The Dutch Wife (4 page)

‘Would you like some coffee before dinner?” she said.

He seemed pleased. He nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “I would like coffee. That would be great.”

“. . . Rachel,” she said.

Again he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “All right . . . Rachel.”

In this manner, an agreement was made.

SHE POURED HIS COFFEE
with a steady hand and they drank together silently. Then the man who said he was her husband asked if he could wash himself. She showed him the bathroom off the main bedroom, and while he showered, she went to the closet and found a complete set of clothes for him. She left them on the bed.

She went back down to the kitchen and started preparing dinner.

She was busy with the steaks when he came in. His hair was slick from the shower, and she could smell the soap. The shirt she’d left out was a little tight across the shoulders.

“Feeling better?” she said, making herself breathe steadily. “You look better . . . Rowland,” she said, trying the name out.

He sat down at the kitchen table and watched her at the stove. “You look marvellous, too, Rachel,” he said after a while.

She didn’t turn round, but she smiled.

HE ATE HIS DINNER HUNGRILY.
She was too nervous to eat much because one matter was of the utmost importance to her and she knew she must deal with it right away. “Are you . . . home for good now?” she said.

He lowered his knife and fork and looked at her squarely. “I hope so,” he said. “I really do.”

That was the answer she wanted to hear and she was satisfied. “Good,” she said. “Is the steak all right?”

“Delicious,” he said. He began eating again and there was silence. After a while, he drank some water and cleared his throat and looked at her. He seemed to want to play his part in the conversation too. “So, you’ve had some bad weather?” he said. “I saw branches down all over the place.”

“This is the season for storms,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. Then, “I didn’t realize the Lake was so big.”

She shook her head and said nothing.

He didn’t know what to think of that, so he tried again. “This house,” he said, gesturing around him. “It’s so comfortable. How long have you lived . . .?”

She looked at him imploringly and he stopped. He obviously couldn’t see that even the most ordinary of topics was a potential minefield.

“Sorry,” he said, frowning. “I don’t . . . .” He was at a loss for words.

“Why are you asking me things that you, of all people, already know?” she said. “Do you understand . . . Rowland?” She didn’t know what else to say. She hoped he’d realize how careful he’d have to be if she was to go through with this.

Perhaps he did understand. Certainly, he nodded his head slowly. “Aah,” he said. “Aah.”

DINNER MORE OR LESS
successfully completed, she took him back into the living room. She put a match to the fire then poured them both a liqueur and offered him the humidor. He picked out one of the cigars, lit it and exhaled contentedly.

For an hour they sat exchanging the safest of small talk, he smoking, both sipping. The clock on the mantel chimed ten. She thought he must be wondering: what now? She herself had wondered about that.

Then she put her glass down firmly. She knew it was up to her. It was astonishing but true—everything was up to her!

“Well, I suppose it’s time for bed . . . Rowland,” she said, looking him in the eyes, keeping her voice steady.

“Right,” he said, and put down his glass.

In the bedroom, she watched him take off his clothes. He didn’t turn away as she looked him over but stripped in a businesslike way, with no sign of embarrassment when he caught her eyes. He had the body of a man used to physical work.

He got into the bed, pulled the covers up and watched her. She switched off the room lights, leaving only the half-light coming from the bathroom. She undressed quickly, not looking at him, knowing he was watching. She came into the bed beside him. They, whose fingers had never touched before, embraced immediately, their bodies cool against each other’s, pressing against each other from head to toe.

“Rowland,” she murmured. “Rowland.”

He’d been stroking her back and he paused. She thought he was going to say something, that he was going to spoil everything. But instead he sighed and held her close.

In doing so, he set her free.

DURING THOSE FIRST DAYS,
they actually did a lot of talking. To a stranger overhearing, their conversations then would have sounded like the banal talk of people who knew each other too well. But for her, these conversations were utterly exhausting, based on the careful exclusion of anything that would spoil the illusion.

She left the house only to buy food, and when a week passed she knew a decision had to be made. Sophie, her housemaid, was due back from her holidays. Explanations would be required. There would be gossip. It would be simpler to leave, for a while, at least.

