• • •
A YOUNG WOMAN SWIMMING in the river on a summer’s day hardly sounded like danger. I ventured:
‘How was the girl in danger?’
This question irritated my mum.
You can’t have been listening properly. I told you that Mia was being regarded with undisguised desire. Perhaps you’ve never appreciated this truth, but it’s dangerous to be desired, to be the thought that distracts a person, the preoccupation that excites them. Nothing is more dangerous. You doubt that fact? Consider how Mia behaved. She climbed out of the river, not making eye contact with anyone at the party even though she was being watched. These are not natural actions. She dressed without drying, damp patches forming all over her clothes, and then walked back through the crowd, head aloft – not touching any of the food or drink, not saying a word, returning to the farmhouse. I refuse to listen to anyone who tells me that it meant nothing. How can I be so sure? I saw her again a week later when I was tending the vegetable garden. I don’t know where Chris was that day. His dedication to the farm came in bursts. Sometimes he’d work from morning to night, at other times he’d disappear for many hours. Anyway, he wasn’t by my side when I heard a commotion, looked up, and saw Mia cycling down the road. Her movements were erratic, almost out of control, pedalling at alarming speed as though she were being chased. As she passed the gate, I caught sight of her face. She’d been crying. I dropped my tools, running to the road, fearing that she was going to crash. Only by the grace of God did she remain on the bicycle, taking a hard left and disappearing from view.
I could hardly continue working as though nothing had happened, so I abandoned the vegetable garden and hurried to the barn, retrieving my bicycle and setting off in pursuit. I guessed that she was heading into town along the secluded cycle path that follows Elk River downstream to Falkenberg. It’s inconvenient that you never visited, because this isn’t the time for a description of Falkenberg, a pretty seaside town, when the real issue is Mia’s state of mind and I’m trying to establish the presence of danger rather than describe quaint wooden houses painted pale yellow and old stone bridges. Suffice to say, before the river empties into the sea, the water widens, and on its banks are the town’s most prestigious hotels, restaurants and shops. That’s where Mia dismounted her bicycle, walking through the immaculate public gardens, deep in thought. I followed her onto the main shopping promenade, where I staged an accidental meeting. The combined effect of my sudden arrival with my dirty clothes, muddied from the vegetable garden, can’t have been impressive. I didn’t believe Mia would offer me more than a polite hello. So be it: I’d check that she was okay and then return home. I remember she was wearing bright pink flip-flops. She looked so fun and beautiful it was hard to believe that she’d been in tears. She didn’t brush past me. She knew my name and knew I was from London. Håkan must have spoken about me. Some children will always take their parents’ point of view. But not Mia, there was no hostility from her. Feeling encouraged, I invited her for coffee at the Ritz café located on the promenade. Despite the name, it was reasonably priced and there was a quiet back room where we could talk. To my surprise she agreed.
The café is self-service and I selected a slice of Princess Torta, with a thick layer of cream under a thin green sheet of marzipan. I took two forks so we could share, a pot of coffee and, for Mia, a diet cola. At the till I realised that I’d been in such a rush leaving the farm I hadn’t brought any money with me. I was forced to ask the woman at the counter if I could pay another time. The café proprietor pointed out that she wasn’t sure who I was, forcing Mia to vouch for me. As Håkan’s daughter her words carried weight, and the woman waved us through, with our cake and coffee and cola on credit. I apologetically declared that I’d come back in the evening, that same day, since I didn’t want to leave my debts for any longer than need be, particularly since the reason we came to Sweden was to never be in debt again.
While sharing the cake, I spoke a great deal. Mia was engaged when I was talking about my life but cautious when speaking about her life in Sweden. That was unusual, I thought; normally teenagers prefer to talk about themselves. I detected no brash confidence despite her exceptional beauty. Towards the end of the conversation she asked whether I’d introduced myself to all my neighbours, including Ulf, the hermit in the field. I’d never heard of Ulf. Mia explained that he’d once been a farmer but no more. Now he never left the premises of his property. His land was managed by Håkan. Once a week Håkan brought him everything he required to survive. With that final piece of information she said goodbye, standing up, graciously thanking me for the cake and cola.
As Mia was leaving I noticed the woman at the counter watching us. Clasped to her ear was a phone. I’m quite sure that she was speaking to Håkan, telling him that I’d just had coffee with his daughter. You can always tell from a person’s eyes whether they’ve been talking about you.
• • •
I ASKED:
‘Can you always tell?’
My mum’s response was emphatic:
‘Yes.’
Like a speeding car that had shot over a bump, wheels only briefly leaving the road, she returned to her account without the slightest elaboration.
