“Oh, all right, get me a cup of coffee then,” I hear Therese snap cheekily, as if she’s doing the assistant a favor and not the other way around. Out of the corner of my eye I see her shuffling over to the armchair. When she gets to it she lets go of the blue walker, then she drops the newspaper onto the little table next to the chair, turns around, places her hands on the arms of the chair and lowers herself slowly and shakily into it. Therese’s arms are as weak as mine, so they are, she’s as frail as me, and now she’s sitting there in that chair, gazing sidelong at the floor and gasping for breath.
“I soon won’t be able to do anything,” she says. “It’s an effort just getting down into a chair so you can take it easy,” she says. “It’s all going to rack and ruin,” she says. I put down my coffee cup and look at her. “No, it’s no joke getting old,” I say. “But we have to try and count what blessings we do still have,” I say. “It makes it a bit easier to cope with the bad bits,” I say, and I look at her and smile, but she still doesn’t smile back, she just stares at me with those beady little eyes of hers. She has these black, beady little eyes set deep in her head and she’s glowering at me, muttering something. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can read her lips, stupid fool, she’s calling me a stupid fool, ah well, never mind, I’ve been called worse things.
I pick up my coffee again, it’s steaming hot and I blow on it, glancing across at Therese as I do so. I see her pick up the paper and lay it in her lap. She licks her thumb, licks her index finger, then she turns the first page and starts to read. And the new assistant comes back in with her coffee, she’s wearing white sandals with air holes in them and the soles stick to the floor and make a sort of soft squelching sound every time she lifts her feet.
“Here you are, Therese,” the new assistant says, putting the tray down on the table. Then she straightens up and smiles so pleasantly. And Therese scowls at the things on the tray. “Hmm,” Therese says, “well, you managed to keep some of it in the cup, I see,” she says. Oh dear, oh dear, that Therese, now she’s gone too far, now she’s gone way over the score. I mean, really, what a way to behave, how can she be so rude and tactless. I fix my eyes on the table, set my coffee cup down on the saucer with a little chink and gaze at it, a white cup with a light brown band round the rim.
“What was that?” I hear the new assistant ask. “Oh, you heard me,” I hear Therese say and out of the corner of my eye I see the new assistant looking at Therese, waiting for her to repeat what she just said, but Therese just leans greedily over her coffee, she can’t be bothered repeating anything. And the new assistant turns and starts to walk away, and I raise my eyes and look at her, smile at her and shake my head despairingly—we can’t have the new assistant thinking everybody in here is as grumpy as that one, they do such a wonderful job, the staff here, and I don’t want them to think we’re all as ungrateful as Therese. “Dear, oh dear,” I chuckle, shaking my head, and the new assistant looks at me and smiles. “Yes, you can say that again,” she says and she gives a little chuckle as well, then she walks past me and out of the dayroom.
Oh, well, we can’t all be blessed with a good sense of humor, we’re all different, all cast in different molds and we just have to accept that and take into account. And anyway, it can’t be all that easy being Therese either, that’s for sure. I mean, she’s the only one in here who doesn’t get any visitors. My own Odd Kåre’s hardly beating a path to the door every day either, but he does pop in now and again, so he does. He hasn’t been in to see me today, though. It’s his day off so I thought he might, but something must’ve come up. Ah well, these things happen.
I take a sip from my cup, dip the dry almond tart in the coffee to moisten it, pop the tart in my mouth and take a little bite. I smack my lips and gaze through the glass doors and out into the entrance hall, and there’s Sylvia’s son coming in with his wife and daughters. I feel my spirits lift a little when I see them, they’re so nice to speak to, both Sylvia’s son and his wife, they’re always cheerful and smiling, it fairly brightens things up having them here. They walk past and the two adults nod and smile at me and I smile back. “Good afternoon, Paula,” they say. “Oh, good afternoon,” I say, looking at them, and they turn and stroll over to Sylvia.
“Sylvia’s asleep,” I say.
