Elin turned to the paper and put another mark under Marianne’s name.
‘It’s your fault. It’s you and Papa who taught me.’
‘Oh, be quiet. It’s mostly your Papa who swears, and he’s not our problem any more.’ Marianne picked up a shirt and threw it in Elin’s face. Elin caught it and cautiously threw it back. Something sparked in Marianne’s eyes, a light. She grabbed the cushions from the bench and flailed her arms about. Elin swung back. The kitchen, always so quiet and still, was filled with fumbling, rising laughter.
‘What are you doing?’ Edvin shouted, running down the stairs. Marianne and Elin waited quietly, and when he came through the doorway, cushions rained down around him. All three of them landed in a heap on the floor. The cushions were spread around them. Elin lay close to Marianne, head on her shoulder. She smelled of smoke and the sweet perfume of her soap. Edvin wormed his way on top of them. They were red in the face from the exertion and longed-for laughter. Legs tangled together. Hair full of old breadcrumbs and dog hairs.
‘We still have a good time, even without men and milk and other people’s money.’ Marianne pulled both children close and hugged them hard.
‘What, aren’t we allowed milk any more? Damn,’ Edvin cried. Marianne and Elin laughed.
‘Yeah, damn, damn, damn, damn,’ Marianne said.
Elin got up and walked over to the tally again, putting one mark under Edvin and four under Marianne.
‘Mama, you’re going to lose.’
‘I know.’ Marianne pushed Edvin aside and stood up again. She sat on a chair and lit a cigarette, blew the smoke out into the room. ‘I’m such a loser.’
The room was silent. Elin lay back down on the floor, her head on one of the cushions, and stared up at the ceiling as she listened to the sound of the wall clock’s second hand and the heavy breaths that filled the room with a smoky haze.
Elin ran fast from pine tree to pine tree, following a couple walking slowly along the pebble beach. When they stopped to embrace she crouched behind a bush and watched them intently through the yellowing leaves. She squinted to see who the man was, but she could only see his back. His body was hidden by a baggy jacket and on his head he had a dark blue hat, pulled right down. They stood close together, her hands stroking his back. Their heads moved rhythmically against one another in a passionate kiss.
Looking away, Elin raked the earth with her hand and found a stone, which she threw at them as hard as she could. It clattered against the other stones where it landed, and the couple let go of one another.
‘What was that?’
Elin held her breath for a few seconds when she heard, and recognised, the man’s voice. She got up and ran, crouched over, as quickly and quietly as she could, up towards the forest. Her feet flew over the needle-covered ground, dodging roots and swerving around the bent, stunted pines as though they were poles in a slalom. She stopped and listened. From the beach came only the sound of the waves and the crunching of feet wandering further along the pebbles. No voices. No one chasing her. Relieved, she squatted down and pulled a well-thumbed piece of paper and a stub of pencil from her jeans pocket. Unfolding the paper, she added a few lines under the scrawled paragraph that was already there:
Mamas found someone else. I thought you should know. Your sitting there, rotting in prison while she kisses someone else. Gross. You shud be hear. But I guess you already know that. I hope your sorry. Sorry for all the drinking. Mamas the best. Do you understand that. Soon itll be too late.
She stared at the words, reading them over and over, then returned to the start of the letter, the questions she’d piled up on top of one another:
Dear Papa. Why dont you write to me? Dont you miss me? Dont you miss Erik or Edvin? Dont you wonder wot were up to? Dont you ever think about us? I can tell the police your kind sometimes.
She screwed the paper up into a little ball. She thought about throwing it away, but her arm froze mid-motion and her fingers locked around it again, clinging stiffly to the words she needed to get out. She stuck the letter back in her pocket along with the chewed yellow pencil stub, then lay down and watched the wind playing with the clouds. Seagulls flew high above, sailing forth with their wings outstretched. She would have so loved to be a bird. To fly, to float, to dive. To escape all her thoughts. She stretched her arms out to the sides, flapped them up and down and closed her eyes.
‘Elin! Elin! What’s happened?’
