Now the children have left and I am sitting at my desk, looking at the new empty spaces and the new piece of glass, and the darkness beyond the window, which would all have been behind me, until I moved my desk as you said I should.
Please do not be angry with the circumstances of your life. As your daughter said, nothing is so fixed it cannot be altered.
Love,
Anders
Bury St. Edmunds
October 6
Dear Anders,
I do not know how I would cope without your letters. You make me ashamed of myself and yet happier. I am happier just knowing your desk is now facing the sky—our sky; your Scandinavian, my East Anglian sky. Your description of your children and how they make you feel was a joy to me and made me feel I should look more closely at my children, who I see every day without thinking about them at all. I should take more pleasure in who they are. I passed Tam in the yard, talking to an oil tanker driver who was making a delivery, and paused to look at him. He is built like his father, strong and square. He has his father’s stance, too, slightly tilted as if he is expecting to move away at any moment, or is leaning on a notional stick. He noticed me watching him and asked if there was anything I wanted. I could have said: “I want to know you better,” but in fact I do know him, so perhaps I could have said: “I want to feel closer to you.” I’m not sure how to achieve that.
I went into the machinery shed, where Andrew was servicing the engine of the old tractor we keep for odd jobs and because Andrew likes old tractors and Edward does not like to get rid of anything until it is of no further use. Andrew is physically more like me, narrower, leaner, longer-legged than his brother. I asked if he was happy. We have a phrase: “Are you happy in your work?” Which just means, do you need anything at the moment, is there anything I can do to help, that sort of thing. Andrew replied as if this was the phrase he had heard me say, rather than the question I meant to ask.
“I’d be happier if the light was better here,” he said. There is a strip light in the shed, and he had an inspection lamp fixed up over the tractor, but I know what he meant because when I am sewing, the light is never quite good enough.
“Is that all it would take to make you happy?” I said. “More light?”
He stopped what he was doing and looked at me slightly puzzled, slightly anxious.
“What’s brought this on?” he said. “Is something bothering you?”
“I was talking about you, dear,” I said. “Not me. I’m happy enough.”
He looked relieved. “That’s good,” he said. “So am I.”
I’m not sure either of us was telling the truth.
* * *
Now, the challenge: Is archaeology a worthwhile occupation? It depends, I would say (avoiding rushing in with a strong opinion—this is right, this is wrong—as always) on how you define worthwhile. Now that we have the basic requirements for survival—we have food and shelter and have a statistically tiny chance of being in danger of our lives—we might as well occupy ourselves with what is enjoyable or what is interesting. With the acquisition of knowledge. With ways of having fun. Don’t you agree? If worthwhile means “life supporting,” farming is better than archaeology. So is medical science. But if worthwhile is life enhancing, well, anything that takes your fancy would be as worthwhile as the boring, simple business of producing food. Archaeology must have taken your fancy once.
We have been talking to each other about where life went, and if the way we each spent it was the way we meant to have spent it or would have chosen to spend it if we had known when we made our choices what the other choices were, but we have not wasted our lives. I insist on that.
* * *
Mary and Vassily have gone. They held their farewell party in one of the barns, and there were dozens and dozens of young people, some of them with children, dancing to the music provided by a group of musicians, some Lithuanian, some not. As you know, I am no judge of the quality of the music, but it sounded tuneful to me and it filled the yard with sound. Vassily had fixed fairy lights all round the barn and the yard, but the light they gave was ornamental rather than useful, and it was hard to pick out who was who among all the bodies moving about and talking, hard to recognize my own grandchildren among the flocks of children running back and forth. I kept close to the food at first; I felt responsible for making sure it was enjoyable to eat, and although I couldn’t influence anyone’s enjoyment, or lack of it, at least I could tell from their behavior if I had met my obligations. When the food had mostly been eaten, I set out to find Edward. He had not wanted the party to be in the barn, had not wanted the two of them to be leaving at all, and I was anxious, as the beer was being drunk, about what his mood might be. I was still looking for him when I met Sarah, my daughter-in-law, holding my two grandchildren, Amos and Zoe, by the hand. She asked if I would mind taking them home to bed and staying with them until she and Tam came home.
“We won’t be late,” she said, but I could tell, from the color in her cheeks and the way she walked, that she had already had enough to drink to make the party seem like the most fun in the world and therefore hard to leave.
Amos, Zoe, and I went down the track to their bungalow, moving away from the music until only the deep beat of the bass could be picked out. Beyond the reach of the fairy lights, the sky was particularly clear, like a child’s drawing of the night sky, crescent moon, stars, and an inky darkness. I carried Zoe for the last hundred yards and she was asleep by the time we reached their home. I read Amos a story, and he bounced on his bed the whole time, not listening, alive with excitement from the music, the games, the people; then he went to sleep almost between one bounce and the next, one sentence and the next. I stayed awake until Tam and Sarah came home, long after midnight, mostly sitting in the dark, listening to the boom of the party. I find it hard to relax in that house. It was where my parents-in-law lived, I think I told you, and I hated it then for the resentment it harbored in its every brick and timber; they never wanted to move from the farmhouse, and I was not an adequate reason for their eviction. Under Sarah’s rule, it has been transformed into any suburban home, but it is not in a suburb and it makes me feel misplaced.
