Virginia looked out of the kitchen window on to Tennisvagen. She held the teacup up to her mouth and blew. She had done the right thing. It would be wrong not to say anything. Wrong to stay silent. Mike shouldn’t go unpunished.
It was three months since Nour had come over for dinner, two months since the first kiss, and so far they’d only managed to have sex a handful of times. Their initial attempt was more a case of clumsy groping while Sanna slept uneasily in the room next door. The other times had been up in Nour’s flat on Bomgranden, at lunchtime.
This was the first night they had been alone together. Sanna had been packed off to her grandmother’s.
The next day they had a leisurely breakfast before returning to the bedroom and exhausting each other of any energy they had left. Mike was feverish and his muscles ached after the unaccustomed exercise. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so happy. It seemed years ago.
Mike phoned his mother and talked to Sanna. Officially, he’d been at a work do. He could tell from the way his daughter chatted away that everything was fine. She and Granny had made dinner together and eaten in front of the telly, and Granny had read a whole book to her when she went to bed.
‘… and now we’re going to a ten-kronor shop in Denmark,’ she concluded.
‘So when do you want me to come and pick you up?’
‘Not now. Later.’
‘Okay. Can I speak to Granny?’
Mike agreed a time with his mother, finished the conversation and then turned to Nour.
‘She doesn’t want to come home,’ he told her.
‘Does that mean I can stay?’ Nour asked.
Mike went over and kissed her.
‘Shall we go out?’
‘You mean for a walk?’
Mike nodded eagerly, like a child. Nour pulled her chin in.
‘Is that fitting? Don’t you need to sign the banns first?’
‘Might as well take the bull by the horns.’
‘Are you sure?’
Mike grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the hall.
‘Come on.’
They walked side by side without holding hands. They obviously weren’t out to exercise, but they didn’t amble either; they strolled at a pace that might have suited a couple exercising an old dog.
When they reached the woods they kissed with such passion that neither of them could help laughing afterwards. They took each other by the hand, found a comfortable hold and carried on walking under the almost church-like green vault of beech trees towards Kulla Gunnarstorp. Once they had passed the ranger’s red cottage and the fields opened out on both sides of the path, they let go of each other’s hands.
‘Does it feel inappropriate?’ Nour asked.
‘How do you mean?’
She shrugged.
‘Maybe you feel that you ought to wear black for a bit longer.’
Mike shot her a swift look.
‘She’s not coming back,’ he said.
They continued on along the path. Horses grazed in the fields and a southerly breeze whipped up white crests out on the sound.
‘You’re actually not really my type,’ Nour said. ‘I never thought of you in this way before, when you were Ylva’s husband. Now I just want to throw you over my shoulder, jump over the electric fence and have sex with you in that field. And I wouldn’t give a toss if the whole town was standing round watching.’
Mike cupped her face with his hands and kissed her gently. He let his arms slip down her spine and held her tight. They stood in the middle of the path, their bodies swaying together. An elderly couple approached them from the north, but Mike didn’t jump back. It wasn’t until he saw who they were that he carefully disengaged himself.
‘This is Nour,’ Mike said. ‘And this is Gosta and Marianne, they live opposite me on Sundsliden.’
They shook hands.
‘Where’s your daughter?’ Marianne asked.
‘Sanna?’ Mike said. ‘She’s in Denmark with her grandmother. They were going to some ten-kronor shop.’
Marianne was confused.
‘Everything costs ten kronor,’ Mike said. ‘Or twenty. Inflation has caught up with the concept.’
Marianne gave an understanding nod. As if shopping was a suitable pastime for a girl of Sanna’s age. Mike and Nour said goodbye to the couple and carried on towards the castle.
‘Gosta’s the person I’ve been seeing,’ Mike explained. ‘The psychiatrist I told you about. Without him, I would never be where I am now.’
43
Mike was on his way to the hospital for another appointment with Gosta. It felt good. He knew already that he would feel even stronger when he left in a couple of hours’ time. Gosta made him believe in life, made him believe that anything was possible.
It was of course a fleeting feeling that quickly faded and was swept away by the grey hard toil of everyday life, but with each visit, Mike inched his way up out of the darkest depths.
They didn’t meet as often these days. Gosta reckoned there were others who needed his help more.
‘Given what you’ve been through, you do seem remarkably well,’ he had said before cancelling their regular appointments and starting to book Mike in for occasional sessions.
Now they only met every third or fourth week, and sometimes they spent the whole session just chatting, rather than delving into dark and troubling thoughts.
Mike was full of admiration for Gosta. Quite apart from his professional skills and the way he so wisely stepped back from life’s worries, he was also a great example. Gosta had lost his daughter, survived his only child. Annika, as she had been called, would have been the same age as Ylva if she’d been alive. If either of them had been alive.
Mike had thought about it a lot. It must be unbearable to outlive your child. He couldn’t imagine life without Sanna, refused to, and so pushed aside any such thoughts before they took root.
For twenty years, Gosta had struggled on, gone to work, listened to people’s problems, tried to find solutions. He had never given in, become mean and bitter. Gosta and his wife had stuck together, supported each other and miraculously managed to carry on.
The Florida pensioners.
Mike wondered whether moving here had also been a way to move on, to start afresh. It seemed strange that they’d waited twenty years before doing it, but perhaps they hadn’t been able to leave until now. Houses and streets held great importance. Presumably they had felt they needed to stay until the memories faded and they were able to deal with them.
Annika had been sixteen when she died. Sixteen. She’d had her whole life in front of her.
Mike felt ashamed. He had thought he had a monopoly on suffering, had sat there wallowing, taking up space, almost bullish in his self-pity. Even though he knew that everyone had their dramas, that you only needed to scratch the surface with your fingernail.
And Gosta’s loss was greater than Mike’s.
