‘No, that’s all right, Eeva,’ said Mrs Eriksson kindly. ‘But I’ll need fresh hot water soon.’
Eeva took the bowl of warm soapy water from her, and emptied it in the sink. The water was still almost clean. Why trouble to wash the china, she wondered. No one had eaten off those plates. She replaced the bowl on the table. Mrs Eriksson measured in liquid soap with a spoon, and then Eeva poured in a jugful of hot water followed by half a jugful of cold. Mrs Eriksson tested the temperature.
‘Put your hand in, Eeva,’ she said generously. ‘This is how hot it should be.’
Eeva dipped her hand in the soapy water. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Eriksson. Now I’ll know what temperature the water should be, when I wash my own china one day.’
Lotta glanced at her sharply. Was the girl being insolent? No, surely not. Her expression was serious, almost earnest. Poor child, did she really think it was possible that one day she should have such things of her own? That was the trouble with orphanages. The children were so much separated from the realities of life.
‘This china belonged to Dr Eklund’s mother,’ she explained, ‘and before that to her mother.’
‘So it’s quite old,’ said Eeva. ‘Lucky it hasn’t got broken.’
‘My dear child, why do you think I have come here to wash it? China like this, Eeva, is an inheritance. It has a life of its own, you might say,’ and she smiled at her own fancy.
‘So you don’t use it? I mean, to eat off?’
‘The doctor prefers not to,’ said Lotta.
There was a knock at the back door, and Eeva went to open it. It was only Matti; come for his ginger tea. He preferred it to any other drink, he said. It warmed the stomach. The doctor bought ginger root specially. Eeva had learned how to peel and slice the ginger root, bruise it and steep it in hot water and sugar.
Matti had sworn off all strong drink since the night he’d fallen asleep in a snowdrift on his way home from a shebeen. If it hadn’t been for the doctor chancing to find him on his way home from a call, he’d have had his fingers and toes frostbitten. And then where would he have been? It was fifteen years since Matti had tasted strong drink, and all the better for it.
He hung back at the kitchen door and nodded towards Mrs Eriksson’s back. ‘Why’s she here?’ he mouthed.
‘Mrs Eriksson’s here to do the washing-up,’ replied Eeva distinctly. ‘Aren’t you coming in for a warm, Matti?’ He always drank his tea by the stove.
‘I don’t believe I will today,’ said Matti hastily. ‘No, Eeva, I believe today I’ll just dander down to my hut.’ And he was gone.
She’s still got to dry every single piece of it, thought Eeva. She’ll be here for hours.
‘I’d better get on,’ she said aloud, ‘I’ve got my ham to boil.’
‘Of course, get on with your work, Eeva,’ said Mrs Eriksson, as if Eeva belonged to her. Eeva fetched out the ham hock she’d soaked overnight to get out the salt, and began to jab it with cloves.
‘Have you any sage leaves for the stock?’ asked Mrs Eriksson.
‘No.’
‘Mrs Eklund had a wonderful recipe for boiled ham. Now, let me think. She copied her recipes into a red notebook. It was usually kept in the kitchen… I can’t see it. Do you know where it is, Eeva?’
‘I’ve never seen it,’ said Eeva.
Dear me, the girl looked sulky. ‘Well, have a look, have a look, it’s bound to be here somewhere. Mrs Eklund had such a splendid collection of recipes. You could try them, Eeva.’
‘Dr Eklund says he likes plain food.’
‘I daresay he does. But what men say and what men like are two different things.’
The salt in her tone caught Eeva’s attention. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why would he say he liked plain food if he didn’t? He’s got plenty of money.’
‘I don’t think Dr Eklund’s financial circumstances are our concern, Eeva.’
Eeva looked down at the ham, bored again. Mrs Eriksson drew the last cup out of the water, and added it to the collection waiting to be dried.
‘I’ll just see if I can find that recipe book…’ She prowled around the kitchen, scanning the shelves. ‘Ah! I do believe – yes, there it is, behind those scales. Let me just wipe off the dust.’ She took a clean cloth and wiped off the recipe book as carefully as if it were china, then opened it and began to flick through.
