A Question Mark is Half a Heart Page 15

‘Little lass, how happy it makes me when you come. Even though you stink of farmyard,’ she whispered, wrinkling her nose.

  The stockroom shelves were empty. Everything sold out in the summer months, when the many tourists swelled the number of customers. In one corner was a thick pile of cardboard boxes broken down for disposal, and they lay down on the flattened cardboard with the biscuit tin between them. The room had no windows, but the great fan on the ceiling cooled their warm bodies. The door was ajar, and they had a clear view of the till. Customers came and went. Gerd chatted with them and Fredrik and Elin listened.

  After a while it was Marianne standing at the counter, wearing her farmyard clothes. Elin sat up to hear them better. Marianne was balancing a tray of cheese packages in her hands, and Elin saw Gerd shaking her head.

  ‘There are too many,’ she protested.

  ‘They’re milking well now.’

  Marianne held the tray out to her, and Gerd pressed her lips together.

  ‘I can’t take them all, no one buys that much cheese. I end up having to throw it out.’

  Marianne put the tray on the counter and took half the cheeses away.

  ‘How about that? What do you think?’

  Gerd sighed.

  ‘My dear, I just don’t know. Not many people buy it, it’s too expensive.’

  Gerd walked away from the till, out of sight of Elin. Marianne stayed where she was, tapping her foot on the floor.

  ‘What do you mean? You don’t want to buy any at all?’

  She picked up the cheeses she’d just put down. Gerd came back, carrying a few packs of bread, and put them down on the conveyor belt.

  ‘I think you need to get yourself a new hobby soon.’

  ‘Hobby?’

  ‘Yes, you’re lucky you don’t need the money too desperately. This is not exactly something you can live on, is it?’

  Marianne looked cross. Suddenly she dropped the tray, spilling all the cheeses onto the floor. Gerd looked from the mess to Marianne, and then back at the cheeses spread across the worn linoleum. With an effort she bent down to pick them up, one after the other. Her belly got in the way and the exertion made her breathe hard.

  ‘You can keep the crap, no one buys it anyway,’ Marianne snarled as she walked towards the door. Elin heard the little plinging sound as it opened and closed. Twice – Gerd went after her. Then silence. Fredrik got up from the heap of boxes.

  ‘Best we go home now. They’ll want us to work, if that’s the mood they’re in.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Elin stayed where she was. She lay back down, put her hands behind her head and stared up at the ceiling, following the turning blades of the fan with her eyes and listening to their monotonous drone.

  ‘We have to.’ Fredrik took hold of her arm and pulled her back up to sitting.

  ‘Why? We’re just children. It’s the summer holidays. What’s going to happen if we say no?’

  ‘You know what. Why are you even asking?’

  The door opened again. Marianne and Gerd came back. Marianne looked like she’d been crying, her cheeks streaked with tears and dirt, and Gerd had her arm around her protectively. Fredrik peered out, then hurried back, sat down beside Elin and put his finger to his lips. Marianne and Gerd walked past them, into the office. There was only a thin wall between the two rooms.

  ‘I’ll put some coffee on. Sit down for a while,’ they heard Gerd saying.

  ‘We need money.’ Marianne’s voice was shrill, cracking with emotion.

  ‘No problem, I’ll buy the cheese, if it’s that important to you. But you have loads of money, don’t you?’

  ‘It costs a lot to run a farm. You have no idea.’

  ‘Have you given all your money to Micke?’

  ‘We run the farm together. It’s ours, we’re a family.’

  ‘Do you have that in writing?’

  Marianne sat silently. She played with her car keys.

  ‘Aina would …’ Gerd hesitated and fell silent again.

  Be turning in her grave. Fredrik whispered the words in Elin’s ear and she mouthed the word ghost back. They giggled.

  The chair scraped against the floor as Marianne got up quickly.

  ‘Aina would what? Be turning in her grave? Do you know what? Aina doesn’t even have a fucking coffin to turn in. She’s just some grey ash in an urn. Let me take care of my own life please. And you can take care of yours. OK? I’m sick of you having to know everything. Stop sticking your nose in.’

  Marianne stormed out, but stopped in her tracks when she realised Fredrik and Elin were in the stockroom. They got up immediately, standing in front of her, eye-to-eye. She took a step closer, legs wide in her heavy work shoes.

