30

The next morning she got up fairly early. The door to the study was closed and the house was silent. She made some coffee and set the table, putting a tablecloth on it for the first time. The mist had cleared in the night, a dull sun was shining. The sight of the one and a half unpollarded alders immediately drained her. He would leave; she would have to do it alone. She sat down with her hands next to her empty plate. Instead of coming down from upstairs, he came in from outside, bringing the bitter smell of fallen leaves into the house with him. The dog was overjoyed to see her. She could still see the boy as a gymnast: not a brawny one on the rings, but the slender kind whose best event is the floor exercise. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of the chair he was about to sit down on, opposite her.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘I was at the stone circle. It’s a real one. This bit will definitely go in the route.’

‘Are some of them unreal then?’

‘Sure. Even farmers have time on their hands sometimes.’

‘See any badgers?’

‘No. You only see them at night. Sam didn’t smell anything either.’

She pulled off a sock and stuck her foot out towards him under the table.

‘What’s that?’

‘A scar.’

‘Yes, I can see that. What from?’ He reached out to her foot and for the first time since the bite she felt the teeth penetrating her flesh. Just before he was about to touch her skin, he pulled back his hand.

‘A badger. In the daytime.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’

He stared at her with his strange, slightly evasive eyes. Last night it had been worse. His squint. Probably because of the wine. ‘No,’ he said.

Her thigh muscle started to quiver so she put her foot down on the floor, then pulled the sock back on. She poured the coffee. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes. With the sound of the stream.’ He started to eat. The dog sat next to his chair and kept its eyes on him, head slightly crooked. ‘You’ll get yours, Sam.’

She buttered a slice of bread, put some cheese on it and looked at it. She swallowed. ‘Heading off soon?’

‘Yes.’

A bit of coffee then, she could always manage that. The boy ate in silence, the dog following every piece into his mouth. Bradwen looked in turn at his plate, out the window and at the dog. He glanced once at the clock. ‘I want to go to Snowdon today,’ he said. ‘Have you got a suggestion?’

‘A suggestion?’

‘The most beautiful way to get there.’

‘Can you walk it in one day?’

‘Easy. I’m not going up, just to the foot of the mountain.’

‘I haven’t gone in that direction yet.’

‘How long you been living here?’

‘A month or two.’

‘Is it temporary?’

‘No. Permanent.’

‘Wow.’ He’d finished eating and rubbed his hands which, despite last night’s bath, were still a little dirty. ‘Your turn, Sam.’ He tipped some dog food into the bowl in front of the cooker. ‘I’ll get my stuff from upstairs and then I’ll be off.’

‘OK,’ she said.

Ten minutes later they were standing at the corner of the house. The grass was wet, the door of the pigsty open. The alder branches lay gleaming against the garden wall. The boy shook her hand. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. The dog followed the barbed-wire fence, sniffing and barking. The geese were in the far corner of the field.

‘You’re welcome.’ She waited before letting go of his hand. It wouldn’t be strange to say something else now, but she didn’t know what. He’d put on his woolly hat, though it wasn’t cold. ‘I’d better get Sam away from those geese.’

‘You go straight ahead at that bend. I oiled the kissing gate a while ago.’

He carefully pulled back his hand. ‘See you,’ he said. He walked off, whistling the dog, which was now running back and forth along the fence. She could only see his legs, an elbow now and then. Man and dog: man with restless legs, kicking a chunk of slate along in front of him. Just before he went through the kissing gate, Sam ran up to him. There was no squeak, she’d oiled the hinges well. He was gone. The dog barked one last time.

She walked over to the goose field. The birds came up to her. Four. It must have happened the night she’d knelt there naked, gazing up at the stars. A whole week had passed without her giving the geese a second glance. She ran into the house, grabbed the chunk of bread off the worktop, ran back, pulled off little pieces of bread and threw them over the barbed-wire fence. She looked at the shelter she’d made. The chicken wire that was supposed to cover the entrance was still folded back. Maybe they crept in at night and weren’t safe even then. Now that she was standing with bread in her hands and had the geese’s attention, she remembered the day she’d tried to herd the birds into the shelter. Lying wet and exhausted on her side in the grass, she had thought of luring them with bread. The next day Rhys Jones showed up and it was his fault she’d forgotten about the geese. How could I have let that happen? she asked herself. Neglecting animals I’m responsible for because I think someone’s a bastard? Where’s he got to anyway? It’s already December and November is the month for slaughtering animals. What’s keeping him? She moved along to the gate and went into the goose field. The birds followed her. She scattered some bread in front of the shelter. They weren’t having it. As if knowing she was trying to trick them, they kept a good distance. She sighed and went back to the gate. After she had tied it up again with the piece of rope, the geese ran to the shelter and started gulping down the bread. ‘Godverdomme,’ she said quietly. ‘Pig-headed, stupid creatures.’ She looked at the kissing gate and the gap in the row of oaks. Slowly, she walked back to the house. In the kitchen the breakfast things were still on the table. She picked up his plate and smelt it, then put his mug to her lips. The house had never been this empty. She didn’t think twice, but grabbed her bag and ran to the car.