The voice woke her from her daydream. She sat up and saw Marianne come running up from the beach, on her own now.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’ She got down on her knees beside her. Elin swatted away the hand that stroked her cheek.
‘Stop it!’
‘I thought you were dead. It looked like that.’ Marianne’s eyes were wide. ‘I was scared, what are you doing here?’
‘Nothing. What are you doing here?’
‘I was just taking a walk. It’s so lovely by the sea. But now I want to go home. It’s cold.’
Elin stood up and started walking away quickly, and Marianne hurried after her.
‘Wait, Elin, we can walk together.’
Elin didn’t reply. She sped up until she was running. Faster, faster. Her jacket was flapping in the wind like a superhero’s cape.
Tears were running down Elin’s cheeks. The pebbles made her feet hurt through the thin soles of her shoes, but it didn’t stop her. She didn’t know why she was crying. Maybe it was because the end had suddenly become so apparent. The end of their family. The end of the only bit of normality she’d ever had. She stopped, out of breath from crying, braced her arms against a tree trunk and kicked it as hard as she could, over and over again. It hurt her toes, which got little protection from her canvas shoes, but that wasn’t why her tears kept coming faster and faster. She was crying because the tears needed to come out. She was crying because there was no longer space for them inside her. Because her soul was full to the brim with shit.
At last Marianne caught up with her and soon Elin was wrapped in her arms, surrounded by her soothing noises.
‘My love, why are you so sad? What’s happened?’
Elin didn’t respond, but her crying increased in force, bubbling up through her eyes and nose, tears running down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. She wiped her face on her sleeve. Marianne held her close. Shushed her, hushed her.
‘Come on, let’s go home. I can make you some hot chocolate.’
‘We don’t have any milk.’ Elin sniffed loudly. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt from her hands where she’d wiped away the tears, and still they kept coming.
‘Aha. I nicked some sachets from the cafe.’
Elin met Marianne’s smile with astonishment.
‘You’ve been nicking stuff?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been nicking stuff. We belong in prison too. The whole bunch of us. Scumbags, that’s what we are.’
Elin smiled uncertainly.
‘But, Mama …’
‘We deserve hot chocolate. Both of us. And the best thing about stolen sachets are that they don’t even need milk. Just water. Regular water. Free water.’
Elin dried her eyes once again, with her damp sleeve. A cup of hot chocolate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one. Cautiously she took Marianne’s cold hand and they walked home, hand in hand as though she were a tiny child.
NOW
NEW YORK, 2017
Have you got time to eat beforehand? At that little Italian place, the one you like?
Elin sneaks a look down at the message that makes the screen light up. Beforehand? Before what? She can’t remember what Sam means, what they’re supposed to be doing. Joe nudges her discreetly in the side and she jumps and raises the camera again. In front of her is a still life arrangement of white porcelain tableware, and beside it, the designer sits dressed in black with her arms crossed. Her hair is cropped into a bob that slants forward slightly, her forehead covered with a short fringe, sharp and straight
as though it was cut with a knife.
She takes a few pictures, calling out instructions. The woman shifts position, the stylist adjusts the porcelain by a few barely discernible millimetres. The only thing Elin can think about is what it is she’s forgotten. Her phone lies beside her computer on the table next to her, but the screen stays dark.
‘That’s a wrap,’ she says, although she doesn’t know whether the photo has really come out well. The woman slides down from the table carefully as the other people in the room begin to disperse. Elin excuses herself, takes her telephone and goes to the toilet. Once there she reads the message from Sam again and glances at the clock: almost one. She phones him. It rings at the other end but no one answers. She tries again but a text message interrupts the call.
I’m already in the waiting room, hurry up.
Suddenly she realises what it is she’s forgotten. She throws open the door and almost collides with Joe, waiting outside.
‘What’s going on with you? The client’s asking questions,’ he whispers.
Elin takes a deep breath.
‘Can you take them out for lunch? An hour would be good, entertain them a bit?’
Joe shakes his head uncomprehendingly.
