all. I turn and start walking towards the milking parlour. A little later she follows, I hear her irregular footfall on the frost-hardened yard. Now, with my left arm, I gesture at the donkey paddock. 'In good weather they're out there,' I say. We walk through the milking parlour to the scullery. I cut straight through to the hall door, Riet stops in front of the door to the staircase.
'You coming?' I say.
She doesn't answer.
'I thought,' I try, 'if we eat an early lunch, we can go for a walk to the cemetery afterwards.'
She doesn't answer.
I keep at it. 'Then I can take you back to the ferry on time, before milking.'
She doesn't answer.
'What is it?' I ask.
'I want to go upstairs.'
'To Henk's room?'
'Yes.'
I pull the door open and lead the way upstairs. I open the door to Henk's room. Riet walks in expectantly. I stay in the doorway – it's so full inside there's only room for one of us. She looks around and sits down on the bed for a while.
Then I can't see her any more, she has disappeared completely under Henk and the January sunlight has made way for August moonlight. Henk's white underpants have got stuck at his knees and his body is going up and down, a movement that doesn't seem right for someone his age. I can almost smell him. He is holding his breath, the dimple above the crack of his bum is damp, he presses her deeper and deeper into the old mattress, his Achilles tendons are part of the up-and-down, as if the movement is a wave that starts in his toes.
'. . . his bed?'
'What?'
'Is this the bed Henk slept in?'
I blink a few times, it takes a while for the warm August night to turn back into a January morning. 'Yes.'
'I don't recognise it. There's so much junk in here.' She lays her hands beside her on the blanket – as if she has no plans ever to stand up again – and looks out of the window. 'That hooded crow is still there,' she says.
'Come on,' I say.
She stands up and leaves the bedroom.
'My old bedroom,' I say casually and fairly loudly as we walk past the second door. I notice the key and try to remember whether I locked the door. 'Full of junk as well.' I hurry on through to the new room, whose door is wide open. Riet follows.
She leans against one of the walls, knees bent slightly and her jumper bunched up around her shoulders. 'His face,' she says. 'His face in that cold water. His hair floated back and forth like seaweed.'
22
'Nothing's changed here at all,' she says.
'They're not allowed to build.'
'Why not?'
'Heritage area.'
We're walking through the village to the cemetery. Ten minutes ago Ada just happened to be watering the plants on her kitchen windowsill. The sun has only just passed its highest point but our shadows still stretch out in front of us. 'You should come back in late summer,' I say. 'For years now there's been a kind of competition going on here.'
'What do you mean?'
'Who has the most hydrangeas in their front garden. Preferably in as many colours as possible. It's everywhere, a hedge of hydrangeas half a mile long. If you haven't got hydrangeas, you don't belong.'
'I don't like hydrangeas.'
In the distance is the white church, on the western edge of the village. I feel like I've said enough and we carry on in silence. When we arrive, Riet ignores the church and walks between the poplars to the bank of the Aa.
'We went skating here in the winter of 1966,' she says.
'1967,' I say. 'January 1967.'
'Either way, that winter. Winter always goes from one year to the next.'
She's right about that. Winter is a season that doesn't limit itself to the calendar year, a season that straddles years. Now, apart from a thin film between the reeds, there's no ice at all. A pair of ducks – drakes – race towards us. They jump up onto the bank like penguins. Riet watches the ducks coolly and turns away. She crosses the street and tugs at the cemetery gate. She
'You coming?' I say.
She doesn't answer.
'I thought,' I try, 'if we eat an early lunch, we can go for a walk to the cemetery afterwards.'
She doesn't answer.
I keep at it. 'Then I can take you back to the ferry on time, before milking.'
She doesn't answer.
'What is it?' I ask.
'I want to go upstairs.'
'To Henk's room?'
'Yes.'
I pull the door open and lead the way upstairs. I open the door to Henk's room. Riet walks in expectantly. I stay in the doorway – it's so full inside there's only room for one of us. She looks around and sits down on the bed for a while.
Then I can't see her any more, she has disappeared completely under Henk and the January sunlight has made way for August moonlight. Henk's white underpants have got stuck at his knees and his body is going up and down, a movement that doesn't seem right for someone his age. I can almost smell him. He is holding his breath, the dimple above the crack of his bum is damp, he presses her deeper and deeper into the old mattress, his Achilles tendons are part of the up-and-down, as if the movement is a wave that starts in his toes.
'. . . his bed?'
'What?'
'Is this the bed Henk slept in?'
I blink a few times, it takes a while for the warm August night to turn back into a January morning. 'Yes.'
'I don't recognise it. There's so much junk in here.' She lays her hands beside her on the blanket – as if she has no plans ever to stand up again – and looks out of the window. 'That hooded crow is still there,' she says.
'Come on,' I say.
She stands up and leaves the bedroom.
'My old bedroom,' I say casually and fairly loudly as we walk past the second door. I notice the key and try to remember whether I locked the door. 'Full of junk as well.' I hurry on through to the new room, whose door is wide open. Riet follows.
She leans against one of the walls, knees bent slightly and her jumper bunched up around her shoulders. 'His face,' she says. 'His face in that cold water. His hair floated back and forth like seaweed.'
22
'Nothing's changed here at all,' she says.
'They're not allowed to build.'
'Why not?'
'Heritage area.'
We're walking through the village to the cemetery. Ten minutes ago Ada just happened to be watering the plants on her kitchen windowsill. The sun has only just passed its highest point but our shadows still stretch out in front of us. 'You should come back in late summer,' I say. 'For years now there's been a kind of competition going on here.'
'What do you mean?'
'Who has the most hydrangeas in their front garden. Preferably in as many colours as possible. It's everywhere, a hedge of hydrangeas half a mile long. If you haven't got hydrangeas, you don't belong.'
'I don't like hydrangeas.'
In the distance is the white church, on the western edge of the village. I feel like I've said enough and we carry on in silence. When we arrive, Riet ignores the church and walks between the poplars to the bank of the Aa.
'We went skating here in the winter of 1966,' she says.
'1967,' I say. 'January 1967.'
'Either way, that winter. Winter always goes from one year to the next.'
She's right about that. Winter is a season that doesn't limit itself to the calendar year, a season that straddles years. Now, apart from a thin film between the reeds, there's no ice at all. A pair of ducks – drakes – race towards us. They jump up onto the bank like penguins. Riet watches the ducks coolly and turns away. She crosses the street and tugs at the cemetery gate. She
Similar Books
