‘Come on. The coffee’s ready.’
She led Anders towards the house, and Simon lumbered after them. It wasn’t that his gait had actually altered, but next to Anna-Greta most people looked as if they were lumbering, regardless of age.
It was as if she lived only on clear, salty air, and when the day came for her to pass away, she would probably do exactly that. Just take a step to one side. Dissolve into a north-westerly wind as it whirled around the lighthouse at North Point, then out across the sea.
The table was laid in the parlour: anchovy sandwiches with egg, delicate biscuits and cinnamon whirls. The hunger which Anders had refused to acknowledge suddenly caught up with him. Simon pretended to be offended, and said to Anders, ‘I see, we’re in the parlour because you’re here. I have to sit in the kitchen. When I’m invited.’
Anna-Greta stopped and raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that a complaint?’
‘No, no,’ said Simon. ‘I’m just saying there seems to be some sort of preferential treatment going on here.’
‘If you stayed away for almost three years, I’d probably set the table in the parlour for you as well when you came back.’
Simon scratched his chin. ‘Well, perhaps I’d better do that, then.’
‘In that case I’ll walk straight into the sea and drown myself, as you well know. Sit down.’
Anders’ father had once said that Simon and Anna-Greta were like an old comedy double act. They had their set routines, polished over the years; by this stage they knew them so well they were no longer routines, but rather a basis for improvisation. You recognised the theme, but the words were different every time.
Anna-Greta watched Anders as he gobbled two sandwiches. She pushed the plate towards him.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any food down there in the cottage.’
Anders paused with his hand half way to the plate.
‘I’m sorry, I…’
Anna-Greta snorted.
‘Nonsense. That’s not what I meant. You help yourself. But we need to sort out some kind of arrangement.’
‘Wood,’ said Simon. ‘Have you got any wood?’
The problem was discussed, and it was decided that Anders would take home a bag of provisions, that he and Simon would go shopping the following day, and that Anders’ boat needed to be put in the water as soon as possible. He could help himself to wood if he ran short.
Anders excused himself and went out on to the porch for a smoke. He sat down on a stool, lit a cigarette and looked at Anna-Greta’s plum tree, weighed down with overripe fruit. He thought about Holger and about Holger’s wife, about the sea, which seemed to demand its dues at irregular intervals, about the anchor in the churchyard in Nåten, Maja.
It still seems strange…that there wasn’t…that no one…
When he went back inside, the table had been cleared and the coffee pot topped up. Simon and Anna-Greta were sitting at the table leaning towards each other, their heads close together. Anders stood quietly, watching them.
That’s what love looks like. It can happen. Two people can find one another, and then work together to sustain that amorphous, incomprehensible third party that has arisen between them. Love becomes an entity unto itself: the thing that determines how life is to be lived.
How does that happen?
Anders sat down on his chair, heavy and damp. Simon and Anna-Greta moved apart.
‘It’s nice to get a bit of fresh air, isn’t it?’ said Anna-Greta.
Anders nodded. Anna-Greta had never actually nagged him about smoking, but the barbs were many and varied.
‘I was thinking about something,’ said Anders. ‘About Holger. The fact that he thought it was me.’
Anna-Greta pursed her lips. ‘If you ask Holger, he’ll tell you it’s the Stockholmers’ fault that there’s no more cod.’
‘Yes. But it wasn’t that. It was more this business with…this business with Maja.’
Simon and Anna-Greta looked at him without moving a muscle. The atmosphere dropped like a stone, but Anders went on, ‘It seems strange that…when I think about it now…that nobody suspected me. Or Cecilia. I mean, that’s the obvious thing, isn’t it? Two parents, one child. The child disappears without a trace. It’s obvious the parents are guilty.’
Simon and Anna-Greta exchanged glances. Anna-Greta reached across the table and rubbed Anders’ knuckles. ‘You mustn’t think like that.’
‘That’s not what I mean. I know, you know that’s what happened. She disappeared. I still don’t understand how that was possible. But why…’
Anders held up his hands as if he were trying to grab hold of a ball that wasn’t there, something he just couldn’t grasp. He saw it all again. The faces, the tone of voice, the questions and the condolences. And nowhere…nowhere…
‘Why didn’t, why doesn’t one single person suspect me? Why does everybody seem to regard it as…something natural?’
Simon rested his head on one hand and frowned. He too seemed to have realised this was strange. Anna-Greta looked at Anders with an expression that was impossible to interpret. She said, ‘I imagine they have some respect for other people’s grief.’
‘But what about Holger?’ said Anders. ‘His wife drowns and Simon told me that lots of people suspected him straight away. Despite the fact that it’s sort of…natural, somehow. Drowning. It happens. But Maja…I mean, the police asked questions, of course. But nobody here. Nobody.’
Simon finished his coffee and put his cup down very gently, as if he didn’t want to break the silence. A gust of wind sent a flurry of aspen leaves whirling past the window.
‘It is rather strange,’ said Simon. ‘When you put it like that.’
