I would like to see all of them one day.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you could bring them to school with you.’ He dropped his gaze to the floor.
‘I meant for me, Marcus. Not to show the other boys.’
‘I’ll do that, sir.’
‘Go on home now,’ I said. ‘Or your parents will worry.’ He picked up his satchel and left the classroom in high spirits.
On my way home, I made a mental list of a number of necessities I believed every tenant should have at his disposal: a blanket, a comb, soap, a wash basin and perhaps, if available, a decent mattress. I decided to call on Mr Vantomme—he was my landlord, after all, and should have provided me with at least some of these things. He was sitting on a chair in the doorway, smoking a cigar. Facing him, I was startled by the bags under his eyes. A black cat was winding a figure of eight around his legs, rubbing its body against his trousers. The enormous lump in his crotch was still there. It looked like a cannonball. He noticed my surprise, and told me without batting an eyelid that it was a groin hernia. I didn’t know a single piece of proverbial wisdom that applied to this situation—except that it might be wise to see his GP about it, as the hernia was obviously keeping him awake at night.
‘Have you come to hand me my cash already?’
‘You mean the rent?’
‘Naturally.’
‘No. There’s something else I want to see you about.’ But I no longer had his undivided attention. He was greeting a woman on a bicycle, who, in an embarrassed effort to keep the wind from blowing up her skirt, held one hand on the handlebar and the other between her thighs.
‘Good day, Godalevakins!’
Flaming past, Godaleva gave him a curt but polite nod. Mr Vantomme watched her until she had turned into Stone Street, turned to me again and asked a second time whether I was about to hand him the cash.
‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Did you see that posh lady cycle past just now?’
‘No.’
‘She’s the mother of one of your lads. Now what’s his name … the pale, skinny one … always neatly dressed and in long trousers all summer?’
‘Do you mean Marcus Verschoppen?’
‘That’s him. Well, that was his mother.’ He smacked his lips. ‘A real beaut’, smashing white thighs. The more wind, the better.’
I hadn’t had a good look at the woman, though I had caught the nod.
‘She’s farmer Verschoppen’s girl. Beware of him. Jealous as a billy goat. Was in the army as a lad. Even made it to officer. But then he took over his father’s farm and … ’
I thought of the green patches of mould on my bedroom wall, the blanket I didn’t have and the pump that didn’t work, but no longer felt like bringing those things up.
‘I think I’ll be heading home now,’ I interrupted him. ‘It’s been a busy week, and I need to get everything ready for tomorrow.’
‘Fine! Fine! Well, goodbye.’
As I stuck the key into the keyhole, I heard a rustle in the bushes. Curious, I crept toward the sound. I hunched down at the hawthorn hedge, brushed aside a heap of brown leaves and discovered a hedgehog snuffling around. A small specimen. He curled up in a ball when I touched him. The sight of the creature instantly put me in a benevolent mood. I gently picked him up in cupped hands and carried him to my weed garden, where I placed him underneath a couple of boards leaning against the wall. I named him ‘Spiney’. It occurred to me I should ask Marcus to draw him for me. Then I walked back to fetch a bucket and poured a dash of water into the hole at the top of the pump. After pumping the rusty rod forty times, I heard a slurping sound and the water started flowing. Rust-coloured at first, then clear. Another step closer to civilisation, I thought with satisfaction as I picked up the bucket, cast a quick glance behind the boards, where Spiney was mercilessly chomping on a worm, and shuffled inside.
That evening, there was a knock at the door. Surprised and slightly annoyed, I answered it. It was the priest. His black cassock blended seamlessly into the surrounding dusk.
‘Good evening, Father, do come in,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’
I offered him my chair and went to fetch the other one from the kitchen.
‘I’m not disturbing, I hope?’ he asked, glancing at the exercise books on the table.
I shook my head.
He looked around, and after a sniff in which I seemed to detect a certain contempt, he launched into his explanation.
‘Actually, my reason for visiting is threefold,’ he said. ‘Firstly, I wanted to meet a new parishioner, who is, moreover, going to be our new teacher for the children of Year Six. And secondly, I wanted to ask your permission to say a few words about you in this Sunday’s service.’
A short pause, in which I just kept nodding mechanically. Why not, I thought. I didn’t see anything particularly objectionable in his proposal, given I would not have to be there myself.
‘And thirdly, I have a question to put to you.’
‘Yes?’ I asked, half expecting the question.
‘Let’s start with reason number one,’ he said. ‘Would you like to tell me a little about yourself?’
‘I would,’ I said, though I didn’t much feel like it. He must have noticed my sigh. He leaned forward encouragingly. I gave him the short version, saying nothing about the death of my brother. I did talk about Father and Mother. My education. A little about the woods at the back of our house and my love of animals.
When I had ended, he summarized what I had said, but was still fishing for more.
‘So you were brought up by your mother?’
‘More or less.’
He frowned.
‘You said your father worked at the State University of Ghent?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
His chair creaked. Or was it mine?
‘But you were raised a Catholic?’
‘More or less,’ I lied.
He frowned again. I could tell he had to stop himself from asking more questions on that subject. He managed with an effort; though one more personal question did make it past his lips.
‘You don’t have any siblings?’
I hesitated.
‘I had a younger brother.’
‘Ah … ’
