Memory of Love (9781101603024)

by Olsson, Linda

  I tried to work out who Joe and Lizzie were. I assumed Lizzie was the woman’s daughter and Joe her son. The twins must have been her younger children. And Mika her grandchild. Lizzie’s son.

  She stood up and went over to the sink where she stubbed out the cigarette. When she returned to the table and resumed her story the words were hesitant. Uncertain. She spoke quietly and kept her eyes on the table.

  ‘Lizzie was my oldest,’ she said, as if she had read my thoughts. ‘Mika’s mum, though all she ever did was give birth to him. And then she died. Obviously nobody had any idea who Mika’s dad was. Considering the circumstances. And so I ended up stuck with him.’

  She leaned backwards a little and looked at me with an odd expression. As if she were challenging me. Testing me. Then she carried on, more confident now.

  ‘Joe is my only son. Not that he has ever brought me much joy. And then he drove himself off the road two years ago. The doctors thought he was going to die. That might have been better. But he didn’t. Nothing but trouble before the accident, but there was nothing wrong with his head then.’

  She looked up at me and for a moment I felt that she was letting me in. For a fraction of a second it felt as if I caught a glimpse of this woman’s most private inner self. And as I looked at her across the table I thought I saw her in a different light.

  ‘But you know now he’s dangerous. I’ve had to face it. It’s as if something has been destroyed inside him. Like what little control he had before is gone. I can’t leave him alone with the other kids. Or with anybody, really. Sometimes I think it would be better if he was locked up. But they don’t lock you up for being dangerous,’ she said. ‘You have to do it, don’t you? Murder someone. Rape someone. Just thinking about it isn’t enough.’

  She stopped and looked down on her hands, which lay folded on the table. She stretched out her fingers and held on to the edge of the table for a moment. I noticed that the nails were coarse and long, yellowed on the right hand. The fingers were bony with swollen joints. Her hands looked hard.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing for a mother to say, I know. But I can’t watch him all the time, can I?’ She looked at me and her extraordinary eyes were wide open and very pale. ‘And if I try the best I can, that’s all anybody can ask, isn’t it? I do what I can, the way I can. Teach him the only way I know.’

  What did she mean? And who was ‘he’? What did she expect me to say? Or do? I felt as if I were missing something. That there was an elusive aspect of her story that I couldn’t catch.

  She sat back a little and folded her arms across her chest.

  ‘And if it’s sometimes too much, who’s to say? Eh?’

  Abruptly, everything I had prepared in my head dissolved. The camera with the photos of Ika stayed in my handbag. I had only one goal. I had to take him with me.

  My heart was thumping so hard I had trouble hearing what she was saying.

  ‘I try to get the kid off to school before I go to work. But I can never be sure where he is off to. I don’t know what’s going on in his head. It’s as if he’s in his own world. I tell him to wait in town till I’m finished at work but he never does.’

  She fingered the tobacco pouch on the table, but withdrew her hands and clasped them.

  ‘How old do you think I am?’ she said suddenly with a crooked smile.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’m forty-two.’

  Again she looked straight at me with that strange expression, as if she were challenging me. But the effect was pale and weak, like a distant echo of a personality now almost lost.

  ‘Yes, I know how I look,’ she said and smiled a thin smile that failed to reach her eyes. ‘But there is a guy I used to know. Joe’s dad. Up north, he is now. He says he’s willing to take me back. And he’s willing to take Joe too. Says he can put him to work. Used to be a bit of a wild guy himself. Hard, you know. I have the scars – and pain – to prove it. But he’s not a bad bloke really. I think he’s settled down. And I think he can manage Joe. Says he’ll let me have the twins come later, if things work out.’

  She opened the pouch and rolled another cigarette.

  ‘But he won’t have Mika,’ she said, peering at me as she exhaled smoke. ‘Truth is, nobody can stand him. Nobody wants him. Nobody. Because there is something not right with him. Nobody wants broken things.’