‘I thought so. Here it is: Boiled Spiced Ham. I think you could manage this, Eeva. Come here and let me show you.’
Reluctantly, Eeva left the ham and came to stand by Mrs Eriksson, who pointed at the list of ingredients. ‘Cloves… you’ve got those. Ginger root, allspice, brown sugar…’
But the girl remained unresponsive, staring blankly at the page.
‘Eeva,’ said Lotta gently, ‘can you not read, my dear?’
A flush rose through the girl’s skin. ‘I can a bit,’ she said.
‘Never mind,’ said Lotta, and she replaced the book on its shelf.
Something must be done about this. She would speak to Thomas. She looked over to where the girl was studding the last few cloves into the ham. ‘Ham with cloves. I’m sure the doctor will like that,’ she said. ‘But I must get on with drying the china.’
At last she was gone, and the china was back in the glass-fronted cabinets. The ham was simmering, and a scent of cloves rose with the steam. Eeva would drink some of the broth for her dinner, with a slice of the meat. Her mouth watered. Quickly, she reached for a jar, dug out a handful of raisins, and crammed them into her mouth. They clung stickily to her teeth, and a pang of pain shot through her jaw. She swallowed, and replaced the jar exactly where it had been. There was the china in the cabinet, just as before. There were the painted people. The shepherdess with her distant smile and her fat sheep.
‘Can you not read?’ Eeva asked her, going right up to the glass so that her breath clouded it. ‘Can you not read, my dear?’
Lotta stood by Thomas’s desk, putting on her gloves. He’d thanked her for coming, and offered coffee, but she knew he wanted to get on with his work. There was a book open on the desk. She glanced down at it, and then quickly away. Of course a doctor had to study such things.
‘Your girl,’ she began. ‘Eeva. It’s a great pity that she can’t read.’
‘Eeva can’t read?’
‘Didn’t you know? I was showing her one of Johanna’s recipes, and it was clear that she couldn’t make out a word.’
‘I always found Johanna’s handwriting difficult myself,’ he observed.
‘Really, Thomas. You know Johanna’s red recipe book. Such excellent recipes. It would be a great advantage to Eeva if she were able to read it. Even you, my dear Thomas, are going to tire of pickled herrings and plain boiled ham. We must do something about it.’
‘Yes, Lotta.’
‘All right, I’m going. I know you want to be alone with your books,’ and she glanced at his desk with a respectful aversion that almost made him laugh. But Lotta wouldn’t like it if he laughed.
When Lotta had gone, he sat back at his desk, staring out of the window. Why had Eeva lied? If he asked, would she lie to him, too? It was ridiculous. What had she to gain from pretending that she couldn’t read? He would ring the bell, and when she came he would ask her flat out. Mrs Eriksson tells me you can’t ready, Eeva. Is that the case? No. Is that true? And then see what she said.
The image of himself peering at the knot-hole made his hands clench into fists. No, he wouldn’t ask her. If she wanted secrets, let her keep them.
The smell of cloves made his mouth water. She didn’t need Johanna’s damned recipe book. He could see Johanna now, very erect at her writing desk, copying a recipe from a friend into her own book, in her upright, curiously unreadable handwriting. Another day, she would lend her book so that others could copy it. Her reputation grew. She was a fine manager, Johanna, and he was a fortunate man.
If Eeva had a book, what would she write in it?
7
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br /> These new corsets were comfortable, very comfortable indeed. So much more satisfactory than those she’d had to wear as a girl. Her mouth twitched, remembering Karl’s look of alarm when he put his arm around her, stiffly, the day they became engaged. What had he been expecting? Heaven knows. There she was, squeezed as tightly as possible into her iron brace. Lotta was big. Big-boned, her mother called it, as she worked out clever ways to disguise exactly how much of Lotta there was.
‘She gets it from your side of the family,’ her mother used to say, looking at the big handsome father. But what was right for a man wouldn’t do for a girl.