‘Lunch? But there’s food here, we don’t have time to break for lunch, there’s loads left to do. Didn’t you see the crates that arrived? It all needs to be shot.’
‘I forgot a doctor’s appointment. I have to dash off for a while now. I have to.’
Joe tilts his head and looks concerned.
‘Nothing serious I hope?’
Elin shakes her head emphatically, locking eyes with him.
‘Tell you what. I’m going to sneak off for a while, you’re going to sort it out. OK?’
He doesn’t have time to answer her before she’s disappeared round the corner and out through the door. Taking the steps two at a time, she carries on into the street. When she gets to the therapist’s office a few buildings down, the waiting room is empty. It’s past one. She walks over to the consulting room door and opens it carefully. Sam is sitting on the sofa, the therapist on a chair opposite.
‘Elin. How nice that you could make it,’ the therapist says in an exaggeratedly calm voice.
Elin is out of breath, her heart racing after the speed-walk, and her brow is covered with sweat. She nods to him.
‘Let’s do this,’ she says determinedly with a big smile. She sits down close to Sam, her hand on his thigh.
‘See? This is the reason she’s so hard to live with. She’s married to her job as well. I promise you she has a whole team standing around waiting for her in the studio right now.’
‘Is that the case?’ The therapist turns to Elin, taking the pen from behind his ear and writing a few words in a notebook.
‘I thought we were here to talk about me and Sam, not about my job?’
Sam gives a strained laugh. He turns to her and strokes her cheek gently.
‘How many people are waiting for you? Five? Ten?’ he asks.
Elin takes a deep breath.
‘More like ten,’ she whispers.
‘See? She won’t listen to anything you or I say.’ Sam sighs.
‘She’s not there now, she’s here,’ the therapist says levelly.
Elin’s gaze falters. In her pocket her phone is vibrating with messages, probably from Joe.
‘Can we get to the point now? Start talking. Yes, we both work hard, but that’s not what we’re here to discuss, is it? What are we actually going to talk about?’ Frowning, Elin turns to face Sam.
He tenses his jaw and his eyes darken.
‘She’s not really here at all, do you see? We may as well cancel. Go back to the studio, Elin. I can have a solo session this time.’
Elin stands up as though the sofa is suddenly burning her.
‘Are you sure?’ she says, her face lighting up with a smile.
Sam stands up too.
‘I’m sure. Go on,’ he says.
Elin forces herself to hug him. He’s stiff but she stays a moment in his embrace, meeting the therapist’s gaze over his shoulder.
‘This is why I love him so much. He always understands,’ she says.
Then she lets go and runs out the door without looking back.
THEN
HEIVIDE, GOTLAND, 1979
The steps up to the hayloft were dizzyingly steep and had no rail. Fredrik went first, then Elin, both concentrating hard to keep their balance. There was a strong smell of grass up there, so strong it tickled their noses. The loft was full of freshly-cut hay, bound in rectangular bales and stacked in uneven heaps. It would be enough for the sheep for the whole winter. They were out in the pasture now, but as the chill came creeping in, they’d move into the barn again, and fill the farmyard with sound and scent. Fredrik carried on, high up on the stacks of hay bales. Elin lay down on her back with her hands underneath her head and watched him climbing.
‘If you fall now, you’ll crush me. Come down!’ she scolded, but he went on jumping from stack to stack, making them wobble alarmingly. Elin fiddled with the pieces of hay, pulling one out and popping it in her mouth.
Muted squeaks caught her attention.
‘Ugh, can you hear that, there are rats here. Let’s go down to the beach instead.’ A shudder passed through her body.
Fredrik stopped and sat down with his legs dangling over the edge of a hay bale, listening.
‘That’s not rats, it’s something else. Have a look, you’ll see.’
Elin stood up and looked around, checking every crevice. In the end she realised where the sound was coming from. It was Crumble, Elin’s beloved cat, and she wasn’t alone. Elin knelt down.
‘Five tiny ones, oh, hurry, come and look!’
‘I told you it was something else,’ Fredrik said smugly.
