Читать книгу The Fetch - Finuala Dowling - Страница 6

William climbed his pole so that he could watch the two women continue their journey. He used to be able to skim up it, using a strong grip and his core muscles, but since turning forty he’d had to nail in footholds.

When he reached the top, he clenched his knees around the beam for support and stretched out his arms to welcome the light summer breeze. Brilliant! This little wind hadn’t travelled far; it was only the lightest wisp.

Despite its elevation, his cottage had no sea view. It was completely enclosed by milkwoods. From the top of his pole, William surveyed the little settlement of Slangkop and the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, stretching out towards Cape Point on his left and Hout Bay on his right.

He knew who the women were. The librarian’s name was Nina. She was blonde and fresh-faced, though short and roundish like her companion. If he had heard her correctly, she was looking for a sperm donor. For William, this was a problem that could be solved. The only difficult part would be bringing up the topic, because it was delicate, and because he seldom went out and about in company saying hello and goodbye. Or offering his DNA. But once the subject had been broached and the details had been sorted out, he could easily imagine the evening itself.

He would light a lamp, and walk in front of her, guiding her past his hoard. His hand would be linked with hers as they threaded their way past the discarded video machines, the game consoles and buckets of broken toys and dismembered machinery which lined the passageway to his bedroom. He knew exactly how he would place the lamp on the floor beside his mattress so that his hands would be free to remove Nina’s clothes. Fuck! A woman’s breasts were to him the most beautiful sight on earth, more beautiful than Disa uniflora! After undressing Nina and helping her to lie down, after being nice to her in as many ways as he could think of, then he would, in the natural course of events, donate his sperm.

There would be a surprise chocolate under her pillow afterwards. Surely Neville sold chocolates at the caravan park? He could check on that later.

His reverie was interrupted by the ka-ka-kaaa of the male quail in its cage. William descended. He had an enamel bowl with leftover pasta and lettuce leaves for the bird, but there was no delicacy that would silence the male quail’s loneliness. It wanted a lady quail; it would keep up its raucous chunking until it had a hen. Better to be a worm, a hermaphrodite. Then, as the weather bureau sometimes said of the likelihood of rain in August, there was a “one hundred per cent chance” of your finding a mate.

His worms were next. He scattered fruit and vegetable peelings into the plastic crates that he had set on breeze blocks. Such diligent and forgiving natures, these haplotaxids. They left no apricot stone unturned, made short work of each day’s banana skins, eggshells and teabags.

William’s scientific brain was particularly interested in how they made the metal staple in the teabag tag disappear – he could not see any staples in the rich compost they left behind.

He replaced the damp carpet squares and rotting planks that kept the worms cool, and then washed his hands with water from his rain tank. He sat on the sofa he’d dragged to an outside wall so that he could catch the afternoon sun. Repeated drenchings and dryings-out had shrunk the upholstery so that it was tight and brittle. Dib, William’s smoky-coloured cat, sat beside him on the armrest. He pressed his forehead against hers; she twirled and then came in for another round of head-butting.

There was work he should be doing, but it was pleasant, sitting here on the warm and threadbare couch. He would work again tomorrow. Right now he wanted to think.

After a while he got up and fetched a sheet of paper and a pen. Using a hard-backed atlas to press on, he headed the page with the words Why I would make a good sperm donor.

He looked at the words, and then underlined them.