The Farm

by Tom Rob Smith

  Let me be clear.

  Before that conversation there’d been hardship and difficulties but no mystery. Now a question had been forced upon me, a question that kept me awake at night. Why had Cecilia sold the farm to a couple of outsiders with no personal connection to this region when the largest landowner in the region, a stalwart of the community and her neighbour for many years, coveted the property and was willing to pay much more?

  • • •

  I SAW NO OBSTACLE STANDING between my mum and the truth:

  ‘Why not ring Cecilia and ask her?’

  That’s exactly what I did. I hurried back to the farm and rang the nursing home – Cecilia had left a contact address and telephone number for a care home in Gothenburg. But if you thought a simple question would resolve the mystery, you’re wrong. Cecilia was expecting the call. She asked me outright about Håkan. I explained that he’d offered to buy the farm. She became upset. She claimed to have sold us the farm because she wanted it to become our home. If I sold it for a quick profit it would be a betrayal of her trust. Now it became clear! That’s why she instructed her agents to find buyers from further afield. That’s why she used agents from Gothenburg, over an hour’s drive away – she didn’t trust any of the local agencies. She’d insisted on an interview as a vetting process to make sure we were unlikely to sell, trapped by our circumstances. I asked her why she didn’t want Håkan to own the farm. I remember the following exchange exactly. She begged me:

  ‘Tilde, please, that man must never own my farm.’

  ‘But why?’ I said.

  She wouldn’t elaborate. At the end of the conversation, I rang Håkan on the number he’d given me. While the phone was ringing I planned to speak to him calmly and politely. But as soon as I heard his voice I categorically declared:

  ‘Our farm is not for sale!’

  I hadn’t even discussed the matter with Chris.

  When Chris entered the kitchen he picked up Håkan’s disgusting wooden knife. He looked at the naked woman. He looked at the sex-hungry troll. And he chuckled. I was glad I hadn’t told him about the offer. I didn’t trust his state of mind. Chris would’ve sold the farm.

  Three days later the water in our taps turned brown, spotted with sediment, like dirty puddle water. These farms are so remote they’re not on a mains system. They draw their water from individual wells. There was no option but to hire a specialist firm to dig a new well, wiping out half of our nine-thousand-pound reserve fund. While Chris despaired at our bad luck I didn’t believe it was luck, the timing was too neat, the sequence too suspicious. I said nothing at the time. I didn’t want to panic him. I didn’t have any proof. There was no getting around the fact that our money might not last until the winter. We needed to accelerate our plans to make the farm pay if we were going to survive.

  • • •

  USING BOTH HANDS MY MUM pulled a rusted steel box from the satchel. The box was the size of a biscuit tin and very old. It was by far the largest item in the satchel.

  When the contractors arrived to dig the well I found this buried in the soil, several metres below the surface. Chris and I were observing the work as though we were at a funeral, solemnly standing at the edge of the hole, saying farewell to half our money. As they dug deeper I caught a glimmer of light. I shouted for them to stop work, waving my arms. The contractors saw the commotion, shut down the drill, and before Chris could grab me I clambered down the hole. It was stupid. I could’ve been killed. I just had to save whatever was down there. When I emerged from the hole, clasping this box, everyone was yelling at me. No one cared about the box. All I could do was apologise and withdraw to the house, where I examined my discovery in private.

  Lift the lid—

  Take a look through them—

  That’s not what I discovered that day. Let me explain. The box did contain papers. It contained those same papers, but that writing wasn’t on them. As you can see, the metal’s cracked with rust in several places. The box had failed to keep out the moisture so the original ink on the pages had long since disappeared. You couldn’t make out more than a few words. They were probably legal documents. I should’ve thrown them on the fire. In my mind they were part of the farm’s history. It felt wrong to destroy them, so I put them back in this box and left them under the sink. My next comment is very important: I thought no more about them.

  I want to say that again because I can’t tell whether you registered the point—

  • • •

  IN THE SPIRIT OF COLLABORATION, I interjected:

  ‘You thought no more about them.’

