The Squeeze

by Lesley Glaister

  He has a pee, flushes, squeezes a slime of pink soap into his hands, wipes the washbasin as requested and comes out to face the glare of the stewardess.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, and her eyes soften.

  ‘Sit down and fasten your seatbelt.’ She’s got a pretty curl to her top lip, that playful bossiness, like Christine, probably a grateful husband at home, yes, there’s a ring. Mats hopes the man appreciates her. Crochet Woman struggles up again and he folds himself up to get back in his seat just as the plane begins its descent. He fastens his seatbelt and listens to Crochet Woman, who takes this last opportunity to pour out problems with her daughter, who has children by three different men, all different colours – a ‘rainbow family’ she calls it – and would do better to think about making a stable home for them, rather than worrying about stables for alpacas.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, when they have landed and are awaiting the seatbelt sign. ‘It really helps to have a stranger’s ear.’ She touches his arm and he looks down at the back of her shiny worn and freckled hand. ‘Good luck,’ she says, ‘good luck with whatever it is that’s on your mind.’

  Mats

  He accelerates down the road between the silver trunks of birches, the heaps of decaying snow at the road’s edges, enjoying the power of his father’s Jag. Of course, Far had been reluctant to lend it, but Mor stepped in, shamed him for being mean.

  Mats can hardly believe he’s actually driving to the cabin to see Nina – and of course Lars, her new husband. He’d rung her almost as soon as he’d got up, as soon as he decently could after drinking coffee and eating the cinnamon cookies his mother had baked specially for him, so that the house, when he’d opened the door in the middle of the night, had enveloped him in a scent so childishly welcoming he’d almost wept. Breakfast of cookies, a childhood treat.

  First, Nina said she couldn’t see him this weekend, that she and Lars would be at the cabin decorating. She apologized, her voice, clipped, even, so familiar it made him ache. But then, thirty minutes later, she rang back to invite him down for Saturday lunch. Hell of a long way to drive for lunch, but there was no question.

  For years, he and Nina had done all the maintenance on the cabin together, weather-proofing, painting, bramble-clearing, wearing themselves out before evenings of wine and firelight and that deep soft bed. Summers, they could be naked, no one else for kilometers, they’d swim in the lake, barbecue fresh-caught trout, hike in the late sun. The cabin belonged to Nina’s parents but they gave up going there years ago, planned to sell it until Nina persuaded them not to and she and Mats took on the responsibility of its upkeep. Nina and Mats. And now Nina and Lars.

  How thoroughly you can be replaced.

  The road unspools like the memories it brings, the Roadhouse at the intersection, that steep bend, that tumbledown house, that massive oak tree and finally the long bumpy track, a right turn through a gate under the deep shade of old pines, over the bridge, until the peaked roof comes into sight, shining silver with frost, pocked with golden leaves. The car outside is unfamiliar – of course, why should she have the same car? A sporty black Audi – he can picture her in it.

  He pulls in beside it, gathering himself to face her again, and to meet the husband. As he looks at the door it opens and she steps out, pale and smaller than he remembers, a huge white shirt over jeans, the old yellow clogs that live in the cabin between visits. He gets out of the car and goes to her, hands her the bottle of wine his mother pressed on him before he left. He hugs her, feeling her piled up hair tickling his nose, smelling just the same, tickling just the same.

  ‘Welcome back,’ she says, grinning almost shyly. The shirt is splattered with pale blue paint. ‘Come in.’

  He takes off his shoes and follows her into the room, which seems smaller too, bright with the grey light that spills in through the windows. Oh it smells so familiar – he inhales old wood, smoke, candle wax. One wall is part painted and a stepladder with a tin of paint, brush balanced on the top, stands waiting. He looks round for Lars.

  ‘Lars is not here,’ Nina says. ‘I suppose I should wash my brush and get lunch.’ She looks him up and down. ‘You look like shit,’ she adds.

  ‘Thanks! You look great.’

  ‘Put the slippers on,’ she says. The slippers are an old pair of her father’s leather moccasins worn black and shiny inside. He supposes Lars must also wear them when he’s here.

