Dad buries his nose in her hair.
“We just didn’t want you to become one of those children who have two homes but feel like a visitor in both,” he says.
“Where’s that from?” Elsa snorts.
“We read things.”
“As smart people go, you and Mum are really insanely unsmart sometimes,” Elsa says, and then smiles. “But don’t worry about how it’ll be when you’re living with me, Dad. I promise we can make some things really boring!”
Dad nods and tries not to look puzzled when Elsa tells him they’re going to celebrate her birthday at his and Lisette’s house, because Mum and George and Halfie are still at the hospital. And Dad tries not to look stressed when Elsa says that she has already called Lisette and arranged everything. But he looks much calmer when Elsa tells him he can make the invitation cards. Because Dad immediately starts thinking about suitable fonts, and fonts have a very calming effect on Dad.
“They have to be ready this afternoon, though!” says Elsa, and Dad promises they will be.
They actually end up being ready in March. But that’s another story.
Elsa is about to jump out of the car. But since Dad already seems more hesitant and stressed than usual, she turns his stereo on so he can listen to his crappy music for a while. But no music comes out, and it probably takes two or three pages before it really sinks in for Elsa.
“This is the last chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone,” she finally manages to say.
“It’s an audiobook,” Dad admits with embarrassment.
Elsa stares at the stereo. Dad keeps his hands on the steering wheel, concentrating. Even Audi has been stationary for a while now.
“When you were small, we always read together. I always knew which chapter you were on in every book. But you read so quickly now, and keep up with all the things you like. Harry Potter seems to mean such a lot to you, and I want to understand the things that mean a lot to you,” he says, red-faced, as he looks down at the horn.
Elsa sits in silence. Dad clears his throat.
“It’s actually a bit of a pity that you get on so well with Britt-Marie nowadays, because while I was listening to this book it struck me I could have called her She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at some suitable opportunity. I had a feeling that would make you laugh. . . .”
And it is actually a bit of a pity, thinks Elsa. Because it’s the funniest thing Dad has ever said. It seems to set him off, as he suddenly becomes animated.
“There’s a film about Harry Potter, did you know that?” He grins.
Elsa pats him indulgently on the cheek.
“Dad. I love you. I really do. But do you live under a stone or what?”
“You knew that already?” asks Dad, a little surprised.
“Everyone knows that, Dad.”
Dad nods. “I don’t really watch films. But maybe we could see this Harry Potter one sometime, you and me? Is it very long?”
“There are seven books, Dad. And eight films,” says Elsa carefully.
And then Dad looks very, very stressed again.
Elsa hugs him and gets out of Audi. The sun is reflecting off the snow.
Alf is trudging about outside the entrance, trying not to slip in his worn-down shoes, with a snow shovel in his hands. Elsa thinks about the tradition in the Land-of-Almost-Awake of giving away presents on your birthday, and decides that next year she’ll give Alf a pair of shoes. But not this year, because this year he’s getting an electric screwdriver.
Britt-Marie’s door is open. She’s wearing her floral-print jacket. Elsa can see in the hall mirror that she’s making the bed in the bedroom. There are two suitcases inside the threshold. Britt-Marie straightens a last crease in the bedspread, sighs deeply, turns around, and goes into the hall.
She looks at Elsa and Elsa looks at her and neither of them can quite bring herself to say anything, until they both burst out at the same time:
“I have a letter for you!”
And then Elsa says “What?” and Britt-Marie says “Excuse me?” at the exact same moment. It’s all rather disorienting.
“I have a letter for you, from Granny! It was taped to the floor under the stroller by the stairs!”
“I see, I see. I also have a letter for you. It was in the tumble-dryer filter in the laundry room.”
Elsa tilts her head. Looks at the suitcases.
“Are you going somewhere?”
Britt-Marie clasps her hands together slightly nervously over her stomach. Looks as if she’d like to brush something off the sleeve of Elsa’s jacket.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” admits Britt-Marie.