  She nodded appreciatively.

  ‘When I returned outside, Håkan was standing where I’d been standing. It was his first time on our farm since we’d arrived—’

  ‘Except for when he sabotaged the well, you mean?’

  My mum acknowledged the seriousness with which I was treating her account rather than interpreting my question as pernickety scepticism.

  I didn’t witness that. So it was the first time I’d seen him on our land with my own eyes. But yes, you’re right, he might have carried out the sabotage himself, or hired someone to do it for him. Anyway, that day his posture communicated a powerful sense of ownership as if this was already his property. Chris was by his side. The two men had never met. As I approached, hoping to witness caution and mistrust, I saw neither. I’d told Chris how much this man had upset me. But he was too excited by the prospect of an English-speaking friend to comprehend the truth – this man wanted us to fail. I heard Chris happily answering questions about our plans. Håkan was spying! They didn’t even notice I was standing beside them. No, that’s not true, Håkan noticed me.

  Eventually Håkan turned around, pretending to see me for the first time. Making a show of being friendly, he invited us to the first of his summer barbecues, taking place by his stretch of the river. This year he wanted to throw the party to celebrate our arrival. It was absurd! After his having shunned us for weeks and sabotaged our well, we’d now be the guests of honour. Chris accepted the invitation at face value. He took Håkan’s hand and shook it, stating how much he was looking forward to the party.

  As Håkan left our farm, he asked me to walk with him in order that we might go over the specifics of the invitation. He explained that it was traditional for each guest to bring a dish of food. I knew the tradition very well and said so, asking what he wanted me to bring. He made a play of toying with possibilities before suggesting a freshly made potato salad, explaining that it was always very popular. I agreed, asking what time he wanted us there, and he said the food would be served from three. I thanked him again for the kind offer and he set off up the road. After a few steps he glanced back and did this—

  • • •

  MY MUM HELD A finger to her lips as though she were a librarian silencing a noisy reader. It was the gesture she’d made earlier. Now she was claiming Håkan had done the same. Curious at the coincidence, I asked:

  ‘He was teasing you?’

  Mocking me! The conversation had been a charade. The invitation wasn’t an act of kindness. It was a trap. And on the day of the party the trap was sprung. We set off just before three, following the river upstream, a prettier route than walking along the road, and I was sure we’d be among the first guests since we were exactly on time. Except we weren’t the first, the party was in full swing. There were at least fifty people and they hadn’t just arrived. The barbecue was lit. The food was cooking. Standing on the threshold of the festivities, holding a tub of home-made potato salad – we looked idiotic. No one greeted us for a few minutes until Håkan escorted us through the assembled crowd to the table, where we deposited our food. Late and lumbering around with a potato salad was hardly the first impression I’d wanted to make, so I asked Håkan if I’d made a mistake with the time, a polite way of saying that he must have made a mistake. He said the mistake was mine, the party started at one. He then added that there was no need to worry, he wasn’t insulte
d – I must have remembered him saying the food would be cooked from three.

  You might dismiss this as a trivial muddle. You’d be wrong. It was an act of deliberate sabotage. Am I someone who’d care if I mixed up the times? No, I would’ve apologised and that would’ve been the end of it. There was no mix-up because he only gave me one time. Håkan wanted us to arrive late and feel out of place. He succeeded. For the duration of the party I was on edge. I couldn’t settle into any conversation, and instead of calming down with a drink, alcohol disturbed me further. I kept repeating to people that I was born in Sweden, held a Swedish passport, but I never became anything more than the flustered English woman who’d arrived late carrying a potato salad. Surely you can see the stagecraft in this? Håkan asked me to make the potato salad. At the time I thought nothing of the request. But he couldn’t have asked me to make a less ambitious dish – a dish that no one could compliment without sounding ridiculous. I couldn’t even use homegrown potatoes because our crop wasn’t ready. Håkan’s wife was lavishly praising other people’s food, cuts of salmon, spectacular layered desserts, food that you could be proud of. She said nothing about the potato salad because there was nothing to say. It looked little different from the mass-produced version you can purchase in the supermarkets—

  • • •

  I REMARKED:

  ‘This is the first time you’ve mentioned Håkan’s wife.’