  ‘Get home! I’ve told you not to loaf about here! How many more times?’

  ‘We were just on our way.’

  Gerd stood at the children’s side.

  ‘Now, don’t take it out on the children. They’re helping me. I don’t mind having them here.’

  Marianne grabbed Elin hard and pulled her along with her.

  ‘There are plenty of things to help with at home. I told you, stop sticking your nose in everything!’ she barked.

  NOW

  NEW YORK, 2017

  Everything happens mechanically. Arms and legs move, the camera changes position. Finger on the shutter releases. Eye squints to assess the composition. Microscopic adjustments to the angle, creating a whole new vision. Elin directs the model into new poses, turning her face, up and down and to the side, pulling her shoulders back, angling her body sideways. It’s the same young woman as the previous day, but she’s dressed in black now, a full, diaphanous evening dress. Her skin is pale with strong, smoky eyes, her lips blood red. As she stands with one foot on the prow of the rowboat her leg shakes with the effort and sets the boat vibrating. The placid surface of the lake quivers slightly, rings that spread further and further, creating contrasts in the photograph she takes. Elin challenges her, instructs her to put more and more weight on the leg. The stern of the brown wooden boat lifts out of the water.

  ‘It’s magical. So much better than with the pink dress,’ Joe whispers. He’s standing right behind her, looking at the computer screen and the images that pop up as Elin takes the photographs.

  The whole time, Elin’s thoughts are somewhere else; now and then she sneaks a glance at her phone, lying face-up at her feet. Neither Sam nor Alice have replied. Just emptiness and silence. She shivers at the thought of Alice’s anger, of how she’s pushing her away, accusing her. There must be some way she can get through to her, she can’t lose her too.

  Joe nudges her lightly in the ribs and she jumps, jerked out of her thoughts. He nods discreetly at the magazine’s art director who has put his thumb and forefinger together in a sign that he’s happy, that it’s a wrap. Elin lowers the camera without saying anything, and holds it out to Joe.

  ‘Elin, what’s wrong? You seem so sad,’ he whispers and puts his hand on her upper arm. She shakes her shoulder lightly to shrug it off, forcing him to take the heavy camera.

  ‘Nothing. It turned out well. You can take the rest of the day off, just drop the equipment off at the studio first. I’m going home,’ she says, her voice a sorrowful monotone.

  The model is wading towards shore with a disgusted expression on her face, the dress hoicked up so her narrow thighs and underwear are exposed. The stylist breathes in sharply.

  ‘Watch the dress, careful, don’t slip, it’s muddy,’ he repeats over and over. ‘That dress is worth 30,000 dollars.’

  The model looks stressed. She picks her way forward slowly, shuddering each time one of her feet sinks into the sludge.

  Elin walks over to her.

  ‘Perhaps it’s Mary we should watch out for, not the dress,’ she says. She earns a weak smile from the model, who with her support takes a step up onto the lawn. The stylist rubs her legs dry with a rag as the model shivers.

  Elin backs away. The art director shows up at her
side. He talks but she’s barely listening to the words streaming out of his mouth. She just nods now and then, watching Joe and the others dismantle all the equipment.

  ‘We’ll have to work together again soon,’ she says when he finally stops talking.

  He takes a step towards her, much too close. She takes a step back.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Suddenly the irritated tone from yesterday is back, now that he understands Elin hasn’t been listening. ‘We have to take a close-up of the dress too, a detail so you can see the fabric.’

  Elin nods.

  ‘Of course, Joe can do it. It will probably be best in the studio.’

  She nods at her assistant. The man in front of her shakes his head and sighs.

  ‘First a re-shoot and now you’re not even going to finish the job,’ he says. ‘We’re paying a lot to have you, far too much if you ask me. I expect you to take the picture here, in the same environment, not let some … assistant do it.’

  Elin grits her teeth, pulls the camera roughly from the bag and walks over to the dress, which is swinging in the wind, the hanger hooked over a branch. She twists it with one hand so the sunlight makes the surface shimmer, and snaps four frames. When she lowers the camera, her eyes have fixed on the tree trunk behind the dress, where a long line of ants is wandering up and down the uneven bark. She holds the dress aside and steps closer.

