39

The next morning there was no wind at all. Bradwen stood next to a fallen oak that was lying with its crown over the stream. He pulled on a branch, holding the saw ready in his other hand. He had already rehung the pigsty door, which had blown off its hinges. She watched him with her belly pressed against the cooker. She held the mug she had drunk tea from hours before under the tap and watered the three flowering plants on the windowsill. Sam ran across the lawn with a branch in his mouth. The cows stood at the garden wall and watched, inquisitive and skittish. She brushed some crumbs off the worktop with a flat hand and sniffed. Was it the kitchen that smelt of old woman or was it her? The coffee pot started bubbling gently.

‘I think it’s going to snow,’ the boy said when he came in. ‘It’s got cold.’

‘Uh-huh,’ she said without turning.

‘Then we’ll go to the mountain.’

‘Don’t you have to continue with your path?’

It was quiet behind her for a second. ‘Sure.’

‘But not now?’

‘Not now.’

She sighed.

‘I’ve got other things to worry about now.’

‘Such as?’

‘Rose beds. A Christmas tree.’

She turned round without moving away from the cooker. ‘A Christmas tree?’

‘Yep. It’s almost Christmas.’ He stood next to the table with his hat in his hand. His black hair was stuck to his forehead, there were oak chips on the collar of his coat. Today the L and R socks were red and blue.

‘Do I need to wash some clothes for you?’

‘You don’t need to,’ he said. ‘But I do have dirty clothes.’

‘All right, you dig and I’ll wash.’

He looked at her but didn’t speak.

‘And now I suppose you’d like some coffee.’

‘Yes, please.’ Finally he sat down.

‘Where’s the dog?’

‘Running up and down along the fence of the goose field. He’s been doing it a while.’

‘Why?’

‘No idea.’

‘Do you know anything about geese?’

‘Not really.’

She poured a coffee and put it on the table in front of him. ‘Biscuit?’

‘Yes, please. Aren’t you having one?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Bradwen,’ she said. ‘Stop it.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘But you haven’t said “ach” yet.’

She smiled and laid a biscuit next to the coffee mug. Then she walked past him to the sideboard and turned on the radio.

‘Yes,’ said the boy, just loud enough. ‘That’s another method.’

She was standing at the front door to ask him what he wanted washed, but the sight of his bent back restrained her. He was digging, she went to do the washing, hauling herself up the stairs with her left hand on the banister. She went into the bathroom first to take a paracetamol, then crossed the landing. It had been a few days since she’d even been in the study. It was cold, the window above the oak table was up a little. The Collected Poems lay as she’d left it, the note she’d written was a little shaky. She rested three fingers on the page and looked down into the garden. The boy was working systematically: he’d already dug up a large part of the bordered rectangle, furrow by furrow. Now he’d stuck the spade in the ground and was standing at the open door of the old pigsty, looking down into the cellar. There was steam rising from his shoulders, his coat was lying on the garden wall. What did he see there? Be its mattress straight. Since Bradwen had come, she’d hardly given Dickinson a thought. She went over to the mantelpiece, where a brown rectangle with four metal clips was leaning against the wall. Apparently there was something about the portrait the boy didn’t like. She turned it round.

From the mantelpiece, she walked to the divan to straighten the duvet. Behind the divan was a pile of clothes: jeans, L and R socks, a T-shirt, a couple of pairs of underpants. His rucksack was in the corner. She hesitated, then quickly bundled up the clothes. Before leaving the room she looked out through the small back window. The dog was still running back and forth near the geese, nose to the ground, the birds themselves huddled together near the shelter. The sky was a yellowish grey.

In the kitchen she squatted down next to the washing machine and put his clothes in one garment at a time. Whether it hung in the kitchen or seeped from the washing machine or anywhere else, the old-woman smell didn’t stand a chance against the rancid pong of his blue and grey socks. He has to go, she thought. Better today than tomorrow. To fill the machine, she stripped the bed in her room and added the duvet cover, sheet and pillowcase to the load. Be its pillow round. On the radio Wham! were singing ‘Last Christmas’.