Memory of Love (9781101603024)

by Olsson, Linda

  She lifts Daniel out of his cot and feeds him some cake, and she eats some too. It looked better than it tastes. They play for a while. All is quiet in the apartment. It is time for Daniel to go to bed but he hasn’t had his milk yet. She changes him, puts him back in his cot and tiptoes to the kitchen. Mother is no longer there and the kitchen is dark. Marianne doesn’t turn on the light. She knows her way around and there is enough light from the hallway for her to heat the milk and fill the bottle. It is done quickly and she makes it back to the nursery without disturbing anything in the dark and silent apartment.

  Daniel has his milk while Marianne slips out to brush her teeth and change into her nightgown. Still no sounds, but she stops for a moment just inside the nursery door and listens. Then she climbs into the cot and lies down beside Daniel. He is asleep on his back and milk is dribbling from the corner of his mouth. She bends forwards and licks it off and gives him a kiss. Then she pulls the blanket up and tucks it tightly around the two of them. She lies with her nose in Daniel’s soft hair. She closes her eyes and eventually goes to sleep.

  I could see them suddenly so absolutely clearly and objectively. I was still at the kitchen table and I had not turned on the light. The house was in darkness, and it felt as if it were listening, waiting. The beach beyond the window seemed to emanate its own faint light. All else was darkness.

  Again, I pulled out the image from my memory. I watched the two small children clinging to each other. Because that is all they have.

  I had never seen them like this before. Not even when I first read about how other people described them.

  ‘The two terrified children, two and eight years old, were found clinging to each other in the nursery.’

  When we were just married, my husband and I made a trip to Sweden. It wasn’t my idea. I had never thought about returning. My early childhood slept in a sealed space in my memory and I had felt no urge to awaken it. I think perhaps my husband thought the trip would make me open up. Make me tell him more about my early life. But telling him would have forced me to tell myself. And I simply wasn’t able to do that. So the trip changed nothing. We behaved like any tourists and my memories stayed safely tucked away. We stayed in a small hotel on the southern heights, a part of the city that evoked no memories at all. We did walk past the building where I had lived, but I allowed myself no reaction as I pointed it out to my husband. He said he thought it was a beautiful building and I realised he was right. Stockholm was at its most beautiful too. It was late spring, a day or two before all the greenery would burst into leaf. The trees in the parks were enveloped in a frail shimmering veil of pale green. We walked down to Strandvägen and strolled slowly along the quay. The water smelled chilly but the sun glittered on the dark surface. We crossed the bridge to Djurgården. There was the Nordic Museum, the fairytale palace from my first few months in Stockholm, the time that in hindsight seemed to have been characterised by a kind of cautious hope. I was able to think about that time, but I felt no urge to enter the museum. It was no longer a fairytale palace but a pompous building that made me feel a slight unease. It evoked thoughts of delusional grandeur and national romanticism.

  A few days later we took the ferry to Åland. I could see how beautiful it was from where we stood and looked out over the sea. The bare archipelago lay in dormant anticipation, allowing the pale spring sunlight to play over the naked cliffs. The days of travel sickness that had made me dread travelling as a child were long gone, yet I felt my stomach cramp in familiar waves. I was relieved to leave Stockholm, but I was not looking forward to Åland. By then I regretted the entire trip.

  We picked up a rental car in Mariehamn and drove to my grandfather’s village in a little over an hour. The spring was not as advanced here as it had been in Stockholm, and despite the sunshine the air was bitterly cold. The sky was like glass.

  I found Grandfather’s house without difficulty. But as I stood in front of it I felt nothing. It had been repainted bright yellow and extended on two sides. It wasn’t Grandfather’s house. And it wasn’t mine. His house lived in my memory, but it was another house, in another time. Neither existed any more. I turned around and pulled my husband with me for a walk along the deserted road. We walked down to the sea and I felt the same there. I knew that I had walked here with my grandfather, yet it felt alien. It was another place now. We stood and looked out over the shallow inlet. My husband said he found this beautiful too. And it was, of course.

  On our way back to the car we passed several houses but saw not one person. Not until we reached the very last house at the edge of the village.There was a woman behind the gate. She smiled and greeted us, and we responded. When she asked if there was anything she could do for us I walked up to the gate and introduced myself. I explained why we had come. For an instant it was as if the old woman had been struck dumb, but then she clapped her hands together, cocked her head and looked at me more closely, with a gradually widening smile.

  ‘Is it truly Marianne?’ she asked.

  She opened the gate and invited us in. It felt impossible to decline. She insisted on giving us a cup of coffee and we followed her inside the house. Of the two of us, it was always my husband who was the social conversant, but he knew no Swedish and was of no help here. He smiled and pulled out our chairs. I don’t know what he was thinking. When the coffee had been served, the old woman sat down and the kitchen went silent. The only sound was the ticking of a clock on the wall. I had nothing to say.

  I looked more closely at the woman. I didn’t recognise her. But in my memories from my early childhood, there were only ever two people: my grandfather and me. There were no neighbours, no family. Just the two of us.