  Alice, what are you doing? Have you finished rehearsal? Please call. It’s important.

  Elin walks with her phone in her hand, staring at the screen. Alice isn’t picking up when she calls, or answering texts. She checks the time and types:

  Call me. Now! Something has happened.

  Alice rings less than a minute later, sounding tense and breathless.

  ‘Mom, what’s happened? Is it Dad?’

  ‘No …’ Elin pauses.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Nothing. I was nearby, and I’ve finished work. I thought we could grab a coffee?’

  Alice sighs.

  ‘I was in the middle of a difficult position I’ve been practising all afternoon. You interrupted me. And scared me. Why did you say something had happened?’

  ‘You don’t reply otherwise,’ Elin whispers.

  There’s silence at the other end.

  ‘Alice, please,’ Elin pleads.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Elin looks around her.

  ‘Almost at the bottom of the park, east side.’

  ‘OK, go to Brooklyn Diner on Fifty-seventh and Seventh and wait there, one of their milkshakes would be good. I’ll come as soon as my lesson’s finished, I’m just going to take a quick shower afterwards.’

  Elin orders a cappuccino while she waits. The foamy surface is decorated with a chocolate heart, and she takes the spoon and drags points of it out towards the china lip of the cup. It turns into a star. She stirs rapidly, mixing beige, brown, and white. She makes another heart, cutting through the thick foam, then letters, an A, an E, an F.

  F for Fredrik. Maybe that was a sign, that he turned up just as Sam abandoned her. She eyes the clock. It’s evening where he is. She wonders what he’s doing, if he’s alone too.

  When Alice finally comes she’s still playing with the spoon. The coffee has grown cold, the foam has almost melted.

  ‘Mom, you scared me.’ Alice plumps down into the chair opposite with a thud. She grabs the menu. ‘Can I order some food? I’m so hungry.’

  Elin nods.

  ‘Have what you want.’

  A tear runs down Elin’s cheek. She swipes it away with her hand and bites her lip hard to refocus the pain. Alice lowers the menu.

  ‘Oh Mom, what is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m just so tired.’

  ‘Are you sad?’

  Elin nods.

  ‘Yes.’

  Alice takes a deep breath, as though she suddenly needs more air. She picks up the menu again.

  ‘I know what you need,’ she smiles and points at a line on the menu.

  Elin leans forward to look. The Chocolatier, she reads.

  ‘It’s incredible, it has chocolate ice cream and fudge and big chunks of chocolate. You’ll love it.’

  Elin smiles cautiously.

  ‘Well that’s what we’ll have then. Chocolate always works,’ she says.

  ‘Maybe it’ll work out? Between you and Dad?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know anything at the moment.’ Tears fill Elin’s eyes again.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else instead. Can you tell me something from when you were little? I’d love to hear.’

  Elin closes her eyes, but Alice ignores her, goes on asking questions.

  ‘Why is it so hard to talk about? I don’t understand. It’s so simple. Were you a good girl, or naughty? Did you have any pets?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elin looks up eagerly.

  ‘What? Did you?’

  ‘Yes, a dog, we had a dog. A border collie, black and white.’

  ‘In town? Isn’t that one of those sheepdogs that need fields to run around in and stuff?’

  Elin nods.

  ‘Yep, that’s the one. She used to run, fast as lightning across open fields. It was her favourite thing.’

  ‘I didn’t think you liked dogs, you always seem to be complaining about them barking.’

  Elin bursts out laughing.

  ‘Yeah, all the spoilt, yappy little city dog fluff-balls. I could really do without those.’

  ‘But yours must have been a city dog too?’

  Elin avoids the question. She draws the spoon across her coffee but there’s too little foam left to draw anything.

  ‘Sunny, her name was Sunny, and she was the sweetest dog in the world. She used to sleep with her head on my pillow.’

  ‘What? She got to sleep in your bed? Gross.’ Alice shudders.

  ‘Yeah, maybe it was. But pretty cosy. I had a cat too, all my own. She was called Crumble.’

  ‘Like the dessert? Cute. Do you remember what you said when I was little and wanted to have a cat?’

  Elin shakes her head.

  ‘No, I don’t actually.’