Those crippling dance slippers and walking boots, those carefully chosen vertical stripes which hid the bulk of bust and hips. Plain, dark, well-tailored skirts and jackets were what suited Lotta, but she was a young girl and had to look like one. Worst of all were the corsets that made her want to vomit after she’d eaten. And she could never get enough breath to run. Those noises her stomach had made, thought Lotta, remembering the acid gurgling and growling that had accompanied Karl’s courtship. Fortunately he’d always been slightly deaf. It had taken her a long time to realize it. She had deeply admired his air of calm, his apparently thoughtful self-sufficiency. When she made some timid comment and Karl didn’t respond, she blushed for her own triviality.
All that had changed. My God, it had certainly changed. That clumsy, eager, self-critical girl hadn’t had a chance of surviving. She no longer existed. Hadn’t done so for years, thought Lotta, buttoning her collar. She held her head high and drew her shoulders back. The pain was nothing today. She could almost feel nothing. She straightened her spine. A good day. Her tailored navy skirt hung well on her. She looked better now than she had looked at seventeen. Plain skirts, high-necked blouses, her seal-skin jacket or her furs, and boots that fitted perfectly. She went for cut, and quality of fabric.
They’d faded, those fair girls. She’d stared at them during her hungry years, fascinated in the same way as a man might be fascinated. But she wasn’t a man, she was female, too female. Her breasts were heavy. Her thighs chafed. In summer her dress-shields were soaked in sweat. Her mother taught her to use eau-de-cologne during her monthly periods, but she was always afraid that she smelled bad. Female, she thought, but not feminine. She didn’t know any of the graces which time, thank God, had now shrivelled in those glancing girls.
All that was over, and it would never return. Some women might regret it, but never Lotta. She was herself now. It felt almost like being a child again, apart from the pain. Being a child had suited her well. Long legs covered in bruises and scratches because she always hoicked up her skirts as soon as she was out of sight of the house. Racing, climbing, jumping, scrambling. Lotta was crazy, a tomboy, admired by the boys and happily unaware of the girls. She swam in the lake in summer and skated on it in winter. She split her head open, diving into shallow water. She stirred up a wasps’ nest and was stung thirty-two times. She rode a shaggy four-square pony and dreamed he was a racehorse.
Until she was thirteen, she was free. Her parents didn’t trouble. If you have five children, you let them go wild in summer and try to teach them some manners in the long winters. But even in winter Lotta would be out, muffled to the eyeballs, building a house of snow.
And then it had all changed. Her older sister, Astrid, had turned into a young lady. It had happened quite suddenly. Her hands grew delicate, her hair was piled and lustrous. She developed a way of running which was no more than a skitter of feet. Astrid laid her bare foot side by side to Lotta’s, and Lotta’s was bigger, broader, even though Astrid was three years older. Astrid smiled, and for the first time Lotta knew that to be bigger, stronger and braver was not going to be enough.
Well, Karl had married her, anyway. Karl had started coming to the house and before Lotta knew it everyone was sharing pleased smiles, as if they already knew something she did not. Astrid put her cool, scented arms around Lotta and said, ‘Lotta, I’m so glad.’ They had married, and then Karl had found out what was inside those carefully chosen blouses with their vertical stripes, and those crushing shoes.
Even now, standing in her own bedroom, in her own house, Lotta flinched, and her hands crept up to her face, to hide it. There she had been in her bed, in her nightdress tent of white lawn. They had managed it somehow, the thing you were meant to do, which neither of them had a word for. It was a dumb, embarrassed struggle.
‘Well,’ he had said afterwards, ‘I think I’ll go and read for a while.’ And he’d gone, leaving her to get rid of the stains and stickiness.
She had washed in cold water, because she was too shy to ring for hot.
No children. No. All that is over and the pain of it has gone. Just as the lovely girls grew up and faded, so the damp, powdery babies she never dared to hold grew up and became ordinary adults, such as the world has produced since time began. Lotta saw quite enough of disappointing sons and sullen daughters.
Her own children would never turn out like that. There they went, racing away on long, fleet legs, calling to each other, or rushing to her for a quick, passionate hug before they vanished again into their play. There were always two of them, only two. Neither in any way resembled herself, or Karl.
