2003 short list:
The Dutch Wife
by Eric McCormack
Penguin Canada
The Dutch Wife
Thomas Vanderlinden's mother shared her life with two men, both named Rowland Vanderlinden. The first went abroad, and never returned. The second, whom she accepted unquestioningly as her husband, was a mystery.
Thomas sets off in search of the first Rowland, finally locating him living among the Tarapa (also known as fish-lickers), on a remote Pacific island. Rowland tells Thomas of his many voyages and adventures - at the great Monastery of Masalketse, as librarian for the Maharajah of Bakhstan, in the deadly Swamp of Uxbana - and Thomas grows to respect the man who may be his father. He also learns the identity of the other Rowland Vanderlinden, with whom Rachel lived happily, though he was utterly unlike the man he impersonated, for many years.
Eric McCormack
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Eric McCormack was born in a small village in Scotland. He moved to Canada in 1966 and attended the University of Manitoba. Since 1970 he has taught English at St. Jerome's College, Waterloo, Ontario, specializing in 17th-century and contemporary literature. His last book, First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women (1997), was nominated for a Governor General's Award. Earlier books include The Mysterium (1992), Paradise Motel (1989) and Inspecting the Vaults (1987). |
Excerpt from The Dutch Wife
"Late on a Saturday afternoon in early fall, Rachel Vanderlinden waited for her husband, Rowland, to come home from abroad – he'd been gone from Queensville for more than three months. He'd sent a telegram to say he'd be arriving by train from the East Coast that day. She needed, once and for all, to talk to him.
She was standing at the kitchen window looking across the lawn to the Lake: the waves were still rough with whitecaps from the storm. Last night, even this big stone house had felt as though it might be ripped away. But the wind was moderate now and the window was slightly ajar. Through it, she heard a sad noise and looked skyward: a huge formation of geese was flying overhead, bringing scraps of the north with it. She shivered and went to the stove and poured some more coffee.
She was sitting at the table, leafing through the Gazette, when the doorbell rang: three long, distinct rings. That was always the way Rowland rang, announcing his arrival before letting himself in.
She sat still, breathing evenly, waiting for her husband, the returned traveller, to enter. She needed to be calm.
The bell rang again. Again three long, distinct rings.
Perhaps he'd lost his key, she thought.
She got up and walked slowly out of the kitchen, along the polished wooden hallway to the front door. Passing the full-length wall mirror, she checked herself: a young, brown-haired woman in a green dress, of medium build, with a longish face, the shadows under her eyes well disguised with make-up. She glanced quickly into those familiar green eyes, trying, as always, to catch them by surprise, testing to see if they would ever accidentally betray something about the mystery of herself.
Not today. She looked perfectly calm, as she would need to be.
She went to the door, took a last deep breath, and opened it.
A stranger stood there, a sturdy man in a brown cloth cap, which he took off. He had a bent nose and scarring above the eyebrows. The eyes themselves were a washed-out blue, giving a mildness to what would have been a hard face. He didn't seem sure of himself.
"Yes?" said Rachel Vanderlinden. She thought this stranger might be one of those beggars looking for a meal in return for mowing the lawn.
The man mumbled something she couldn't quite make out-he had an accent of some sort, Scottish perhaps.
"I beg your pardon?" she said.
He shuffled his feet. His black boots were dusty, his brown corduroy suit was worn and tight. He clutched his cap and cleared his throat. This time, when he spoke, she could make out the words "your husband" quite clearly.
Her heart stopped. "My husband?" she said. "What about him?"
The blue eyes now looked directly into hers. "I," he lingered on the word, "am your husband." His smile was partly a frown.
"What?" she said, scrutinizing his face. "What are you talking about?" She was beginning to be afraid.
He ran his fingers through untidy fair hair. He had the hands of a working man. "I'm your husband," he said again. "I'm just back from England." As though reciting words he'd memorized, he said: "I arrived in Halifax last week. I sent a telegram." He waited, then said again: "I'm your husband."
The man stood, awkward, waiting. He seemed to think he'd delivered some message in a code she'd understand and expected a reply.
And in that instant of waiting, she all at once did understand. Her heart beat faster, her mind was in a ferment.
He watched her for a moment, then he said: "This is stupid. I'm sorry to have bothered you." He turned away and started down the pathway to the street.
She was relieved. She wouldn't have to say anything. She would just let him go.
Then, as he was opening the gate, she changed her mind. "Wait a minute," she called.
He stood at the gate and looked back.
She looked at him for a long moment. She had to clear her throat. "Come inside," she said.
"Are you sure?" he said.
She thought for a moment. "Yes," she said.
And he came back up the pathway and into the house."1
1From The Dutch Wife by Eric McCormack. Published by Penguin Canada. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
