Memory of Love (9781101603024) (9 page)

‘What do you mean?' she asked. ‘Those strange noises he makes?'

‘I don't know what you mean by strange noises,' I said. ‘He plays the piano when he is at my house. I believe he is gifted.'

Her laughter startled me. It was shrill and hard and it ended as abruptly as it had started.

‘Piano?' she said incredulously.

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I think he is exceptionally musically gifted. He may need a better teacher than me soon, but for now I still have things to teach him.'

The awkward silence felt precarious. We were poised there; the scales could tip either way. It seemed that our thoughts had taken off in different directions – the moment of intimacy and understanding had passed. She kept looking at me with that expression of utter suspicion.

‘It's only for as long as you want,' I said, bending forwards and resting my elbows on the table. ‘And only if Mika agrees to come.'

As if on cue, I heard the car drive up and the dogs starting to bark.

We both rose at the same time and she walked ahead through the dark hallway. At the far end, and before calling the dogs, she turned to me.

‘I'm Lola.' She held out her hand. ‘If you wonder about the name, it's from a film my dad apparently liked. A German film about a whore, as far as I know. Sums him up.'

She held on to my hand and looked straight at me. The grip was uncomfortably hard, and held for too long. I was relieved when she finally nodded and let go.

George and Ika approached and we all went back inside. In the kitchen we stood in silence until George pulled out one of the chairs and gestured for Lola to sit, which she did without a word. He then pulled out the other one for me.

‘I'll wait outside,' he said, and left.

I sat down.

Ika stood by the kitchen door, looking at neither of us.

‘Come here,' Lola said, and Ika took a few steps forwards, stopping well out of reach.

‘This woman says you can stay with her. I need to go away for a bit, see.' Her expression made it clear that she expected no reaction, and none came. Nothing indicated that he had even understood what she said.

I stood up and crouched in front of him, making sure to leave enough space between us.

‘Ika, I have asked your grandmother if she would let you stay at my house while she is away. But it's for you to decide. Nobody will force you. It's entirely up to you.'

He said nothing.

‘It would make me very happy if you came,' I added. ‘We can play music. And I can take you to school in the morning and pick you up in the afternoon.'

It sounded like a plea. Who needed whom here?

Lola and I both looked at him. I assumed that she was as keen as I was to see some kind of reaction. But once again, nothing. Then he turned abruptly and left the kitchen.

I went back to the chair and sat down.

Lola sighed and shifted in her seat, as if she were uncomfortable, or in pain. She shrugged her shoulders and reached for the tobacco pouch.

‘Well,' she said, ‘I don't think we'll get much out of him.'

Suddenly I realised how much I had anticipated having him come to stay. In my thoughts I had already started planning things to do. Food to cook. Music that we would listen to, and music that we would play. Walks. At the same time I envisaged the process I would initiate if I decided to report the abuse. A process that would be entirely out of my control. And the concern for his welfare that would follow, the issue of whether he would remain with me, or be taken into care. My heart sank as I considered the alternatives.

Just as I was preparing to stand, Ika returned.

He was clutching a tattered shoebox under his arm.

‘Are you coming with me?' I asked quietly.

He stood in the doorway holding the box, his head bowed.

Then he looked up and his eyes locked with mine for the briefest moment before setting on the usual point just beside my head. I could have imagined the bit about our eyes meeting. But there was no doubt about what he said.

‘Yes.'

I wanted to lift him. Hug him. Put my hand on his head. But I checked my impulses.

Instead, I crouched slowly in front of him again.

‘You have made me very happy,' I said.

He turned abruptly and left.

Lola stubbed out her cigarette in the sink. She smiled her crooked smile with closed lips. It wasn't really a smile. There was no joy in it and it made me feel ill at ease.

‘That's as close to saying he likes you as he will ever come,' she said. ‘I'll go and get his other stuff.'

I went outside and stood by the front door for a moment. Ika and George were standing by the car. George seemed to be talking and they were both looking intently at one of the wheels. I couldn't help smiling.