  I still couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘It might not work out, but God knows I’d like to give it a go. I’ve got nothing here. But if I go I can’t take Mika. And then they’ll take him into care. And who would take him? I mean, they have all these normal children to choose from. Who would want him? Where would he end up?’

  She paused and the kitchen went awkwardly quiet.

  ‘Plus I’d lose the benefit.’

  Her eyes stared into space and she wiped her mouth with her hand. Then she turned to me and suddenly I could feel her despair. Sense the glimmer of hope of a future for herself fighting with the enormous burden of responsibility she had been dealt.

  Then I heard myself speak.

  ‘If you want to try it out I could consider having Mika stay with me. Just for a while. Until you see how it goes. I mean, you may decide to come back. It would be more like a holiday. Just to see. And for now, we needn’t involve the authorities. You can keep the benefit. Till we see how it works out.’

  In the silence we sat looking at each other, both equally stunned, I think. It was not what I had come prepared to say. I could no longer remember what I had planned. And this wasn’t what she had anticipated either, I could tell.

  The woman opposite me seemed to have straightened up on her seat. She cupped her right elbow in her left hand as she moved the cigarette and exhaled smoke in one swift, elegant move. Then she screwed up her eyes and looked at me with an expression of suspicion.

  ‘Why?’ she said finally.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why would you do something like that?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, hesitating for a moment, ‘like I said before, I have become fond of him. I live by myself not far from here. I only work occasionally, so I’m mostly at home. I am a …’

  ‘I know where you live. And I know where you work,’ she puffed her cigarette impatiently. ‘But why would you want to take the kid?’

  I struggled to find the words to explain to her what I couldn’t quite understand myself.

  ‘I like having him around. He is company for me. And I enjoy teaching him music.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Those strange noises he makes?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by strange noises,’ I said. ‘He plays the piano when he is at my house. I believe he is gifted.’

  Her laughter startled me. It was shrill and hard and it ended as abruptly as it had started.

  ‘Piano?’ she said incredulously.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think he is exceptionally musically gifted. He may need a better teacher than me soon, but for now I still have things to teach him.’

  The awkward silence felt precarious. We were poised there; the scales could tip either way. It seemed that our thoughts had taken off in different directions – the moment of intimacy and understanding had passed. She kept looking at me with that expression of utter suspicion.

  ‘It’s only for as long as you want,’ I said, bending forwards and resting my elbows on the table. ‘And only if Mika agrees to come.’

  As if on cue, I heard the car drive up and the dogs starting to bark.

  We both rose at the same time and she walked ahead through the dark hallway. At the far end, and before calling the dogs, she turned to me.

  ‘I’m Lola.’ She held out her hand. ‘If you wonder about the name, it’s from a film my dad apparently liked. A German film about a whore, as far as I know. Sums him up.’

  She held on to my hand and looked straight at me. The grip was uncomfortably hard, and held for too long. I was relieved when she finally nodded and let go.r />
  George and Ika approached and we all went back inside. In the kitchen we stood in silence until George pulled out one of the chairs and gestured for Lola to sit, which she did without a word. He then pulled out the other one for me.

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he said, and left.

  I sat down.

  Ika stood by the kitchen door, looking at neither of us.

  ‘Come here,’ Lola said, and Ika took a few steps forwards, stopping well out of reach.

  ‘This woman says you can stay with her. I need to go away for a bit, see.’ Her expression made it clear that she expected no reaction, and none came. Nothing indicated that he had even understood what she said.

  I stood up and crouched in front of him, making sure to leave enough space between us.

  ‘Ika, I have asked your grandmother if she would let you stay at my house while she is away. But it’s for you to decide. Nobody will force you. It’s entirely up to you.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘It would make me very happy if you came,’ I added. ‘We can play music. And I can take you to school in the morning and pick you up in the afternoon.’

  It sounded like a plea. Who needed whom here?

