Memory of Love (9781101603024)

by Olsson, Linda

  ‘And during all this time he will have to stay with strangers?’

  ‘I can assure you that the families we rely on are used to caring for severely traumatised children.’

  ‘But this child is not just traumatised,’ I said. ‘In my view he is slightly handicapped. Probably mildly autistic. Whatever the reason, he has severe problems expressing himself and functioning socially. He has only just adjusted to living with me and now he is doing much better in school as well. I am sure his teacher will confirm this.’

  She nodded.

  ‘We will factor in all aspects, of course. But we make emergency placements only with previously approved families.’

  My heart was throbbing and I felt that I could not trust my voice so I said nothing.

  ‘Like I said before, we have to follow the rules. These matters are always very difficult and it is extremely important that we are sure we’ve made the right decision.’

  She glanced at her watch.

  ‘It’s time for lunch, and I have a meeting at half past one. If you have time, perhaps we could finish this conversation over lunch? There’s a nice café nearby.’

  I hesitated. I felt tired. I needed to gather my thoughts. And I felt that I’d got as far as I could for now. There was nothing more to say.

  ‘It won’t be a very long lunch. And I would appreciate the company,’ she said, and stood up.

  I followed her through the open office, where it was obvious that it was lunchtime. Many chairs were empty.

  The café was just a block or two away.

  ‘How long have you known George?’ she asked when we were seated and had placed our orders.

  ‘Well, in a way ever since I moved here almost fifteen years ago. But in another way I don’t know him at all. We’re neighbours, but we have never had any close contact until very recently. I called him in desperation when I didn’t know how to contact Ika’s family after I rescued him from the sea that day. And since then I think George has also become an important person in Ika’s life. It was George’s place he fled to when he heard that his grandmother was on her way. In the end she never came, but she could show up anytime, so Ika is still staying with George. So to answer your question, I suppose it would be correct to say I don’t know George at all. I know hardly anything about him. He has been kind and helpful during this time, that’s all.’

  She had picked up a serviette and was folding and unfolding it absent-mindedly. Then she looked up at me.

  ‘So you don’t know what happened when he first arrived here?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, I don’t know much either. You don’t really know a person just because you know what has happened to him. I have never talked to George about what happened. But I know that he arrived here with his wife, Lidia, twenty-five years ago or more. They were young and recently married and I think they had that dream of escaping overpopulation and pollution. Beginning a new life here. But there could have been completely different reasons, of course. Anyway they bought the farm where George still lives. I think they had intended to farm the land, and they started by planting olives. They had cattle, too, then. Beef, I think.’

  The waitress appeared with our food and Claire paused.

  ‘Lidia died in a car accident. One of those road accidents that are far too common here. A heavy truck that crossed the centre line. She didn’t have a chance. They said nobody saw George for a year. And he never planted anything more.’

  We ate in silence for a while.

  ‘Lidia was pregnant with their first child. She was so happy. I got to know her when we joined the same art class on Saturdays. Her English wasn’t very good at first. We became friends and started to see each other now and then. Sometimes we would go out for a glass of wine or a coffee after class. She was very talented. On a totally different level to the rest of us. I’m not sure why she took the course. Perhaps it was a way for her to get out a bit. They were so isolated, and she was so lively and outgoing. For some reason I had the impression that she was the one who had money. Not that we ever talked about that. Strange, really, how much you think you know, though you couldn’t exactly say how. But it’s a big farm, so I guess the locals talked.’

  She looked at me and she seemed to hesitate before she continued.

  ‘Many years later we had a case here involving a child who only spoke German. It was a tragic situation and we needed someone who could interpret. Someone suggested we ring George. He was happy to help and you could see he was very good with the child. As a thank you, I took him out for lunch. I’m not sure if he remembered me – we had only met very briefly a couple of times when he had dropped off or picked up Lidia. I guess everybody knew of him, but he wouldn’t have known many at all.’

  ‘Yes, I know about that,’ I said. ‘I am one of those whom everybody seems to know, too,’ I smiled.

  ‘Well, on the spur of the moment I asked if he would be prepared to be a temporary caregiver,’ she continued. ‘He said he would give it some thought and let me know.’

  She kept turning her coffee cup and gazing at it.

  ‘When he rang to accept, I suggested another lunch. To give him more information. Well, it wasn’t exactly my job … I suppose I just used it as an excuse. I wanted to see him. We had a few lunches. A few dinners. And a few walks. I guess I hoped it would develop over time. Turn into … well, something more. But time passed and it didn’t. Our meetings became fewer and more infrequent until they stopped altogether. I guess nothing had ever really started.’

  I saw her blush again, and I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I just thought that perhaps you were wondering how we know each other.’ She raised her glass of water and sipped it. Then she put it down and took a deep breath. And now she was her professional self again.

  ‘I’ll leave the case with one of our investigators. Naturally, I will stress the urgency. But these cases are always urgent. You should expect to hear from us by tomorrow.’

  As we parted outside in the street she shook my hand and held on to it, looking straight at me.

