Gerbrand Bakker: Ten White Geese

The geese refused to be herded into the shelter. They ran off the wrong way in a column or scattered, as if understanding that it was hard to choose between six separate birds. The sheep in the adjoining field remained unmoved. Most of them grazed on calmly; some looked up now and then. Panting, she scooped up a few pebbles and threw them at the geese. ‘Ungrateful, dirty, filthy, stinking, pig-headed creatures!’ she shouted. ‘I’m trying to bloody save you!’ She decided to try again one last time, very calmly. The geese were standing by the largest pond, close to the shelter. She lit a cigarette and sat down in the grass. The geese clucked a little, two of them drank some water. Not too fast, she told herself, I’ll let them get used to me first. She stood up and spread her arms, cigarette in mouth. Taking their time, the geese thronged away from the pond and walked past the shelter. She stayed where she was. The birds stopped four or five metres away from the bent piece of chicken wire. ‘Go inside,’ she said quietly. ‘Go on. It’s safe in there.’ She listened to herself speaking English and thought, I have to head them off. Very calmly. As quietly as she could, she crept around behind the geese, believing she was going to succeed: the birds stood still with their fat bodies pressed against each other, only their heads and necks turning. Now she walked towards the shelter, arms still spread. Yes, she thought. Yes. Smoke curled up into her eyes, making tears run down her cheeks.

In that same instant something skimmed over her head, so close she felt the wind rustling her hair. A half-second later, the reddish-brown bird flapped its wings, then glided up over the house and off into the wood. By that time the geese were already in the far corner of the field. A few white feathers floated down to the ground. She fell to her knees and collapsed sideways in the wet grass. ‘Why am I doing this?’ she said quietly. She spat out what was left of the cigarette. ‘I can’t do it at all.’

*

A couple of hours later she was lying in the claw-foot tub. She studied her fingers, raised her left leg and picked the scab off her instep. The water at the foot of the bath took on a reddish tinge. ‘I can do it,’ she said. She got out of the bath and dried herself. The small mirror above the sink was misted over; she saw her face and upper body as pinkish lumps and took a couple of paracetamol. She draped the towel over the rail on the landing next to some damp clothes. A fire was burning in the fireplace in the study, the desk lamp on the oak table was switched on. She stood in front of the fire. The skin of her thighs and belly felt tight. She ran her hands over her breasts and looked Emily Dickinson straight in her black eyes. ‘It’s easy for you,’ she said. ‘You’re dead.’

It wasn’t until a couple of days after she’d abandoned her mobile phone on the ferry that she realised she’d always used it as a watch and calender. She had brought her diary with her; if she really wanted to she could work out the date. Not having a clock — the one on the kitchen wall had probably stopped a long time ago — was not a problem. She ate when she was hungry and went to bed when she was up to it, though never without taking a paracetamol first. No alarm clock.

*

When she came downstairs the next morning, she was able to walk straight out the front door, which was wide open. It was already light and the grass was damp on her bare feet. These are the days when skies put on / The old, old sophistries of June, — / A blue and gold mistake . She wasn’t entirely sure why those lines had popped into her head. November and still so mild. Deceptively mild, perhaps. Blue and gold, but a mistake. There were two rubber boots on the doorstep. She turned round and didn’t close the door. The man was sitting at the kitchen table as if he came for a coffee every morning. He had folded up the map and was calmly drumming his fingers.

‘ Bore da ,’ he said.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb.

She looked at the clock: thirteen minutes past nine. She couldn’t remember what time it had been stopped at all these weeks.

‘Have you been here for a quarter of an hour?’

‘Yes.’

All she had on was the baggy T-shirt she used as a nightie. It came down to just above her knees. Was it too late to go back upstairs?

The man stood up and extended a hand. ‘Rhys Jones.’

If he hadn’t stood up, she could have excused herself. She pulled the neck of the T-shirt up a little and held out her other hand. ‘Good morning,’ she said without giving her name. She filled the coffee pot with water and coffee and raised one of the lids on the big cooker. She heard the farmer sit down again, the chair creaked.

‘Indestructible, that is,’ he said.

She looked out of the window. ‘Milk?’ she asked, keeping her back to him.

‘Yes, please. Milk and sugar.’

She raised the second lid, took a plastic milk bottle out of the fridge and poured the milk into a small saucepan. She picked the whisk out of the cutlery tray, which was on the worktop. She saw that her hand was shaking. ‘I’m just going upstairs,’ she said, not budging.

The man didn’t react.

‘I’m going to get dressed. I overslept.’

‘You don’t need to on my account,’ said Rhys Jones.

She faced him. ‘Wasn’t the door locked?’

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a key, which he laid on the map. ‘I have a key.’

‘Which you are now leaving here?’

‘If you’d rather.’

‘Yes, I’d rather.’ She turned away again to stir the milk with the whisk, feeling her bum rocking slightly beneath the thin T-shirt material. ‘There is cake. Would you like a piece of cake with your coffee?’

‘Lovely.’

The coffee pot started to splutter. ‘Did you write the instructions?’

‘Yes.’

‘You did it very well then. I can manage the Aga now.’

‘The oil tank’s been filled. It’ll last you months.’ He slid the map to one side. ‘Mrs Evans liked the idea of me having a key.’

She poured the coffee into two mugs and added milk to one. Then took the cake out of the fridge, cut two slices and laid them on plates. She slid the cake and coffee over to him and, before sitting down and as inconspicuously as possible, held the hem of her T-shirt against her thighs.

Rhys Jones looked like a caricature of a Welshman: a broad face, thick greasy hair, watery eyes, unshaven. She thought she could detect a faint smell of sheep, but it could have been last night’s beer. The nail of his right thumb was blue and torn. He finished the piece of cake in five bites.

‘You’ve been down with the geese,’ he said.

‘What was the arrangement you had with the woman who lived here before?’

‘Regarding the sheep?’

‘Yes.’

‘Free pasture. Mowing and haymaking once or twice a year. And a lamb in autumn.’

‘A lamb?’

‘Butchered.’

‘And that lamb? I get that too?’

‘That’s right. You’re living here now. My sheep are grazing the land you’re renting. The arrangement’s the same.’

‘And if I don’t like lamb?’

‘You still get it. I can’t supply pork or beef, but the lamb is excellent.’ He stared at her. ‘Zwartbles.’

‘Pardon?’

‘They’re Zwartbles sheep, a Friesian breed. From your own country.’

She looked at her cake and knew she wasn’t going to eat it. Never again would she see this man at nine o’clock in the morning, she thought. ‘Was this Mrs Evans a relation of yours?’

‘No.’

‘Why wasn’t the house sold?’

‘She had no one. I asked an estate agent friend of mine to put it up for rent.’