Ten White Geese Read Online Free PDF

cake. She didn’t have a cluewhere she was, even though the mountain she saw in the distance when she entered the shop looked familiar. To be on the safe side, she told the baker the name of her house.
    ‘Don’t you know where you are?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ she answered.
    The baker didn’t say anything, he just shook his head gently.
    ‘I have a poor sense of direction.’
    The baker looked out at the car parked directly in front of the shop. ‘Start the car, drive straight ahead, follow the road, turn left after a mile, then left again.’
    ‘So close?’
    ‘So close. And from now on buy bread here.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘From now on buy bread here. Now that you know where we are.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘We’re open Sunday mornings too.’ He turned to an open door. ‘Awen!’
    The baker’s wife stuck her head round the corner.
    ‘A new customer. She lives in old Mrs Evans’s house.’
    ‘Oh, nice,’ said the baker’s wife. ‘Hello, love.’ She disappeared again.
    ‘Thanks.’ She walked to the shop door. ‘Do you also know of a garden centre in the area perhaps?’
    ‘Bangor. Know where that is?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘See you later.’
    ‘When you run out of bread.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘German?’
    ‘No, not at all.’ She walked out of the shop and put her purchases on the back seat of the car. She looked around. A few houses, hills, a crossroads. Not even Mount Snowdon was enough for her to get her bearings. ‘
Godverdomme
,’ she said to the mountain. ‘I’ll have to go home first.’ The baker had taken up position at his shop window and was standing with one arm stretched out like a signpost. The only part of him moving was his hand which, with a pointing index finger, was jerking up and down like a wind-up toy. She nodded, turned her collar up a little to conceal the hot patches on her throat and quickly climbed into the car.
    *
    She turned onto the drive and noticed immediately that the field was empty. It was only after taking the sharp curve that she saw the black sheep a good deal nearer the house. The seven geese were gabbling close together. She braked and got out. Six. She counted them again, even though they were close to the fence, and again she got no further than six. If it carries on at this rate, she thought, there’ll be none left by Christmas.
    The piece of paper was gone from the front door, replaced with a new message.
Called again. I moved my sheep. I’ll try again. Tomorrow morning at 9. Rhys Jones.
Fine, she thought bravely. A sheep farmer and a time. I’ve got a cake.
    She picked up the secateurs and went into the kitchen. The map was still spread out on the table; she no longer folded it up. She located Waunfawr. Incredibly close by. She stood there like that for a moment with her back bent, both hands flat on the map. After a while, the green dotted linesshowing the walking paths all seemed to converge on her drive, on her land. That mountain, she thought, I have to keep an eye on Mount Snowdon, then I’ll know where I am.

18
    That afternoon she didn’t just buy a wheelbarrow, cord and garden clogs. She also loaded a roll of chicken wire, a hammer and nails onto her trailer. There weren’t any students at Dickson’s Garden Centre, but there were elderly women and retired men with happy grandchildren, customers clutching long scrawled lists, who left nothing to chance. Soft classical music led them down the aisles. Babbling fountains and water features were equally soothing. She stayed longer than necessary, ordering a cup of coffee at the Coffee Corner, taking a second look at the roses and buying three flowering indoor plants, the kind her grandparents had on their windowsill thirty years earlier. She also bought a better pair of secateurs; the ones from the hardware shop were already loose and blunt. A gawky kid with red curls helped her hoist the wheelbarrow up onto the trailer. When she was about to get into the car, he held out a hand for her to