  ‘I’d like you to know that George is still one of our approved temporary caregivers.’

  She let go of my hand.

  ‘It was nice meeting you,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I am very grateful. For all.’

  She nodded and smiled.

  As I had passed through Raglan I slowed down and took the narrow road that snaked high above the sea. I found a spot where I could drive off the road and park, and went and sat on a grassy patch overlooking the sea. From here, the ocean was different from the one I lived with back home on my beach. Blindingly sparkling, turquoise blue, so intense it made the bright blue sky pale in comparison. Although I knew the waves were crashing far below, up there I could hear nothing. The sea looked alluringly peaceful, a glittering blue-green eternity. The light wind rustled the stands of flax that covered the slope below.

  How would I make Ika understand when I myself didn’t understand? How would I be able to comfort him when I had no comfort for myself?

  Over the time we had known each other we seemed to have developed a kind of instinctive rapport. But it only worked when we were together – at home, or in the car. Just the two of us. We never talked much, but we still communicated. I rarely received more than a nod or a shake of the head from him. And even more seldom a smile. But this had come to make those words and gestures the more pregnant with meaning. There were moments, as we listened to music or worked on our project, when it seemed that there was a perfect flow of wordless communication between us.

  To sit him down and try to explain what lay ahead would be difficult. If he were to be allowed to stay with George it might make things a little easier. But he would want to know how things were going to pan out long term. He deserved to know. So how was I to explain? All I had to communicate was my own anxiety. It felt as if we were equally exposed and vulnerable. Pawns in a game not of our making, and one that neith
er of us could influence.

  Every now and then it had struck me that our relationship was at least as important to me as it was to Ika. Perhaps more so. Could it be my own situation that concerned me so, and not his?

  ‘All will be well.’

  That’s what you say when you’re not sure how things will turn out. To assure yourself, as much as others. Or when you know that nothing will ever in fact be well again.

  To comfort yourself, as much as others.

  It’s the sound that wakes her. Not because it is very loud, but because it is different. Without opening her eyes she lies still, listens. Her nose is buried in Daniel’s hair and she can smell his baby sweat. At first she is not sure if the sound was real. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it will go away.

  Then there is another heavy thud, like something hitting the wall hard. In the silence that follows she can hear some faint sounds of voices. She can’t hear the words, but she can feel them. She can feel what they are saying even though she can’t hear them. In a way it is worse like this. Because although she thinks she knows what they are saying, she could be wrong. It could be something even worse … the worst that she is able to imagine.

  Then there is an even heavier thud, and the sound of something crashing to the floor. Something falling over. And then a voice. This time it is Mother’s voice, but strangely altered. She can’t hear what Mother is saying, it is just a sound. There are no words; it is like the sound of an animal. Just a sound. Loud at first, then slowly it fades. It doesn’t sound like Mother at all now. It is a terrible sound and she doesn’t want to hear it. But even when it stops, it is as if it still hangs in the air, very faint, but still there.

  Daniel sleeps through it all, and she lies very still so as not to disturb him. His warm body lies pressed against hers, but she feels cold all the same. Her mouth is dry and she needs to go to the toilet. But she stays put, her eyes closed and her arms around her baby brother.

  The sound doesn’t go away. She can’t hear it but it is still there, she knows it is. And she will have to follow it. She climbs out of the cot and puts her cold feet on the floor. Her nightgown is damp; she is even colder now that she is no longer in bed with Daniel close. She shivers and folds her arms across her chest. She stands still, her ears alert. Then she walks out into the hall. Every now and then she stops. Listens. But there is no sound.

  The door to the bedroom is ajar. She doesn’t touch it. She just leans forwards and looks inside. Her teeth are chattering now. She can see a corner of the bed, a small piece of the floor. The light is on but it looks strange. It seems to wash over the floor only. The carpet is a heap half pushed under the bed. And there is Mother’s arm, outstretched on the floor with her hand open. She can’t see Hans but she can hear him snoring. That’s all she can hear over the sound inside her head. It sounds as if her heart is inside her head. It throbs and beats louder and louder, and it feels as if her whole head will crack open.

  She walks down the hall and into the kitchen. There, she pulls a chair out from under the table and carries it to the kitchen bench. She climbs up onto the chair and from there onto the cold marble benchtop, where she kneels down and stretches out her hand for one of the knives from the stand on the wall. She holds it in a tight grip as she slowly climbs down. She puts the knife on the bench and adjusts her nightgown, which has become twisted. Then she returns the chair to the table. For a moment she stands looking at the knife. She can’t think. Her head is throbbing and her fingers are so cold she can’t understand how they will ever bend around the handle of the knife, but when eventually she picks it up, she squeezes it firmly in her hand and returns to the bedroom.

  With a light push the door opens enough for her to step inside.

  The strange light is coming from one of the bedside lamps, which has fallen to the floor. It shines straight at her, blinding her at first. She blinks and the room slowly comes into view. Mother is closest. Her open hand lies next to Marianne’s foot. Mother is on her back with both her arms flung wide. Her dressing gown is open and she is naked underneath it. Her head is on the side, as if she is asleep.