  ‘Why no Lars?’

  ‘Something came up,’ she says vaguely. ‘Last minute thing.’ Is she avoiding his eyes?

  ‘I could finish painting that wall while you get the lunch,’ he offers.

  She nods approvingly. He takes off his coat, hangs it on the hook, there’s a scarf there he recognizes, his own scarf left there years ago, soft striped wool. He’ll take that when he goes.

  ‘Put this on.’ She pulls the enormous shirt over her head – he notices the wisps of transparent underarm hair – and stands before him slim as ever in her pale jeans and black vest. She goes into the kitchen area and opens the fridge; he pulls the shirt over his own, picks up the brush, begins to smooth paint onto the wooden slats. They have been well sanded; it’s pleasant work and soothing. How long since last he painted this wall: ten years?

  ‘How are your folks?’ she calls, running something under the tap. ‘Haven’t seen your Mor lately. Oh, she showed me pictures of your son. Thomas, isn’t it? Your image!’ They talk easily as he paints. This really could be his life, a parallel life, the other a dream, lately a nightmare. He would swap it all in an instant except, of course for Thomas. And he feels a tug of guilt for not thinking immediately of Arthur, who he does love, really loves, though it is not quite the same. To recompense he tells Nina about his stepson, how well they’ve bonded, what a good big brother he is to Thomas.

  By the time he’s finished the wall, the table is set with bread, salad, cheese, sild, wine glasses and the open bottle. She’s already sipping. He takes the brush outside to rinse it, goes into the damp and chilly outdoor bathroom to wash his hands, gazes at his face in the ancient spotted mirror. Does he really look so bad?

  When he comes back in she hands him his glass. ‘Skol,’ she says. It’s a white burgundy, both oily and dry and the merest sip piques his appetite immediately.

  ‘This is so strange,’ he says, as he sits down. ‘I mean, it’s so familiar to be here with you, yet . . .’

  ‘Yet,’ she agrees, smiling warmly, meeting his eyes.

  She tells him about her parents, who are both in poor health, her brother who works in Dubai and has three children now. She says little about Lars, he notices, and he says equally little about Vivienne. She describes her three nieces, shows him a photo – like a posy of pink and white flowers.

  ‘What about you and Lars?’ he asks.

  She puts a slice of pale Gouda on her black bread and takes a neat bite, chews, sips her wine. ‘This is good,’ she remarks, holding up her glass. ‘From your far’s cellar?’

  He admits it and she laughs. ‘Good old Jan.’ And then her face turns serious. ‘The marriage is good,’ she says, ‘but we’ve been trying for a baby and it seems there is a problem.’

  He hooks a curl of herring, stuck with strands of vinegared onion onto his plate. Cuts a tomato in half, though his appetite has gone. You didn’t want a baby with me, he wants to say.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ she goes on. ‘Lars’ sperm are immotile.’

  Ha! He butters a slice of bread. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘That’s why he’s not here,’ she adds.

  ‘Because of his sperm?’ Mats frowns, spears a morsel of fish and puts it in his mouth and chews the soft, sweet flesh, catches the tang of juniper.

  ‘Because this is my fertile time.’ She looks at him over her glass. ‘We know your sperm is motile,’ she says.

  He stops chewing. The fish is mush between his teeth.
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  ‘It makes sense,’ she says, then smiles, incongruously flirtatious, ‘and it would be nice, no?’

  With difficulty he swallows his mouthful. ‘I’m married,’ he says.

  ‘Of course. That has nothing to do with it. But you can help me out, help out me and Lars.’

  ‘Did you talk this over with him?’ Mats stares in some bemusement at her serious face.

  Her delicate shoulders rise in a suggestion of a shrug. ‘He wants a child.’

  ‘But did you say . . .’

  ‘When I’m pregnant he won’t ask questions.’ She sips her wine. ‘He wants no one knowing his problem. This way everyone is happy. He is tall and dark like you,’ she adds.

