The Little Old
Lady Who Broke
All the Rules
CATHARINA INGELMAN-SUNDBERG
TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH BY ROD BRADBURY
To my nephews and nieces, Fredrik, Isabella, Simon, Hanna, Maria, Henrik, Catrin, Hampus, Susanne, Christian, Catharina, Helena, Fredrika, Anna and Sophia
A crime a day keeps the doctor away.
CHRISTINA, AGED SEVENTY-SEVEN
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Epilogue
Grateful Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
The little old lady gripped the handles of her walker, hung her walking stick next to the shopping basket and did her best to look assertive. After all, a woman of seventy-nine about to commit her first bank robbery needed to project an air of authority. She straightened her back, pulled her hat down over her forehead and thrust open the door. Supported by her frame, she walked slowly and determinedly into the bank. It was five minutes before closing time and three customers were waiting in the queue. The walker squeaked faintly. She had greased it with olive oil, but one of the wheels had been wobbly ever since she had collided with the cleaning trolley at the retirement home. Not that it really mattered. The most important thing was that it had a large basket with room for a lot of money.
Martha Andersson from Södermalm, Stockholm, walked with a slight stoop, wearing a plain coat of nondescript colour, chosen especially to avoid attracting attention. She was smaller than average and solidly built, but not fat. She wore sensible dark walking shoes which would be perfect for a quick escape if it was necessary. That was assuming she was still able to pick up the speed to run. It wasn’t something she had attempted in a number of years, so she might have to settle for a brisk trot. Her heavily veined hands were hidden inside a pair of well-used leather gloves and her short white hair was concealed under a wide-brimmed brown hat. She had wrapped a neon-coloured scarf around her neck, so if a photo was taken of her with a flash, it would automatically overexpose the rest of the picture and her facial features would disappear. The scarf was mainly an extra safety measure, since her mouth and nose were shadowed by her hat. But if she had to be old, she might as well be wise, too.
The bank’s little branch on Götgatan looked like most banks in Sweden these days. There was just one cashier standing behind the solitary service counter; bland and boring walls; a highly polished floor and a small table brimming with brochures about advantageous loans and investment advice. Dear brochure-writers, Martha thought, I know of much better ways of making lots of money! Martha intended to laugh all the way to the bank, and all the way back out again, too.
She sat down on the customers’ sofa and pretended to study the posters advertising savings accounts but found it hard to keep her hands still. She discreetly slipped one hand into her pocket for a fruit pastille. One of those unhealthy candies that the doctors warned her against and dentists secretly loved. She tried to be good; she tried not to give in to the sugary treats. But if she was going to be rebellious, then today was the day. Surely she was allowed one guilty pleasure?
The queue number changed with a buzz and a man in his forties hurried up to the counter. His business was soon dealt with and then a teenage girl was served almost as quickly. However, the last in line was an elderly gentleman who took much longer as he was mumbling and fumbling with bits of paper. Martha was growing impatient. She mustn’t be in the bank too long. Somebody might notice her body language or some other detail which might give her away. So she tried her best to look like just an old lady getting some cash out of the bank. Ironically, that was exactly what she was going to do, although the cashier was going to have a shock at the amount she was withdrawing and the fact that the money wasn’t necessarily hers. But little details … Martha fished in her coat pocket for a newspaper cutting. She had saved an article about how much bank robberies cost the banks. The headline read: This is a robbery! These were, in fact, the very words which had inspired her.
The old man at the counter was nearly finished, so Martha began to pull herself up from the sofa, to stand as upright as she possibly could. All her life she had been the sort of honest, dependable person that everyone had relied on—she had even been a prefect at school. Now she was about to become a criminal. But in reality, how else could she survive in her old age? She needed money for a decent place to live for herself—and her friends. She simply couldn’t back out now. She and her old choir chums were going to have a bright ‘third age’. To put it simply, a bit of fun in the autumn of their lives. She would make sure of it.
The aged gentleman at the counter was taking his time, but finally the buzz sounded and her number appeared above the screen where the cashier stood. Slowly, but with dignity, she approached the counter. She was about to destroy the good reputation that she had built up across an entire lifetime in a single moment. But what else could you do in this modern society which treated its elderly members so badly? You put up with it and succumbed, or you adapted to the situation. She was the sort of person who adapted.
During those last few steps to the counter window she had a good look around the room before coming to a halt. Then, giving a friendly nod to the female cashier, she handed over the newspaper cutting:
THIS IS A ROBBERY!
The cashier read the headline and looked up with a smile.