I played Mia’s last words over in my mind, and it struck me as an unusual way to finish a conversation. The reference to the hermit was surely a cryptic instruction that I should pay this man a visit. The more I thought about it, the more certain it seemed to me that this had been Mia’s intention. I wouldn’t wait. I’d visit him right away. So instead of returning home, I cycled up the road past my farm, past Håkan’s farm, search ing for the hermit’s farmhouse. Eventually I saw the old house, stranded in the middle of the fields like a stray animal. It was hard to believe that anyone lived there since it was so run-down and neglected. The driveway was entirely unlike the perfectly maintained entrance to Håkan’s farm. There were waist-high weeds between loose stones and the fields on either side were closing in, the countryside swallowing the path. Abandoned farm equipment dotted the approach, eerie and sad. There was the footprint of a barn, recently torn down.
I dismounted my bike. With each footstep I told myself there was no need to check if Håkan was watching. I was almost at the farmhouse when my willpower faltered. I turned, just to reassure myself. But there he was, his giant tractor on the horizon black against the grey sky. Though I couldn’t distinguish his face from this distance, there was no doubt in my mind that it was Håkan – imperious, atop his tractor throne. Part of me wanted to run and I hated him for making me feel so cowardly. Refusing to give in to fear, I knocked on the hermit’s door. I didn’t know what to expect, perhaps a glimpse of some gloomy interior with cobwebs and dead flies. I didn’t expect a gentle giant of a man framed by a tidy hallway. His name was Ulf Lund, a man with Håkan’s strength and size but touched with sadness, his voice so soft I had to strain to hear him. I introduced myself, explaining that I was new to the area, hoping we could be friends. To my surprise he welcomed me inside.
Walking through to the kitchen, I noticed that he seemed to prefer candlelight to electric light. There was a churchlike solemnity about his home. He offered coffee and took a cinnamon bun from the freezer, placing it in the oven and apologising for the fact that it would take a little time to defrost. He seemed content to sit opposite me in silence while the lonely bun warmed in the oven. I summoned the courage and asked whether he was married, fully aware that this man lived alone. He said that his wife had died. He wouldn’t say how. He wouldn’t even tell me her name, serving instead the strongest coffee I’ve ever tasted, so bitter I was forced to sweeten it. His pot of loose brown sugar had hardened. I cracked my spoon against the crust, realising that no one visited him any more. He duly presented me with the bun on a plate and I thanked him profusely even though the centre hadn’t defrosted entirely, smiling as I swallowed a ball of cold sweet-spiced dough.
Afterwards, as I sat in the hallway, slowly putting on my shoes
, examining my surroundings, two observations struck me. There were no trolls, none of the figures carved by Håkan. Instead, the walls were covered with framed quotes from the Bible, quotes stitched into fabric, each decorated with biblical scenes, stitched pharaohs and prophets, the Garden of Eden in coloured thread, the parting of the Red Sea in coloured thread, a burning bush, and so on. I asked if he’d done these. Ulf shook his head: it was the handi work of his wife. There must have been over a hundred from the floor all the way up to the ceiling, including this one—
• • •
MY MUM PULLED FROM THE SATCHEL a hand-stitched biblical quote, rolled up and bound with coarse string. She unfolded it in front of me, enabling me to study the text stitched in fine black thread. The edges were charred, some of the thread damaged by fire.
Burnt because only a few days ago Chris threw it into the iron stove, screaming at me that it meant nothing and—
‘Let it fucking burn.’
My response was to grab a pair of tongs, snatch it from the flames half ablaze, while Chris lunged at me, trying to take it again, forcing me to retreat into the living room, brandishing the burning material from side to side as if I were staving off an attacking wolf. That was the first time he called me crazy, to my face. I’m sure he’d been saying it behind my back. But it’s not crazy to save an article of evidence, particularly when it’s proof that there was something rotten at the heart of this community, and so no, I would not ‘let it fucking burn’.
• • •
MY MUM WAS KEEN TO ATTRIBUTE this outburst to my dad. She’d registered my reaction to her exclamation – ‘Open your fucking eyes!’ – carefully logging my surprise. I was reminded of her meticulous bookkeeping ledger, black ink on one side, red on the other. A mark had been made against her and she was evening the score. It was increasingly apparent that the way in which I listened to her story changed the story itself, and I reaffirmed my intention to present a neutral front, giving little away.
This biblical quote is different from the others that hung in the hallway. The fabric has no decoration, that’s why my eye was drawn to it. While the others were surrounded by faintly comical biblical illustrations, this one was plain text. Ulf told me that his wife had been working on it at the time she died. There are several words missing, burnt to ash. Let me translate.
‘For-my-struggle-is-against-flesh-and-blood-against-the-rulers-against-the-authorities-against-the-powers-of-this-dark-world-and-against-the-forces-of-evil-in-this-earthly-realm.’
The exact reference has been stitched. You can read it there – Ephesians chapter 6, verse 12. As a child I read the Bible every day. My parents were prominent figures in the local church, particularly my mother. I attended Sunday religious studies lessons. I enjoyed Bible classes. I was devout. That will come as news to you, since I now only attend church at Christmas and Easter, but church was a way of life in the country. On this occasion my knowledge let me down. I couldn’t recall the Epistle to the Ephesians. I knew it was from the New Testament. The vast majority of the other stitched quotes on the wall were famous scenes from the Old Testament, and I was curious why his wife had changed tack, in her final days, choosing an obscure passage.