  ‘That it was better not to have animals, because it was so sad when they died. Such a weird thing to say to a child, I’ve never forgotten it.’

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean? Should you avoid loving people too then? Because anyone might die, or leave.’

  THEN

  HEIVIDE, GOTLAND, 1982

  The rocking chair squeaked softly, the sound filling the empty house. Elin sat on the bottom step and listened. Marianne had been sitting there almost all day, just staring in front of her and rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. No lunch had been prepared, no afternoon coffee. Not a word had crossed her lips. Not a smile. Not even when Elin had stuck her head in and met her gaze.

  She’d had to look after the animals in the barn all by herself. Micke and Fredrik were out in the fields. On the days when there was extra work to do they didn’t come home until late in the evening. She could hear the eternal ticking of the kitchen clock and the infernal grumbling of her stomach. She’d lost track of time.

  Erik and Edvin. Where had they got to? They needed food. She listened but couldn’t hear anything from upstairs. She went out into the farmyard, stumbling over the gravel in her clogs, twisting her ankle but limping slowly on, looking everywhere. At her heels padded Sunny, who had been out on her own all day. When Elin stopped and scratched behind her ear, the dog squirmed in gratitude and laid a paw on her arm.

  Right in front of them on the gravel lay Edvin’s bicycle, with the chunky red saddle he was so proud of.

  She eventually found them in the tractor shed, behind heaps of junk they’d fashioned into a den. Long, irregular planks, damaged by the sun and water. Rusty bits of corrugated tin. Oil drums. A tractor tyre and a sack of hay had been turned into a sofa and they both lay in it, with a well-thumbed Donald Duck comic between them. Elin s
topped a little way off, listening to Erik reading the speech bubbles to Edvin with great effort. Edvin was resting his head on Erik’s chest. Between them lay an open packet of crackers. She crept up to them and squeezed in next to Erik, took the comic and went on reading where Erik pointed. Erik and Edvin each took a fresh cracker and crunched on them. The heat shimmered under the tin roof and their bodies were clammy and warm. On one of the roof trusses a pigeon sat cooing. In the grass along the walls the grasshoppers chirped.

  Edvin turned the cracker packet upside-down, crumbs raining down all over his top.

  ‘Elin, I’m still hungry,’ he moaned, clutching his belly.

  ‘Me too. Mama’s tired today, so we’ll have to make our own food.’

  Elin fried some fish fingers in the cast-iron frying pan and boiled some quick-cook pasta. When she put the pans on the table, Marianne came shuffling over and sat down at one end. In one hand she was holding her bankbook, its corners torn, the pages yellowing and full of handwritten figures in blue and black ink. She flicked through it, staring at the numbers. Elin set a plate down in front of her.

  ‘Is money tight again now? Is it, Mama?’

  Marianne raised her eyes and quickly met Elin’s. Then she lowered them again and slammed the bankbook shut, resting her hand on it like a protective cover. She took her fork and dipped it in the open jar of mayonnaise. Let the sweet, oily condiment melt in her mouth.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll work out. Micke says it will. We’ve got a good harvest coming,’ she said finally.

  She gathered a pile of bills that were spread across the table and put them and the bankbook in one of the sideboard drawers. Then she went back to the rocking chair again, leaving the children alone at the table. Elin served up the fish fingers, three each, and Erik and Edvin ate greedily.

  It wasn’t until later that evening, with the sound of the tractor approaching, that Marianne found her way out of her fog. She came into the kitchen and grabbed the dishes with their dried-on food, the empty milk glasses, the scraped-clean pasta pot and the greasy frying pan. Elin was still sitting on the kitchen bench, her nose deep in a book. She observed her mother’s movements as she submerged the washing up in hot soapy water, noticing how she stood up straighter and pulled a hand through her hair as they heard Micke and Fredrik’s shuffling steps from the veranda. Micke groaned as he kicked off his muddy boots against the bootjack. When he came into the kitchen his half-pulled-off sports socks danced around like tails on the ends of his feet. His cheeks were muddy, even the stubble on his chin bore traces of dried-on dirt. He grabbed Marianne’s behind hard, and kissed the back of her neck, pushing himself against her. Fredrik rolled his eyes and made straight for the stairs.