‘And how can I help you?’
‘Three million—and quick!’ cried Martha.
The cashier widened her smile. ‘Would you like to withdraw some m
oney?’
‘No, you are going to withdraw money for me, now!’
‘I see. But the pension money hasn’t come in yet. It doesn’t arrive until the middle of the month, you see, my dear.’
Martha had rather lost her momentum. This wasn’t going the way she had imagined. Best to act quickly. She lifted up her walking stick and poked it through the gap under the window, brandishing it as best she could.
‘Hurry up! My three million now!’
‘But the pensions aren’t—’
‘Do as I say! Three million! In the basket—now!’
By this time the girl had had enough. It was closing time and she wanted to go home. Martha watched as she got up and fetched two male colleagues. Both men looked equally handsome and smiled politely. The one closest to her looked like Gregory Peck—or was it Cary Grant? He said:
‘We’ll sort out your pension, don’t you worry. And my colleague here will be happy to phone for a taxi to take you home.’
Martha peered through the glass. She could see the girl in the back office, already picking up the phone.
‘Oh well, I suppose I will have to rob you another time,’ Martha conceded. She quickly withdrew her walking stick and closed her fist around the newspaper cutting. They all smiled sweetly and helped her out the door and into the taxi. They even folded the walker up for her.
‘Diamond House retirement home—OAP rate,’ Martha told the driver as she waved goodbye to the bank staff. She carefully put the cutting back into her pocket. Things hadn’t gone quite according to plan. But, nevertheless, a little old lady could do a great deal of things that people of other ages couldn’t. She put her hand in her pocket for another fruit pastille and hummed contentedly to herself. Martha realized now that in order for her grand plan to work, she needed the support of her friends from the choir group. These were her nearest and dearest friends, the people who she had socialized and sung with for more than twenty years. Of course, she couldn’t ask them straight out if they wanted to become criminals. She would have to persuade them with more subtle means. But afterwards—and she was quite certain of this—they would thank her for having changed their lives for the better.
Martha was awakened by a distant humming sound, followed by a sharp ping. She woke up, opened her eyes and tried to work out where she was. Yes, of course, she was at the retirement home. And it would, of course, be Rake—which was what everybody called her friend Bertil Engström. He always got up in the middle of the night for a snack. He had a habit of putting food in the microwave only to forget all about it. Martha got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen with the help of her walker. Muttering to herself, she opened the microwave and took out one plastic-covered dish of pasta and meatballs in tomato sauce. She stared dreamily at the buildings across the road. A few lamps glowed in the night. On the other side of the street, the houses would surely have proper kitchens, she thought. Here, at the retirement home, they used to have their own fully equipped kitchen but, to save on staff and money, the new owners had axed the catering department. Before Diamond House had taken over the retirement home, the meals had been the highlight of the day and the aroma of good food wafted through to the communal lounge. But now? Martha yawned and leaned against the sink. Almost everything had got worse and things were now so bad that she often found herself escaping into dreams. And what a lovely dream she had just woken up from … it had felt exactly as if she had been there at the bank for real, as if her subconscious had taken charge and tried to tell her something. At school she had always protested against things that she believed were unjust. Even during her years as a teacher, she had battled against unreasonable regulations and daft innovations. Strangely enough, here at the retirement home, she had just put up with it all. How could she have become so docile and lethargic? People who didn’t like the rulers of their country started a revolution. They could jolly well do that here, too, if only she could get the support of her friends. But a bank robbery … that would be going a bit far, wouldn’t it? She gave a nervous little laugh. Because that was what was a bit frightening—her dreams nearly always came true.
One
The next day, while the guests, or the ‘clients’, as they were now called, at Diamond House were drinking their morning coffee in the lounge, Martha thought about what she should do. In her childhood home in Österlen, down in the south of Sweden, people didn’t just sit and wait for somebody else to take action. If the hay must be put in the barn, or a mare was going to foal, then you simply pitched in and did what was necessary. Martha looked at her hands. She was proud of them—they were reliable hands, and showed that she had done her fair share of hard work. The murmur of voices rose and fell all around her as she surveyed the rather shabby lounge. The smell was decidedly reminiscent of the Salvation Army and the furniture seemed to have come straight from the recycling depot. The old grey 1940s building, with its asbestos fibre cement cladding, was like a combination of an old school and a dentist’s waiting room. Surely this wasn’t where she was meant to end her days, with a mug of weak instant coffee to go with a plastic meal? No, damn it, it certainly was not! Martha breathed deeply, pushed her coffee mug aside and leaned forward to speak to her group of friends.
