The Quarry

He thought Dr Wahlberg looked a little concerned, and when she opened her mouth he went on quickly, ‘But it doesn’t matter. Quite the reverse, I feel free.’

‘Well, you have a lot of memories,’ said the doctor with a smile.

‘Exactly,’ said Gerlof, but he didn’t smile back. ‘I spend a lot of time with my memories.’

When the doctor had gone, Gerlof remained in his chair for a few minutes. Then he got up and went to the cupboard in the kitchen to fetch one of Ella’s books.

I spend a lot of time with my memories, he had said to Dr Wahlberg – but that was just a way of dressing up the fact that he was reading the diaries when he shouldn’t be. He felt ashamed of himself while he was doing it, and yet it was difficult to stop. If Ella really did have something to hide, shouldn’t she have burnt the books herself before the cancer took her? She had left them to Gerlof, in a way.

He opened a new page and began to read:

3^rd June 1957

There was a market up in Marnas this morning; the weather was lovely, and there were lots of people there. And unfortunately the first wasps of the year were out too.

Gerlof travelled down to Borgholm last night and has loaded up 30 tons of limestone to go to Stockholm. He sets sail tomorrow, and the girls are on their summer holidays, so they’re going with him.

The place feels so empty without Gerlof and the girls. We used to cycle up to the market together when they were little, but they’re big now, and I felt a bit lonely today. I daren’t cry because that will make me ill, but when I think about Gerlof out on the Baltic until November, it’s like being stabbed with a knife.

But I’m not completely alone, because I have the little changeling, my little troll.

He scuttles along by the stone wall, crouching down, and creeps out from the juniper bushes for some milk and biscuits. But only when I’m alone in the middle of the day, when there aren’t so many people out and about. Perhaps he senses that’s the safest time to be out.

13

The sun had come out by the time Per left Oland to go and sort out his father. He had called Jerry’s home number and mobile several times on Sunday morning, but with no luck. The silence increased his anxiety.

As he and Jesper were eating an early lunch, Per explained quietly, ‘I think your grandfather could do with some help … He sounded confused when he rang me, so I need to go down and check he’s all right.’

‘When will you be back?’ asked Jesper.

‘Tonight. It might be late, but I’ll be back.’

The last thing he did was to redirect the telephone from the cottage through to his mobile so that Jesper wouldn’t have to answer if Jerry rang again.

His son was playing games in front of the TV when Per left, but he waved in the general direction of the hallway. Per waved back.

Jesper would be fine, there were meatballs in the fridge and there were no cars around the quarry to run over him. Per was not an irresponsible father, and he was definitely not worried as he left Stenvik and headed south.

The sun was shining, spring had arrived. He could put his foot down; there weren’t many cars out and about today.

He passed Borgholm at about one o’clock and drove across the Oland bridge to the mainland half an hour later. As he was driving past Kalmar he saw a red cross on a road sign, and tried not to think about Nilla in her hospital bed. He would call in to see her on the way home.

After Nybro the forest closed in around the main road, with the odd break for a meadow or lake. The fir trees made Per think about Regina again, and the drive out into the forest with her one beautiful spring day.

The prospect of seeing his father gave him no pleasure whatsoever. Two hours to get to Ryd, then perhaps another two hours to drive him home to Kristianstad. Four or five hours in Jerry’s company, that was all – but it still felt like a long time.

After a couple of hours’ driving through the forest he reached Ryd, by which time the sun had disappeared behind thick cloud cover. The spring suddenly felt like autumn.

Ryd wasn’t a big place, and the pavements were empty. Per pulled up by the bus station and looked for Jerry in vain. Either he was already sitting on a bus heading south, or he was wandering around somewhere by himself.

He took out his mobile and called his father’s number again. The phone rang three times, then someone pressed the answer button. But nobody spoke. All Per could hear was a rushing sound, followed by two thuds.

Then there was silence.

Per looked at his phone. Then he went into the newsagent’s and asked about Jerry.

‘An old man?’ said the girl behind the counter.

Per nodded. ‘Seventy-three. He’s broad-shouldered, but he looks kind of worn out and small.’

‘There was some old bloke waiting outside about an hour ago … he was standing there for quite a while.’

‘Did you happen to notice where he went?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Did he get on a bus?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Did anyone pick him up?’

‘Maybe … He disappeared.’

Per gave up. He went back to the car and decided to drive out to Jerry’s house – to the studio. It was a few kilometres west of Ryd, near a village called Strihult. Jerry had bought and equipped the place when the money started pouring in in the mid-seventies. Through all the years while he was still driving, Jerry had commuted from Kristianstad on a weekly basis to make films, first with various freelance operatives, then with Hans Bremer.

Per had been there only once; he had given Jerry a lift three or four years ago. At that time his father had still been in good health and was going to Ryd to edit a film – one of the last he and Bremer made together. Per had been on his way home to Kalmar and had just dropped Jerry off outside the house, refusing to go inside.

Strihult was nothing more than a collection of houses with a petrol station and a grocery shop. Per drove straight through without seeing a single person.

Beyond the village the road grew even narrower, the forest thicker – and after about a kilometre he saw a sign pointing to the right, a white arrow with the words MORNER ART LTD on it. That was the name of one of Jerry’s businesses.

He was close to his destination now, and gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Although Jerry rang him at least once a week, they hadn’t seen each other since December, when Per had called round and spent a few hours at his father’s apartment. Jerry had celebrated Christmas all alone.

After five hundred metres of forest without a single house, Per suddenly came upon a dense cypress hedge. He had arrived.

A red sign by the entrance warned visitors to BEWARE OF THE DOG!, despite the fact that Jerry had never owned a dog.

Per turned in, followed the driveway around a garage next to the large wooden house, and pulled up on a huge, deserted gravelled area. He switched off the engine, opened the door and looked at the house. It was big and wide, L-shaped and two storeys high. Jerry, Bremer and their actors had stayed here when they were working, so he assumed it consisted of a smaller residential section and a larger work area.

He didn’t feel welcome, but he was going to knock on the door anyway. Even if his father wasn’t here, perhaps Hans Bremer was.

Per had never met Bremer, but now they needed to talk – about the future. Jerry wasn’t well enough to run a business; it was time to wind up Morner Art and sell this place. Bremer would just have to look for a new job, but he’d probably worked that out already.

A wide flight of concrete steps led up to the door, which was flanked by shiny windows with the curtains