“Oh, is she?” her son says, turning to me and smiling. “Don’t tell me she slept through afternoon coffee. That’s not like her,” he says. “And with such great cake and all,” he says, nodding at my plate. “Ah, it’s not that great,” I say softly, putting a hand up to the side of my mouth and whispering from behind it. “It’s a bit dry,” I whisper, then I give a quick shrug, purse my lips and giggle at my own daring and both he and his wife laugh and say, “Oh dear.” “You should be in charge of the baking, Paula,” Sylvia’s son says. “They’d like that in here, I’ll bet. Even Mom might put a little bit more meat on her bones then,” he says. “Oh, no,” I say. “My baking days are over,” I say. “Ah, I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he says, smiling again, then he gives a quick nod to Therese, but she just glares at him, she doesn’t smile back.
I take another bite of my almond tart and put it back on my plate, then I glance across at Sylvia’s son, see him put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I’ll go and get us some coffee,” his wife says and he smiles and nods at her then he gives Sylvia a gentle shake. “Mom,” he says. “Wakey-wakey.” Just then somebody starts plonking the piano behind me. I look around and there are the two little girls, sitting on the piano stool. “My, aren’t you clever, you two,” I say to them and they turn and look at me, and they smile at me and say thank you, then they turn away and carry on playing. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” isn’t that what they’re playing? Yes, of course, that’s what it is. I face front, look at their father again. He’s still trying to wake Sylvia, still has his hand on her skinny shoulder, shaking her gently. “Such well-mannered children you have,” I tell him and he looks across at me and smiles. “Do you think so?” he asks. “Ah, well they must’ve got something from me then,” he says laughing, and I feel my spirits lift. “You know, I think they have,” I say, laughing back at him.
Then he lays his hand on Sylvia’s brow, runs it over her thin, gray hair. “Right, Mom, you’ve got to wake up now, it’s coffee time,” he says. And Sylvia wakes up. She doesn’t open her eyes straight away, though, she sits for a moment opening and closing her mouth. It must be all dry after her sleeping so long with it hanging open, so she’ll be trying to work up some saliva to moisten it. “Wakey-wakey, Mom,” he says again, “it’s coffee time,” and now Sylvia opens her eyes and looks at her son. After a moment she seems to come to, then her face lights up in a big smile.
“Oh, it’s yourself,” she says. “Yes,” he says. “The kids kept asking when we were going to see Grandma,” he says. “So I thought we might as well drive up a little earlier than usual. We didn’t mean to disturb your afternoon nap, though,” he adds. “Oh, don’t be silly,” Sylvia says, and then she catches sight of her grandchildren. “Well, hello,” Sylvia says. “Hello, Grandma,” the girls say, smiling at her, and they slide off the piano stool and come over to her. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” Sylvia says.
“That’s two lovely granddaughters you’ve got there, Sylvia,” I say, but Sylvia’s so taken up with the two little girls that she doesn’t even notice me. I turn to her son. “How old are they again?” I ask, and Sylvia’s son looks at me and smiles. “Six and eight,” he says. “Is that all?” I say. “But they’re so good at the piano?” I say. “Good heavens,” I say, and I look at the two little girls coming across the dayroom. “So are you going to be pianists when you grow up, do you think?” I ask, smiling at them. The younger one just walks straight past me and over to Sylvia, but the older girl looks at me and slows down a little. “I don’t know,” she says, almost coming to a complete halt and smiling politely at me. “Well, it’s bound to be something to do with music anyway,” I say. “Don’t you think
?” I ask. “I don’t know,” she says again. “No, of course not,” I say. “You’ve got plenty of time to decide what you want to do,” I say, and she nods, still smiling politely, looks at me for a moment then turns and runs over to Sylvia, and Sylvia stretches out an arm and wraps it around her.
“Ah, kids, aren’t they wonderful,” I say, smiling at Sylvia’s son. And he turns to me and smiles back. “Oh, they are that,” he says. “They’re a lot of work, but you get so much in return,” I say. “Oh yes, it’s worth it all right,” he says. “Yes, isn’t it just,” I say. “And the best children in the whole world, every single one of them,” I say, laughing. “Yes, that’s how it goes,” he says, smiling back at me and then he turns to Sylvia.