‘You lot. Come with me,’ she said and gave a sign to her friends to follow her into her room. ‘I have something to talk to you about.’
Everybody knew that Martha had a stash of cloudberry liqueur hidden away, so they all nodded and got up straight away. The stylish Rake went first, followed by Brains, the inventor, and Martha’s two lady friends—Christina, who loved Belgian chocolate, and Anna-Greta, the old lady who looked so old that all the other old ladies paled in comparison. They looked at each other. Martha usually had something special on the cards when she invited you in for a glass of liqueur. It hadn’t happened for quite a while, but now it was evidently time.
Once they were in her room, Martha retrieved the bottle, tidied away her half-finished knitting from the sofa and invited her friends to sit down. She threw a glance at the mahogany table with the freshly ironed floral-patterned cloth. She had wanted to replace the old table for a long while but it was big and solid and there was room for everybody around it so it would have to do for now. As she put the bottle on the table she caught sight of her old family photos on the chest of drawers. Framed behind glass, her parents and sister smiled out at her in front of her childhood home in Brantevik, a small fishing village in Österlen. If only they could see her now … they would not approve. They were teetotallers. Defiantly, she set out the liqueur glasses and filled them to the brim.
‘Cheers!’ she said and raised her glass.
‘Cheers!’ her friends responded joyfully.
‘And now for the drinking song,’ Martha insisted, after which they all mimed a silent version of ‘Helan går’. Here at the retirement home, it was necessary to keep your voice down during sessions like this, so as not to be discovered with hidden alcohol. Martha silently mouthed the refrain once more and they all laughed. So far nobody had ever discovered them, and this was all part of the fun. Martha put her glass down and looked at the others out of the corner of her eye. Should she tell them about her dream? No, first she must get them on the same wavelength as herself, then she might be able to persuade them all to go along with her plan. They were a close-knit group of friends and in their late fifties they had decided they would live together in their old age. So now, surely, they could make a new decision together. After all, they had so much in common. When they had become pensioners, the five of them had performed at hospitals and parish halls with their choir, The Vocal Chord, and they had all moved into the same retirement home. For a long time Martha had tried to get them to pool their funds and buy an old country mansion down in the south instead. She thought this option sounded much more exciting than a retirement home. She had read in the paper how old mansions were extremely cheap to buy and several of them even had moats.
‘If you get some unpleasant visitor from t
he authorities or your children want to get at their inheritance in advance, then all you have to do is raise the drawbridge,’ she had said in an attempt to convince the others. But when they realized that a mansion was expensive to maintain and required staff, they chose the Lily of the Valley Retirement Home. But their lovely retirement home had been renamed by the ghastly new owners and was now called Diamond House.
‘Did your evening snack taste good?’ Martha asked after Rake had drained the last drops of liqueur from his glass. He looked sleepy but had, of course, had time to put a rose in his lapel and tie a newly ironed cravat round his neck. He was somewhat grey by now but he still retained his charm and was so elegantly dressed that even younger women stopped to look at him twice.
‘Evening snack? Just something to keep hunger at bay. Not that it worked. The food here is worse than on a ship,’ he said and put down his glass. In his youth he had been at sea, but after going ashore for good he had trained as a gardener. Now he made do with a few flowers and herbs on the balcony. His greatest annoyance in life was that everyone called him Rake. True, he loved gardening and had once tripped over a rake and done himself an injury, but in his opinion that wasn’t a reason for the nickname to stick for the rest of his life. He had tried suggesting other nicknames but nobody had listened.
‘Why don’t you make yourself a cheese sandwich instead? Quiet food that doesn’t go “ping”?’ came a muttering from Anna-Greta, who had also been woken by the microwave and had found it hard to get back to sleep. She was an assertive woman who knew her own mind, and she was so tall and slim that Rake used to say that she must have been born in a drainpipe.
‘Yes, but you can always smell the delicious food and spices that the staff are cooking from up on the first floor. So that makes me hungry for more than just a sandwich,’ was Rake’s excuse.
‘You’re right; the staff should cook similar meals for us to eat. The food that we have delivered and served under cellophane wrapping isn’t very filling,’ said Christina Åkerblom as she discreetly filed her nails. The former milliner, who in her youth had dreamed of becoming a librarian, was the youngest of them all—only seventy-seven. She wanted to live a calm and pleasant life, eating good food and doing her watercolour painting. She did not want to be served junk food. After a long life in Stockholm’s poshest district, Östermalm, she was used to a certain standard.
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