As we left I turned in my seat and looked at the small person in the doorway behind us. She stood immobile for a moment, then she disappeared inside.

We went over the small ditch and up onto the road. As the car picked up speed, George turned first to Ika in the back seat, then to me.

‘That was a nice morning,' he said.

‘What do you think, Ika?' I asked, looking straight through the windscreen.

‘Yes,' Ika said.

I smiled again.

‘It's been a very nice morning. A very nice morning indeed,' I said, and adjusted myself in the seat.

11.

George took us home. Afterwards, I realised I should have invited him in but as he dropped us off and we stood beside the car for a moment, all I could think to say was thank you. After a brief, awkward silence George promised Ika he would take him fishing on the Saturday. Then he waved and drove off.

I made tea and sandwiches and we sat down on the deck. It was early afternoon and the skies had cleared. We sat protected from the wind and it was warm in the sun. Ika had placed the shoebox on the chair beside him. I looked at it, wondering what it contained.

‘Can I see what's in your box?' I asked. ‘Or is it private?'

Ika said nothing, but picked up the box and put it on the table.

‘Can I?' I said, and put my hand gently on the lid.

He nodded.

I lifted the lid. There wasn't much inside.

A worn toothbrush.

A tattered plastic bag containing what looked like a baby tooth.

A tattered photograph of a young dark-haired woman holding a small baby wrapped in a blanket. She wasn't looking at the baby but straight into the camera, with an expression that was hard to interpret. There was no joy there. She held the baby as if someone had passed her an unwanted parcel. She looked very young but her expression and demeanour suggested anything but youthful innocence. I presumed it was Lizzie holding her son in her arms.

A small knife with a rusted blade.

A fine filigree silver cross on a broken silver chain.

A small number of surprisingly beautiful seashells that didn't look like anything I had ever found on the beach. Nor did they look like those artificially polished ones you buy in tourist shops. I wondered where they came from.

And then, underneath all the other things, my little wind-chime made of paua shells. I had wondered where it had gone, and had assumed that the wind must have ripped it off its nail. But here it was, and again I felt that lump in my throat. What was happening to me?

I looked at Ika who had his mouth full and was staring past me and out to the sea. His face was expressionless. I had no way of knowing how he felt.

I took out the wind-chime.

‘Let's find a good place for this. It likes to be in the wind, I think,' I said.

I held it out to Ika and he stretched out his hand. He walked over to the spot where it used to hang and reached up to hang it on the nail. As if on cue a waft of wind picked up the string of shells and they rattled cheerfully.

He turned and walked over to the hammock that hung from the ceiling. He crawled into it, adjusting himself till he half sat, half lay. The hammock rocked gently. And then he lifted his eyes and looked at me for a moment. I made sure I kept my own eyes on the sea. He didn't smile, but to me it felt as if he did. He just briefly nodded and closed his eyes.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes too.

Mother holds her hand, but it doesn't feel as if she is supporting her. It doesn't feel as if anything at all comes from Mother's hand. It is cool and dry and feels as if it is hardly touching her own. Every now and then the grip loosens, then tightens again, as if it needs to be reminded of what it is doing.

She holds her small tartan beauty box firmly in the other hand. It contains her most precious things. Mother is carrying her own suitcase. Marianne doesn't need one, because her few things are packed in Mother's suitcase. Mother has told her she will need new clothes once they get to Stockholm. City clothes. She wonders what they will look like, but it doesn't make her happy to think about them.

She is so very tired. She has been sick on the bus and there is a sour taste in her mouth. Her stomach feels like an empty hole, but she is not hungry. She just feels like crying.

They walk under a canopy of green leaves. There are double rows of tall trees on both sides of the pathway and the branches meet over their heads, keeping the sunlight out. It is cool here in the green shade, but she is still warm from the bus ride. Her skirt sticks to her thighs at the back and she tries to pull at her underwear without being noticed. She carries her doll under her arm, and the doll is dressed for travel too, in her finest flower-print dress with smocking on the chest, matching her own. Mother is trying to prevent her high heels from sinking into the gravel, and every now and then she loses her balance slightly. Then the grip on her hand tightens and it feels as if Marianne is the one supporting Mother.

