The Little Old Lady Behaving Badly

by Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg

  “No, but we must keep an eye on it as it sets,” said Rake, drying his brow with his bandanna. He was looking rather glassy-eyed and he didn’t calm down until he had paid Charley Concrete and they had driven off with their trucks.

  “Whew, now it’s over. Those guys made me nervous,” he said, wiping his forehead and then standing there with his bandanna in his hand. Much of the day had passed and there was a pleasantly cooling afternoon breeze.

  “Are you sure they bought that talk about the fallout shelter?” Martha asked.

  “It seems so. I said something about Russia and that we live in troubled times. And then I rambled on about the atom bombs they tested in the 1950s and that you never knew what could happen in the future.”

  “Well, I can agree with you as far as the future is concerned,” said Anna-Greta.

  “I’m glad the Polish workers have left.” Rake smiled and held his bandanna up in the wind so that it fluttered. “To your stations! Full steam ahead!”

  The very next moment, the wind caught his bandanna, and it whirled around before vanishing in the direction of a pipe.

  “Oh no! not my favorite bandanna!” Rake called out, rushing after it. But in his haste he ran straight into a garden gnome, tripped and fell head first against the knee-high concrete lion next to the steps. His forehead hit a front paw and the hard blow made him see stars. He collapsed in a heap while his bandanna was sucked into the pipe and ended up in the concrete.

  “Rake!” howled Christina.

  But Rake didn’t move. He’d been knocked out.

  When he came to his senses again, he was very embarrassed and acted as if nothing had happened. And he categorically refused to go to see a doctor. Not until he started feeling nauseous and to vomit did he agree to go to the ER. He was never sick, and tripping over a garden gnome wasn’t reason enough to require the intervention of the health service which was overworked as it was. In the end, Christina managed to get him into a taxi and take him to Danderyd Hospital. It was Friday evening and the start of the weekend rush, and Christina had heard that you should never be admitted to the hospital at such a time, but now they had no choice. Rake was looking very bad and she didn’t dare wait until Monday when the ordinary doctors would be on duty again. She hated hospitals and she got the creeps as soon as they set foot in the ER reception area. People were coughing, looked pale and dejected, and a child with a runny nose was walking around sneezing, so she was worried about catching something.

  “We’ve got an emergency case here,” said Christina, grabbing hold of the first white coat that passed her. It was worn by a young woman with dark, beautiful eyes and long black hair. She had a name tag which said “Camilla, Nursing Assistant.”

  “I’ll be with you soon, just have to—,” she excused herself, rushing past so quickly that Christina didn’t have time to catch her explanation. She took a number and sat down with Rake in the waiting room. Christina looked around her while she fidgeted with the number. The room was barren with light-gray walls, brown sagging armchairs and some low tables with magazines. There was a faint smell of disinfectant.

  Rake had stopped vomiting but still seemed rather groggy, more or less as if he had been up in a boxing ring and had suffered quite a beating. When the nurse appeared again, Christina jumped up from her chair and stood in the way.

  “I phoned in advance and you said that we should hurry. He is not good.”

  “No, no, there’s nothing wrong with me,” said Rake glancing with interest at the young nurse.

  “Sh!” Christina prodded him in the ribs and turned to the nurse again.

  “He had a blow to his forehead and I’ve heard that can be dangerous.”

  “A seaman loves the waves . . .” sang Rake.

  “Yes, we will admit him, but unfortunately I’m on my own just now. We are slightly understaffed, so—Yes, the doctor will have a look at him—” That very same moment, the entrance door banged open and three drunken youths stepped into reception. They shouted and roared and two of them had to support each other so as not to fall over. The youths were bleeding from cuts on their faces and on their hands, and their clothes were torn. One had had his nose pushed in and blood was dripping everywhere, the other was bleeding from his upper lip.

  “We need a doctor. Now!” slurred the youth with the swollen lip.

  “He’s busy, I’m afraid.”

  “Where the fuck is the doctor?” roared his friend.

