laughed together. Her father had been the diplomat of the family, always mediating and trying to explain things. For instance, why Lilian kept badgering her daughter, why nothing Charlotte did was ever good enough. Why she could never live up to her mother's expectations. On the other hand, she had never disappointed her father. In his eyes she had been perfect; she knew that.
It came as a shock when he fell ill. The disease progressed so slowly, so gradually, that it took a long time before they even noticed it was happening. Sometimes Charlotte wondered if she could have forestalled his death if she'd been more observant. Seen the signs earlier. But at the time she and Niclas were living in Uddevalla, and she was expecting Sara. She'd been so wrapped up in her own life. When she eventually noticed that he wasn't feeling well, she had for once joined forces with Lilian and wrangled with him until he went in for a medical exam. But by then it was too late. After that, everything happened so fast.
Only a month later he was dead. The doctors said that he'd contracted a rare disease that attacked the nervous system and gradually broke down his body. They also said that it wouldn't have helped if he had come in earlier. But Charlotte still felt guilty.
She wondered whether she could have kept his memory more alive if she'd had more room in which to grieve for him. But Lilian had taken up all the space there was. She'd laid claim to all mourning rights and demanded that her grief take precedence over everyone else's. A torrent of people had passed through their home in the weeks after Lennart had died, and for them Charlotte could just as well have been part of the furniture. All condolences, all expressions of regret were directed towards Lilian, who held audience like a queen. At those moments Charlotte had hated her mother. The ironic thing was that just before they got the news of Lennart's diagnosis, she thought that her father was about to leave Lilian. The quarrels and bickering had escalated, and a separation seemed inevitable. But then Lennart fell ill, and Charlotte realized that her mother had cast all the old grudges aside and devoted herself wholeheartedly to her husband. It was only afterwards that Charlotte had got a bitter taste in her mouth from her mother's seemingly boundless need to be the centre of attention.
But the years passed and she put bitterness aside. Life held too much else for her to keep focusing on bad feelings towards her mother. Nor had she had the time to think about or mourn her father. This was no longer the case. Life had caught up with her, run her down, and left her aching all over by the side of the road. Now she had all the time in the world to think about the man who should have been here right now. Who would have known what to say, who would have stroked her hair and said that everything was going to be all right. Lilian, as usual, was worrying too much about herself to take the time to listen, and Niclas, well, he was just Niclas. Any hope she had harboured that might bring them closer to each other had been extinguished. It was as though he'd sealed himself up inside his own little cocoon. Of course he had never let her get very close, but now he was like a shadow figure slinking in and out of her life. He laid his head on the pillow next to hers every night, but then they lay there side by side, careful not to touch each other. Afraid that a sudden and unexpected contact of skin against skin might open wounds that would be better left alone. They had been through so much together. Against all odds they had maintained an illusion of unity, at least, but now she wondered whether they might have come to the end of the road.
Footsteps on the stairs roused her from these weighty thoughts. She looked up and saw Niclas. A glance at the clock showed that there were still a couple of hours left until he ought to be coming home from work.
'Hi, are you home already?' she said in surprise, starting to get up.
'Don't get up, we need to talk.' Her heart sank. Whatever it was he had to say, it wasn't going to be good.
FJALLBACKA 1928
Life in the house wasn't the big improvement she had hoped for. Who she was now still took precedence over the person she had once been. With each passing year her bitterness grew, and the life she had lived before she married seemed more like a distant dream. Had she really worn fine dresses, played the piano at elegant parties, had suitors compete to dance with her? Above all, was there actually a time when she could eat as much food and sweets as she liked?
She had inquired about her father and, to her satisfaction, heard that he was a broken man. He now lived alone in the big house and went out only to go to work. That pleased Agnes; at the same time she harboured a faint hope that he might take her back in his good graces if his life had turned sufficiently miserable. But the years passed and nothing happened, and that hope faded more and more.
The boys were now four years old and completely incorrigible. They ran wild around the neighbourhood, as small as they were, and Agnes had neither the desire nor the energy to discipline them properly. And Anders had even longer workdays now that he had to travel from town out to the quarry. He left before the boys woke up and came home after they had gone to bed. Only on Sundays could he spend a little time with them, and then they were so happy to have him home that they behaved like little angels.
They hadn't had any more children, Agnes made sure of that.
Anders had made some awkward attempts to bring up the subject, and his desire to be allowed into her bed, but she'd had no difficulty in saying no. The desire she once felt for him was utterly gone. Now she was merely disgusted, and she shuddered at the thought of feeling his dirty, lacerated fingers anywhere near her skin. The fact that he didn't protest against the enforced celibacy also increased her contempt for him. What some people would call consideration, she called spinelessness, and the fact that he still did most of the housework only reinforced that image. No real man would wash his children's clothes or make his own packed lunch. Yet she closed her eyes to the fact that the reason he did so was because she refused to do these tasks herself.
'Mamma, Johan hit me!' Karl came running over to where she sat on the front steps smoking a cigarette, a bad habit she had acquired in recent years. She defiantly asked Anders for money to buy cigarettes, always hoping that he would object.
Now she cast a cool glance the crying boy before her and then slowly blew a cloud of smoke in his face. He started to cough and rubbed his eyes. He pressed up against her in an attempt to find some solace, but like so many times before she refused to respond with affection. It was up to Anders to dole out endearments. He spoiled the boys so much that she didn't need to make them mamma's boys too. Brusquely she pushed Karl away and gave him a swat on the bottom.
'Don't blubber – just hit him back,' she said calmly, blowing another puff of smoke up into the clear spring air.
Karl gave her a look that contained all the sorrow he felt at being rejected once again. Then he lowered his head and slunk over towards his brother.
Not long ago the woman next door had actually had the nerve to come over and tell Agnes that she ought to keep a better eye on her kids. She'd seen them playing alone out on the wharf by the freight dock. Agnes had merely given the old crone a dirty look and then calmly told her to mind her own business. Considering that her oldest daughter had gone to the city and, according to rumour, made her living by showing herself off as God made her, she was hardly the one to tell Agnes how to take care of her children. The woman had put on a wounded expression and then walked off muttering something about 'poor boys', but she hadn't dared to come and knock on the door again, which was exactly as Agnes had intended.
She leaned back in the spring sunshine, reminding herself not to enjoy for too long the rays that felt so good on her face. She wanted to retain the white complexion that was the mark of a woman of the upper class. The only thing she had left from her former life was her looks, and that was something she exploited to the utmost, trying to put a little silver lining on her otherwise dreary existence. It was astonishing how much she could glean from the shopkeeper in exchange for acquiescing to an embrace or maybe more, provided there was enough to gain. In that way she'd been able to bring home sweets and extra food, though she shared none of it with her family. She'd even acquired a bit of fabric that she carefully hid from Anders. For the time being she had to be content with touching it occasionally, rubbing it against her cheek to feel its silky smoothness. The butcher had also dropped a few hints, but there were limits to what she would do just to get some extra fine cuts of meat. The shopkeeper was a relatively young man and good-looking, and not half bad when it came to exchanging kisses in the back room, but the butcher was a fat, greasy lout in his sixties. Agnes would need to get considerably more than a piece of rump steak for allowing those sausage fingers with dried
