While I’d never doubted the detail of my mum’s account, I questioned her interpretations of events. I hadn’t gone to the police, worried that if the substance of the allegations didn’t check out, if the officers called the Swedish police and heard there’d been no murder, it might result in serious consequences to my mum’s liberty. I’d wanted the three of us, my dad included, to talk to a doctor, an independent figure who couldn’t possibly be accused of corruption. In the end, my solution, the hospital, had achieved the exact result I’d been trying to avoid – imprisonment.
During the night drive across London my mum had held my hand. She’d presumed I’d arranged a hotel car to take us to a police station, and though I didn’t lie, I didn’t correct her, not out of cowardice, but as a practical measure. She’d spoken excitedly about her dreams for the future, about how the two of us would spend time together and become close again. So assured was her trust in me that when the car eventually parked outside the hospital she’d been unable to understand that I’d betrayed her. She told the driver he’d made a mistake and taken us to the wrong address. She was so suspicious of everyone else, yet she’d trusted me. When she grasped that there’d been no mistake, her whole body seemed to tremble with anguish. I’d been her saviour and supporter, the last person she could turn to. In the end, I’d behaved like all the others – her husband and father and now her son. In the face of such a blow, her resistance was remarkable. This was a setback, no more. I was no longer her ally. I was no longer her son. She didn’t run or panic. I guessed her calculations. She’d already convinced doctors in Sweden, she could do the same here. If she tried to run she’d be caught, declared insane, and trapped forever. She let go of my hand and took the satchel from me, dispossessing me of her evidence and journal. She placed the strap over her shoulder, calmly stepping out of the car, head held high. She was ready to make her case, to craft a new allegiance. As she coolly assessed the asylum, I couldn’t help but admire her strength, displaying more courage in a level-headed glance than I’d ever displayed in my life.
During the admission process she wouldn’t look at me. I was forced to mention the threats she’d made to her life and wept as I did so. To my display of emotion she flicked her eyes dismissively to the ceiling. In her mind I was play-acting, and badly too, ‘false tears’ and ‘false grief ’, as she’d described it earlier. I could hear the thoughts in her head:
‘Who would’ve thought he was such a convincing liar?’
She was right, I’d grown good at lying, but not in this instance. When the doctors escorted her into the ward she didn’t say goodbye. Down that stark white corridor, I called out that I’d see her soon. She didn’t turn around.
Outside the hospital, I sat on a low brick wall, my legs hanging over the street sign, waiting for my dad. He arrived in a cab, disoriented and exhausted. Up close I saw how lost he was, incomplete without my mum. When he hugged me I was worried he might collapse. Dr Norling accompanied him, delicately fragranced and immaculately dressed, reminding me of a dandy from a bygone era. He apologised for not informing the staff at the Swedish asylum that my mum could self-harm or possibly inflict harm on others. His tactful restraint had been prompted by my dad’s well-intentioned request to downplay her condition so that she might stay in an asylum for as short a time as possible. As a result the staff underestimated her risk profile – a term I’d hear over and again. When my mum had threatened to take legal action they’d allowed her to go free. They had no grounds to hold her. Technically she was a voluntary admission. She was well behaved. Her written account of the past was coherent. Norling had travelled to England to put right his mistakes. While I sensed that he was primarily concerned with his own reputation, I could hazard no darker motive. He spoke to the English doctors with great gusto, performing for them. I didn’t warm to him, despite the fact he’d done so much to help. My mum’s description was accurate, he was vain and pompous, but he struck me as an unlikely villain.
