Читать книгу His Name is David - Jan Vantoortelboom - Страница 14

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IT WAS ON one of my explorations of Elverdinge’s country lanes that I met him. After the heat of the days before, the gentle sunshine was a relief. He was standing at the junction where the straight drive met the winding Hospital Lane. In his right hand he was carrying a bag and a notebook. His left hand was in his trouser pocket. Beside him was an Alsatian, ears pricked. I didn’t notice them until I was quite close. They were standing as still as the pollard willows guarding the drive. I looked at him, intrigued by the bag and notebook. It was not a sight I would have expected to see that afternoon, on the last Saturday of the harvest month. I slowed down, saw that the dog had put back its ears and stopped wagging, its tail lying motionless beside it like a black snake. I stopped a couple of metres in front of them.

‘Good day, sir,’ the boy said.

He took his hand out of his pocket and signalled to the dog, who instantly stopped growling.

‘Good afternoon, Marcus,’ I said.

He jumped at the sound of his name coming from the mouth of a stranger; he didn’t recognize me.

‘Does he bite?’ I asked.

‘Buck won’t hurt you.’

I pointed at his bag and notebook.

‘Going insect hunting?’

‘Butterflies,’ he said.

‘You will set them free again, I hope?’

‘After I’ve drawn them.’

He tapped on the notebook with his index finger.

‘May I see your drawings? Only if you don’t mind,’ I added quickly when I saw his hesitation. But he carefully placed his bag on the ground and handed me the sketchbook. His fingers looked stubby, the fingertips plump. They didn’t match his lean body.

‘Very nice drawings,’ I said, impressed by the accuracy of the colours and details.

‘Thank you.’

He smiled, scrutinizing me curiously with eyes the colour of hazelnuts. In the distance behind his back, a cart pulled by two draught horses turned into the drive. The man on the box shouted something and a whip smacked down on the horses’ backs. Marcus had heard it too, and turned round. We stood to one side in the grass. I was still holding his sketchbook as we waited for the approaching cart, which left a cloud of dust and sand in its wake.

‘I have to go,’ the boy said in a worried tone of voice.

He grabbed the book I held out to him. The cart slowed down but didn’t stop. With a jerk of his head, the man ordered Marcus to jump on behind. The dog went first with an effortless bound, but the boy ran after the cart stiffly, trying to place his bag and notebook on the jolting vehicle as it gathered speed before awkwardly scrambling onto it himself. The man didn’t look back once. When the whip cracked a second time and Marcus was safely installed in the back, he waved to me.