‘It’s almost December,’ the mother said.
‘Yes,’ said the husband.
‘This is really starting to upset me.’
‘What can we do about it?’ he asked.
‘It’s all your fault.’
‘My fault?’
The mother gave him a look that said no further explanation was necessary and he should realise perfectly well that he was to blame.
‘Yes,’ said the father, without so much as a glance in his direction. Up till then he hadn’t even opened his mouth.
‘Yes, what?’ asked the mother.
‘Just, yes,’ said the father.
She sighed. ‘How can we start the festive season like this? St Nicholas. Christmas.’ She gestured weakly at the windowsill, where three candles were already burning in a triangular holder. The flames were motionless; the windows were well insulated.
‘Don’t ask me,’ said the husband.
‘Bah!’ said the father.
‘What?’ asked the mother.
‘He can’t sing at all!’
‘Has she done this before?’ the husband asked. ‘I mean, before me.’
‘Never! She never just disappeared. She didn’t even like pyjama parties. She never stayed the night at friends’.’
‘At my brother’s, she did,’ the father said.
‘Yes. She never got enough of that. Staying at her uncle’s. She never even mentioned her auntie. Those two were thick as thieves.’
‘He taught her how to smoke,’ said the father.
‘Bah. That’s right. And always putting ideas in her head. He used to say funny things to her. When she came home, it always took ages to get her back to her old self.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘That she had to be able to do things herself. That when it comes down to it, people are always alone. That you should never let other people tell you what to do.’
‘That’s not so bad, is it?’
‘No, but she took it to heart, she upped and left. Her auntie was distraught, but her uncle just sniggered. And when she came home again, she wouldn’t listen to us at all.’
‘So she used to disappear.’
‘No, an hour or so, never long. Two hours at most. When we heard about the smoking, that was it. We refused to let her stay there ever again.’
‘My brother isn’t…altogether right,’ the father said.
‘That’s one way of putting it, I suppose,’ the mother said. ‘You could say he’s mad as a hatter.’
‘Come on…’
‘I’m always scared that he’ – pointing at her husband – ‘is going that way too. Fortunately he’s married to a very sensible, very strong woman.’
‘Drink?’ the father asked.
‘Yes, please,’ the husband said.
‘Sure, hit the bottle. That’ll solve things.’
‘You too?’ the father asked.
‘No, of course not! Have I ever drunk a single drop of alcohol?’
‘You’re never too old to start.’ The father got up and poured two old genevers: his own glass full to overflowing so that he had to bend over and take a slurp before he could pick it up. After putting the other glass down in front of the husband, he immediately returned his attention to the TV.
‘Yes,’ the mother said, sighing. ‘Him going that way too…’
‘Ach, woman.’
She started to cry softly.
The husband sipped his genever. He wondered if his mother-in-law was right, if it was his fault. A squall of rain briefly drowned out the singing of a fat girl with spiky hair who was standing motionless in a large room. She had a magnificent, clear voice and seemed to forget everything around her while she sang. Her eyes gleamed, her hands hung next to her thighs, completely relaxed, she became beautiful. Soon after, they told her that she lacked the ‘necessary charisma’. Next, please.
‘Bastards,’ said the father.
*
During a commercial break, the mother started again. ‘Are they going to put you in prison now?’
‘No,’ the husband said. In front of him was a second glass of genever.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m paying for all the damage.’
‘So nowadays you can commit arson wherever you like without getting sent to prison?’
‘That depends, I suppose,’ the husband said. ‘I didn’t leave the scene. I cooperated. I think it’s related to that.’
‘Have you got the money?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s still your fault.’
‘Why do you say that? Do you really think it’s that simple?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know what she did.’
‘Yes.’
‘So how can it be my fault?’
‘How do we even know it’s true? We’ve only got it from you. Who says you’re not lying?’
‘Why would I lie?’
‘Because of everything you’ve got to hide.’
‘I don’t have anything to hide.’
‘No,’ said the father, who was staring at the TV screen.
‘You keep out of it,’ said the mother. ‘Where could that poor child have got to?’
‘The uncle,’ the husband said. ‘That brother of yours. Is he still alive?’
‘And kicking!’ the father said. ‘He’s not even seventy yet.’
‘Where’s he live?’
‘You think she’s at his place?’ the mother asked.
‘She’s not there,’ the father said.
‘He already phoned him. She’s not there. Unless he’s lying. That’s quite possible too, of course. He’s stark staring mad.’
There was more singing and judging on TV. The father had turned it up after his wife’s last remark. He was sitting much too close; it was hard to believe he could see anything at all with his nose pressed against the screen like that. Or was it a way of making himself invisible, so that he could comment safely from the sidelines now and then?
‘Money,’ said the father.
‘What?’
‘Don’t you get statements from the bank? Showing what’s been withdrawn, where and when. She needs money, doesn’t she?’