  “Ah, we’ll go in here,” said the swollen lip and wobbled toward the door which said “DOCTOR.” He took a few unsteady steps and almost fell over an elderly lady who lay on a gurney in the hallway waiting to have some stitches. She had hurt her hand.

  “A bedpan, I need a bedpan,” the old lady moaned.

  “Yes, of course, I’ll come at once,” replied the nurse while trying to fend the youths away from the door. Then the one with the swollen lip vomited.

  “Oh fucking hell!” said his friend and he held his nose. “Nurse, come here and wipe up this fucking mess!”

  “Sit down for the time being and we’ll take care of that,” said the nurse in as friendly a tone as she could, laying a calming hand on the youth’s shoulder. “The doctor will be here soon.”

  The stressed nurse managed to get the youths to sit on some chairs, then returned to Christina.

  “A blow to the head, right. I’ll phone X-ray and warn them. The doctor will be here any second. You can sit down and wait.”

  “I stumbled over a garden gnome,” Rake informed her.

  “He is very bad,” said Christina. “What if there is an internal hemorrhage?”

  “Then I fell onto a lion’s paw,” Rake went on, and pointed at his forehead.

  “It was a stone sculpture, a stone sculpture of a lion, that is,” Christina explained. “Rake needs attention, he has vomited.”

  “A seaman loves the waves . . .” Rake went on humming, but then stopped himself and started to sing a classic drinking song: “Cheers to Santa, fill our glasses and have fun . . .”

  Now the nurse reacted.

  “A head wound, yes, right. I’m sorry, this will have to be attended to at once,” she said, and stumbled in the direction of the doctor’s room. Then the door opened and the on call surgeon could be seen.

  “How long must I wait, nurse? The patient in here needs stitches, and I need assistance. I said that half an hour ago.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming, I’m on my own this evening, it isn’t so easy—”

  “I must do the stitches now!” said the doctor. “Not yesterday and not tomorrow, but now!”

  “We must take him first!” protested the nurse. “Head injury.”

  The doctor looked confused, went back into his room and closed the door. Then Rake lost his patience.

  “Suture this and suture that. What the hell are we doing here? They haven’t got time to deal with us,” he muttered. With a dissatisfied snorting, he got up, causing the magazines to fall off the table. “We’re going home now. A man can look after himself.” He pulled out his steel comb from his pants pocket and looked around for a mirror. A bit giddy, he made his way to the toilet and had just turned on the light when Christina caught up with him.

  “You must take it easy, Rake. Head injuries are not child’s play,” she said and she put her arm under his. “Now please come with me.”

  “Ah, there’s nothing wrong with me,” Rake calmed her and lifted the comb to his hair to straighten his part. Then he caught sight of the enormous bruise on his forehead, the swelling that had formed a soft hill and the dried blood that had seeped out of the wound.

  “Oh my God, help!” he gasped and then a heavy thud could be heard. He had passed out again.

  CHRISTINA SAT THERE AND KEPT AN EYE ON HIM ALL NIGHT between blood tests and X-rays. Toward the morning he finally got to see a specialist who had reassuring news. Nothing could be seen on the X-ray, he had a concussion and must keep still the next twenty-four hours.

  “I hav
en’t time for that,” Rake answered and adjusted the bandage around his head.

  “Rake, please,” said Christina. “Take it easy!”

  “Well, it would be for your sake, then,” he muttered, taking her hand and patting her on the cheek. She had been by his side the whole night and had supported him, a real friend. And to be honest, he wasn’t feeling too good and he thought it was nice to have her nearby. He looked at her with a thoughtful expression and felt warm inside. Yes, Christina was a good soul and he could rely on her. If he hadn’t felt so bad he would have liked to cuddle a bit.

  “If you feel worse, you should call,” said the doctor.

  “I won’t,” said Rake and he headed in the direction of the exit. In the doorway he almost collided with the nurse. She smelled of almond and violet and was less stressed now.