“What were you doing in the laundry?”
Britt-Marie purses her mouth.
“I was hardly going to leave without making the beds and cleaning the dryer filter first, Elsa. Just imagine if something were to happen to me while I was away? I’m not going to let people think I was some sort of barbarian!”
Elsa grins. Britt-Marie doesn’t grin, but Elsa has a feeling she may be grinning on the inside.
“It was you who taught the drunk to sing that song when she was on the stairs, yelling, wasn’t it? And then the drunk grew completely calm and went to bed. And your mother was a singing teacher. And I don’t think drunks can sing songs like that.”
Britt-Marie clasps her hands together even harder. Nervously rubs the white streak where her wedding ring used to be.
“David and Pernilla used to like it when I sang them that song, when they were small. Of course they don’t remember that now, but they used to like it very much, they really did.”
“You’re not a complete shit, Britt-Marie, are you?” says Elsa with a smile.
“Thanks,” says Britt-Marie hesitantly, as if she’s been asked a trick question.
And then they exchange letters. On Elsa’s envelope it says “ELSA,” and, on Britt-Marie’s, “THE BAT.” Britt-Marie reads hers out loud without Elsa even having to ask. She’s good in that way, Britt-Marie. It’s quite long, of course. Granny has quite a lot to apologize about, and most people haven’t had anywhere near as many reasons over the years to be apologized to as Britt-Marie. There’s an apology about that thing with the snowman. And an apology about the blanket fluff in the tumble-dryer. And an apology about that time Granny happened to shoot at Britt-Marie with the paintball gun when she had just bought it and was “testing it out a bit” from the balcony. Apparently, one time she hit Britt-Marie on the bum when Britt-Marie was wearing her best skirt, and you actually can’t even hide stains with brooches if the stains are on your bum. Because it’s not civilized to wear brooches on your bum. Granny writes that she can understand that now.
But the biggest apology comes at the end of the letter, and when Britt-Marie is reading it out the words get stuck at the back of her throat, so Elsa has to lean forward and read it herself.
“‘Sorry I never told you you desserve much better then Kent. Because you do. Even if you are an old bat!’”
Britt-Marie carefully folds up the letter with the edges exactly together, and then she looks at Elsa and tries to smile like a normal human being.
Elsa pats her on the arm.
“Granny knew you’d solve the crossword on the stairs.”
Britt-Marie fidgets with Granny’s letter, as if at a loss.
“How did you know it was me?”
“It was done in pencil. Granny always said you were one of those who had to make all the beds before you went on holiday and couldn’t even solve a crossword in ink unless you’d had two glasses of wine first. And I’ve never seen you drink wine.”
And then she points at the envelope in Britt-Marie’s hand. There’s something else inside. Something that’s jingling. Britt-Marie opens the seal and leans her head over the opening, peering inside as if she assumes Granny in person will shortly be jumping out and roaring, “WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
And then she sticks her hand ins
ide and gets out Granny’s car keys.
Elsa and Alf help her with the bags. Renault starts on the first try. Britt-Marie takes the deepest breath Elsa has ever seen any person take. Elsa sticks her head inside on the passenger side and yells over the din of the engine:
“I like lollipops and comics!”
Britt-Marie looks as if she’s trying to answer but something is lodged in her throat. So Elsa grins and shrugs and adds:
“I’m just saying. In case you ever have any to spare.”
Britt-Marie seems to brush her damp eyes with the sleeve of the floral-print jacket. Elsa closes the door. And then Britt-Marie drives off. She doesn’t know where. But she’s going to see the world and she’s going to feel the wind in her hair. And she’s going to solve all her crosswords in ink.
But that, as in all fairy tales, is a completely different story.
Alf stays in the garage and keeps looking long after she’s out of sight. He shovels snow the whole evening and most of the next morning.