  ‘Your grandfather’s life was a sad one,’ she said finally. ‘I think we all felt that he died of a broken heart.’

  She leaned forwards and took my hand.

  ‘He was a good man, your grandfather. I want you to know that.’

  Something stirred deep inside and I slowly withdrew my hand. The woman let hers rest on her lap.

  ‘He adored her, you see. His beautiful Finnish wife. Who would have guessed there was such ugliness in that beauty? But she was a bad person. It is not right to speak ill of people, but there are some you can’t find anything good to say about. She had no decency. None. There is a name for women like her, but I won’t sully my mouth with it.’

  The old woman looked down, as if she regretted her words.

  ‘Good riddance, we all said when she disappeared with the baby. It was not his of course, but your grandfather would have been happy to have her and the child regardless. He was devastated. But he was left with the little girl and he had to pull himself together. For her sake. Your mother. As beautiful as her mother. Or even more so. A true beauty with her blonde hair and big blue eyes.’

  She looked at me and there was kindness and compassion in her eyes. This was not idle gossip. She genuinely wanted me to know. I listened. But I realised that I heard the sounds of her speech as much as the content. In her Åland Swedish dialect the words came out soft and thoughtful, and they affected me in a way the story didn’t. It was as if this language had found a crack in the emotional defence I had created. It penetrated, and it affected me painfully. I looked at my husband, even though I knew I could expect no help from him. All he could do was sit on his chair and look politely interested. But his very presence was a kind of support regardless, a reminder of who I was.

  ‘He did die of a broken heart, that was clear for all to see. Three broken hearts, in a sense,’ she continued. ‘The wife first. Then the daughter. And then the grandchild. You.’ She looked at me. ‘He lost all three of you.’

  I had nothing to say, and I didn’t trust my voice anyway. So I just sipped the hot, strong coffee and tried to suppress the feelings that threatened to come gushing forth.

  ‘Your mother was not a bad person. She was just … well, just too beautiful, I suppose. She wanted to be in the movies. And what she wanted, he gave her. He
wasn’t able to deny her anything. She was allowed to go overseas and study. Go to acting school. And when she came home pregnant he accepted that too. He didn’t just accept it – no, he loved that child even before it was born, I think. And I suppose he expected her to settle down here then. That she had come home for good. I think we all thought she had. She could have had a good life here. Found a husband, even though she had the child. But you see, there must have been some of her mother’s restlessness in her. And this place just wasn’t for her. He should have known it wouldn’t work. But he didn’t. So when she went to Stockholm and left the baby here, that’s when he became an old man. After that, he just lived for the little one.’

  She looked at me and nodded.

  ‘He lived just for you, that’s how it was.’ She nodded again as if she were talking to herself as much as to me. ‘But even that little life was to be taken from him.’

  I noticed that my husband was beginning to look a little restless, and I tried to make him understand that it was nearly over. But I didn’t translate the woman’s words.

  ‘I have often wondered what became of you, Marianne,’ she said, and patted my hand. ‘Such a sweet little girl, we all thought. You adored your grandfather. As he adored you. It must have been hard for you to be taken away like that. And your grandfather died just a year or so later.’

  She sighed and asked if we would like more coffee. When we declined, she slowly rose.

  ‘I am sorry, I’m just babbling on,’ she said. ‘But through the years I have often thought of you and wondered how you fared. Especially when I heard about the terrible things that happened.’

  She might have been hoping for a reaction from me. Perhaps she had questions she would have liked to ask, but if so, I ignored her unspoken queries. I just thanked her. For the coffee and for what she had told me. I made no comment. It felt impossible. As if something would break irretrievably if I did.

  We shook hands and the old woman gave me a spontaneous firm hug. Then she took a step back, holding on to my arms.

  ‘You might want to visit your grandfather’s grave?’

  When I nodded, she told me the way to the cemetery. Then she went back into the kitchen and returned with a small drawing showing where the grave was.

  We thanked her again and said goodbye.

  As we slowly drove past the house she was still on the front steps watching us and with her arm raised in farewell.

  I never returned to Åland.

  But I did go back to Stockholm when I returned from New Zealand. I was on my own then. Again it was spring, but this time it was overcast and chilly, with a few days of hard wind that brought sparse snow that felt like ice. This time I went to the Royal Library and sat down to read the newspaper articles.

  ‘The children, two and eight years old, were found clinging to each other in the nursery.’

  and

  ‘Eight-year-old girl witness to domestic drama that takes lives of both parents.’

  I didn’t know what to do with that image then. There was no way I could embrace the fact that I had been so little, just a small child.

  But as I sat there at the kitchen table in my now completely dark house, I finally saw it clearly. I could see her. A panic-stricken eight-year-old. The same age as Ika. How could I have placed such guilt with her? A little child.

  I stood up stiffly and went to the bedroom. I lay down fully dressed and closed my eyes.

  18.

