“It means that the local council will either budget for a new soccer pitch, or budget for you to keep your job. We can’t afford to do both.”
It’s not a reasonable choice to give a human being.
One remarkable thing about communities built along roads is that you can find just as many reasons for leaving them as excuses to make you stay.
37
I must ask you to try to understand that it isn’t a reasonable choice to give a human being,” says Britt-Marie.
When she doesn’t get an answer, she explains:
“It’s just intractable, you have to understand. I want to ask you to try not to hold it against me.”
She still doesn’t get an answer, so she sucks in her cheeks and adjusts her skirt.
“It’s very neat and tidy here. Of course I don’t know if this makes any difference to you now, but I hope it does. It’s a very neat and tidy churchyard, this.”
Sami doesn’t answer, but she hopes he’s listening when she says:
“I want you to know, darling boy, I’ll never regret coming to Borg.”
It’s Saturday afternoon. The day after the local council gave her an unreasonable choice and the very same day that Liverpool are playing Aston Villa six hundred miles from Borg. Early this morning Britt-Marie went to the recreation center.
On Monday there’ll be bulldozers on the gravel outside, the council has promised. Kent forced them to promise, because he said otherwise he would not let them go to have their lunch. And so they promised and crossed their hearts that turf would be laid down and there would be proper goals with nets. Proper chalked sidelines. It was not a reasonable choice to give a human being, but Britt-Marie remembered what it was like losing a sibling, she remembered just how much one could lose oneself. With this in mind, she felt this was the best possible thing she could give someone who was every bit as lost. A soccer pitch.
She could hear voices through the open door of the pizzeria, but she didn’t go in. It was best that way, she felt. The recreation center was empty, but the door of the refrigerator was ajar. The rat teeth marks on the rubber seal of the door made it clear enough what had happened. The cellophane over the plate had been chewed away and every last crumb of peanut butter and Nutella on it had been licked clean. On its way out the rat had stumbled on Britt-Marie’s tin of baking soda, overturning it on the dish rack. There were tracks in the white dust. Two pairs, in fact. The rat had been there on a date, or a meeting, or whatever they called it these days.
Britt-Marie sat on one of the stools for a long time, with a towel in her lap. Then she mopped her face and cleaned the kitchen. Washed up and disinfected and made sure everything was spotless. Patted the coffee machine, which had once been damaged by flying stones; ran her hand over a picture with a red dot hanging at precisely the right height on the wall, telling her exactly where she was.
The knocking on the door didn’t surprise her, oddly enough. The young woman from social services standing in the doorway gave her the impression of being exactly in the right place. As if she belonged here.
“Hello, Britt-Marie,” said the girl, “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I saw that the lights were on.”
“Certainly not. I only came to leave the keys,” Britt-Marie informed her in a low voice, feeling like a guest in someone else’s house.
She held out the keys to the recreation center, but the girl did not take them. Just smiled warmly as she looked at the premises.
“It’s very nice here. I’ve understood that this place means so much to Vega and Omar, and I wanted to have a look at it so I could understand them better.”
Britt-Marie fumbled with the keys. Stifled everything welling up inside her. Checked several times that she had put all of her things in her handbag, and that she had really turned off the lights in the bathroom and kitchen. Galvanized herself several times to say what she wanted to say, even though her common sense was fighting tooth and nail to stop her.
“Would it make any difference if someone offered to take care of the children?” she wanted to ask. Obviously she knew it was preposterous. Obviously she did. Yet she had time to open her mouth, and then to say:
“Would it . . . I should just like your leave to ask whether . . . obviously it’s quite preposterous, certainly it is, but I should like to inquire about the whither and whether of whether it might happen to make any difference if someone . . .”
Before she got to the end of the sentence she noticed Toad’s parents standing in the doorway. The mother had her hands on her pregnant stomach, and the father held his cap in his hands.
“Are you the one who’s picking up the children?” Karl demanded to know.
The mother elbowed him softly in his side, and then turned in a very forthright manner to the girl from the social services.
“My name is Sonja. This is Karl. We’re Patrik’s parents; he plays in the same soccer team as Vega and Omar.”
Of course it is quite possible that the girl from the social services was intending to answer, but Karl did not give her the chance:
“We want to take care of the children. We want them to come and live with us. You can’t take them away from Borg!”
Sonja looked at Britt-Marie. Saw her hands, perhaps, so she crossed the room and, without any sort of prior warning, gave her a hug. Britt-Marie mumbled something about having washing-up liquid on her fingers but despite that Sonja kept hugging her. Something was rattling in the doorway. The girl from the social services began to laugh a little, as if this was her natural impulse every time she opened her mouth.
“The fact is I’ve had the same suggestion from both Ben’s mother and the uncle of . . . Dino . . . is that his name?”
The rattling sounds from the doorway intensified and were complemented by a person demonstratively clearing her throat.
“Those kids! Can live with me, huh? They’re like, what’s-it-called? Children for me, huh?” Somebody looked ready to fight about it with everyone in the room. She waved at the soccer pitch; there were still white jerseys hanging along the fence and the candles had been thoughtfully lit again earlier that morning.