• • •
THE QUESTION FORMED IN MY HEAD of how this fabric quote – once framed and hanging on the wall – had come into my mum’s possession. I couldn’t believe the hermit had given away an item as precious as the stitching his wife had been working on when she died:
‘Mum, did you steal this?’
Yes, I stole it, but not from Ulf, from someone who stole it from him, someone who understood its importance. I don’t want to speak about that yet. You must let me keep to my chronology or we’ll jump around and I’ll end up telling you what happened in August before we’ve finished the month of May.
When I arrived back at the farm, the first thing I did was find my fifty-year-old Swedish Bible given to me as a gift by my father, inscribed to me in his beautiful old-fashioned handwriting – he always wrote with a fountain pen. I looked up Ephesians chapter 6, verse 12, which I’ve now memorised.
Listen again to her stitched version!
‘For-my-struggle-is-against-flesh-and-blood-against-the-rulers-against-the-authorities-against-the-powers-of-this-dark-world-and-against-the-forces-of-evil-in-this-earthly-realm.’
Now listen to the correct biblical version. I’ll emphasise some of the words that are different, but feel free to make your own analysis.
‘For-OUR-struggle-is-NOT-against-flesh-and-blood-but-against-the-rulers-against-the-authorities-against-the-powers-of-this-dark-world-and-against-the-spiritual-forces-of-evil-in-the-heavenly-NOT-earthly-realm.’
His wife changed the quote! She stitched her own version so that it read that our struggle was against the flesh and the blood, and she’d taken the forces of evil and located them not in heaven but on earth. On earth! What does this prove? It was a message, not a mistake. How could this poor woman ensure the message survived, that it wasn’t destroyed after her death? She hung it on the wall – disguised among the other quotes, a message to those of us paying attention, a message, not a mistake, a message!
I was excited to share this discovery with Chris and I ran outside, calling for him. There was no reply. Unsure where he could be, I noticed spots of red on the gravel drive. Before I even crouched down I knew it was blood. The spots weren’t dry. They were recent. Fearing Chris must be injured, I followed the trail to the outhouse. The drops continued under the door and I took hold of the handle, throwing the door open to reveal, hanging from a hook, a butchered pig, a whole animal sliced in half, opened up like a book, rocking backwards and forwards – a butterfly with bloody carcass wings. I didn’t scream. I grew up in the countryside and I’ve seen plenty of animals slaughtered. If I was shaken and pale, that’s not because I was shocked at the sight of a dead animal but at the meaning behind this butchered pig.
It was a threat!
I accept, on one level, that Håkan was merely fulfilling his side of the agreement. In return for allowing him to use our land I’d requested pork. Correct. But I’d expected some sausages and rashers of bacon rather than an entire pig. Yes, it was a good deal because there was a lot of meat on this carcass, but why drop it off at that time, why did it need to be delivered while I was talking to the hermit? Doesn’t it strike you as odd – the timing? Look at the sequence of events: the sequence is everything.
Firstly – Håkan received a call from the woman in the coffee shop, informing him that I was in conversation with his daughter.
Secondly – he saw me visiting the hermit in the field, which he will have connected to Mia.
What does he do next?
Thirdly – he selects a butchered carcass, or butchers one himself, freshly killed because it was dripping blood, and comes round to our farm, leaving a blood trail across our drive, hanging it up, not to fulfil a contract but as a way of telling me to back off, to ask no more questions, to mind my own business.
I should point out that Chris claims that the incident with the butchered pig didn’t happen when I returned from visiting the hermit in the fields, it happened on an entirely different day, and in my mind I’d combined two separate events, connecting memories that had no connection. He wants to cloud this provocative sequence precisely because the sequence itself is so revealing.
Håkan’s threat had the opposite effect to the one intended. It made me more determined to find out what was going on. I was sure that Mia wanted to talk. I didn’t know what she wanted to talk about. I couldn’t even guess. But I needed to speak to her again, sooner rather than later. I was on the lookout for opportunities to do so, but in the end Mia found me.
• • •
ATTACHED BY A PAPER CLIP to a page in her journal was a flyer for a barn dance. My mum handed it to me.
These dances took place at monthly intervals in a community barn, the equivalent of a town hall located a short walk up the road. They’re aimed at men and women of
a certain age, people who couldn’t care less about what might be considered cool. The tickets are expensive, one hundred and fifty krona per person, roughly fifteen pounds. Because we were so near the venue and could hear the music, we were offered free tickets as a form of compensation. Chris and I decided to give it a try. After the failure of the barbecue we were beginning to miss the social dynamic of a city. The barbecue hadn’t created a network of friends. I hadn’t received any follow-up invitations. There wasn’t a single person I could call upon. But there was another reason Chris and I decided to go. Before we left for Sweden we hadn’t been intimate for several years.
The Farm Page 7