Anna-Greta passed the coffee pot to Anders, pressing him to have another cup. ‘I expect it depends on who’s involved,’ she said. ‘Everybody here has known you since you were little. And everybody knows you wouldn’t do such a thing. Unlike Holger.’
Anders poured himself half a cup. He wasn’t convinced, he still thought it was hard to understand. But he said, ‘Yes. Perhaps.’
They talked about other things. About possible repairs at the Shack, what they would do if Anders’ outboard motor proved unwilling to start, about village gossip. Anders had no desire to get up and go home. There was nothing waiting for him but a cold house.
When there was a lull in the conversation he leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his stomach and looked at Simon and Anna-Greta.
‘How did you two actually get together? How did you meet?’
The question provoked a simultaneous grin from Simon and Anna-Greta. They looked at each other, and Simon shook his head. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Is there anything that needs doing?’ asked Anders. Neither Simon nor Anna-Greta could come up with anything urgent. ‘So won’t you tell me the story then?’
Anna-Greta looked out of the window. The wind was getting up. The sky was overcast and breakers had appeared on the grey water. A couple of raindrops hit the glass. She rubbed a hand over her forehead and asked, ‘How much do you know about your grandfather?’
Love in the archipelago
The story of the story
On the island of Domarö there are two very special bottles of schnapps. One is down in Nathan Lindgren’s old boathouse, and will no doubt remain there until his relatives finally get around to sorting through his belongings. The other is in the possession of Evert Karlsson.
Evert is almost ninety, and has kept that bottle for nearly sixty years now. No one knows what the cheap schnapps inside might taste like, and no one is going to find out either, not as long as Evert is alive. He has no intention of removing the cork. The bottle and its contents are much too good a story for that.
That’s why Evert has kept it: just so that when some stranger comes along who hasn’t heard the story before, he can take the bottle out of the cupboard and say, ‘Have you heard about the time when Anna-Greta smuggled schnapps in on the customs bo
at? You haven’t? Well, it was like this…’
And he tells the story as he strokes the bottle with his fingertips. It’s the best story he knows and, even better, it’s absolutely true. When he has finished he passes the bottle around, with strict instructions to hold it carefully and not to drop it.
People look at the clear liquid behind the glass, and nothing about it indicates that it came ashore under such remarkable circumstances. But this very liquid was part of the story that made Anna-Greta notorious throughout the entire archipelago. It is, as Evert says, the original schnapps.
Then he puts the bottle back in the cupboard, and there it stays, waiting for the next occasion when it will be brought out and the story will be told once more.
The smuggler king’s daughter
Things didn’t turn out the way Anna-Greta had expected at all. Erik seemed to have exhausted himself finishing the house and getting married. Once that was done he had no strength left over to set any new goals.
The summer went reasonably well, while the original flame of passion was still burning, but towards autumn Anna-Greta began to ask herself if Erik really had been in love with her. Perhaps it was just a project, like the house. Build house, install wife. Job done.
Hitler had invaded Poland in August, and there was feverish activity in the archipelago. The coastline was to be fortified, and the navy’s destroyers and transport ships were shuttling between Nåten and the islands around Stora Korset, which was the last outpost facing the Åland Sea. Two gun emplacements and a number of defence posts were to be built, and several young men on Domarö were involved in the preparatory work: using explosives to make cable trenches, building walls and putting up fences. The Russian attitude to Finland had hardened, and there was a great deal of uncertainty.
Erik had used all his savings to build the house, and the newlyweds limped along on Anna-Greta’s earnings as a seamstress, Erik’s casual employment at the sawmill in Nåten and contributions from their parents. It grieved Erik to have to accept money from his father, and when it came to Anna-Greta’s father…well, Erik came straight out with it one evening after Anna-Greta had come home with yet more money from him, ‘That money comes from criminal activity, you know.’
Anna-Greta was not slow to respond. ‘Better criminal activity than no activity at all.’
As the autumn progressed a chill grew between them, and when Erik’s old schoolmate Björn joined the teams building defences on the outer islands, Erik went with him. Anna-Greta didn’t hear a word from him for the first two weeks in October.
She went down to the jetty every time a boat came in, watched the soldiers streaming up to the shop or to their work on the building going on around the harbour, but no one knew anything about those who were working on the outermost islands. Instead she was harangued at length about the poor food, the terrible clothes, the misery in the barracks out on the islands.
After two weeks Erik came home. He did little more than change his clothes and hand over a little money, and then he was off again. Anna-Greta didn’t even manage to tell him she was expecting a child, the opportunity didn’t arise. But it was true. She was twelve to fourteen weeks gone, according to the midwife.
Anna-Greta stood with her hands resting on her stomach as she watched Erik climb into Björn’s fishing boat. She waved with her whole arm, and got a raised hand in response. Erik was with the boys, and didn’t want to embarrass himself. That was the last she saw of him.
Ten days later she received a letter. Erik had been killed in an accident while carrying out his invaluable work for the defence of his country. The body arrived the following day, and Anna-Greta couldn’t bring herself to look at it. A block of stone had come away from its mortar and fallen on Erik’s head as he was plastering the walls on the inside of the defence post.