Edward was already in bed when I reached home, but not asleep. I had been wrong to worry about how he might behave as the party went on. The drink had made him happy and the flight from home of his only daughter was making him sad, so he was in a confused and loving state.
* * *
Now all that is behind us. They are gone and the mess from the party tidied up. The house where Vassily and Mary lived is empty, and I have begun to prepare it for guests. I went again to the parlor and selected half a dozen pieces of furniture and objects I did not want in the room and took them to the cottage. There, I cleaned and polished them and put them in place, and when I stood back to look at what I had achieved, I was surprised to find that a wooden chair with a tapestry seat, a picture of some cows under a tree, an occasional table with curved legs and a leather top, a porcelain figure of a shepherdess, and two red, cut-glass wineglasses all looked perfectly pleasant in their new home with their newly applied sparkle. I would never buy any of these things in the shop you describe with the young-old lady in the alcove at the back, but they are not as hideous as I have always believed.
Of course, no one has noticed they have gone from the parlor.
Inspired by the Rag Man’s gift of a dishcloth to someone who had let themselves sink into squalor, I also took down and washed the pink glass shades from the light fixture in the parlor, emptying out the dead flies of summers past. It is astonishing how uplifting this proved to be, though the light levels are now only slightly better and the fitting and shades as ugly as ever they were.
No one has noticed this improvement, either.
Edward is in a better mood, now that the worst has happened and they are gone. Here is Daphne installed in the farm office a couple of days a week, looking busy, and here am I with a tidier, cleaner, less cl
uttered parlor and a spruced-up guest cottage. So all is well.
I can see that living alone, as you do, leaves empty space around you, and that can feel lonely. Living together with other people, as I do, can feel lonely, too.
Love,
Tina
Copenhagen
October 16
Dear Tina,
You will see from the address that I am with Karin in Copenhagen. Since last I wrote, when I was full of such pride, I have fallen into a sort of despair. Nothing is very wrong, I must tell you at once, so do not fear to read on.
Karin slipped on a step and damaged her ankle, not badly, but they took her into the hospital and decided everything was not quite as it should be. Her blood pressure and so on. She must, they told her, rest completely or there is a risk to her and to the baby. So I have come here to look after her and to make sure she does nothing. This is not easy. She knows she should not move, so she lies on the sofa and I bring her coffee and cake, and soup and sandwiches, during the day, and something warm and tasty for the evening meal. I do not have to cook any of these, as there are friends who come every day, always with something in a tin or a dish or a saucepan for me to serve to Karin whenever she needs food. However, it is the friends that make the task of looking after Karin difficult. (Is that sentence correct? Can I use the singular “is” with the plural “friends”? I am improving my English by checking words and structures as I write to you, but this looks wrong.) The friends bring cheerfulness and chatter into the flat, and they bring things with them that are not food to eat—opinions, news, books, DVDs, flowers. All of these things stir Karin up and she becomes excited and lively, talking to her friends and pointing out where to put the flowers, or telling them what her opinions are, what books she has read. It makes me feel tired just to be in the room with them all, so I go into the kitchen or, if that is also full, out onto the streets to walk or cycle round the neighborhood in the cold. I understand now that loneliness is worse if there are people about than if there are not.
Karin says the friends do not tire her; they keep her from thinking about her health and the baby’s health and what is to come. Her colleagues from work come, too, and bring files. “That is not doing nothing,” I told Karin when I found her reading one. This time she agreed, and laid it aside. She has begun to talk of Ben again, the baby’s father. She says that this warning from the doctors has made her wonder if, after all, she should let him know about baby Birgitt. What if something happens to her, and she is not able to look after the child, or is not here to look after her? I can say nothing to this. I cannot say, “I am here,” because I know I am not the answer. I am the wrong person to be given the task of bringing up a baby. Not just because I am a man, and no longer young, without a wife, but because I have not the skill of showing love obviously, openly, and constantly, as a baby has a right to expect. I do not know if Ben has this skill. I have seen a photo of him. He looks sturdy (I have searched my thesaurus for the right word and I think this is it), but what else can I tell about him?
So I am here, on an edge, is how I feel. I do not know if Karin will carry this baby through the next ten weeks and give birth to her safely. If the baby will be born perfect. If the baby will be shared with an unknown father. I feel as if I am waiting for something to happen. All my married life I was waiting for something to happen and hoping it never would. Now I am hoping for something to happen and fearing it never will.
Write to me.