‘I get statements,’ the husband said. ‘Not her. She does it all online. I don’t have access. We have separate accounts.’
‘If you ask me, you’ve got plenty to hide,’ the mother said. ‘You turned out to be an arsonist, after all.’
The husband sighed.
‘Not having any kids, that’s your fault too. I’m sure of it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t she tell you about the tests?’
‘What tests?’
‘The tests I’ve had.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘That’s obvious.’
‘I want a glass of wine.’
‘What?’ said the father.
‘I said I want a glass of wine. White.’
‘Help yourself.’
‘You serve your son-in-law and I have to help myself?’
‘Yes,’ said the father. ‘I’m watching TV. And you never drink.’
The mother stood up and walked to the kitchen. The husband pondered the ferocity she had put into the phrase ‘son-in-law’ and waited for his father-in-law to turn round. To say something to him. Man to man. Light flickered through the living room.
‘Why do all these people make such fools of themselves?’ said the father.
The husband shrugged.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Don’t you want to be on TV?’
‘Nope.’
‘They do. No matter what.’
‘In the old days she always used to look out the window on St Nicholas’ Eve. She was the kind of kid who’d sit with her face up close to the glass and stare out at the wet streets.’
‘What about the presents?’ asked the husband.
‘Yes, she was inter
ested in them too, of course, but still…’ The father looked at the screen. ‘What bothers me most,’ he said quietly, ‘is that she said “really”. There’s really no need to worry.’
The mother came back. She was holding a glass that was quarter filled with wine. After sitting down and taking a mouthful, she pulled a wry face. ‘So you’re fine?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me at all.’
‘When was that?’
‘Last autumn.’
‘Did she get herself tested too?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she didn’t think it was necessary?’
‘Are you asking me?’
‘No, I’m just saying.’
‘If I were her, I’d get myself tested too.’
All three of them drank and stared at the TV. A youth in shorts and woolly socks with a bare, tattooed upper body leapt around the studio. He screamed all kinds of things, but they couldn’t follow him at all. Maybe he came from the east of the country. The husband didn’t want to think about the student. He wanted to stay calm.
‘After all, it’s getting pretty late in the day,’ the mother said.
‘Ach.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘Forty-three.’
‘Were things going well with the two of you?’
The husband thought for a moment. ‘No.’ After a while he said it again. ‘No.’
‘He’s a complete nutter,’ the father said.
‘What was the matter? What was going on?’ the mother asked.
‘Ach.’
‘And now?’
‘Wait a bit longer?’
‘And then?’
‘Maybe go to the police? I’ll ask the policeman who questioned me what else we can do.’
‘Do you still see him then?’
‘After he took my statement, we went and had a beer together.’
‘Why?’
‘No reason. He’s a nice guy.’
‘Even though he should have thrown you in jail.’
‘That wasn’t necessary.’
‘Police officers are ordinary citizens too,’ the father said.
‘What do you know about it?’ the mother asked.
‘Ach, woman.’
The husband couldn’t help but notice how loving that sounded.
The mother took her last mouthful of wine. ‘I still prefer a good cup of tea,’ she said.
23
The bread was finished. She had dumped the cake in the bin; she’d gone off it. She decided not to drive to Waunfawr, she wanted to see if she was able to follow one of those dotted green lines, converting symbols on a two-dimensional map into real paths, hills, houses and fields. She pulled on her hiking boots, grabbed a rucksack and locked the front door. On the path in front of the house her heart sank. The cord she had strung was still there, the bamboo posts too. She’d have to move a lot of slate. She turned the corner of the house and walked down the drive past the goose field. Five were standing at the gate. She acted as if she hadn’t seen them. The inquisitive faces, the quiet gaggling, the expectant shuffling. Five.
*
Map in hand, she walked through the oiled kissing gate. The green dotted line had told her not to follow her own drive, but the long grass hid every trace of a path. Shoulders hunched, she crossed the field at random and came out at a fence with a stile. She climbed over it and wanted to turn left. There was the neighbour’s house; by the looks of things she’d have to walk right past it. A door seemed to be open. She hesitated and studied the map carefully before turning back, as if she were just a walker who had taken a wrong turning. Quickly she climbed up onto the stile and down again, crossed the field with the long grass and followed the drive to the narrow road. She picked up the green dotted line again a few hundred metres farther along, indicated in the real world by the sign with the hiker. When she stepped into the bakery after a walk that felt like it would never end, she saw that it was quarter to one.
‘On foot?’ the baker asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered, out of breath.
‘No distance at all, huh?’
‘No, here in no time.’
‘We close at one. Just so you know next time. Awen!’
The baker’s wife emerged from the back. ‘Oh, hello, love,’ she said. ‘How was the cake?’
‘Good. Rhys Jones was enthusiastic about it too.’
‘Rhys Jones,’ the baker said.
‘He loves our cakes,’ Awen said. ‘Are you settling here permanently, love?’
