He had to hold it with both hands because it was bulky. The parcel measured seventy centimetres square or thereabouts and was barely twenty centimetres high. It was too heavy to be a lavatory seat, although that had been his first thought. He had a hunch that whatever was inside might be round. Square parcels usually had round contents.
He was particularly happy to pass the No entry sign. Well, that only applies to trespassers, he thought to himself. He was obviously free to enter, because he was bringing a registered letter. And a parcel.
He needed a signature.
And there was no way he was leaving the Head without it.
The postman took a right around the barrier and looked expectantly, albeit a little tensely, up at the house. If he was lucky, he would catch a glimpse of Maria Horder. He would love to know how she looked now.
He had managed two steps before someone called out.
‘You there!’ someone shouted behind him, and he stopped in his tracks. There was a note of aggression in the voice which he didn’t like. When he turned around, he saw Jens Horder marching towards him. ‘Where do you think you’re going? Can’t you read? I thought we had an agreement?’
The postman froze. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. All right, so the Fuse made a habit of similarly belligerent outbursts – not to mention when she became physical. But Jens Horder had never raised his voice to anyone, certainly no one working for the post office.
‘Of course, but…’
‘Come here,’ Horder snarled. ‘What have you got for me?’
Reluctantly, the postman stepped back behind the barrier. He had time to feel cross with himself for not starting his round a little earlier; then he might have had an opportunity to chat to the wife, just the two of them. He was dying to know what was going on at the Horder place.
‘I have a registered letter and a parcel,’ he replied. ‘They both need signing for. That’s why I—’
He stopped himself when he caught a better look at Jens Horder. Horder was carrying seven or eight large plastic bags, stuffed to the brim. The sweat was trickling from his forehead, although it wasn’t a particularly hot November day. And then there was his beard, and his clothes. It was a long time since the postman had seen Horder close up. The man looked dreadful.
‘Why haven’t you been down in your pickup, Horder? You usually are.’
‘The pickup died. It’s down on the south road. I had to leave it.’
‘Gosh. That must have been a long walk home.’
‘Give me the letter,’ Horder demanded, setting down the bags. The postman caught a glimpse of something white in one of them. He carefully put the letter and the parcel on a tree stump next to the barrier and then offered Horder his receipt book and a pen. The recipient glared suspiciously at him before signing his name with an angry scrawl.
‘By the way, who is M?’ the postman asked, in his most ingratiating voice. He had no intention of letting this opportunity slip through his fingers. ‘You regularly get letters from them. And now a parcel as well. So I’m guessing that—’
‘If that’s all, then goodbye.’ Jens Horder cut him off, handing back the receipt book and the pen. The postman had privately hoped that Horder would open the parcel there and then.
‘You don’t want help with the parcel? I have a craft knife on me…’
‘So do I,’ Jens Horder said, again with this inexplicable coldness. Then he planted his hands on his hips and stared at the postman with an expression it was difficult to interpret as anything other than menacing.
‘Well… goodbye then,’ the postman said, and walked back to his van. Jens Horder stayed put while the van reversed. As the postman drove down the road towards the Neck, he could still see Horder in his rear-view mirror. He looked like a savage. A crazy savage.
Now, the postman wasn’t by nature a judgemental man, but he had long entertained a theory that Jens Horder had done something to his mother, possibly even killed her. Perhaps he was hiding her body in the big skip? The idea would never have crossed his mind if it hadn’t been for a casual chat he had had one day with the ferry man in Sønderby, in which he had learned that Else Horder never took the ferry back to the mainland the previous Christmas. And if anyone was certain about anything, the ferry man knew his passengers. However, he had been utterly uninterested in the postman’s suspicions. In fact, absolutely no one cared.
But then again, no one else had seen Jens Horder looking as he had looked down by the barrier. That was a man with something to hide. Otherwise, why the threatening behaviour?
What ultimately frustrated the postman more than anything, though, was that he didn’t have any news to share with the others down at the pub, as he had hoped for. Although he had a snippet.
M – Inventions for Life.
But it was probably not enough for him to be taken seriously. Or even get anyone to listen. The others would invariably mutter that he should leave Horder alone to his grief. And that people were allowed to be a little eccentric.
M
Jens Horder waited until the post van was out of sight. Then he turned his attention to the letter and the big parcel, which was balancing on the tree stump.
He started with the letter. It was in a padded buff-coloured envelope. As always, it contained an ordinary white envelope with cash inside. He looked at the white envelope, pulled it out and opened it. Business as usual, except this time the letter had been sent by registered post.
And this time a folded piece of paper had been slipped in alongside the white envelope.
He slowly pulled it out and felt immediately that it was thick with very fine grooves. When it reached the sunlight, it became ivory-coloured, and when he opened it he saw the watermark.
It was a commercial letterhead. And it wasn’t just one sheet of paper, but two stapled together.
It was in his brother’s handwriting.
Dear Jens
There’s no denying it has been a long time, and that’s entirely my fault. For that reason, writing this letter isn’t easy, but I hope that you will read it with an open mind.
I also hope that you can accept that I send you money every month. I send cash, as I assumed that was what you would prefer, and it’s also more discreet. I would so hate to cause problems – even more than I imagine I caused back when I ran away from it all. I don’t know if you can ever forgive me, but I hope so.
I’m sure you’re doing well with the business, and you and the family have never needed my contributions, but I thought that it was the least I could do, given that I shirked my responsibility. I admit frankly that I also do it for my own sake. Yes, it’s an attempt to make amends and ease my conscience. The latter hasn’t been entirely successful.
I’ve never forgiven myself for leaving you in the lurch, but I just had to get out. As you probably sensed back then, I couldn’t settle on the Head at all. I had terrible wanderlust and felt suffocated by the never-ending workload and the responsibility and, not least, Mum’s expectations. Something about it all made me claustrophobic. We were so isolated, and there were so many other things that I wanted to do instead. I wanted to see the city, I wanted to invent. You wanted the trees.
You had also grown so quiet, Jens. I can’t reproach you for that – I would never reproach you – because I knew that Dad’s death hit you hard. But even so, I was secretly angry with you because I needed to talk to you. I missed you, even though we were together all the time. I couldn’t bear it.