Love,
Anders
Bury St. Edmunds
October 20
My dear Anders,
If you look at the people walking, driving, or cycling past you as you go round the part of Copenhagen where Karin lives, you should think: every one of these was once an unborn child; every one of them has been born and survived childhood and has, most probably, children of their own. Pregnancy and childbirth are overwhelming when they happen to you or to those close to you, but they are normal. I will regret having written this if something happens which means for Karin and baby Birgitt it is not normal, but it is unlikely the news you give me when next you write will be anything other than good. But just in case, I will make you a promise. If the news is bad, if the unlooked-for worst should happen, I will at last visit the museum at Silkeborg and we can stand side by side in front of the Tollund Man and accept that our lives are part of a sequence that has endured and will endure and our own sorrows and joys are important only to us. Having made this promise, I am for the first time able to say, I hope I do not have reason to visit Silkeborg soon.
* * *
I am the wrong person to ask about grammar; I just power along stringing words together, and if they make sense, I am happy. If they make sense to you, that is all that matters. What you say makes sense to me, and I like the way you say it. Please keep writing, just as you have been doing.
* * *
I am hoping for good news about Karin and baby Birgitt.
Love,
Tina
Silkeborg
October 30
Dear Tina,
You are right. Childbirth is commonplace. Karin is better now; there is no longer any risk to the baby, and her ankle is improving. She is working from home for the next two weeks and will then stop until after the baby is born. Her doctor, her midwife, and her friends have all told her this is the right plan, and she has agreed. I think it is the right plan as well, of course, but I do not think my opinion, if it was not backed up by the others, would have counted. I have come home. I was necessary at first, then I became unnecessary. I was stopping Karin from leading her life as she normally would, by being there, so now I am here, and back at work myself.
I have a commission to write a book about fertility goddess figures, which is timely, as I am thinking so much about fertility and the need for good luck, which, in the Bronze and Iron Ages, meant a good god who would give you the gift of healthy children. This book is not for scholars—which would require more study and field visits than I am inclined to carry out—but for whoever may have an interest. Of course this still means it has to be accurate, as far as facts are concerned, and where there are no facts, I have to have good reasons for my speculations and balance my speculations with the speculations of others. So there is much work to be done. I have, you will not be surprised to know, developed a way of grouping the figures, a sort of catalog. This is work I can do while sitting in my own office, and I am enjoying the task.
I am worried that, having helped each other overcome sorrow, we are sinking ourselves deeper in hopelessness. Helplessness. I look up, now, from my desk at home and I can see the sky, which today is the sort of blue that is very deep, softened by a film of white. As if it is a strong color that has chosen to be muted and restful. I can see my neighbor’s flagpole and the rope hanging alongside it, not moving. How did you know my neighbor had a flagpole? Did I mention it to you? It is a very Danish thing, I think. Nearer to me than the window or the sky are the piece of shaped wood, the piece of pottery, and the blue glass with dimples. (I know you do not want to correct my grammar, but if ever I use a word that is wrong, you must tell me.) The light coming through the window lights up the top of each of these objects, but the part nearest me is in shade, the shapes merging into the white surface of the piece of furniture. I cannot feel hopeless or helpless as long as I am sitting here, looking at these things, writing to you.
I have left it until last to say something about your promise. I do not want you to have to come to comfort me for a loss. Although, if I were to suffer a loss, your coming would be the only comfort I would be able to imagine. I want you to come when you have your own need to come, not because I need you. I do not know when that will be. I do not know why that will be. I will wait.
Love,
Anders
Bury St. Edmunds
November 12
Dear Anders,
I am pleased all is well with Karin. That is enough to raise my spirits, even without the sky and the o
rnaments and the flagpole (which you did mention to me in an earlier letter). I am looking at the sky, too, and it is gray and every so often a rook is swept past or, more probably, flies past, but it always looks as if they have no say in the matter, but are lifted and carried by the wind like so many bundles of feathers. I am excited, too, about your book.
My life has no drama. Now Mary and Vassily have gone, we are all jogging on in our usual way, except Gregor is up a ladder fixing the guttering, rather than Vassily, and Daphne is in the office, not Mary. I am spending more time than usual in the office with Daphne. This is partly because it is the warmest place to be. There are two gas heaters, and Daphne has them turned up full, all day. I am expecting ructions when the cylinders of gas run out and more have to be ordered. Mary was less prodigal with the heat and would eke out one cylinder per heater for the whole winter, but Daphne is less hardy a beast, and I don’t see why I should begrudge her the warmth. I notice Edward making more visits to the office than he used to do. He likes to warm himself up as much as the next man, and so I shall remind him when more gas is needed.
I am also spending time in the office making sure Daphne is doing the job properly. I am no expert on figures, but I do understand the business of farming—the debits and the credits of it—and I can often spot mistakes she makes, it seems to me, because she does not pay attention to what she is doing. I hope, if I keep pointing these out to her, she will over time become either better at noticing them or more diligent in avoiding them, or both. Although, it is actually possible that she makes more mistakes because I am in the office with her. It means she has someone to talk to, and talking is what she enjoys. It is quite hard for me because I only enjoy talking when I have a topic I want to talk about to someone whose reaction I am interested in. I am talking to you all the time, for example, only as words on the page, but if we were face-to-face, I am sure I would find it as easy to chatter on about music and poetry and joy and grief as it is to do this on paper. I do not know how to take part in Daphne’s conversation, however, and I do not want to take part in it.
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