“What?”
“Kissing,” he sighs. “Men don’t kiss.”
Until this instant I hadn’t noticed the ticking of the grandfather clock. It’s ticking irregularly, slowly. It’s been a long time since I raised the weights. “He. .” Then I let it be, I let him be. I stand up and open the glass door of the clock. After I’ve raised the weights, the ticking is as good as ever.
“You never said anything,” Father says. “You never said you didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t have much choice.” I walk back to the window and follow the line of the dyke until I can see the lighthouse again.
“No.”
I clear my throat. “I didn’t have much choice either.”
He doesn’t answer that. He’s still panting.
“And now Henk is here.” A car drives along the dyke, very slowly. The windows catch the sunlight so that it looks as if the sun is shining from inside the car. The chariot of the sun god. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I reply.
“No, maybe not,” says Father.
The chariot corners and changes back to a car. I turn around.
Father’s eyelids droop, but his eyeballs are still moving. “I. .” he says. Then it’s quiet for a long time. “I have almost no body any more.”
I knew it. I knew he had read the poem.
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.