Elsa sits in Granny’s wardrobe. It smells of Granny. The whole house smells of Granny. There’s something quite special about a granny’s house. Even if ten or twenty or thirty years go by, you never forget how it smells. And the envelope with her last letter smells just like the house. Smells of tobacco and monkey and coffee and beer and lilies and cleaning agents and leather and rubber and soap and alcohol and protein bars and mint and wine and tires and wood shavings and dust and cinnamon buns and smoke and sponge cake mix and clothes shop and candle grease and O’boy and dishcloth and dreams and spruce tree and pizza and mulled wine and potato and meringues and perfume and peanut cake and glass and baby. It smells of Granny. Smells like the best of someone who was mad in the best possible way.
Elsa’s name is written in almost-neat letters on the envelope and it’s apparent that Granny really did her utmost to spell everything correctly. It didn’t go so very well.
But the first five words are: “Sorry I have to dye.”
And that’s the day Elsa forgives her granny about that.
EPILOGUE
To my knight Elsa.
Sorry I have to dye. Sorry I dyed. Sorry I got old.
Sorry I left you and sorry for this bloody cancer. Sorry I was a shit moor than a not-shit sometimes.
I luv you more than 10000 eternities of fairytails. Tell Halfie the fairytails! And protect the castel! Protect your frends because they will protect you. The castel is yours now. No one is braver and wyser and stronger than you. You are the best of us all. Grow up and be diffrent and don’t let anyone tell you not to be diffrent, because all superheros are diffrent. And if they mess with you then kick them in the fusebox! Live and larf and dream and bring new fairytails to Miamas. I will wait there. Maybe grandad as well—buggered if I know. But it’s going to be a grate adventure anyways.
Sorry I was mad.
I luv you.
Damn, how I luv you.
Granny’s spelling really was atrocious.
Epilogues in fairy tales are also difficult. Even more difficult than endings. Because although they aren’t necessarily supposed to give you all the answers, it can be a bit unsatisfying if they stir up even more questions. Because life, once the story has ended, can be both very simple and very complicated.
Elsa celebrates her eighth birthday with Dad and Lisette. Dad drinks three glasses of mulled wine and dances the “spruce dance.” Lisette and Elsa watch Star Wars. Lisette knows all the dialogue by heart. The boy with a syndrome and his mum are there, and they laugh a lot, because that is how you overcome fears. Maud bakes cookies and Alf is in a bad mood and Lennart gives Lisette and Dad a new coffee percolator. Lennart noticed that Lisette and Dad’s coffee percolator has loads of buttons, and Lennart’s is better because it only has one button. Dad seems to appreciate this observation.
And it’s getting better. It’s going to be fine.
Harry is christened in a little chapel in the churchyard where Granny and the wurse are buried. Mum insists on all the windows being kept open, even though it’s snowing outside, so everyone can see.
“And what will the boy’s name be?” asks the vicar, who’s also an accountant and a doctor and, it’s emerged, works a bit on the side as a librarian.
“Harry,” says Mum, smiling.
The vicar nods and winks at Elsa.
“And will the child have godparents?”
Elsa snorts loudly.
“He doesn’t need any godparents! He has a big sister!”
And she knows that people in the real world don’t understand that sort of thing. But in Miamas a newborn doesn’t get a godparent, newborns get a Laugher instead. After the child’s parents and granny and a few other people that Elsa’s granny, when she was telling Elsa the story, didn’t seem to think were terribly important, the Laugher is the most important person in a child’s life in Miamas. And the Laugher is not chosen by the parents, because Laughers are far too important to be chosen by parents. It’s the child who does the choosing. So when a child is born in Miamas, all the family’s friends come to the cot and tell stories and pull faces and dance and sing and make jokes, and the first one to make the child laugh becomes the Laugher. The Laugher is personally responsible for making it happen as often and as loudly and in as many situations as possible, particularly those that cause embarrassment to the parents.
Of course, Elsa knows very well that everyone will tell her Harry is too small to understand the whole thing about having a big sister. But when she looks down at him in her arms, the two of them know damned well that it’s the first time he’s laughing.