‘Not far now, Marianne,' Mother says and you can hear the smile in her voice. She doesn't want Mother to smile this new smile. She wants her to stop. She wants Mother to stop and crouch down and look her in the face. And she wants Mother to say that they don't have to do this. That they can turn around and catch the bus back. That she doesn't have to make this journey across the sea.

But this is not what Mother does.

‘It will be exciting. Just wait!' she says instead. ‘It is a grand ship, not like anything you have ever seen before. You won't even notice that you're on the sea, that's how big it is.'

And it is true, the part about the size. As they walk down the slope to the harbour she can see it. It really is bigger than anything she has seen before. Bigger than any house, even bigger than the church back home. When she was out with Grandfather in his little rowboat they would sometimes see large ships in the distance. But they had seemed like something that lived far away in another world. Silent, slow-moving bodies outlined against the horizon, as alien and as distant as the moon and the stars. Grandfather had showed her pictures from when he sailed around the world, but they were never pictures of the ship itself, just of tanned smiling men in a place that could be anywhere. She has never seen anything like this.

But it's not true that she doesn't notice that she is on the sea. As soon as they leave the harbour it is as if there is no longer anything to hold on to. The world has suddenly softened, lost its structure. Everything begins to feel uncertain, shifting. There is a strange feeling in her stomach, as if it is shrinking, until it is a burning ball. She takes short quick breaths, trying not to notice how it feels. But it is as if something is rising out of her burning hot stomach. It spreads and it grows, and it makes everything around her fade away. She sits absolutely still on the chair, holding on to her doll and taking the smallest gasps of air possible. If she moves at all, this horrible thing growing inside her will escape.

Mother is reading a book. She sits with her legs crossed and her wide skirt spreading over the seat, her foot with the red high-heeled shoe rhythmically kicking at the air. Marianne doesn't want to look but she can't help herself. She wants the foot to be still. She wants everything to be still. And she wants everything to disappear. And that is what seems to happen. Mother seems to withdraw, as do the rest of her surroundings, until she is absolutely alone in a white space where this thing inside her is the centre. She would like to ask her mother to help her, but it's impossible to speak while trying to hold back what is rising inside her. In fact she can't even shift the slightest on the seat. She looks at Mother, but she doesn't look up, doesn't seem to notice. It is filling her whole body now, this awful thing inside.

Then she can't hold back any longer. Violently it erupts, sprays over her dress and over the doll's dress too. She begins to cry, sobbing as her mouth fills with the foul vomit. She gags and it shoots up into her nose too. It hurts. Mother springs from her seat, brushing stains from her skirt. She is distant, still so very small. Mother looks around, as if she is hoping for help from somewhere. And it is forthcoming. A woman stops and they both bend down over her, but as another burst of vomit erupts from her mouth the woman retreats. They both take a few steps back. They will never be able to help her. Nobody can. She sobs and she weeps, she swallows burning bile that returns to her mouth instantly, only to trigger more burning retches. More vomit.

It is not until her stomach is empty and the retches find nothing more to expel, that they go to the bathroom to try to get her cleaned up. The smell of vomit follows them everywhere.

‘Let's hope that's it, Marianne,' Mother says, trying to smile as she straightens Marianne's wet and wrinkled skirt. It feels cold against her skin. She is very cold now and her teeth chatter.

‘We have a long journey ahead, Marianne. Perhaps you can sleep a little now. Let's go back and see if we can find a good seat.' Mother rises to wash her hands.

Marianne thinks about the long journey and she begins to cry again.

There is nothing to do about it. She will have to make this trip. Somehow, it must be possible. And somehow, she will have to learn to live over there.

They leave the bathroom, and it is only later, after they have disembarked in Stockholm, that she realises her doll has been left behind in the toilet. She doesn't tell her mother.

And now she doesn't cry.