Gerbrand Bakker - Ten White Geese

‘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 Showing what’s been withdrawn, where and when.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 interested 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.

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…’