  “The bandage suits you,” she said with a friendly smile. And then Rake almost fainted a third time. Nurses, he thought, how they slaved away! The next time they handed out their bank robbery money they must be certain to include nursing staff and lowly paid home care workers too.

  THE NEXT MORNING RAKE SLEPT A LONG TIME AND DIDN’T HEAR when Christina’s son Anders came with a load of gravel and two tons of earth which were arduously shoveled over the concrete. (At any rate, he pretended he didn’t hear anything.) Finally, all except Rake rolled out the sod they had bought at the garden center. It was a bit tricky but with Anders’ help they managed in the end. They took a few steps back and looked at what they had achieved. Then they walked right around the former swimming pool, looked at each other and nodded. Now no visitor could have any idea what was hidden under the soil, and a sense of calm returned to them all. All except Christina, who felt that she must still keep an eye on Rake. When they were back in the house, she took a book and went and sat in an armchair in Rake’s room to be close if anything happened. When he was finally on his feet again, a few hours later, she found it difficult to help him because he wanted to walk unaided. He managed to make his way down to the others in the kitchen, but then they all said that he looked unusually pale and something of a sorry figure—not the Rake they knew.

  “Ah, I’m all right,” he assured them and sat down slowly and deliberately. And there he sat and kept quiet for a long time, while now and then looking out of the window toward the neighbor’s. After drinking a cup of coffee and eating a roll, he put his hands on his hips and announced in a decisive voice:

  “You know what? We must write to our neighbor. The changed appearance of the garden must be explained in some way.”

  13

  MARTHA HAD BEEN SITTING IN THE LIBRARY PHRASING AND rephrasing the letter they would send to Bielke. What did you write to a neighbor you didn’t know when you had just filled his beloved swimming pool with concrete? Sorry, the load of concrete was dumped in the wrong place? Or, I promise not to do it again? This wasn’t easy, but suddenly Martha realized how they should do this. Nothing could beat true bureaucracy.

  She giggled to herself, fetched a chocolate cookie and a cup of coffee, turned her computer on and started typing. Half an hour later, she was finished.

  “That’s it,” she said in an exhilarated mood, pressing the “print” button. The printer clicked and in a few seconds the sheet of paper landed in the tray. That same moment, Brains came into the room. She picked up the sheet of paper and handed it to him. “Have a look at this. I’ve tried a few different versions. What do you think of this one?”

  Brains looked at her expectantly, lowered his spectacles onto his nose and started to read.

  MESSAGE TO THE OWNER OF PROPERTY 1:374, AURORAVÄGEN 4, DJURSHOLM, DANDERYD.

  On the plot comprising property 1:374 Djursholm, severe sanitary problems have arisen, for which reason the municipality has been obliged to take action.

  Your swimming pool has for a considerable time been invaded by the pathogenic bacteria planktus mytos truxis which has affected the entire pool. Since this bacteria and even other organisms in your pool are known to spread diseases, the municipality’s environmental department was forced to take action.

  We have repeatedly written to you about this, but since you have not answered these letters and nobody has opened the door when we have visited, we have finally been forced to deal with the acute problem ourselves. As the decay in the pool had reached such an advanced stage, we regrettably have had to take extraordinary measures. As a consequence, the pool has been sanitized, filled with concrete and a lawn has been laid on top. The cost for this amounts to 280,000 kronor.

  As soon as you have arranged this with your insurance company, we request that you pay this sum to the municipality’s bank account number 0537-8896929, Djursholm Street and Property Department. The payment slip should be marked with the reference 1:374 Djursholm.

  Yours sincerely,

  Elizabeth Olsson

  Environmental Department

  Danderyd Municipality

  Brains pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and laughed out loud. He tenderly stroked Martha on her cheek.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve! That is our bank account. First you wreck our neighbor’s pool, then you want him to pay for it!”

  “Yes, you’re right, but that’s how things are done nowadays. Municipalities upgrade a road going past your property, a road that you don’t want, and have never asked for, and then you—as the property owner with access—have to pay for it regardless. We are in keeping with the times, Brains.”