“I have a son,” I say. “Odd Kåre Hindmo. Do you know him?” I ask, looking at him and smiling, and he looks at me again and smiles back. “I know who he is, yes, but I don’t know him personally,” he says. “One son,” I say, “and three grandchildren.” “Oh, right,” he says. “Three lovely grandchildren,” I say. “Yes, I’m sure they are,” he says. “Oh yes, and the oldest one, she’s doing so well at school,” I say. “Oh, really?” he says. “Oh yes, she’s getting such good marks, you know,” I say. “Oh, that’s great,” he says. “Oh, yes,” I say. “That girl could be anything she wants to be in life,” I say. “Uh-huh,” he says, still smiling, his voice a little higher than usual. “I don’t know where she gets it from, but it’s not from me, anyway,” I say. “Ah, I’m not so sure about that,” he says, raising his eyebrows and giving a little laugh, and I look at him and give a little laugh too. I’m just about to tell him a little bit more about my grandchildren, but I don’t get the chance because just then his wife comes in with the new assistant right behind her, they’re each carrying a tray and Sylvia smiles and says hello to her daughter-in-law and her daughter-in-law smiles back at her and says hello too and I look at them and smile.
“Just take the trays into my room,” Sylvia says, nodding in that direction. “Oh?” says the daughter-in-law. “Yes,” Sylvia says. “But won’t it be a bit of a squeeze with all five of us in there?” her daughter-in-law asks. “Yes, but we’ll get no peace here,” Sylvia mutters with a sour glance at me. And her son and daughter-in-law turn to look at me and the new assistant looks at me too, suddenly they’re all looking at me and everything goes very quiet, and after a moment I feel my cheeks start to burn—oh, no, I’ve done it again, oh, I have, haven’t I, I’ve made a nuisance of myself. Sylvia’s quite right, I wasn’t giving them any peace, I was talking too much and making a nuisance of myself. I don’t mean to, but I do. It’s just that it’s so nice when people come to visit and then I get carried away and start talking.
“Oh, I thought we were perfectly all right out here,” Sylvia’s son says, raising his eyebrows and shrugging. He realizes this is awkward for me, so he’s pretending not to know what Sylvia’s talking about. He’s so nice and considerate, that man, and now he’s trying to make this a little less embarrassing for me. “Oh, well,” he says, “we’d better just do as we’re told, I suppose.” And he looks at me and gives a little laugh, and I look at him and give my faint smile.
I pick up my cup and take a little gulp of my coffee, glance across at Sylvia and her family as I put the cup down again. They’re going to talk about this the minute they get to her room, I know they are and I can hardly blame them, I mean I didn’t give them any peace, I tried to steal Sylvia’s visitors and Sylvia has a perfect right to call me a nuisance and a pest and she will, I know she will, and once she’s said that they’ll start talking about how seldom they see Odd Kåre and the rest of my family up here. No wonder Paula’s so desperate for company when she hardly ever has any visitors, I bet that’s what they’ll say. And that’s not altogether untrue either, I don’t have many visitors, almost as few as Therese, and maybe that’s the main reason why I’m sitting here with my cheeks burning. If nobody comes to visit me it must be because I’m not worth visiting, and maybe that’s the most embarrassing thing about all of this, the thought of being so worthless. I don’t know.
Then suddenly I hear Sylvia say: “No, actually, let’s just stay here. Then the kids have more room to run about.” A moment later who should I see coming along the corridor but Odd Kåre. Well, well, if it isn’t Odd Kåre, so he came after all, well I never, talk of the devil and he’s sure to appear. Well, isn’t that nice, oh, I’m so happy. I see now why Sylvia suddenly changed her mind and decided to stay here. She knows I won’t be bothering them now that I’ve got a visitor of my own, that’s why it doesn’t matter so much whether they move into her room.
I look at Odd Kåre and smile. But who’s that with him, who’s that right behind him, is that Johnny? Well, I never, it is, oh my, isn’t that nice, what a lovely surprise. I look at Odd Kåre and Johnny, and I smile at them, but oh, my heavens, Johnny’s getting to look so like his dad, he’s put on a bit of weight and his cheeks have got plumper since the last time I saw him, he’s really starting to fill out now, seventeen and the spitting image of his father. Well, I never. And seventeen already, would you believe it, my, my, how time flies. It seems no time since he was born, but to think that I should have visitors after all, well, isn’t that just lovely. And now they’re coming into the dayroom.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello there,” Odd Kåre says.
“Hello, hello,” says Johnny.