It didn’t happen, and by now the fact that it didn’t happen only made those children more real. But Lotta still believed that it could have happened. These days, perhaps she might have gone to a doctor. But not then. She looked down, tapping the table with her forefinger. No, she would not have gone then. But she might have had children, all the same. There was one night when she thought she would conceive a child.
She’d been asleep, deeply asleep. And warm. It was a July night and the summer was a hot one. She’d woken. Their bed was tumbled where they’d kicked away the bedclothes in their sleep. Her nightdress was rucked up. And there was Karl, on his back, sleeping. He was naked. His face looked stern and distant and for the first time, the very first time, she felt a surge of feeling in her which was nothing personal at all. Nothing to do with the feelings she had for the ‘Karl’ she’d married, hedged as they were with pain and disappointment.
She realized that she had never wanted him before or even known that it was possible for this to happen. She didn’t name the feeling to herself, or let herself think about the opening, aching sensations in the centre of her body, the part of her which didn’t have a name and shouldn’t be thought about. For a moment she wondered if she was bleeding at the wrong time, two weeks early. It ached so much. She touched a fold of her nightdress between her legs to find out. No, there was no stain. Only dampness. She rolled over, on her elbow. The warm, milky night air was lightening with July’s early dawn.
‘Karl,’ she whispered. ‘Karl.’ Her breasts swung against the tucks of her nightdress bodice, and her nipples tingled. But he lay still, his face like wood.
‘Karl,’ she said, more loudly. She reached out and hooked her leg over him. Very gently, she slid on top of him, holding her weight off with her elbows. Her nightdress had ridden higher. It was in her way and she pulled it right up, past her waist. She couldn’t take it off without getting up, because there were too many buttons at the neck. She was still too modest to look at ‘that part’ of Karl, but she felt it stir. She had for the first time a huge, greedy curiosity for it, for him, for Karl. It was going to happen and this time wasn’t going to be like any of the other times. She was opening like a flower. She was damp like those babies other women had. Karl would know it. This is what’s meant to happen, she thought with absolute sureness. Those other times, they weren’t right. She moved her body, letting her breasts brush his bare skin.
Suddenly his eyes snapped open. He stared without properly seeing her, and then he focused. He looked startled, even afraid.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked sharply.
‘Nothing,’ she said. Surely, surely he would know that this was the right time. She couldn’t tell him, but he would know. But his face was struggling into its day
time expression. He moved impatiently, as if he wanted to get rid of her weight. ‘What time is it?’
‘Dawn.’
‘Why did you wake me, Lotta?’
His voice rapped out, sharp, staccato. As if he were afraid. He was pushing her away with words.
‘I don’t know – I woke up, and then I saw you lying there –’ she said. He frowned a little, like a judge. Suddenly she knew that she was a fool, lying on top of him with her bare bum up in the air (they used to say that when they were children, your bare bum, and laugh) and Karl shifting away as if he wanted to escape but she was too heavy. He frowned, a critical, fully clothed frown.
‘Really, my dear Lotta, you are a donkey. I sleep beside you every night of my life. Is there any reason for waking me at dawn like this?’
But that part – that part without a name – was stirring. Sideways – and now rising…
He glanced down with irritation, at the part of him which was hidden by her damp female flesh.
‘Lotta,’ he said peevishly, ‘I can’t move.’
She rolled off him quickly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up like a mechanical soldier and marched to the door. Out he went, with his pale, long back, and his legs opening and closing like scissors.
She pulled her nightdress down, right down, tugging it around her ankles and wrapping it there as if to keep herself safe. Now her legs were gone, her long strong legs that nobody wanted to see. Her hips were hidden, and the bare bum that used to make them shriek with laughter when they said it as children. ‘Lotta, you donkey,’ she murmured, and flushed with anger and shame.
It had never happened like that again. She’d lain still while he poked that thing into her less and less frequently, and that was all. She never betrayed herself by a movement. Karl had his workshop, and she had her garden, and so much more besides: the house to run, Erika, Simon. And, of course, Thomas. She said their names in that order, even to herself, making Thomas’s name come last, as was seemly.
House of Orphans Page 6