She packed and they set out together the next morning in the Daimler. They were headed for the house in Camberloo, two hundred miles to the south, where hardly anyone knew her.

The long drive was uneventful, except that whenever he saw the mangled body of a groundhog or a squirrel on the highway, he’d ask her to pull over. He’d get out and lift the body off the road and lay it gently on the grass verge.

“What a slaughter,” he’d say, over and over again.

She would have tried to dissuade him. She would have pointed out that the bodies probably had ticks and fleas and lice, and that he’d get blood on his hands. But he was so upset—“Poor little creatures!” he’d say—that she was ashamed of her fastidiousness and said nothing.

THE CAMBERLOO HOUSE
had been bought by her father when he’d presided on the bench of the circuit courts, in the ten years before his death. They had lived there for six weeks each summer, but she barely knew anyone in the town.

Now, as she brought the Daimler to a stop in the driveway, the front door opened and a man and woman came out to meet them, with three very young children trailing behind.

“The Zeljats,” Rachel said. “They keep an eye on the place.” She took a very deep breath. “Well, let’s see what happens.”

Zeljat opened the car door for her. He was a slight man with a black beard and black eyes with a glint in them. His wife was a small, brisk woman with a hook nose. The children clustered around her. A black-and-white collie came bounding from behind the house towards the car as Rachel stepped out.

“Maxie!” she said to the dog, which was wagging its tail violently. “I haven’t seen you in years!” She looked at Zeljat. “How long has it been?”

“Not since your father died,” he said. “Three years.” He was staring inquisitively now at her passenger, who had got out of the car and was standing in the driveway.

“You remember Rowland, don’t you?” she said offhandedly.

If Zeljat was surprised, it was hard to tell. He just narrowed those black eyes a little, said nothing and gathered the baggage. Maxie came over and sniffed at the newcomer cautiously. He bent over and petted the dog, till it relaxed and licked his hand.

Rachel Vanderlinden smiled at that. “Good, Maxie!” she said with delight.

As though the dog had settled everything.

THEY WERE HAPPY IN CAMBERLOO,
even though, after the first week, the weather turned wet, for the Fall was advancing. The nights were marvellous. In the mornings, they’d go for long walks in their rain-gear, and in the afternoons they’d sit in the living room beside the fire, reading. Or, at least, Rachel would read. He treated books as objects of veneration, but preferred picture books of birds and animals, even shopping catalogues. After an hour or so, he’d become restless. Often, he’d watch for Zeljat, who lived in a row house about a half hour’s walk away, to arrive. Then he’d put on rubber boots and go into the garden to help with pruning and preparing the ground for winter.

“Does Zeljat ever ask any questions?” she asked once.

“No, not really.” He shook his head. “He said I never used to be interested in the garden. That was all.”

“Good,” she said.

THE FROSTS CAME
and there was no more gardening. He asked her if he might order a punching bag from the Eaton’s catalogue. When it arrived, he strung it up in the enclosed porch. Each day around noon, he’d strip to the waist and pound at that bag till his body glistened with sweat. Sometimes he’d spend another fifteen minutes with a skipping rope. Then he’d shower and join her for lunch, full of good spirits.

One thing especially pleased her. She felt that, more and more, when those pale blue eyes looked at her, she could see love in them. They’d been together for three months and she was happier than she’d ever been in her life.

ONE LATE AFTERNOON
in early December, the first snowfall came. They sat by the living-room window watching it slowly erase the last colours of the year.

“It’s beautiful,” he said over and over again.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s stay here, forever.”

They were sitting side by side and he was stroking her hair.

That was when she made her announcement. “Rowland,” she said, “I’m going to have a baby.”

“Are you serious?” he said quietly, looking at her.

“Of course I am,” she said.

“Rachel,” he said. “That’s great!” He kissed her and was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke again, very softly. “Maybe now’s the time to straighten things out between us,” he said. “Maybe I should tell you who I am?”

She pushed him away. “What are you talking about?” she said. “Do you want to spoil everything? Are you crazy?”

He pleaded with her. “We can’t pretend forever,” he said.

She was stunned to hear him say such a thing. “Enough!” she said. “That’s enough. Don’t ever talk about it.”