  Lola and I both looked at him. I assumed that she was as keen as I was to see some kind of reaction. But once again, nothing. Then he turned abruptly and left the kitchen.

  I went back to the chair and sat down.

  Lola sighed and shifted in her seat, as if she were uncomfortable, or in pain. She shrugged her shoulders and reached for the tobacco pouch.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t think we’ll get much out of him.’

  Suddenly I realised how much I had anticipated having him come to stay. In my thoughts I had already started planning things to do. Food to cook. Music that we would listen to, and music that we would play. Walks. At the same time I envisaged the process I would initiate if I decided to report the abuse. A process that would be entirely out of my control. And the concern for his welfare that would follow, the issue of whether he would remain with me, or be taken into care. My heart sank as I considered the alternatives.

  Just as I was preparing to stand, Ika returned.

  He was clutching a tattered shoebox under his arm.

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ I asked quietly.

  He stood in the doorway holding the box, his head bowed.

  Then he looked up and his eyes locked with mine for the briefest moment before setting on the usual point just beside my head. I could have imagined the bit about our eyes meeting. But there was no doubt about what he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  I wanted to lift him. Hug him. Put my hand on his head. But I checked my impulses.

  Instead, I crouched slowly in front of him again.

  ‘You have made me very happy,’ I said.

  He turned abruptly and left.

  Lola stubbed out her cigarette in the sink. She smiled her crooked smile with closed lips. It wasn’t really a smile. There was no joy in it and it made me feel ill at ease.

  ‘That’s as close to saying he likes you as he will ever come,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get his other stuff.’

  I went outside and stood by the front door for a moment. Ika and George were standing by the car. George seemed to be talking and they were both looking intently at one of the wheels. I couldn’t help smiling.

  As we left I turned in my seat and looked at the small person in the doorway behind us. She stood immobile for a moment, then she disappeared inside.

  We went over the small ditch and up onto the road. As the car picked up speed, George turned first to Ika in the back seat, then to me.

  ‘That was a nice morning,’ he said.

  ‘What do you think, Ika?’ I asked, looking straight through the windscreen.

  ‘Yes,’ Ika said.

  I smiled again.

  ‘It’s been a very nice morning. A very nice morning indeed,’ I said, and adjusted myself in the seat.

  11.

  George took us home. Afterwards, I realised I should have invited him in but as he dropped us off and we stood beside the car for a moment, all I could think to say was thank you. After a brief, awkward silence George promised Ika he would take him fishing on the Saturday. Then he waved and drove off.

  I made tea and sandwiches and we sat down on the deck. It was early afternoon and the skies had cleared. We sat protected from the wind and it was warm in the sun. Ika had placed the shoebox on the chair beside him. I looked at it, wondering what it contained.

  ‘Can I see what’s in your box?’ I asked. ‘Or is it private?’

  Ika said nothing, but picked up the box and put it on the table.

  ‘Can I?’ I said, and put my hand gently on the lid.

  He nodded.

  I lifted the lid. There wasn’t much inside.

  A worn toothbrush.

  A tattered plastic bag containing what looked like a baby tooth.

  A tattered photograph of a young dark-haired woman holding a small baby wrapped in a blanket. She wasn’t looking at the baby but straight into the camera, with an expression that was hard to interpret. There was no joy there. She held the baby as if someone had passed her an unwanted parcel. She looked very young but her expression and demeanour suggested anything but youthful innocence. I presumed it was Lizzie holding her son in her arms.

  A small knife with a rusted blade.

  A fine filigree silver cross on a broken silver chain.

  A small number of surprisingly beautiful seashells that didn’t look like anything I had ever found on the beach. Nor did they look like those artificially polished ones you buy in tourist shops. I wondered where they came from.

  And then, underneath all the other things, my little wind-chime made of paua shells. I had wondered where it had gone, and had assumed that the wind must have ripped it off its nail. But here it was, and again I felt that lump in my throat. What was happening to me?