The hospital itself was clean. The doctors and nurses were dedicated and warm. There was a visiting room where my mum often sat on the window ledge, staring outside through a sealed window that didn’t open and couldn’t be smashed. Her view, over the barbed-wire perimeter fence, was into a park. Out of sight there was a children’s playground, and the sound of their laughter could often be heard during the summer. It had fallen silent as winter set in. Mum didn’t turn when I entered the room. She would not look at me, nor would she talk to me, or my dad. Once we were gone she told the nurses that our visits were motivated by a desire to ensure her allegations were being discredited. I didn’t know what theory she’d created to explain my involvement. She was contemptuous of antipsychotic medications, considering the pills to be an admission that the events of the summer were not as she described. She equated taking medicine with giving up on the adopted children who needed her help. The doctors couldn’t compel her to take the drugs. They required my mum’s consent. My mum didn’t accept that she was ill. A wall surrounded her mind and we couldn’t knock it down. Initially, in therapy, she’d laid out the evidence and repeated her allegations. Now she remained silent. If there was a new face, whether they were staff or a patient, she told her story again. Each time the account grew longer. Her storytelling skill improved, as if she were in hospital only because she hadn’t properly set the scene or characterised one of her suspects. Without exception the other patients believed her. Some of them approached me during my visits and reprimanded me for not solving the case of murdered Mia.
Days and weeks passed in this way. Sometimes I would go alone, sometimes with my dad, occasionally with Mark. He’d always wait outside, feeling it improper to see my mum in this state before she knew his identity or why he was there. Initially we were optimistic. My mum would get better and we’d become stronger and closer as a family. The gaps between us would close. But in the eyes of my mother there was no return from my betrayal. The permanence of this position has slowly settled upon me. I feel a kind of grief.
One day, in late autumn, as I paced the visiting room, troubled by the change in season and the lack of progress, I said impulsively:
‘I’m going to Sweden. I’ll find out the truth for myself.’
It was the only time my mum reacted. She turned around, looking directly at me, assessing my claim. For a few seconds her eyes were the same as when she’d seen me at the airport – there was hope. For a few seconds I was her son again. She raised a finger to her lips, pressing it against them as though gesturing me to be silent. Crouching by her side, I asked:
‘What does that mean?’
Her lips opened slightly, ready to speak. I saw her black-tipped tongue. Then a change came over her. She dismissed the sincerity of my inquiry. Her lips closed.
‘Mum, please? Talk to me.’
But she wouldn’t. It was a reminder that no matter how ill she was, her powers of perception were sharp. I hadn’t seriously considered the idea of going to Sweden when I blurted it out. My focus up until that day had been the doctors, the therapy and treatment.
Afterwards I discussed the idea with my dad and Mark. Their introduction to each other had been an unspectacular one, carried out in the saddest of circumstances. They’d shaken hands, as if a business deal had been agreed. My dad had thanked him for his help. When we were alone, my dad had apologised if he’d ever done anything to give the impression that he wouldn’t have accepted me for who I am. I found his apology excruciating, offering my own apology instead. He was in turmoil, not at the revelation, but at the years of secrecy, exactly as I’d imagined. Despite the sadness, finally he’d met Mark. I could stop lying. However, none of us were able to celebrate without Mum. It was impossible to comprehend celebrating anything as a family without her. Neither Mark nor my dad thought going to Sweden was a good idea. There was no mystery to unravel. Mia had been a young unhappy girl who’d run away from home. If I went to Sweden I’d become caught up in an impossible quest, a distraction from the real concern –
trying to convince my mum to engage with medication and therapy. Worse still, it would indulge her delusions rather than challenge them and it might do harm rather than good. I dropped the idea, or at least I dropped it from conversation, because I’d begun to learn Swedish again, spending many hours reading my old textbooks and reminding myself of vocabulary lists, brushing up on a language that I’d spoken fluently as a child.
As the darkest night of the year approached, the doctors discussed the possibility of feeding my mum intravenously, outlining the legalities and moral implications. At this point I openly declared my intention to travel to Sweden. Mark saw it as denial, in many ways typical of me, running away from problems – a form of escape. My dad was so distraught at the deteriorating health of my mum that he no longer opposed my idea, willing to consider anything. My plan was to discover what had happened to Mia. No matter what the truth might be, there was a possibility of engaging with my mum again if I brought back fresh information. New evidence would be the only provocation she’d respond to. I was sure of it. Though Mark disagreed, once he saw my mind was made up he stopped putting forward counterarguments and loaned me the money to make the trip. Initially I refused, proposing to borrow it from the bank, but this angered Mark to such an extent that I swallowed my pride. There was no work on the horizon. The design company that employed me was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. I hadn’t worked on a project for months. I was broke. And in my more depressive moments, I did wonder if maybe I was running away.