  I woke with a start and a feeling of having overslept. But it was only just after six. My meeting in Hamilton wasn’t till eleven o’clock. I got up and had a long hot shower. Wrapped in a towel I then walked out onto the deck. The sun was shrouded in veils of pink and purple and was only just above the horizon. There was a light breeze and a sense of hope seemed to permeate the air. As if it wasn’t just the beginning of a new day, but a new time.

  I had just sat down to breakfast when George rang. We agreed that I was to come over when I got back from Hamilton. Meanwhile George was taking Ika fishing.

  Most roads become mere routes of transportation if you use them often, but for me none of the local roads had done that. Almost always, I experienced my travel with open eyes, never ceasing to marvel at the landscape. Partly perhaps because I often took narrow secondary roads that required me to drive slowly. But mostly because I still had not become one with the place. I could still see it. This morning I had allowed myself plenty of time. I drove slowly through the softly undulating landscape, so sweetly smiling and inviting. It was difficult to believe that the rounded hills were probably volcanoes. That the pastoral grass was just a thin skin over violent forces that could in an instant erase all that man had painstakingly created.

  I had over an hour to kill when I parked in Hamilton so I decided to go for a walk. I had spent almost my entire childhood and youth in an urban setting, yet even this small city felt overwhelming to me now. I realised that I no longer instinctively moved in the right direction when I met people; and several times I awkwardly dodged this way and that. The whole city seemed embedded in greenery but on foot I never reached a park or open field, and I was relieved when it was time to make my way to the meeting.

  The woman I met seemed to be between forty and fifty. She had short dark hair, no makeup and she was discreetly dressed in a simple tan dress and green cardigan. She greeted me and we sat down, she behind her desk and I opposite her. A frosted glass partition separated her space from the surrounding open-plan office. It was simple and uncluttered, matching the woman well. The only slightly surprising item was a large, beautiful painting of a marine landscape on the wall behind her.

  She introduced herself as Claire Peters, and she opened the conversation by saying that she was not really the person I needed to meet. She would not be directly involved, if it did indeed become a matter for CYF.

  ‘But George Brendel is a good friend and he asked if I would meet with you informally,’ she said. To my surprise she blushed, just as George had, and the blush spread over her pale face and down her throat.

  ‘Perhaps you could begin by giving me the background,’ she continued.

  I pulled out my folder with my paper and the pictures and put it on the desk.

  Then I began to tell her my story.

  When I finished she rubbed her forehead with her fingers, as if trying to clear her thoughts.

  ‘I assume you know that we have routines that are enshrined in law for handling matters like these. There are no exceptions. The fact that I know George and that he knows you makes no difference, of course. And since you are a party to this matter I am not able to make you privy to any information we might have about the family.’

  She paused briefly.

  ‘Perhaps it would be helpful if I described to you in general terms how we go about an investigation of this kind? Or perhaps you are already familiar with the process?’

  ‘Well, you’d think I would know, wouldn’t you? Considering I am a GP. And in a sense I do. I’m aware that I have managed this situation completely wrongly from the start. I allowed my emotions to take over. So I guess I would benefit from hearing how I should have handled it.’

  She smiled briefly, then fixed her eyes steadily on me for a moment and I felt as if there was something she was trying to convey. But it might just have been my imagination.

  ‘Believe me, I understand where you are coming from. But in emotionally charged situations it often pays to remain dispassionate, and stick to the established rules and protocols rather than act impulsively. On the other hand, there are situations where impulsive intervention is the difference between life and death.’

  Once more, I felt as if her eyes were trying to convey a message that she for some reason was unable to express in any other way. I was not sure how to interpret it.

  ‘We are humans, with a natural instinct to try and protect the vulnerable. Our instinct tells us to act when a life is in danger. Without it, we would not be human. You are a doctor, but you are a human
being first.’

  She paused and looked at me again.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything about this family, but I can assure you that what you have done, though highly irregular, may have saved the boy’s life. It will be taken into account when the case is investigated. And when decisions are made.’

  Suddenly I felt tired. It was as if the tension that had held me together was starting to give.

  ‘We will need to inspect the home, of course. Make our own assessment of the situation. If it is deemed necessary to remove the child immediately, we rely on approved family homes where he would be placed in the interim. If it is later decided that he needs to be placed long term, we would try to find a suitable family member who is willing to take over his care. Maintaining family bonds is a priority for us. Naturally, it’s not always possible to place the child with a family member, but we always strongly encourage ongoing contact with the family. I am sure you understand that this is a process that cannot be rushed. It takes time.’

  ‘How long?’ I asked, though I knew it was a pointless question.

  ‘It’s impossible for me to give you an answer. First, from what you have told me it sounds as if the grandmother is not contactable. I don’t know how long it might take us to locate her. On the surface of it, it does sound like she has abandoned the child. We often have difficulties tracing family members, especially when they are not local. When we do, we will schedule a meeting with all concerned. The hope is that it will be possible to reach a unanimous decision. But if the caregiver is unco-operative it might be difficult. Sometimes it becomes a matter for the court.’