“It takes, what’s-it-called? Takes a village to bring up a child, huh? We have a village!”
Sonja reluctantly let go of Britt-Marie, like you do with a balloon that you know will fly off as soon as you loosen your grip.
Karl wrung his cap and pointed both exactingly and fearfully at the girl from the social services. “You can’t take the children away from Borg, they could end up living with anyone! They could end up with a Chelsea supporter!”
By that stage, Britt-Marie had already put the keys to the recreation center on the dish rack and sneaked out behind them. If they did notice, and maybe they did, they let her go without a word, because they liked her enough to do that.
Afternoon turns to evening in Borg, quick and merciless, as if dusk is pulling a Band-Aid off the daylight. Britt-Marie kneels with her forehead against Sami’s headstone.
“My darling boy, I’ll never regret that I was here.”
On Monday the bulldozers are coming to Borg. Britt-Marie doesn’t know if she is religious, but she imagines that it’s good enough, the knowledge that God has plans for Borg.
She has grass stains on her tights when she walks on her own down the road through the village. The white jerseys are still there on the fence. New candles have been lit underneath. The recreation center is lit up by the glow of a television and she can see the shadows of the children’s heads inside. More children now than ever. A club more than a team. She wants to go in, but she understands this would not be appropriate. Understands that it’s best this way.
In the graveled parking area between the recreation center and the pizzeria are two quite gigantic old trucks with their headlights turned on. A group of grown men with beards and caps are moving about in the beams of light, huffing and puffing, groaning and shoving each other. It takes a good while before Britt-Marie understands they are playing soc
cer.
They are playing.
She continues down the road. Stands for a few heartbeats outside a modest little house with a modest little garden. If you didn’t know it was there you could easily walk past without paying any attention to it and, in this sense, the house has a great deal in common with its owner. The police car is not parked outside, the windows are not lit up. Once she’s absolutely certain that Sven is not at home, Britt-Marie sneaks up to the door and knocks on it. Because she wanted to do that once in her life.
Then she quickly moves off, keeping herself to the shadows, and walks the remaining distance to Bank’s house. The flower bed outside no longer stinks. The “For Sale” sign on the lawn has been removed. There’s a smell of fried eggs when Britt-Marie steps into the hall; the dog is sleeping on the floor, Bank is sitting in her armchair in the living room with her face pressed up so close to the TV that Britt-Marie actually wants to warn her that it might be harmful to her eyes, but on second thought realizes it would be better not to.
“Might one ask who’s playing?” she says instead.
“Aston Villa and Liverpool! Aston Villa are leading two to none!” says Bank, very agitated.
“Ha. So should I presume, then, that you also support Liverpool, like all the children seem to?”
“Are you mad? I support Aston Villa!” hisses Bank.
“Might I ask why?” asks Britt-Marie, because when she thinks about it more closely, it occurs to her that this is the first time she has ever seen Bank pay any attention to a televised soccer match.
Bank looks as if this is a preposterous question. Thinks for a moment. Then answers, grumpily:
“Because no one else supports Aston Villa . . . and because they have nice jerseys.”
Britt-Marie finds the second argument a touch more rational than the first. Bank lifts her head, turns down the volume on the TV. Takes a pull at her beer and clears her throat.
“There’s food in the kitchen. If you’re hungry.”
Britt-Marie shakes her head, clutches her handbag hard.
“Kent is coming soon. We’re going home. He’s driving his car, and I am driving mine, but he’ll drive in front of me of course. I don’t like driving in the dark. It’s best if he’s at the front.”
Bank gets to her feet with a lot of laborious cursing at the armchair, as if it’s the chair’s fault that people get older.
“Not that I want to get involved, but I think you should learn to drive in the dark.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” answers Britt-Marie into her handbag.
Bank and the dog give her a hand with the bags and the balcony box from upstairs. Britt-Marie washes up and cleans the kitchen. Sorts cutlery. Pats the dog behind its ears. A person on the TV starts yelling loudly. Bank disappears into the living room and comes back looking irascible.
“Liverpool just scored. Now it’s two to one,” she mutters.
Britt-Marie walks around the house one last time. Straightens rugs and curtains.
When she comes down into the kitchen she says:
“I’m not the kind to stick my nose in, but I could hardly avoid noticing that the ‘For Sale’ sign on the lawn has been taken down. I’d just like to congratulate you on getting your house sold.”
Bank laughs bitterly.
“Are you joking? Who would buy a house in Borg?”
Britt-Marie adjusts her skirt.
“It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption to make given that you’d just removed the sign . . .”
“Ah, I thought I’d stay on in Borg for a while, that’s all. I was thinking I’d go and have a word with my old man. I thought it might be easier now he’s dead, because he can’t interrupt me all the time.”
Britt-Marie wants to pat her on the shoulder, but she realizes it’s best to leave it. Not least because Bank has her stick within reach.
There’s a knock. Bank goes into the hall but then continues on into the living room without opening the door, because she knows who it is.
