Gerbrand Bakker - Ten White Geese

‘Did you enjoy your meal, guys?’ she asked. The policeman told her that it was very tasty, the husband nodded and swallowed the last mouthful. ‘Have a wonderful Christmas,’ she said and moved on to the next table to clear away their dishes, asking them the same question and wishing them a wonderful Christmas.

‘I have to go to the toilet,’ the husband said.

‘Me too,’ said the policeman.

They stood next to each other at the urinals. There was no one else there. Christmas carols were being piped in through hidden speakers.

‘Could you call me Anton sometime?’ the policeman asked.

‘Sure,’ said the husband. One of the crutches, leaning against the tiled wall next to the urinal, slid away to one side. He made a grab to catch it, letting go of his penis in the process, which immediately interrupted the flow of urine.

The policeman already had it in his left hand. He kept pissing very calmly. ‘Anton,’ he said. ‘That’s my name.’ He put the crutch back against the wall, shook his penis dry, put it back in his pants and zipped up.

When the husband washed his hands, he saw a wet spot on his trousers in the mirror.

*

Before getting back into the car, one of them standing either side, the policeman looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost three,’ he said. ‘We — No, it’s almost two. But still, it’ll be long dark by the time we get there.’ The roof of the car came up to his throat.

‘Uh-huh?’ said the husband. He wanted to get in and stretch the leg with the cast, which was possible if he slid the seat as far back as it went. He wanted to close his eyes and listen to Bram, who would accurately inform them that they needed to cross the next roundabout, second exit. He had a Lucy in his car, a voice with a Flemish accent, who regularly warned him that he needed to make a U-turn, which was, of course, down to his driving style. Bram sounded more confident.

‘Should we get a hotel?’

‘Yes,’ said the husband.

‘One day’s not going to make any difference, is it?’

‘No,’ said the husband.

‘You OK?’ asked the policeman.

‘I don’t know what to do when we get there.’

‘Do you need to know? You’ll see what happens.’

‘Yes,’ said the husband.

‘We could just head north,’ the policeman said. ‘Scotland’s closer.’

‘No.’

‘We could put it off a little. If you’d rather.’

‘No.’

‘Let’s go then. We’ll stop when we feel like it.’

The husband laid a hand on the roof of the car. ‘Maybe it would have been different if we’d had kids.’

‘No. Kids are a pain in the neck.’

‘Says you.’

‘Yes, says me. Everything should be its own justification.’ The policeman opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.

The husband now had a clear view of the little white man with the cook’s hat on the red background. Behind the logo, the sky was an even grey. A flag on the roof of the roadside restaurant hung limply against the pole. The policeman had already started the car. He pulled the door open and sat down, putting his cast in a good position and resting his other leg next to it. He looked past the policeman’s shoulder at his hands, which turned the wheel, let it go for a moment, then took it again. Bram told them to turn left, back onto the A63. Goole said the signs and Castleford and Leeds .

*

A couple of hours later, past Manchester, a large sign on the motorway verge announced Holiday Inn Runcorn . It was dark and very busy on the road. ‘That’s enough for today,’ the policeman said. ‘Time to eat and drink.’

The husband looked at the hands on the wheel, a silver ring on the thumb of the right hand. The headlights swept over the row of squat conifers that lined the car park.

‘Try to make a U-turn,’ said Bram.

The policeman laughed.

Early in the morning she turned on the TV. A detailed weather forecast showed the map of the UK. It was cloudy almost everywhere except North Wales, and when the clouds started moving it turned out they wouldn’t set in here until night, from the west. The temperature was mild for the time of year and the weatherman wished her a ‘Merry green Christmas’. She switched it off and went into the kitchen to make some sandwiches. She put four bananas in her rucksack and two plastic water bottles and the sandwiches in the boy’s. She looked at the packet of cigarettes in the middle of the table, hesitated, then put it in her bag too. She pulled on her boots and stuck her head out the front door to see if the alder branch was still leaning against the wall. She mustn’t forget it. Stars were still visible in the sky, already paling. She pulled on the purple hat. ‘Come on!’ she called from the bottom of the stairs.

*

The boy had dared to stroke her breasts, although she’d needed to encourage him. Shivering, she’d lain on her back. His hot breath on her throat, the warmth of the fire, not on the top of her head, but on the side of her body. He’d turned the mattress ninety degrees; he must have done it sometime that day. He’d laid the portrait of Dickinson face down on the table. They’d hardly seen each other all day: him gone, her back and forth to the pigsty; him back, her in front of the TV; him in the kitchen preparing yet more food to feed his wiry lamb’s body, her in the claw-foot bath with Native Herbs to banish the old-woman smell. ‘You moved her out of the way and turned her upside down,’ she’d said, after turning onto her side. ‘Yes,’ he’d replied, his lips very close to hers, carefully blowing his breath into her mouth. ‘Spooky woman.’ He can suck it out of me, she’d thought. Maybe he can banish it. ‘Don’t we need to…?’ he’d said, his lamb’s body over hers, his fists next to her upper arms, a tendon that ran straight across his chest trembling. She’d stroked his bum without answering, looking past his chest to his eager penis and very slowly pulling him down. Protection, she’d thought, that’s for healthy people. It was unbelievable how warm he was. Warm and young and alive. As usual, she hadn’t been able to choose — looking straight into both eyes wasn’t possible — but she’d kept looking, hoping that he would go slowly, that she wouldn’t need to say anything, that his lamb’s body would feel hers and merge with it. She was staring intently at the very instant that the eye with the squint pulled a little to one side and she was able, very briefly, to look him straight in both eyes after all, even though he’d probably not seen a thing for those few seconds. She’d sighed deeply; he hadn’t made a sound and wanted to get off her almost immediately. ‘No,’ she’d said and hugged him tight, his wet chest against her breasts. With the spread fingers of her left hand, she’d finally combed the hair over his forehead. The boy had licked her neck. Without getting sick. Later he’d gone back to his divan, after setting the last logs on the fire. He’d done that very quietly, not a single joint in his wiry body had creaked. She had lain on her side, staring at the fire. She could smell herself and she could smell the boy: the smell from the beginning, the combination of sweet socks and bitter leaves. He had snored slightly, it was more a quiet whistling. She had wanted to fall asleep in that moment, preferably together with him, doing at least one thing together, but instead the old-woman smell rose again from the bed or the floor or her own body. She cried quietly and thought that she should stop resisting. And finally, with the stream rushing the whole time, she imagined the house, the geese and the sheep, the alders and the gorse bushes, the reservoir, the stone circle and the rose garden, her own small world, and fell asleep.