They go back to the house, where the people continue to live their lives. Once every other week, Alf gets into Taxi and drives Maud and Lennart to a large building where they get to sit in a little room and wait for a very long time. And when Sam enters through a small door with two large security guards, Lennart gets out some coffee and Maud produces some cookies. Because cookies are the most important thing.
And probably a lot of people think Maud and Lennart shouldn’t do that, and that types like Sam shouldn’t even be allowed to live, let alone eat cookies. And those people are probably right. And they’re probably wrong too. But Maud says she’s firstly a grandmother and secondly a mother-in-law and thirdly a mother, and this is what grandmothers and mothers-in-law and mothers do. They fight for the good. And Lennart drinks coffee and agrees. And Maud bakes cookies, because when the darkness is too heavy to bear and too many things have been broken in too many ways to ever be fixed again, Maud doesn’t know what weapon to use if one can’t use dreams.
So that’s what she does. One day at a time. One dream at a time. And one could say it’s right and one could say it’s wrong. And probably both would be right. Because life is both complicated and simple.
Which is why there are cookies.
Wolfheart comes back to the house on New Year’s Eve. The police have decided it was self-defense even though everyone knows it wasn’t himself he was protecting. That could also be right or wrong, possibly.
He stays on in his flat. The woman in jeans stays on in hers. And they do what they can. Try to learn to live with themselves, try to live rather than just existing. They go to meetings. They tell their stories. No one knows if this is the way they are going to mend everything that’s broken inside them, but at least it’s a way towards something. It helps them breathe. They have dinner with Elsa and Harry and Mum and George every Sunday. Everyone in the house does. Sometimes Green-eyes also comes. She’s surprisingly good at telling stories. And the boy with a syndrome still doesn’t talk, but he teaches them all how to dance beautifully.
Alf wakes up one morning because he’s thirsty. He gets up and has some coffee and is just on his way back to bed when there’s a knock on the door. He opens it, taking a deep slug of coffee. Looks at his brother for a long time. Kent is supporting himself on a crutch and looking back at him.
“I’ve been a bloody idiot,” mutters Kent.
�
��Yes,” mutters Alf.
Kent’s fingers grip the crutch even harder.
“The company went bankrupt six months ago.”
They stand there in craggy silence, with a whole life of conflict between them. As brothers do.
“You want some coffee, or what?” grunts Alf.
“If you have some ready,” grunts Kent.
And then they drink coffee. As brothers do. Sit in Alf’s kitchen and compare postcards from Britt-Marie. Because she writes to them both every week. As women like Britt-Marie do.
They all still have a residents’ meeting once every month in the room on the bottom floor. They all argue, as ever. Because it’s a normal house. By and large. And neither Granny nor Elsa would have wanted it any other way.
The Christmas holidays come to an end and Elsa goes back to school. She knots her gym shoes tightly and carefully tightens the straps of her backpack as children like Elsa do after the Christmas holidays. But Alex starts in her class that day and she is also different. They become best friends immediately, as you only can when you’ve just turned eight, and they never have to run away again. When they’re called into the headmaster’s office the first time that term, Elsa has a black eye and Alex has scratch marks on her face. When the headmaster sighs and tells Alex’s mum that she “has to try to fit in,” Alex’s mum tries to throw the globe at him. But Elsa’s mum gets there first.
Elsa will always love her for that.
A few days go by. Maybe a few weeks. But after that, one by one, other different children start tagging along with Alex and Elsa in the playground and corridors. Until there are so many of them that no one dares to chase them anymore. Until they’re an army in themselves. Because if a sufficient number of people are different, no one has to be normal.
In the autumn, the boy with a syndrome starts in the first year. When there’s a costume party, he comes dressed up as a princess. A group of older boys laugh and make fun of him, until he starts crying. Elsa and Alex notice this and take him outside into the parking area and Elsa calls her dad. He arrives with a bag of new clothes.
The Fredrik Backman Collection: A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry, and Britt-Marie Was Here Page 61