  Hans is lying on the bed. His shirt is on the floor by the bed but he is still wearing his black trousers. And his black shoes. He is lying on his stomach, but one hand is hanging over the side of the bed and his face is turned away from her. His back is very white in the strange light that shines from below.

  She sinks down to the floor and kneels beside Mother, and as she bends over, she can hear Mother breathing. But it doesn’t sound right. It sounds as if there is something inside her throat – it sort of gargles. With every breath red foam seeps through her lips. It looks like blood. There is a pool of darker blood on the floor underneath Mother’s head, too.

  Marianne puts the knife on the floor and tries to pull Mother’s dressing gown closed, but her cold hands are stiff and clumsy. She is not weeping, but her throat aches as if the weeping is stuck there.

  Then Hans moves on the bed. He groans and shifts a little, but that’s all.

  Marianne rises stiffly and turns towards the bed.

  It is only the first stab that is slow.

  The knife sinks into the side of Hans’s neck and it seems to take a long time. There is so much blood. It is going everywhere. All over the bed. Hans flings out his arms, and again and again he tries to rise, but each time he slumps back down. She plunges the knife, again and again – anywhere. Finally Hans slides halfway down onto the floor. Quickly, she has to take a step backwards. Her foot slides on the floor and she slips and falls. She lands close to Mother; she can feel Mother’s body beside her.

  She can hear someone sob but she doesn’t know who.

  She lies beside Mother on the floor. Her chest hurts. It is as if something is stuck inside it too. It hurts to breathe, and she takes quick little gasps of air. All the while she keeps her eyes closed.

  She feels Mother stir. She opens her eyes and looks at her, watches her slowly reach out for Marianne’s hand, which rests on the floor between them. Mother gently prises the knife from Marianne. Then she drops her hand back down to the floor again. Now Mother is clasping the knife.

  When she looks at Mother’s face it is almost as if she is trying to nod. But then there is nothing, nothing at all. All is very still, and Marianne watches the red foam trickle through Mother’s lips and down her cheek.

  Marianne rises, first onto all fours, then she stands up. She walks slowly towards the door, and when she looks back she can see the red prints from her feet.

  She is shaking, and there is nothing she can do to make it stop. She is wet and she knows she has peed herself. Still, she walks straight to the nursery and climbs into the cot. Daniel is asleep, but he whimpers a little as she adjusts herself behind him and puts her arms around him.

  She slides her hand underneath his pyjama top and lets her fingers run over the scar under his arm, while at the same time burying her nose in his neck.

  Eventually she falls asleep.

  19.

  Reluctantly, I got up and went back to the car. I drove slowly, even slower than usually. I rolled down the window and let the breeze in. The sea was a background to everything, a constant presence far below to my right.

  I had driven to Hamilton filled with a complex mix of feelings. Returning, I felt different. The future was still unknown, but I realised I could finally see myself, and my actions, more clearly.

  I had allowed Ika’s life and his needs to become intrinsically interwoven with my own. In the end, perhaps I had become unable to distinguish between the two. I had seen him and, in a sense, seen myself. Taken for granted that I understood him and that I knew what was best for him. What was it George had said? Things often turn out badly if we allow ourselves to be guided by our feelings. Perhaps particularly so if they are our deepest subconscious feelings. I had found Ika, and in him I thought I had found myself. And despite wanting to care for him, perhaps I had ignored his real needs. Strong feelings often breed a kind of be
nign arrogance: my passionate heart must not be questioned. I feel, therefore I know. All my education, my entire adult life experience was just a thin scab over my bleeding child’s heart.

  I tried to argue with myself. Convince myself that the matter was now in good hands. Still, my resistance was formidable. It refused to withdraw completely.

  ‘Trust me, trust us, all will be well.’

  A gnawing doubt still lingered.

  As I drove up to my house I saw George’s car parked at the back, and when I walked around the corner I found him on the deck. He was pacing back and forth. When he spotted me he came running down the steps.

  ‘He has disappeared!’ he said. ‘He wanted to come here and wait for you, but when I came down to check on him he wasn’t here. I thought I saw tyre tracks in the sand behind the house, and I thought Lola might have come after all.’

  I stared at him. The slight sense of relief and hope that had filled me instantly dissolved.

  ‘We went fishing, but we didn’t even get a nibble and we both got bored. On our way back he said he wanted to stay here and wait for you. I should have stayed too, but he didn’t seem to want me around. I didn’t think there was any harm in leaving him here.’

  George was staring out over the sea. Then he looked down.

  ‘I rang CYF straight away but there’s not much they can do right now. I rang you too, but I just got your voicemail.’

  I pulled out my mobile from my pocket. It was turned off.

  ‘I’ve been running back and forth along the beach since then. Shouting his name and searching. But I can’t find him. I haven’t even seen any footprints anywhere.’

  His voice broke and he seemed close to tears.