*
Later that day the cloud rose and the sun broke through. She walked slowly to the stone circle with the secateurs in her hand, cutting off branches that were in the way and removing ivy from the iron kissing gates. The path was looking more and more like a real path. After reaching the stone circle and before sitting down on the largest rock, she carried on in the same direction and came to a stile. It was wet here, really wet, marshy. With thick clumps of coarse grass sticking up between small puddles. The path led straight through the bog on a kind of natural embankment with rocks dotted here and there. Tomorrow, she thought. On the map she had seen a larger body of water, rectangular, as if it were man-made.
She sat dead still, waiting, her arms around her raised knees. No badgers appeared. Two yellow butterflies fluttered over the gorse. Two butterflies, she thought. Two butterflies went out at noon, / And waltzed above a stream. An enormous wave of homesickness washed over her. She had felt a milder version a couple of times before in the enormous Tesco’s at Caernarfon, especially in the refrigerated aisles. She’d fought it, but here in the sun with the butterflies and the gorse, the memory of the street in De Pijp was impossible to resist. She saw it before her in black and white: the trees half as big as now, cars with rounded features and bodies, children in knitted cardigans with leather patches on the knees of their trousers, the steep stairs up to the front doors, the heady smell of St Martin’s sweets — St Martin’s Day! Just over a week ago. She released her knees and stretched her legs, hugged her belly and bent forward.
Shortly after that, the badger shuffled out from under its gorse bush.
16
When she got back from the stone circle with an armful of tufted grass, there was a piece of paper on the front door. Came round, nobody home. I’ll be back, maybe tomorrow. Rhys Jones. The note was stuck on with a piece of chewing gum.
She turned to look at what would be the garden. I can’t do this, she thought. I don’t even know what those shrubs are called. I don’t know who Rhys Jones is. How can I protect seven geese from a fox? She dropped the secateurs and the bundle of grass. The sun was already low. Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn, / Indicative that suns go down; / The notice to the startled grass / That darkness is about to pass. Dickinson had seen what she saw now. The homesickness had ebbed. She walked into the living room, poured a glass of red wine, fluffed up some cushions and sat down close to the wood-burning stove. The cigarette she lit tasted like a first cigarette. It grew dark very slowly, as if the light was being sucked out of the window like fine dust. It made her feel a little dizzy. She lit a couple of candles and put three logs in the stove. She had left everything behind, everything except the poems. They would have to see her through. She forgot to eat.
17
The next morning she stumbled over the bundle of grass. Swearing, she put it in a big glass vase she found in a kitchen cupboard. She left the secateurs lying on the ground. Then she hitched the trailer to the back of the car and drove off in a random direction. This was the UK, she’d be bound to run into a garden centre sooner or later. After about an hour she found herself in a village called Waunfawr. There was no garden centre, but there was a bakery. She bought bread, biscuits and a cream cake. She didn’t have a clue where she was, even though the mountain she saw in the distance when she entered the shop looked familiar. To be on the safe side, she told the baker the name of her house.
‘Don’t you know where you are?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she answered.
The baker didn’t say anything, he just shook his head gently.
‘I have a poor sense of direction.’
The baker looked out at the car parked directly in front of the shop. ‘Start the car, drive straight ahead, follow the road, turn left after a mile, then left again.’
‘So close?’
‘So close. And from now on buy bread here.’
‘Pardon?’
‘From now on buy bread here. Now that you know where we are.’
‘Of course.’
‘We’re open Sunday mornings too.’ He turned to an open door. ‘Awen!’
The baker’s wife stuck her head round the corner.
‘A new customer. She lives in old Mrs Evans’s house.’
‘Oh, nice,’ said the baker’s wife. ‘Hello, love.’ She disappeared again.
‘Thanks.’ She walked to the shop door. ‘Do you also know of a garden centre in the area perhaps?’
‘Bangor. Know where that is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘See you later.’
‘When you run out of bread.’
‘Yes.’
‘German?’
‘No, not at all.’ She walked out of the shop and put her purchases on the back seat of the car. She looked around. A few houses, hills, a crossroads. Not even Mount Snowdon was enough for her to get her bearings. ‘Godverdomme,’ she said to the mountain. ‘I’ll have to go home first.’ The baker had taken up position at his shop window and was standing with one arm stretched out like a signpost. The only part of him moving was his hand which, with a pointing index finger, was jerking up and down like a wind-up toy. She nodded, turned her collar up a little to conceal the hot patches on her throat and quickly climbed into the car.
*
She turned onto the drive and noticed immediately that the field was empty. It was only after taking the sharp curve that she saw the black sheep a good deal nearer the house. The seven geese were gabbling close together. She braked and got out. Six. She counted them again, even though they were close to the fence, and again she got no further than six. If it carries on at this rate, she thought, there’ll be none left by Christmas.
The piece of paper was gone from the front door, replaced with a new message. Called again. I moved my sheep. I’ll try again. Tomorrow morning at 9. Rhys Jones. Fine, she thought bravely. A sheep farmer and a time. I’ve got a cake.
She picked up the secateurs and went into the kitchen. The map was still spread out on the table; she no longer folded it up. She located Waunfawr. Incredibly close by. She stood there like that for a moment with her back bent, both hands flat on the map. After a while, the green dotted lines showing the walking paths all seemed to converge on her drive, on her land. That mountain, she thought, I have to keep an eye on Mount Snowdon, then I’ll know where I am.
18
That afternoon she didn’t just buy a wheelbarrow, cord and garden clogs. She also loaded a roll of chicken wire, a hammer and nails onto her trailer. There weren’t any students at Dickson’s Garden Centre, but there were elderly women and retired men with happy grandchildren, customers clutching long scrawled lists, who left nothing to chance. Soft classical music led them down the aisles. Babbling fountains and water features were equally soothing. She stayed longer than necessary, ordering a cup of coffee at the Coffee Corner, taking a second look at the roses and buying three flowering indoor plants, the kind her grandparents had on their windowsill thirty years earlier. She also bought a better pair of secateurs; the ones from the hardware shop were already loose and blunt. A gawky kid with red curls helped her hoist the wheelbarrow up onto the trailer. When she was about to get into the car, he held out a hand for her to shake. She couldn’t think of anything better to say than, ‘Thank you. That was very friendly of you.’ The boy didn’t say a word, he just grinned and shut the car door. In the wing mirror she saw him watching attentively as she drove off.