  “Ah, that’s how it is,” he mumbled and glanced out through the window. It looked nice out there now. A green lawn lay where the swimming pool had been and Christina had followed Rake’s instructions and put some large flower pots filled with showy plants along the former rim of the pool. In the middle of the lawn stood a table, a patio umbrella and elegant garden furniture from Mornington. It looked as if the garden had always been like that.

  “Ah, I was just joking. We can’t put our account number there so that they can trace us,” Martha giggled. “And it does look nice now with that lawn, but there will be chaos when our neighbor comes home. Seriously speaking. Do you think it might be a good idea to go away somewhere for a while so that nobody will connect us with this? At least till things have calmed down.”

  “But we were going to get married, weren’t we?” Brains’s smile withered away.

  “Yes, of course, but if we end up in jail, then we would be separated for several years. No, we should be together, shouldn’t we?” said Martha, and she hugged him. She waved the letter in front of his face. “We’ll mail this and then go off traveling. We ought to lie low a while. We can regard it as a honeymoon trip,” she ventured.

  “Do you believe that yourself? What about the drainpipe money? Weren’t you going to fetch that?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Martha. “Perhaps we ought to do that. It’ll take a bit of time before all our bank accounts in the Caribbean are working, and, like I said, health care is in crisis. We do have five million up there in the drainpipe, and we ought to give that away.”

  “What was it I said? A drainpipe is more important than what we have together.” Brains sighed.

  “But Brains, dear. It was you who suggested we should fetch that money, and you were definitely right. God knows how long banknotes will survive stuck inside a drainpipe. Let’s fetch the money now and then we can leave after that. We can go somewhere nice where nobody would look for us, and there we can really look after each other.”

  But when she looked up, Brains wasn’t there. He had already gone off.

  That evening, he kept away and didn’t come down to dinner. The man in her life who always used to be warm and comforting and who had her best interests at heart was, quite simply, grumpy. Martha felt deeply worried and realized that she must take better care of him and do something drastic to get him in a good mood again. She thought it over. Why not let him be in charge of Operation Drainpipe so that he would have something exciting to occupy himself with? People had to feel responsibili
ty and have something meaningful to do, if they were going to feel comfortable.

  MARTHA RAISED THE ISSUE THE NEXT DAY WHEN THEY DRANK their evening tea. It was eight o’clock when they sat down with a cup of tea out on the veranda. A cozy glow came from the old chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and they had three pillar candles on the table. The League of Pensioners had just finished dinner and even though Brains hadn’t said very much, he had at least joined them. Outside the tower room you could hear the wind in the trees and a tile was rattling up on the roof. It sounded as if it might soon fall off. Just like the other big villas from around 1900, their old house needed maintenance. But they didn’t have time for that now.

  “Listen, everybody, we must get that money out of the drainpipe before it rots away,” Martha began and she put her teacup down. “Nobody knows how long a pair of tights will last.”

  “Oh yes, mine were of the best quality and they had reinforced heels and toes,” said Anna-Greta, looking almost offended.

  “And I wrapped the whole bundle very carefully in those black trash bags. It ought to last. And the drain pipe is right next to the balcony in the Princess Lilian suite. We can go out there and fish it out. Believe me, that five million is, so to speak, already ours,” was Rake’s opinion.

  “But only presidents and super celebrities stay there. Don’t forget we’re talking about the Grand Hotel. I don’t think they would let us in again.”

  “Putin or Obama will have to fish out that pair of tights next time they are in Stockholm,” Rake said, grinning.

  They all seemed interested except Brains, who hadn’t said anything at all yet. Martha stirred her tea and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t his usual self.

  “Brains, what do you say? The staff at the Grand Hotel are not likely to let us in to that suite again, but we must get at that money.”

  “Hmm,” said Brains.

  “But I’m sure you’ve got an idea.”

  He was silent a long time and managed to guzzle three biscuits before he finally opened up.