He was silent for so long she was afraid she’d offended him. “Rowland,” she said soothingly, leaning against him. “I really do love you. Nothing else matters.” She took his hand.

The light was so dim now she could barely see his face. He raised her hand to his lips.

“I love you too, Rachel,” he said. “I only hope you’re right.”

THE BABY WAS BORN
and they called him Thomas. They loved him and took him everywhere.

On a Saturday morning in June—the baby was three months old—they went shopping at the market. He was carrying Thomas in his arms, she was carrying the shopping bag. They saw a crowd at the corner and heard a loud voice. They stopped to see what was going on.

On a podium a thin-faced soldier was shouting through a speaking trumpet. He had a Sergeant’s stripes on his brown sleeve. Rachel thought he was a very severe-looking man. Behind him was a big poster of an even sterner-looking soldier with a moustache, his finger jabbing at the audience. The message on the poster read: “
YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU
.”

As Rachel watched, the Sergeant beckoned to another brown-uniformed soldier in the crowd. “Up here, Private, on the double,” he said.

The soldier climbed the podium stairs awkwardly. He was very young, and when he removed his cap, he looked like a schoolboy, with brown hair plastered back.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Sergeant. “Keep an eye on this lad if you want to see an example of true patriotism and courage.” To the Private, who seemed embarrassed, he said: “Strip.”

The young soldier unbuttoned his tunic and handed it to the Sergeant. Then he opened his shirt.

Rachel gasped at the sight.

The soldier’s slight body was a mass of livid scars and dark incisions that were barely healed.

“This young man,” announced the Sergeant, “was sprayed with shrapnel from a shell, just six months ago on the Western Front. In spite of that, he can’t wait to get back to war. Isn’t that so, Private?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said the soldier.

“Now for something interesting,” said the Sergeant. Out of his pocket he took some shiny little horseshoes and held them up to the crowd. “These are magnets,” he said. “Watch this.” He held out one of the magnets towards the young soldier’s body. Click! He took his hand away, and everyone could see that the magnet was clinging to the flesh of the soldier. He did the same with the rest of the magnets, half a dozen of them. The young soldier winced each time the magnets clicked.

Rachel Vanderlinden, watching, winced along with him. The metal protruding from his body reminded her of a painting of some old martyr.

“See?” the Sergeant said through the megaphone. “This brave young man still has shrapnel inside him. The doctors took a lot of it out, but there’s still bits of it floating around inside him like eggshells.” He then began roughly pulling the magnets off, ignoring the obvious pain of the young Private. He handed him his tunic. “Dismissed!” he said.

The young soldier buttoned up and stumbled back down the stairs.

The Sergeant spoke urgently into the megaphone: “Now, if a young lad like this wants to get back and serve his country, surely all you able-bodied men should be ashamed to stay home. Come on now, sign up right away!”

WHEN THEY SAT DOWN
at breakfast the next morning, he told Rachel he had something on his mind. He said he wanted to enlist.

She wasn’t surprised, knowing him now as she did. Yet she was afraid even to think about living without him. For since that moment he’d knocked on her door in Queensville, they’d barely been parted, and their relationship was intense and absorbing.

“Go if you must,” she forced herself to say. The words were like some awful, self-inflicted curse.

“Thank you, Rachel,” he said. Then, in a coaxing voice: “And maybe now we should be honest. Let me tell you everything, what do you say?”

She wasn’t angry with him as she once was. “No,” she said wearily. “Not now. When you come back. Tell me everything when you come back.”

“But, what if . . .?” he said.

“Hush,” she said. “When you come back. Tell me everything when you come back.”

ON A MORNING THREE MONTHS AFTER THAT,
baby Thomas still sleeping, she stood at the window, looking into the front yard. She hadn’t been able to sleep and had watched the coming of dawn almost as if she alone were re-creating the world. Now the first birds halted the silence. She saw the bright-red slash of a cardinal and the small lightning of finches at the feeders he’d hung in the big spruce tree. He’d said, watching the variety of birds at them, that it was like the Garden of Eden. She imagined him, now, in the trenches somewhere at the Front, missing her as she missed him. His absence was a kind of death to her, alleviated only a little by hope.