  Mats knows this; his mother sent him a photo of the wedding and he was struck by how much he and Lars share the same physical type. Except of course that Mats is no Olympic champion. He’s even started to get a belly from all the drinking after work. The room is warm, the stove belting out heat; her arms are slim, the shape of her small breasts, their upturned nipples – under her thin vest she’s clearly braless. He’s tempted, very tempted; the wine is in his blood and even stronger than that there’s the sense of being home almost, back in a world he understands.

  ‘Vivienne has no need to know – unless you choose to tell her,’ she says.

  That name in Nina’s mouth jolts him off track. Vivienne.

  He’s here to sort out one problem, not give himself another.

  ‘What is it?’ She looks at him curiously. ‘I have a problem and this is a solution. It makes sense, no?’

  ‘You didn’t want a baby with me,’ he says. He gets up from the table, carries his wine over to the sofa by the stove, and sits. The same old multi-coloured Afghan knitted by some ancestor, the same faded rag rug, singed here and there by sparks. Above the stove is a dark and primitive portrait of a woman – no one knows who she was – pine cones and wooden ornaments decorate the shelves along with books, candlesticks and oil lamps. All so familiar, the smell and feel, even the creaks in the floorboards.

  He’s been happier in this cabin than anywhere else in his life.

  ‘That was then and this is now,’ she says, coming to join him. ‘It’s a different circumstance.’ She chooses to sit not on the sofa beside him but on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest. ‘But OK. No problem. There’s another guy I can ask.’

  Mats looks at his watch. He should stop drinking; make coffee. In an hour or so it will be time to return to his parents’ – he promised to be back for supper. And he must spend time with them before his flight on Sunday night. The whole trip has been a waste of time; simply more expense.

  Her head is close to his knee and he leans forward to stroke the bundled hair. His fingers itch to touch the nape of neck. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t like to go to bed with you,’ he says. ‘Of course I would.’

  She turns, eagerly, and catches his finger. ‘Think of it like that then. Just sex between old friends. No strings.’

  ‘You seem very sure that it would work,’ he says.

  ‘It would, of course,’ she says.

  He snorts. She is so clear and logical and certain, so different from Vivienne, and even from himself. And she’s probably right too.

  ‘OK. And if it did work, you think I could just forget I had another child?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have a child,’ she says simply, ‘it would be mine and Lars’’.

  He takes his hand back, finishes his wine. ‘I’ll make coffee,’ he says, but doesn’t move, not quite yet. He didn’t sleep well last night, or at least he fell asleep easily in his old bedroom, but woke after an hour or so with his predicament raging. And now here was Nina expecting him to solve her problem – and in such a way!

  She gets up, fills the kettle and sits it on top of the black iron stove. It will take ages to boil, he knows. She opens the stove door and pokes the fire. A swarm of sparks flees up the chimney before she angles in another log and closes the door again.

  ‘So,’ she says, turning, folding her arms, gazing down at him. ‘You said you want to talk over a problem with me?’

  Wearily, he shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  She sits beside him, puts her hand on his knee, waiting.

  How long since I was here? he wonders, two years? Feels like ten. And feels like yesterday.

  ‘Mats?’

  Through the window he sees that the sky is tinged with apricot. He should not wait for coffee. He turns his head to scan the wall he painted. A good colour. Nina has excellent taste.

  ‘Mats?’ she says again. ‘You come all this way to ask me something and now you will not ask? What is the sense in that?’

  He groans and shakes his head.

  ‘Go on.’

  And after all, he might as well tell her. It can’t do any harm. It’s still possible that she’ll have an idea. She never likes to be defeated.

  ‘I’ve got into a situation where I need a lot of money fast,’ he says.

  ‘OK?’ She waits for him to elaborate.

  ‘That’s it,’ he decides, with a ripple of relief. ‘That’s it. In a nutshell.’

  ‘But you aren’t short of money,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve nothing spare. Not this much.’

  ‘But Jan . . .’ she starts and stops, knowing his father well enough to see the problem. ‘What for?’ she says, widening her eyes. ‘Something illegal? Really, Mats.’