Rationing out the money, I estimated that I’d have enough to survive for three weeks if I was frugal. Mark couldn’t take the time off work but he planned to fly out for Christmas should I not return before then. He did well to hide his doubts. His mind was rational and disciplined. He dealt with matters that could be tested in a court of law. I acted on feelings. My gut was telling me that there was truth in my mum’s account.
• • •
I exited the airport, into the freezing night, contemplating the long journey ahead. My rental car was a sleek and powerful four-by-four, chosen by Mark to cope with the extreme weather. I didn’t own a car in London and felt like a fraud behind the wheel of this magnificent vehicle. But I was grateful for his choice. Conditions were challenging. The motorways hadn’t been completely cleared. As a temporary measure a single lane had been carved out, banked with the day’s snowfall. I was obliged to drive slowly, stopping at several service stations to buy black coffee, hot dogs with sweet mustard, and salted liquorice. At four in the morning I finally turned off the motorway, following narrow country lanes until the navigational computer declared that I was at my destination.
The driveway to the farm was filled with snow. I had no intention of digging it clear and backed up, ploughing the car at speed into the knee-deep snow, hearing it compact under the tyres. Opening the car door, I stepped out, staring at the shuttered farmhouse. After so many broken promises, I was finally here. A wedge of snow balanced on the thatched roof, crumbling at the edge. An oak tree huddled over the two-hundred-year-old house, as if the pair enjoyed an ancient allegiance. The snowfall was untouched. The menace my mum had perceived in this landscape was absent, or at least invisible to me. The extraordinary quiet that she’d found suffocating was wonderful, the openness of this world seemed the exact opposite of oppressive, and only the distant red lights of the wind turbines – rat eyes, as my mum had called them, stopped me from entirely discounting her nightmarish reconstruction of this landscape.
Glancing around, I quickly identified various locations she’d mentioned in her account – the converted barn for the paying guests who never came, the stone outhouse where the slaughtered pig had hung. I took a guess at where the vegetable garden must be, hidden under the snow, as was the damage caused when my mum had driven the van roughshod across the garden to escape. Only the break in the hedgerow revealed the trauma of that day.
Inside the farm there was evidence of a hasty exit. A full mug of tea sat on the kitchen table. The surface had frozen. I cracked the thin brown ice with my finger, swirling the liquid beneath. With the tip of my finger I tasted it. There was no milk and it had been sweetened with honey. Neither of my parents drank their tea this way. Accepting that this was a trivial deduction, I suddenly felt despondent at my chances. The trip was a grand gesture, flamboyance concealing powerlessness and despair.
Despite the long journey there was no chance I could go straight to sleep. It was too cold. My mind was too active. I lit a fire in the steel heart of the farm, a magnificent wrought-iron stove, the joints clicking as the metal warmed up. Sitting in front of it, I caught sight of a devilish face carved into the wood. I grabbed the tongs, pulling out the log, only to find that I’d mistaken a gnarled knot for a nose.
In the hope of calming my thoughts, I searched the shelves for a book to read, discovering my mum’s Bible. I turned to Ephesians chapter 6, verse 12. The page was unmarked. Putting it back, I saw the collection of troll stories my mum had read to me as a child, the out-of-print book with just the single illustration of a troll lurking in the woods. It had been many years since I’d seen this book and, feeling fondness for it, I browsed through the stories by the fire. Even after all this time, I knew them by heart, and as I read the words I heard my mum’s voice. It made me too sad and I put it to one side. Stretching out my hands in front of the flames, I wondered what I honestly hoped to achieve.
