Gerbrand Bakker - Ten White Geese

*

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.

A very light rain was falling. ‘Then we’re both impervious,’ the husband said as they got into the big black car. Walking felt easier this morning. He counted back through the weeks and realised it was almost time to have the cast taken off.

‘That’s got you thinking, hasn’t it?’ the policeman said.

‘Yep.’

The policeman drove out of the car park like a boy racer, swinging the wheel and wrenching the gearstick.

The husband positioned his cast and looked out. When he burped, he tasted the disgusting champagne. He didn’t think ahead. Even doing his best, he found it difficult to picture his wife’s face. I’m coming . It was really only because he knew she was ill. Otherwise he would probably have stayed away.

‘This friend of yours,’ he said.

‘No,’ said the policeman.

‘No?’

‘Don’t talk about it. We’re abroad.’

‘Do you even have a friend?’

Bram interrupted, telling them to cross the next roundabout. Second exit. Hapsford, Ellesmere Port . On the roundabout Bram continued to give them directions.

The husband watched the policeman’s hands, relaxed on the steering wheel. The windscreen wipers had stopped slapping back and forth. There was a break in the clouds ahead. ‘It’s going to be a nice day,’ he said.