‘But they look like rats.’
Fredrik came up behind her and peered in behind the hay bale where Crumble had made a nest for herself and her kittens. Two brown ones, a ginger one, and two tabbies. He laughed.
‘Yeah, they’re not exactly cute. What do you think they should be called?’
‘Vega, Sirius, Venus …’
‘In that case, this one has to be called Sol.’ Fredrik picked up the red one carefully. It was so little it fit in the palm of his hand. It mewed faintly.
‘Put her back, she needs her mum.’ Elin reached for the kitten but Fredrik pulled his hand away.
‘How do you know it’s a she?’
‘He then. I don’t know. It. It needs its mum. Put it down now.’
Fredrik did as she said, placing the cat down carefully in the same spot.
‘One more to name, the darkest one. We can call it Pluto,’ he announced.
‘Vega, Sirius, Venus, Sol, Pluto,’ Elin recited as she pointed at the little bundles.
They lay on their stomachs watching the little kittens crawl around for a long time. Crumble lay on her side and let them feed from her. Fredrik rolled onto his back. They heard the rain pattering on the metal roof of the barn.
‘I think they’re going to get divorced,’ he said softly.
‘Who?’
‘Mum and Dad of course. Who do you think?’
‘Why do you think that?’ Elin picked up one of the kittens and held it close to his cheek. ‘Feel how silky it is.’
‘They argue all the time. About money.’ Fredrik batted away the hand holding the kitten and sat up.
‘Ah, them too? I thought you were rolling in it, so they can’t have much to argue about, can they?’
Fredrik snorted weakly.
‘Ah, I don’t know. It just feels that way. I hear them at night.’
‘Do they fight?’
‘What?’
‘Do they hit each other?’
‘Fight? No, of course not. They just argue loudly, shouting. They’re angry all the time. Dad’s angry,’ Fredrik sighed, wrapped his arms around his legs and leaned his forehead against his knees.
�
��I saw him the other day, with …’
Elin fell silent mid-sentence. She reached out her hand and stroked one of the kitten’s backs tenderly. It was so soft, like velvet beneath her index finger.
‘Who? Dad?’
‘Oh, it was nothing.’
‘Come on. What’s he done?’ Fredrik reached up his arms and put his hands behind his head.
‘Nothing, I said it was nothing.’ Elin lay beside him. They lay quietly for a while, staring up at the roof.
‘It’s cosy up here. We should move here in the summer. Escape all the other stuff.’ Fredrik lifted his head and looked out across the loft.
‘Mmm, Crumble’s chosen a good spot.’
‘Are you going to keep them?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, of course. They’re really sweet. Crumble needs a bit of company, she’s always so lonely. But don’t tell anyone they’re here, don’t tell Mama.’
‘Why not?’
‘She might decide to sell them.’
‘No one buys kittens, they’re running around everywhere,’ Fredrik scoffed.
‘She might give them away, then. Is that what you want?’
‘No, OK, we won’t say anything. I know, they can be ours,’ Fredrik said and his face lit up in a smile.
‘Our cat babies. Then we’ll be a real family, you and me and all the cat babies.’ Elin giggled, scaring Crumble and making her jump.
She put her hand to her mouth and stifled the rest of the laugh as Fredrik grabbed a handful of hay and threw it at her.
‘You’re such a weirdo. You dingbat.’
‘Why did you call me that? What is a dingbat anyway?’
‘Someone like you. Cute but weird.’
Marianne was sitting on a chair in the hallway when Elin came back into the house. Darkness was falling and it was murky downstairs, but she hadn’t put any lights on. She had one hand on the telephone, a heavy old thing that lived on the telephone table, as though she was waiting for someone to ring. The phone was bright green with a curly black wire and a silver dial. When Elin came in, Marianne got up and went into the kitchen. She got some potatoes out of the bucket in the larder, black, earthy ones, straight from the potato fields. Holding a handful under the tap, she scrubbed them carefully with a coarse brush until Elin came up alongside her and took the brush from her.
A Question Mark is Half a Heart Page 5