In the morning I woke slumped in front of dead embers. My body had curled to the shape of the chair and I stood up awkwardly. When I looked out the window the snow’s brightness hurt my eyes. After showering, imagining muddy water running over my back, I brewed strong coffee. There was no food except for hundreds of jars of home-made pickles and jams that my parents had stocked up in preparation for the long winter. Eating delicious blackberry jam that dripped off the spoon, I sat at the kitchen table, taking from my bag an empty notebook and sharpened pencil – the tools of an investigator. I looked at the items with scepticism. On the top of the first page I wrote the date.
It was obvious that I should start with Håkan. My dad had rung his friend in advance of my arrival, informing him of my intentions, only to be told there was no news about Mia, no developments, and there was nothing to be achieved by coming here. My dad had recently taken the decision to sell the farm. Left with only a thousand pounds, he was living in Mark’s apartment, in the study. He had no plans, sustained only by hope that my mum would improve. As she grew worse, he too weakened. They were an unbreakable team, united even in their deterioration. Though I had many concerns about selling the farm, they were vague and superstitious in nature, and from a practical perspective I had no grounds to oppose the sale. To my parents, the farm was a place of grief: I felt that keenly, standing under its old timber ceilings. Håkan was maintaining his generous valuation when he could easily have dropped the offer and exploited our predicament. He was a gracious victor. At the beginning of the new year the farm would be his.
I didn’t want to meet Håkan in my current mood, unsettled and downbeat. My instinct was to trust my mum’s account of his character, particularly since my dad was often blind to people’s faults. It was perfectly possible Håkan had been nice to Dad and horrible to my mum. I had no doubt this formidable man would consider me as slight and inconsequential. But I was curious to know what he made of my objective. Delaying our encounter, I decided to look around town and stock up on groceries. I had fond memories of shopping with my mum in Swedish stores and loved many of the popular foodstuffs that were only available here. I was sure my confidence would grow again once I’d eaten well, stocked the pantry, and made the farm a more welcoming base.
With the back of the car filled with groceries, I took a stroll through the centre of town, along the main promenade mentioned by Mum. As the day was already beginning to fade, electric Advent candles set on automatic timers turned on in the windows. I paused outside the coffee shop called the Ritz where mum and Mia had spoken. Without any clear sense of why, I ent
ered and browsed the array of cakes and open sandwiches, layered with prawns, sliced egg and clumps of beetroot salad. The woman behind the counter looked me up and down, making no attempt to hide her interest in my appearance. I didn’t own a wide collection of warm clothes. Trying to wrap up against temperatures of minus fifteen for the first time in my life, I was improvising with mismatched layers and a jacket I’d found in a charity shop, a corduroy duffel coat, a far cry from the high-tech branded snow jackets most people here dressed in. Pretending not to notice that I was being inspected, I selected a bottle of mineral water, a cheese sandwich and, on a whim, the same cake my mum had shared with Mia, a Princess Torta, a sponge layered with thick white cream and a thin layer of green marzipan. The first few mouthfuls were delicious, but it quickly became too much, the texture too soft, like eating sweetened snow, and I pushed it aside, hoping the owner wouldn’t be offended. Sitting back in my chair, I saw the missing person poster of Mia pinned to the notice board. Other posters and cards had begun to encroach around the perimeter, signalling that it was old news. I stood up, walking close to the board, studying it intently. There were perforated tags that could be ripped off with Håkan’s telephone number. None had been taken.
When I turned around, the woman behind the counter was staring at me. With irrational certainty I knew that she was going to phone Håkan as soon as I left the café, the kind of statement my mum had frequently made and the kind I’d challenged. It was a feeling, and no more than that. But I’d bet any money I was right. Picking up my jacket, I fought the desire to say, ‘Fuck you too,’ as I left the premises, throwing up the hood of my corduroy jacket with a touch of defiance.
The Farm Page 21
