‘Do you ever use it? I haven’t even seen it.’
‘No. I don’t know anyone.’
‘That’s nonsense, of course.’
As if the dog had understood, he woke and barked once. He stood up and went over to stand panting where the kitchen joined the living room.
‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ the boy said. ‘He bites.’
‘Do you have a father and a mother?’
He hesitated. ‘Of course.’
‘You know them, then. Don’t you need to call home sometimes to tell them how you’re doing?’
‘I’m here now.’
She had a tremendous desire to grab her breasts to try to make something clear. She almost did it, but instead — her hands checked in mid-air — she knocked her glass over and began to cry. The boy didn’t do anything, he just stayed where he was. She stood up and walked to the stairs, passing the dog, who licked the back of her hand. She ran the bath, squeezing a long squirt of bubble bath into it, Native Herbs. She left the door — which was the only one inside the house you could lock — unlocked. She took off her clothes and stepped into the water. In the end, this was where she felt best: lying back in hot water, aware of her body, which felt flawless and uncompromised, especially with the storm raging outside. She saw the corridors of Dickson’s Garden Centre before her, rows of rose bushes, and thought of bees in late spring. Come on then, she thought.
38
The windowpane clinked. Just when she thought the last gust had been the strongest, the wind roared even louder. She plunged deeper under the duvet, her bedroom door swung ajar, clatter from the landing. She held on tight to her body, hugging her breasts through the thin fabric of her nightie, putting her hands between her legs, raising her knees as if to brace herself, giving off a smell of bottled herbs. The wind roared in from the Irish Sea. She shook her head to dislodge an image of a big ship, pints of beer and fried snacks sliding over a bar, paintings hanging away from the wall, roulette balls bouncing across a red carpet, a clown on a small stage, off to one side, vomiting into the wings. She swallowed and imagined Bradwen on a blue-edged square, moving exclusively in diagonals. Wearing shorts but with his L and R socks on. They’d slipped down a little. He turned circles on his hands, elbows tucked in, the veins in his neck swollen. Sam was sitting on a chair on the edge of the blue square and barked as his master tumbled through the air, almost flying, and landed straight-legged in the dead centre of a corner before raising one outstretched arm, exposing his armpit. Above the raging of the storm something creaked. It was more tearing than creaking: old, living wood coming free of the earth. She realised that she was no longer thinking about before, her mind was clear of all memories of the husband, the student, her uncle, Christmas with the sweetly perfumed Santa-shaped candles. ‘Ah,’ she said, because that candle was in her head now, burnt down to Santa’s waist, a puddle of red wax on the paper Christmas tablecloth, next to a plate of cauliflower cheese and thinly sliced roast beef. Along with her mother, who could never enjoy Christmas dinner because she was too scared to take her eyes off the candles in the Christmas decoration on top of the TV. She considered getting up. Going downstairs to sit next to the cooker and smoke? Maybe make some tea?
She shot bolt upright, threw the duvet aside and stood up. She held a hand against the window. She could feel the pressure on it. Things went black for a second; she’d got up too fast. The lights in the distance flickered. No, it was the branches swishing back and forth and blocking out the light as the storm rose and fell. She pulled the door further open and groped her way to the stairs, one hand heavy on the rail of the landing. Downstairs in the living room the stove was still smouldering, a vague red light lit the WELCOME mat at the front door and the boy’s hiking boots, next to the mat.
She lit the two candles on the windowsill and put the kettle on the hottest plate. The bamboo scraped over the side wall and somewhere a door banged, the door to the pigsty, she could hear the metallic clang of the old-fashioned handle. It wasn’t raining, the window was dry. The water started to boil. She filled a mug and dropped in a tea bag. While the tea brewed, she massaged her forehead and temples, her belly. Nothing. On the outside, there was nothing. She took the packet of cigarettes from the table and lit one. The tea was hot. She burnt her tongue and swore under her breath. Immediately after stubbing out the cigarette, she lit another. She sat on a chair between the table and the cooker and turned her head towards the clock. The wind was making such a racket she couldn’t hear the sharp ticking. It was ten past two. She heard another kind of ticking. It was coming from the living room and when the dog appeared in the kitchen she realised it had been his nails on the wooden stairs. ‘Hey,’ she said. The dog hung his head and approached slowly, contrite, though she couldn’t imagine what he had to be contrite about. ‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’ she asked. Sam looked at her attentively, followed the smoke coming out of her mouth, then laid his head on her knees. His sigh made the bottom hem of her nightie tremble. She stubbed out her cigarette and laid a hand on his head. ‘Where’s your master?’ she whispered. The dog started to whimper softly.
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.’