and toenails and have a long shower. I leave the gas fire on low and my bedroom door open. In the big mirror above the mantelpiece, I look at myself naked, head to toe. Suddenly I feel like skating. I miss the heavy feeling you get in your backside and the muscles of your legs from long-distance skating. The fire's warmth glows on my penis. Then I crawl in under the duvet for the first time. The glow in my crotch fades fast; the duvet is scratchy new and I hardly sleep a wink all night.
14
Teun and Ronald are bundling up the willow shoots. They lay a length of baler twine on the ground, each throw an armful of willow shoots on it and tie it tight. They carry the bundles through the front garden to the yard. Every time they pass a window, they wave. In front of me on the kitchen table are a telephone bill and a hand-addressed letter Ada has brought in. The postman drove off just before she turned into the yard with a trailer hitched to the back of her car. It's Saturday.
I'd like to open the letter, but Ada is still standing on the threshold of my bedroom. She just felt the duvet cover. 'You have to wash these covers first!' she calls to me. 'They're always so stiff!' I nod at Ronald, who is waving as he walks past the front window. I follow him in my thoughts and he appears in the side window just when I expect him to. He waves again. He is wearing a woolly hat and snot is trailing from his purple nose. He's happy, he's always happy, even when his fingers are cold and he's trampling kale in my vegetable garden.
'It's lovely.'
She makes me jump.
Ada is standing in the doorway with her head a little to one side, as if listening for something. 'I miss something,' she says. 'In the living room.'
'Chairs?'
'No.' She thinks for a moment. 'A sound.'
'The clock?'
'Yes, the clock. Where's that got to? You didn't throw it on the wood heap, did you?'
'No. It's upstairs with Father.'
'Oh,' says Ada. She looks at my hands. 'Who's the letter from?'
'I don't know, I haven't opened it yet.'
'How is your father?'
'The same.'
'Does he ever come downstairs?'
'Sometimes. He sleeps a lot.'
'I see.' She looks at me with her head to one side, but this time not as if she's listening for something. 'I'll go and load up the trailer.' She turns and walks into the hall. I wait for the sound of the door opening into the scullery, but instead her head reappears around the corner of the kitchen door. 'Two pillows, Helmer,' she says. 'Two pillows.' Ada looks funny when she gives you a meaningful look, with that harelip. Then she really does disappear. I turn the letter over and over in my hand. There is no name on the back.
Dear Helmer
Don't be shocked, I know you looked at the sender first, I always do that when I get letters too, but there's no reason for you to be shocked by my name. Maybe you don't even know who I am any more! We haven't seen or spoken to each other for more than thirty years and that makes writing this letter difficult.
I'll start by honestly saying straight out that I am finally writing to you because I think that your father has probably passed away by now. Am I right? Your father has always been the obstacle that has stopped me from getting in touch with you. I'm not trying to be nasty about this, and maybe you find it hurtful, if you are sad about your father's death (if he has died).
And do I really need to write down all the things that have happened to me? Okay, in a nutshell then. I went to stay with relatives in Brabant, where I soon married a pig farmer. We had two daughters and, much later, a son. My daughters left home long ago. My husband (he was called Wien, I know, it's a bit of a strange name) died last year. My son still lives at home, he just turned eighteen.
I may as well be honest and tell you that I already tried to get in touch with you before writing this letter. Once I cycled out to the farm in the middle of the night and
14
Teun and Ronald are bundling up the willow shoots. They lay a length of baler twine on the ground, each throw an armful of willow shoots on it and tie it tight. They carry the bundles through the front garden to the yard. Every time they pass a window, they wave. In front of me on the kitchen table are a telephone bill and a hand-addressed letter Ada has brought in. The postman drove off just before she turned into the yard with a trailer hitched to the back of her car. It's Saturday.
I'd like to open the letter, but Ada is still standing on the threshold of my bedroom. She just felt the duvet cover. 'You have to wash these covers first!' she calls to me. 'They're always so stiff!' I nod at Ronald, who is waving as he walks past the front window. I follow him in my thoughts and he appears in the side window just when I expect him to. He waves again. He is wearing a woolly hat and snot is trailing from his purple nose. He's happy, he's always happy, even when his fingers are cold and he's trampling kale in my vegetable garden.
'It's lovely.'
She makes me jump.
Ada is standing in the doorway with her head a little to one side, as if listening for something. 'I miss something,' she says. 'In the living room.'
'Chairs?'
'No.' She thinks for a moment. 'A sound.'
'The clock?'
'Yes, the clock. Where's that got to? You didn't throw it on the wood heap, did you?'
'No. It's upstairs with Father.'
'Oh,' says Ada. She looks at my hands. 'Who's the letter from?'
'I don't know, I haven't opened it yet.'
'How is your father?'
'The same.'
'Does he ever come downstairs?'
'Sometimes. He sleeps a lot.'
'I see.' She looks at me with her head to one side, but this time not as if she's listening for something. 'I'll go and load up the trailer.' She turns and walks into the hall. I wait for the sound of the door opening into the scullery, but instead her head reappears around the corner of the kitchen door. 'Two pillows, Helmer,' she says. 'Two pillows.' Ada looks funny when she gives you a meaningful look, with that harelip. Then she really does disappear. I turn the letter over and over in my hand. There is no name on the back.
Dear Helmer
Don't be shocked, I know you looked at the sender first, I always do that when I get letters too, but there's no reason for you to be shocked by my name. Maybe you don't even know who I am any more! We haven't seen or spoken to each other for more than thirty years and that makes writing this letter difficult.
I'll start by honestly saying straight out that I am finally writing to you because I think that your father has probably passed away by now. Am I right? Your father has always been the obstacle that has stopped me from getting in touch with you. I'm not trying to be nasty about this, and maybe you find it hurtful, if you are sad about your father's death (if he has died).
And do I really need to write down all the things that have happened to me? Okay, in a nutshell then. I went to stay with relatives in Brabant, where I soon married a pig farmer. We had two daughters and, much later, a son. My daughters left home long ago. My husband (he was called Wien, I know, it's a bit of a strange name) died last year. My son still lives at home, he just turned eighteen.
I may as well be honest and tell you that I already tried to get in touch with you before writing this letter. Once I cycled out to the farm in the middle of the night and
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