  That’s a revealing omission. It wasn’t intentional but it’s appropriate. Why? She’s no more than a moon orbiting her husband. Håkan’s point of view is her point of view. Her importance isn’t how she acted: it’s how she refused to act. She’s a woman who’d scratch out her own eyes rather than open them to the reality that this community was involved in a conspiracy. I encountered her on many occasions. All I can picture is her stoutness – a solid mass, no lightness in her step, no dance, no play, no fun, no mischief. They were rich yet she worked relentlessly. As a result she was physically powerful, as good in the fields as any man. It’s strange for a woman to be so strong and yet so meek, so capable and incapable. Her name was Elise. We weren’t friends: that much you can tell. But it’s hard to feel the sting of her dislike since she hadn’t made the decision. Her opinions were shaped entirely by Håkan. If he’d signalled his approval, the very next day she’d have invited me round for coffee, allowing me entry to her circle of friends. Subsequently if Håkan had signalled his disapproval of me, the invitations would’ve stopped, the circle would’ve closed ranks. Her behaviour was consistent only with her fanatical belief that Håkan was right about everything. When our paths crossed she’d offer bland statements about the crops, or the weather, before departing with some remark about how exceptionally busy she was. She was always busy, never on the veranda with a novel, never swimming in the river. Even her parties were another way of keeping busy. Her conversation was a form of work – scrupulously asking the right questions without any genuine curiosity. She was a woman without pleasure. At times I felt sorry for her. On most occasions I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and shout:

  ‘Open your fucking eyes!’

  • • •

  MY MUM RARELY SWORE. If she dropped a plate, or cut herself, she might swear as an exclamation, but never for emphasis. She was proud of her English, largely self-taught, aided by countless novels borrowed from local libraries. In this case, her swearing seemed to capture a burst of anger, a flash of intense emotion breaking through her measured account. Trying to compensate, she hastily retreated into imitation legalistic sentences as if they were trenches dug to protect her against allegations of madness.

  I don’t believe, or have evidence, that Elise was directly involved with the crimes that took place. However, it is my contention that she knew. Work was her distraction, keeping her mind and body so busy that she didn’t have the energy to piece the clues together. Imagine an ocean swimmer who doesn’t dare take their eyes off the sunny horizon because beneath them is the deepest darkest abyss, cold currents swirling around their ankles. She chose to live a lie, the choice of wilful blindness. That was not for me. I’ll not end up like her – I’ll make the discoveries she was incapable of.

  I hardly spoke to Elise at the party. She’d glance at me from time to time but made no effort to share her friends. As the party was drawing to a close, I had to either accept that my introduction to society had been a failure, or fight back. I chose to fight. My plan was to tell a gripping story. I settled upon the incident with the elk. It struck me as a shrewd choice since the story was local and I’d interpreted the incident as meaning that our time on the farm would be blessed and maybe other people would interpret it similarly. I tested the story on a small group, including the jovial mayor. They said it was remarkable. Pleased with the reception, I pondered which group of people to address next. Before I could decide, Håkan stepped towards me, asking that I repeat the story for everyone to hear. Some spy, probably the two-faced mayor, must have relayed the story’s positive effect on my standing. Håkan gestured for silence, placing me centre stage. I’m not given to public speaking. I’m shy in front of crowds. However, the stakes were high. If I performed well my clumsy entrance would be forgotten. This story had the potential to define me in their eyes. I breathed deeply. I set the scene. Perhaps I became overexcited, there were details I could’ve omitted, such as the fact that I had stripped naked, an image I didn’t need to share with everyone, and the fact that I was sure there was a dangerous voyeur in the trees – which made me seem paranoid. By and large my audience was captivated, no one yawned or checked their phones. At the end of the story, instead of applause, Håkan declared that he’d lived in this area his entire life and he’d never seen an elk in the river. I must have been mistaken. This man had encouraged me to tell the story aloud for the sole purpose of publicly contradicting me. I don’t know how likely it is to see an elk in the river. Maybe it happens only once every ten years, maybe once every hundred years. All I know is this – it happened to me.