‘Where does he actually live?’
‘Near the mountain. That way.’ The baker gestured through the wall. ‘In late October he moves his sheep to the old Evans farm.’
‘Do you get enough customers here?’ She was starting to feel hot and took a step to one side under the pretext of looking at something in the glass case under the counter.
‘His wife died,’ Awen continued. ‘All very tragic, and if she was still alive she would never let him eat so much cake.’
‘We get by.’ The baker gave his wife a sideways glance. ‘As long as people don’t buy their bread at Tesco’s…’
‘Is there enough heating in that house?’ Awen asked.
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
‘It’s not too lonely and isolated for you?’
‘No, that’s not a problem. There are geese. And a lot of sheep now.’
‘You’re alone? No husband?’
‘Mrs Evans came here to buy her bread right up to the end,’ the baker said loudly, as if trying to drown out his wife.
‘You should get a dog,’ Awen said.
‘What would you like?’ the baker asked.
She wanted to ask what Mrs Evans had died of and how long ago, but the couple on the other side of the counter looked at her so expectantly and so inquisitively that she stuck to ordering two loaves of bread and two packets of biscuits.
‘See you later,’ she said, putting her purchases in her rucksack.
‘When you run out of bread,’ the baker said. ‘And soon we’ll have Christmas pudding.’
‘A dog,’ the baker’s wife called after her. ‘That’s a true friend.’
She pulled the shop door shut and studied the sky. It was grey. Grey and drab, but it wasn’t raining. She looked towards Mount Snowdon and remembered that she needed to keep the mountain on her left. She glanced back as she stepped off the pavement. The baker who didn’t have a name and his wife Awen were standing there motionless, watching her. They didn’t wave, they watched.
*
The route she took back wasn’t exactly the same; almost everywhere she had gone wrong on the way there, she went right on the way back. Almost. But somewhere she made another mistake after all and it took her a long time to realise she had branched off on a different dotted line. It was all so indistinguishable: the thorny hedges, the squat oaks, the pastures, the metal drinking troughs, the manic birdsong. She found that strange: it was late November, why were the birds acting like it was spring? Without planning to, she came out at the T-junction where she had first seen the mountain and suddenly knew where she was; she didn’t even need the map any more. She sat down with her back against a wooden gate, pulled a packet of biscuits out of her rucksack and ate half of them, giving herself plenty of time to study the mountain. Despite the grey weather it was covered with different colours: brown, ochre, green, even a shade of purple. It didn’t look difficult, she thought.
*
When she carried on to the drive, it was as if it were already twilight. She had to bend over and grab a tree. When she stood up straight, the pain had nowhere to go; crouched over, the dull twinges seemed to spread out a little, becoming more bearable. She couldn’t tell where precisely it was coming from: even in her arms and legs, it stabbed and nagged. She rubbed her belly and her upper arms, pressed a hand against her forehead and thought of her uncle. A little later, when she was picking her steps forward again, she saw Emi
ly Dickinson before her, walking through her autumn garden, a first line in her head – The murmuring of bees has ceased – and trying to think how to help the poem along. No, never stung by a bee, our Emily.
24
The next morning she took her time over breakfast. She hadn’t been eating well, regularly skipping her evening meal. She still drank plenty. The clock said half past nine. When everything in the house was quiet, she could hear it ticking: sharp, spiteful little ticks. She didn’t want it, she didn’t want time in her kitchen. She wanted to stop the clock, but the thought of putting a chair under it was enough to make her feel sick with exhaustion. Stopping it, not just to get rid of time, but to thwart that oafish sheep farmer too. She thought about Rhys Jones a lot and it always wound her up.
She’d done her best to make something of the living room and the rooms upstairs; the kitchen was just as Mrs Evans had left it. There was a lingering smell of old woman around the sink and cupboards, an odour that, in the weeks she had lived here, she had gradually come to associate with herself. It even seemed to have impregnated the old-fashioned washing machine: immediately after she’d done a load, before she’d hung it out to dry on the rack at the top of the stairs, a musty air had already imposed itself on the fresh scent of washing powder. Yesterday at the baker’s she had clearly picked up the smell of the old woman, perhaps because the walk had made her perspire, and she had stepped sideways to avoid her reflection in the narrow mirror behind the bread rack, scared as she was of seeing a different person.
She made coffee, whisked milk, cut two slices of bread and spread them with salted butter. She spread one with blackcurrant jam and put cheese on the other, then sat down and forced herself to eat and drink all of it. She looked out, saw that the creeper, silhouetted against the clear blue sky, was growing more and more transparent, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She wondered if she should go to the hairdresser’s for once. After washing the plate and mug, she went upstairs. Her diary was lying on the table in the study. She opened it and studied the dates, then worked forward from a date she was sure of and tore off a perforated corner. It was Friday 27 November.
*
Ten White Geese (9781101603055) Page 5
