49
“What’s your name actually?”
“Greta.”
“I’m Helmer van Wonderen.”
She gives me an insolent look. “Yes, I know that.”
“What’s your surname?”
“What’s it matter? I’m only the driver.”
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever.”
Greta bends over and unscrews the milk hose. She’s wearing trainers, but doesn’t raise her feet to avoid the last bit of milk that runs out of the tank and hose.
“How’s your boy going?” she asks.
“My boy?”
“Your helper.”
“Henk?”
“How would I know what he’s called?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“It seems like a strange question to me.”
“Yeah?” She’s finished and walks over to the cab. She climbs up. The young tanker driver always leapt up like a cat, pulling the door open as he leapt. Greta clambers, pants, grabs hold and hauls herself up. She has to pull the door twice before it shuts properly. I can’t see her any more, but imagine her sliding her fat ass back and forth to make herself comfortable before setting to work on the gear stick, clutch and accelerator. After it’s been quiet for a while in the milking parlor, I start to hose out the tank and wash off the tiles.
There’s someone in the field. Near the Bosman windmill. I stand at the causeway gate and watch him approach the farm. He gets bigger and bigger and smaller and smaller at the same time. It’s Ronald.
“It’s all wet there,” he says after reaching me.
“That’s the idea,” I say.
I can hardly remember the last time it rained and yesterday evening I saw on TV that there have been dune and heath fires because of the drought, but still the field near the windmill has got boggy. This isn’t dune or heath here, it’s peat meadow.
“What for?”
“For the birds, Ronald. They like that, wet land.”
“Oh, right.” He stays standing on the other side of the gate.
“Aren’t you going to climb over the gate?”
“Yeah.” He looks around. “Nice weather, isn’t it?”
“It’s like summer.”
“Yes. But it’s only April.”
“How’s your mother’s garden?”
“What about it?”
“Is it looking good?”
“Uh-huh. Where’s Henk?”
“Henk’s gone to Monnickendam to get some cigarettes.”
“By bike?”
“Yep.”
“Smoking’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Smoking is very bad. But enjoyable.”
“Why didn’t he take the car?”
“Because he doesn’t have a license.”
“Is he scared?”
“No. He’s only just eighteen.”
“How old are you?”
“Old.”
“What did you do with Henk’s head?” He’s still standing on the other side of the gate.
“What do you mean, Ronald?”
“The stitches.”
“I took them out.”
“Doesn’t a doctor have to do that?”
“No, it’s easy.”
“Oh.” He looks a bit unhappy and puts one foot on the bottom bar of the gate.
I take him under the arms and help him over the gate.
“I’m going home now,” he says.
“Fine.”
“Just going to see the donkeys first.” He crosses the yard to the donkey paddock. The donkeys are over near the cottage and come trotting when they see him at the gate. Ronald sticks his arms through the bars and rubs them both under the chin at the same time. When he tires of it they stay there for a while using the top bar of the gate to scratch their own chins. Slowly Ronald walks to the road, kicking stones along in front of him. Not once does he turn back to look at me.
Not much has changed when I see Henk come riding up. I’m still standing at the causeway gate and the donkeys are still standing at their gate. They start braying and shaking their heads when they see Henk. He ignores them. He rides straight at me, brakes and stretches a hand out towards my head. I step aside, just like he pulled back when he’d been to the hairdresser’s - how long ago now? - and felt my hand moving towards his shaven head.
He puffs a little, leans Father’s bike against the gate and takes off his coat. He drapes the coat over the gate, then pulls a new packet of cigarettes out of an inside pocket. “It’s boiling,” he says, pulling the cellophane off the pack, flicking the lid up and taking a cigarette. The lighter appears from his back pocket. He lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, selfishly. The way everything about him is selfish. “Boiling,” he says again. “And it’s not even summer.”
“No,” I say, “It’s not summer by a long shot.”
After we’ve eaten, Henk goes upstairs with a plate. I clear the table and start washing up. He comes back down - plateless - just when I’m wiping the last knife. He has the gall to say, “He’s not dead yet.”
I turn to face him, still holding the shining clean knife in my right hand and with the damp tea towel over one shoulder. “Henk,” I say. “Shut your trap.”
“Goodness,” he says.
I yank open the cutlery drawer and throw in the knife. I drape the tea towel over the back of a chair and walk into the scullery.
“Where you going?” he calls out after me.
I don’t answer. In the shed the cows are calmly chewing the cud. It’s quiet in the sheep shed as well. One sheep has started in the afternoon and isn’t making any progress. I roll up a sleeve, make my hand as narrow as possible and feel my way round a warm tangle of legs, bodies and heads. There are three: this is the first sheep with triplets. Number eighteen. In a few minutes I’ve got them out. One is dead. A dead lamb is always a shame, but triplets almost invariably mean that at least one of them will need bottle-feeding. With just two sheep left to go, it’s looking unlikely this year. Ronald has already complained, he loves mucking around with bottles and teats. His father doesn’t have sheep. I lift the two remaining lambs into the lambing pen, then pull the gate open a little to herd the sheep through to the other side. I lay the dead lamb outside the sheep shed next to a dead lamb from yesterday. I’ll have to call the incinerator tomorrow morning. Twenty-nine from eighteen. It could be better.
Coming back into the house, I go straight to the bathroom. I leave the taps running until the boiler is empty. I dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist. It’s quiet in the house. Henk isn’t watching TV. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the side window. The curtain is drawn. He’s smoking. The table is completely bare except for the butt-filled ashtray. I walk into the living room.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Oh,” he exclaims indignantly, “I’ll go to bed too then.”
“Your own bed,” I say.
“Upstairs?”
“That’s right, upstairs, that’s where your bed is.”
“But . . .”
“But what?” I’ve reached the bedroom door.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
I close my bedroom door and go over to stand in front of the map of Denmark. “Helsingør,” I say. “Stenstrup, Esrum, Blistrup, Tisvildeleje.” Five names spoken slowly are not enough tonight. I do a few extra islands. “Samsø, Ærø, Anholt, Møn.” The big bed is ready for me. When I pull back the duvet, I smell Henk. I lie down and tug the light cord above my head. It’s dark. I hear him enter the living room. I hear him walking up to the bedroom door. He breathes in front of the closed door, I breathe here in bed. Then he walks away from the door. A few seconds later the TV goes on. Cigarette smoke drifts into the bedroom through the cracks. He rips open a bag of crisps. An hour later the TV goes off. He stamps upstairs and slams the door of the new room behind him. He doesn’t think of Father, he doesn’t think of me. He is young and thinks only of himself.