  As soon as Håkan uttered his statement of disbelief the party sided with him. The mayor who’d only minutes ago told me how remarkable the incident was now confirmed that elks wouldn’t come this far. There were theo ries explaining my mistake, statements about the lack of light, the trickery of shadows, and other implausible notions as to how a woman can imagine a giant elk swimming beside her when, in fact, there’s nothing other than driftwood. Since he was standing on the outer fringes of the party, I wasn’t sure how much Chris understood, because the conversation had been in Swedish. I turned to him for support. Rather than declaring that I wasn’t a liar, he hissed at me:

  ‘Shut up about that elk!’

  The fight went out of me.

  Gloating over his victory, Håkan placed a conciliatory arm around my shoulder. He promised to guide me through the forests where we could see an elk for real. I wanted to ask why he was being so horrible. He’d won a petty battle. But he was mistaken if he thought I could be bullied off my land. Sly nastiness would never win him the farm.

  I was sad that day, sad that the party hadn’t been a success, sad that I didn’t have a new friend’s phone number to call, sad that I hadn’t received a single invitation to take coffee at another person’s house. I wanted to go home and was about to tell Chris when I saw a young woman approaching the party. She was walking down from Håkan’s farm dressed in casual baggy clothes. Without a doubt she was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, on a par with the models who grace glossy magazines, advertising perfume or designer clothes. Seeing her walk towards us, I immediately forgot about Håkan. It occurred to me that I’d been staring at this girl and it would be polite to disguise my interest. When I checked, everyone else was staring too, every man and woman turned towards her as if she were the entertainment for the evening. I became uncomfortable, as though I were participating in something disturbing. No one was behaving improperly, but there were thoughts in that crowd that shouldn’t have been there.

  The
girl was young, on the cusp of adulthood – sixteen years old, I discovered later. You’re correct if you presumed everyone at that barbecue was white. But this girl was black and I was curious, eager to observe who she was going to speak to, but she passed through the party without saying a word to anyone, not taking anything to eat or drink, continuing to the river. On the wooden pontoon she began to undress, her hooded top unzipped and dropped to the floor, tracksuit bottoms removed, flip-flops kicked off. Underneath those baggy clothes she was wearing no more than a bikini, more suitable for pearl diving than the freezing waters of Elk River. With her back to us she gracefully dived into the river, disappearing under a froth of bubbles. She surfaced a few metres away and began to swim, either indifferent to her audience or acutely aware of it.

  Håkan couldn’t conceal his fury. His reaction scared me. His arm was still coiled around my shoulder. His muscles tensed. He removed his arm, since it was giving away his true feelings, sinking his hands into his pockets. I asked after the identity of this young woman and Håkan told me her name was Mia.

  ‘She’s my daughter.’

  Mia was treading water, her fingertips breaking the surface, examining us. Her eyes came to rest directly on Håkan and myself. Under her gaze I felt a desire to call out and explain that I was not with him, I was not his friend. I was on my own – just like her.

  On the flight to London it occurred to me that you might decide I nurture a prejudice against adoption. That’s not true. However, Håkan and Mia felt wrong to me. My feelings have nothing to do with race, please believe that. My thoughts could never be so ugly. My heart told me something was wrong. It didn’t feel true that they were father and daughter, that they lived in the same house, ate at the same table, that he comforted her in times of trouble and she sought his words of wisdom. I admit that the revelation forced me to change the way I saw Håkan. I’d pegged him as a primitive xenophobe. I was wrong. Clearly his character was more nuanced. His sense of Swedish identity didn’t depend on simplistic markers such as blonde hair and blue eyes. It depended on patronage. To Håkan, I’d surrendered my nationality by leaving my country and taking up the patronage of an English husband. Mia had been naturalised by Håkan’s selection of her. Ownership is everything to that man. My instinct, even on that first day, was that she was in danger of the most serious kind.