  He says nothing. The kettle is fidgeting towards a boil.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About sixty million krone.’

  She makes an incredulous noise, jumps up and goes to the door. He hears her kicking off her clogs and pushing her feet into boots, pulling a jacket off a peg. The outer door bangs, frosty air gusts into the room and there’s the familiar squeak of the bathroom door. It doesn’t matter how much oil you put on, it will always squeak. Not his problem any more. He gets up to find the coffee pot and mugs; his hands remembering where everything is, new mugs he notices, feeling a bit affronted.

  As she comes back in she says, ‘OK. This is what we do.’

  ‘We?’

  She sheds her jacket, kicks off her boots, pushes her feet back into the clogs. The cold has rosied up her cheeks. There’s a little wine left in the bottle. She tips it into her glass, swigs it back and regards him with clear, bright eyes.

  ‘I’ve got money,’ she says. She takes her coffee and says not another word until they are side by side on the sofa, mugs in their hands, feet up on the low wooden coffee table, a position they have sat in so many times before. He can’t help but be aware of her body, the slim arms with their glint of hair, the light lemony scent of her. He’s prickling to know more, but she’s quiet.

  ‘You can’t have that much,’ he says, ‘and even if you do I couldn’t—’

  She blows on her coffee and sips. Time has flown. The room is darkening; it’s almost time to light the lamps. Outside the window the sky is hectic red and saffron streaks. He should drink the coffee very fast and go. Fly home. Put an end to this nonsense. Maybe he will go to the police. He could move the family to Norway first to get them out of danger. Or go and confess to his father and beg cravenly for a loan . . . His mind races, rearing against every idea.

  ‘Lars is loaded,’ she’s saying. ‘I have my own bank account, he doesn’t even look.’

  Hope is a small bright bubble that he swallows down.

  ‘You know my granny died last year? She left me her house. I just sold it. I have the money. I could lend it to you.’

  Mats turns to her; he puts down his mug, grabs her arm. ‘Mind,’ she says as her coffee slops onto her jeans. ‘Ouch.’

  She jumps up and goes to sponge the denim.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  She settles back beside him on the sofa.

  ‘Really?�
� he says.

  She nods, a little frown denting her forehead. She has fine lines round her eyes, the beginnings of corrugations on her forehead. She’s nearly forty, he realizes with a jolt, a few months older than he. Not a young woman though he still thinks of her as such. Thinks of himself as a young man. She’s five years older than Vivienne and as for . . .no, do not let the other into your mind. ‘I could go to the bank on Monday morning, have it transferred.’

  Inhaling deeply he closes his eyes. Can he possibly accept? Can he? Don’t rush this. Think, think hard. His lobe is sore from tugging, he folds his fingers together so tight the knuckles crack.

  If it could be true? If it could be this easy?

  Once this is sorted out he will never stray again in any way. He will be a loyal, faithful husband, a hard worker, a family man.

  He will. He will accept this loan, this lifeline, this safe hand reaching out to save him.

  Though God knows how he’ll ever pay her back.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, voice muted with gratitude and shame. He kisses her cheek. ‘Thank you,’ he says again.

  ‘It’s a sensible solution,’ she says with a little shrug.

  ‘Of course I’ll pay interest,’ he says. ‘Whatever you’d be getting from the bank. Though it might take me a while.’

  They both pick up their coffee and settle side by side again.

  ‘One condition,’ she says. ‘You must tell me what it’s for. It’s only fair.’

  She’s right, of course and anyway with the loosening of tension comes a sudden yearning to come clean, to let it out into the light. It helps to talk to someone not involved said Crochet Woman. But if Nina lends him the money, perhaps he is involving her?

  But anyway, he tells her the whole sad and sordid story.

  She listens silently, her face passive, then she turns to him. ‘So, you went to a prostitute. Then you felt bad about it so you screwed everything up, put yourself, the girl, your family in danger?’

  Shutting his eyes, he nods.

  ‘Nice work, Mats.’ She springs up, strikes matches to light the three oil lamps. Now the room is lit the sky disappears, there’s only the shine of the room reflected on the windows.