‘He’s not exactly in peak condition, if you know what I mean,’ said the lieutenant who accompanied the body.
There was a funeral in Nåten and many expressions of commiseration and half-promises of help and support, but there was no widow’s pension from the army, because technically Erik had not been a member of the armed services.
Anna-Greta was nineteen years old, in the fourth month of her pregnancy and widowed. She lived in a draughty house in a place that was not her home, and she had no particular skills or expertise. It’s hardly surprising that at first it was a bleak and difficult winter for her.
Torgny and Maja had become as fond of her as if she had been their own daughter, and they helped out as best they could. Her father, too, did his best. But Anna-Greta didn’t want to live on handouts. She wanted to be independent, for own sake and for her child’s.
On top of everything else, the winter was unusually cold. The army drove across the ice in all-terrain vehicles until the cold became so severe that the engines froze up and they went over to horses. The soldiers who were on leave had to walk across the ice from the islands out in the archipelago.
One Saturday morning as Anna-Greta sat by her kitchen window, watching yet another lemming-like procession of frozen young men approaching the shore, she had an idea. There was a demand. She would meet it.
Maja had several sacks of wool in the hayloft in the barn. It would never be used, and she was happy to pass it on to Anna-Greta, who carried the sacks down to the kitchen in the Shack, the only room she used because she wanted to save on wood. She set to work. In a week she had knitted eight pairs of gloves in felted wool, the warmest you could imagine.
On Saturday morning, she positioned herself down by the jetty in Nåten and waited for the soldiers. The thermometer had read minus twenty-two that morning, and the cold hung in the air like a silent scream. She jumped up and down on the spot while she waited for the silent horde approaching from out in the bay.
The men’s faces were bright red and their bodies were like knots when they came ashore. She asked if their hands were cold. Only one of them managed a vaguely indecent comment in response, the others merely nodded silently.
She showed them her wares.
There was muttering among the group. The gloves certainly looked considerably more substantial than the pathetic pot-holders supplied by the army, but three kronor a pair? They were off into town to enjoy themselves, after all, the money was needed for other things. They would soon be sitting on a warm bus and thawing out as the memory of the cold melted away. Pleasure before usefulness, they agreed.
The ice was broken by the lieutenant who had accompanied Erik’s body a few months earlier. He dug out his purse and place three one-krona coins in Anna-Greta’s hand. Then he pulled on the gloves to see how they felt.
‘Incredible,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s as if they warm you up from the inside.’ He turned to his men. ‘We’re on leave now and I’m not going to start issuing orders. But take my advice. Buy some gloves. You’ll thank me later.’
Whether it was because they were used to obeying, or because he’d managed to convince them, it didn’t matter. Anna-Greta sold all her gloves. Despite their initial resistance, the men seemed very pleased with themselves as they tramped off towards the bus stop.
The lieutenant lingered behind. He removed his right glove and extended his hand as if they were meeting for the first time. Anna-Greta took it.
‘My name is Folke.’
‘Anna-Greta. Still.’
Folke looked down into the empty basket and pinched his nose. ‘Have you considered socks? Pullovers, maybe?’
‘Is there a shortage of those?’
‘Well, not exactly. We do have them, but perhaps they weren’t made for a winter like this, if you know what I mean.’
‘In that case, thank you for the tip.’
Folke put his glove back on and saluted. When he had gone a few steps towards the bus stop he turned around and said, ‘I’m on leave again in three weeks, anyway. If there’s a pullover for sale, I’m…an interested party.’
When Anna-Greta got back home, she tipped the coins out on to the table
and counted them. Twenty-four kronor, earned in the very best way, through her own work and her own idea. When she tried to share the money with Maja, her mother-in-law wouldn’t hear of it. However, she might be interested in coming in on the deal if demand grew too high.
And it did. By the very next Saturday the word had spread about Anna-Greta’s gloves, and she didn’t have enough stock to satisfy everyone who wanted to buy for themselves, or for comrades who were still out on the islands. Maja took over the gloves while Anna-Greta concentrated on socks. And a pullover, of course.
If someone’s alert, it only takes a hint to sniff the possibility of love. And that’s what happened. At least on Folke’s part. Once he had his pullover, he wanted socks as well. But they must be striped, so she had to make a pair especially for him. And then he needed a hat, of course.
Anna-Greta was bright enough to understand what was going on. Folke was kind and decent, and she did search her heart for signs of love, but found not a trace. There was nothing she could do about it. She played along as well as she could, but veered away from his tentative invitations.
Spring came and her belly expanded. The demand for warm clothing ceased, and Anna-Greta had to look around for something else. One day in April, a month before her due date, her father hove to at the jetty in a fishing boat she hadn’t seen before.
After patting her stomach and inquiring after her health, he explained why he was really there. He had become acquainted with a Russian sea captain, and there was the chance of a good deal if he could just sail out to the three-mile limit and collect a load.
‘But it’s a bit…difficult for me in these waters, as you’re perhaps aware.’
Oh yes, Anna-Greta knew. If a customs boat caught so much as a glimpse of her father, he would be searched immediately.
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