  I looked at Ika who had his mouth full and was staring past me and out to the sea. His face was expressionless. I had no way of knowing how he felt.

  I took out the wind-chime.

  ‘Let’s find a good place for this. It likes to be in the wind, I think,’ I said.

  I held it out to Ika and he stretched out his hand. He walked over to the spot where it used to hang and reached up to hang it on the nail. As if on cue a waft of wind picked up the string of shells and they rattled cheerfully.

  He turned and walked over to the hammock that hung from the ceiling. He crawled into it, adjusting himself till he half sat, half lay. The hammock rocked gently. And then he lifted his eyes and looked at me for a moment. I made sure I kept my own eyes on the sea. He didn’t smile, but to me it felt as if he did. He just briefly nodded and closed his eyes.

  I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes too.

  Mother holds her hand, but it doesn’t feel as if she is supporting her. It doesn’t feel as if anything at all comes from Mother’s hand. It is cool and dry and feels as if it is hardly touching her own. Every now and then the grip loosens, then tightens again, as if it needs to be reminded of what it is doing.

  She holds her small tartan beauty box firmly in the other hand. It contains her most precious things. Mother is carrying her own suitcase. Marianne doesn’t need one, because her few things are packed in Mother’s suitcase. Mother has told her she will need new clothes once they get to Stockholm. City clothes. She wonders what they will look like, but it doesn’t make her happy to think about them.

  She is so very tired. She has been sick on the bus and there is a sour taste in her mouth. Her stomach feels like an empty hole, but she is not hungry. She just feels like crying.

  They walk under a canopy of green leaves. There are double rows of tall trees on both sides of the pathway and the branches meet over their heads, keeping the sunlight out. It is cool here in the green shade, but she is still warm from the bus ride. Her skirt sticks to her thighs at the back and she tries to pull
at her underwear without being noticed. She carries her doll under her arm, and the doll is dressed for travel too, in her finest flower-print dress with smocking on the chest, matching her own. Mother is trying to prevent her high heels from sinking into the gravel, and every now and then she loses her balance slightly. Then the grip on her hand tightens and it feels as if Marianne is the one supporting Mother.

  ‘Not far now, Marianne,’ Mother says and you can hear the smile in her voice. She doesn’t want Mother to smile this new smile. She wants her to stop. She wants Mother to stop and crouch down and look her in the face. And she wants Mother to say that they don’t have to do this. That they can turn around and catch the bus back. That she doesn’t have to make this journey across the sea.

  But this is not what Mother does.

  ‘It will be exciting. Just wait!’ she says instead. ‘It is a grand ship, not like anything you have ever seen before. You won’t even notice that you’re on the sea, that’s how big it is.’

  And it is true, the part about the size. As they walk down the slope to the harbour she can see it. It really is bigger than anything she has seen before. Bigger than any house, even bigger than the church back home. When she was out with Grandfather in his little rowboat they would sometimes see large ships in the distance. But they had seemed like something that lived far away in another world. Silent, slow-moving bodies outlined against the horizon, as alien and as distant as the moon and the stars. Grandfather had showed her pictures from when he sailed around the world, but they were never pictures of the ship itself, just of tanned smiling men in a place that could be anywhere. She has never seen anything like this.

  But it’s not true that she doesn’t notice that she is on the sea. As soon as they leave the harbour it is as if there is no longer anything to hold on to. The world has suddenly softened, lost its structure. Everything begins to feel uncertain, shifting. There is a strange feeling in her stomach, as if it is shrinking, until it is a burning ball. She takes short quick breaths, trying not to notice how it feels. But it is as if something is rising out of her burning hot stomach. It spreads and it grows, and it makes everything around her fade away. She sits absolutely still on the chair, holding on to her doll and taking the smallest gasps of air possible. If she moves at all, this horrible thing growing inside her will escape.