baggy jumper. White sports socks. She went downstairs. In the kitchen, a final half-glass of wine. A sheet of paper, a brown felt tip. For a second, she saw the boy drawing circles with it. It was a sheet of paper that should have been used to plan a garden. In a few minutes she was finished – shaking her head, true, because she couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to see something so obvious. It was quarter to nine. She unplugged the radio and flicked the switch to battery. The music only missed a couple of beats. She didn’t unplug the Christmas-tree lights and left the lights on in the kitchen, living room, bathroom and study. She put on the purple hat. She left the front door unlocked.

*

She walked down the drive to the goose field, lighting her way with the torch. No stars: it was overcast, as predicted. There was a very slight drizzle. Climbing over the gate was draining; she leant back against the boards for a moment and searched for the geese with the narrow beam. The birds evaded her of course. She picked up the radio and walked to the goose shelter, where she took off her boots on the bin bag lying in front of the entrance. Radio inside, where it sounded louder. Outside it had also had to compete with the plaintive cry of an owl. Or a kite. She struck a match and
lit the candle in the lantern. She wasn’t cold; the hot bath had done its job well. She tried to pull the piece of chicken wire back over the entrance and finished by taking the bin bag that was lying outside and folding it up. She’d brought the entire supply of tablets. It would take at least twenty; that was her estimate. More would probably be better, though maybe not. She swallowed them one at a time, sitting up and washing each one down with a mouthful of water from the plastic bottle she’d put there earlier. Then she lay down under the two duvets, taking deep breaths. The light from the lantern wasn’t flickering, the ceiling of the shelter was evenly lit. She thought of the fox –
a
fox really, she’d never seen it – and of the badger and grey squirrels. All hibernating. This too was a kind of den in which to hibernate. A gentle light, the muffled rushing of the stream and the dull tap of the odd raindrop. Even now, having lain in the bath for so long and putting on clean clothes, she could still smell old Mrs Evans. She couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all. She closed her eyes and opened them again when she felt a strange pressure against her feet. One of the geese was on the mattress, the other three were sitting close by. All four deeply calm, but not sleeping. That’s a shame, she was still able to think. Not having any bread with me. The goose that was on the mattress lowered its head until it was resting on her legs. It felt like a rope, a cord pulling her away. I’ve turned into a goose, she thought. Away from here, through the rickety tarred roof. Over the field, feet first into the sky, between the branches and the electricity lines.
Let no sunrise’ yellow noise / Interrupt this ground
. With any luck, all the way to the top of the mountain.

‘Impervious,’ the husband said. ‘That’s the word.’

‘You’re not exactly an open book yourself,’ the policeman said.

They were eating an English breakfast, announced on the counter as a Boxing Day Breakfast. The husband was drinking a glass of champagne. Very disgusting, pink champagne. ‘Be grateful you’re driving,’ he said to the policeman. They were eating sausages, grilled tomatoes, bacon, fried eggs and beans.

‘Not open?’ the husband said. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Just that you’re hard to figure out, for me.’

‘I suppose you think I find you easy?’ He pushed the glass aside. ‘Anton.’

The policeman didn’t have an answer to that. He put a last piece of sausage in his mouth and looked at his watch. After breakfast they went upstairs and packed their bags. The husband paid for the room, which was a lot more expensive than he’d expected.