Otterøya, July 7th, 2006
Dear David,
My name is Harald Hansen. I am a retired headmaster and I have been asked to write this letter on behalf of Paula Hindmo, former assistant nurse, now retired and living at Otterøya residential care home. Everything that Paula tells me will be treated in the strictest confidence and all information will be deleted as soon as this letter has been sent to you. Paula has made me swear to this. The only exception to this being if anything illegal should come to light in the course of our conversations. In which case naturally I reserve the right to inform the police.
As former headmaster of Otterøya Primary and Lower-Secondary school I remember you myself, and since I also knew your mother and your grandfather some of my own memories may well find their way into this letter. It’s also quite possible that I will ask some of the other care home residents to tell me what they know of you and your family. Otterøya is a small place, you see, where everybody knows everybody else, so I’m sure a good few of them will have something to contribute.
Essentially, though, this is Paula’s letter.
Paula worked as an assistant nurse in the maternity ward at Namsos Hospital from 1955 to 1981 and one of the first things she said to me once we had settled ourselves in her room was that she and the midwife were the very first people to see you and that they were the very first people you saw. She seemed quite moved when she told me this. “Imagine that, Harald,” she said, “that there could be such a first time. It’s almost like imagining that there was once a very first spring on this earth.”
You two would see one another many, many times after that because Paula and her family lived less than five minutes away from where you and your mother and your grandfather lived and during the years before you and Berit moved to town she and your mother were very close. Paula had always known your mother, but she was nearly seventeen years older than Berit so it’s not surprising that they didn’t become bosom friends until later, once your mother was a grown woman—in fact Paula thinks it must have been two or three years after you were born.
They first became friends through the sewing circle to which they both belonged. A bunch of the local women used to get together at Dagny Pedersen’s house on one or two evenings every week: Dagny had her own weaving workshop in the basement and they could sit in peace down there catching up on the latest gossip while they sewed, embroidered, knitted or wove. To begin with, Paula says, it was Dagny who was closest to your mother. She was only seven years older than Berit and every bit as fond of going to parties and having fun as she was, and even thoug
h there weren’t as many nights out in Årnes and Devika after Berit had you to look after they did still manage the occasional one, just the two of them, all done up and giggling with half-bottles of moonshine in their handbags.
But it didn’t take many meetings of the sewing circle for Paula and Berit to discover that they were two of a kind. You see they both had a darkness inside them that neither Dagny nor any of the other women had, as Paula herself put it. Take Dagny, for example. She had been the baby of her family, a little afterthought. Not only that, but she had been born into a pretty well-to-do home. All of this had endowed her with the confidence and the free-and-easy nature so typical of all privileged individuals. She knew no fear, she had been a sheltered, much-loved child so she was never afraid of being rejected, she took it for granted that people would like her and so she could allow herself to be totally frank about just about everything with just about everybody.
With Paula it was the exact opposite. While Dagny could reveal the most intimate details of her own life without a blush, Paula would almost always ask herself whether the others would be interested in what she had to say. And since very often the answer to this was no, she tended to be the quiet one of the group, the one who listened attentively to the other women’s stories and confined herself to responding with a little comment or quiet laugh.
Let it be said right away that Berit was not like that. Quite the reverse, really. She was outgoing, pert-tongued, almost a little too outspoken at times, and to anyone who didn’t know her all that well she seemed more like Dagny than like Paula. But unlike Dagny, in Berit’s case this persona was more of a mask. Berit hid in the spotlight, Paula says, and it was when Berit realized that Paula had grasped this that the friendship between these two really began to grow. The bond between them wasn’t formed through long heart-to-hearts or by the confiding of those secrets which, it would later transpire, they both harbored. No, all that came later. They felt a rapport before they had so much as said a word to each other, or at any rate before they had ever spoken one to one. There had been something about the way they looked at one another when they were sitting there in Dagny’s weaving room, Paula says. It was as if they saw themselves mirrored in each other’s eyes. Berit might have been flighty and outgoing, but she had these dark eyes full of gravity and depth, eyes that said she knew something nobody else knew. What this “something” might be Paula had no idea as she sat there with her embroidery or her knitting, but that it was there at all, that your mother had it in her, was enough to tell Paula that this was someone to whom she could really talk, someone who would understand.
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