Britt-Marie looks around the kitchen one last time. Runs her fingers close enough to the walls to feel them, but not close enough to touch them. They are very dirty, after all. She hasn’t had time to sort them out. She would have needed more time in Borg for that.
Kent smiles with relief when she opens the door.
“Are you ready to go?” he says anxiously, as if he still fears she may change her mind.
She nods and grasps her bag. Then the commentator on the TV suddenly starts roaring like mad. It sounds as if someone has walloped him.
“What on earth is going on?” Britt-Marie exclaims.
“Let’s go now! Or we could get stuck in the traffic!” Kent tries, but it’s too late. Britt-Marie goes into the living room. Bank is swearing and hissing at a young man in a red shirt who’s charging about yelling until his face turns purple.
“Two to two, Liverpool has tied, it’s two to two,” she mutters, kicking the armchair as if it’s responsible for the situation.
Britt-Marie is already halfway out the door.
Kent’s BMW is parked in the street. He comes running and reaches out to her, but she pulls away. Of course, it’s not appropriate at all, a grown woman running as if she were a criminal fleeing justice. She stops herself by the edge of the pavement, her breath hot in her throat, and she turns around and looks at Kent with tears streaming down her face.
“What are you doing, darling? We have to go now,” he says, but his voice breaks because he can probably recognize very clearly what she’s doing.
Her skirt is creased, but she doesn’t adjust it. Her hair is almost untidy, as untidy as it is possible for Britt-Marie’s hair to be. Her common sense throws in the towel in the end, and allows her to raise her voice:
“Liverpool have tied! I think they’re going to win!”
Kent allows his chin to sink towards his chest. He shrinks.
“You can’t be their mother, darling. And even if you can, what’ll happen after that? When they don’t need you anymore? What happens then?”
She shakes her head. But defiantly, rebelliously, not with sadness and dejection. As if she’s fully intending to jump off an edge, even if only the edge of the pavement.
“I don’t know, Kent. I don’t know what happens after that.”
He closes his eyes, looking once again like a young boy on a landing, and then says in a quiet voice:
“I can only wait till tomorrow morning, Britt-Marie. I’ll stay with Toad’s parents. If you don’t come knocking on the door in the morning I’m going home on my own.”
He tries to say it in a confident way, even though he knows he has already lost her.
She is already halfway to the recreation center.
Omar and Vega see her before she sees them. She has already run past them when she hears them calling out irritably to her.
“Goodness grac . . . Liverpool have . . . well I certainly don’t know exactly what they’ve done, but I am under the impression that they’re going to win against these . . . whatever their name was. Villa something!” pants Britt-Marie, so out of breath that she sees stars and has to steady herself, in the middle of the road, by resting her hands on her knees. The neighbors must surely be wondering whether she’s started using narcotics.
“We know!” Omar joins in eagerly. “We’re going to win! You could see it in Gerrard’s eyes when he scored that we’re going to win!”
Britt-Marie looks up, breathing so heavily that she feels a migraine coming on.
“May I ask what on earth you are doing here in the middle of the road, then?”
Vega faces her with her hands in her pockets, shaking her head as if she has come to the conclusion that Britt-Marie is even slower than she’d thought.
“When we turn it around we want to see it with you.”
Liverpool never turn that match around. The final score is 2–2. It makes no difference and it makes all the difference in the world.
They have eggs and bacon in Bank’s
kitchen that night. Vega and Omar and Britt-Marie and Bank and the dog. When Omar puts his elbows on the table, it’s Vega who tells him to take them off.
Their eyes meet for a moment, and then he does as she says without protest.
Britt-Marie stands in the hall as they put on their jackets. She curls up her toes in her shoes and brushes their arms until they have to hold her hands to make her stop.
The young woman from the social services is standing on the lawn, waiting for them.
“She’s okay, she doesn’t like soccer but she’s okay,” says Vega to Britt-Marie.
“We’ll teach her,” Omar assures her.
Britt-Marie sucks in her cheeks and nods.
“I . . . the thing is that I . . . I just want to say that I . . . that you . . . that I never,” she begins.
“We know,” mumbles Vega deep into the fabric of Britt-Marie’s jacket.
“It’s cool,” Omar promises.
The children have reached the road when the boy turns around. Britt-Marie hasn’t moved at all, as if she wants to preserve the image of them on her retinas until the very last. So he asks:
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
Britt-Marie clasps her hands together on her stomach. Inhales for as long as she can.
“Kent will be waiting for me to knock on his door.”
Vega shoves her hands in her pockets. Raises her eyebrows.
“And Sven?”
Britt-Marie inhales. Exhales. Lets Borg bounce around inside her lungs.
“He told me he hopes it’s me every time there’s a knock on his door.”
The children look so small, illuminated by the streetlights. But Vega stretches, straightens her back, and says:
“Do me a favor, Britt-Marie.”
“Anything,” she whispers.
“Don’t knock on any door tomorrow. Just get in the car and drive!”
Britt-Marie stands on her own in the dark long after they have gone. She never said anything, has not promised anything. She knows it would have been a promise she could not keep.
The Fredrik Backman Collection: A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry, and Britt-Marie Was Here Page 89