“Kent told the children I couldn’t make up stories because I didn’t have any imagination, but it isn’t true. It’s not. I have an absolutely excellent imagination. I am very good at pretending.” Alf runs his fingers across his head and blinks for a long time. Britt-Marie caresses the shirt in her lap as if it were a baby about to go to sleep. “I always bring a newly washed shirt if I’m meeting him somewhere. Because I don’t use perfume.”
Her voice grows muted. “David and Pernilla never came for Christmas dinner. They were busy, they said. I can understand they’re busy, they’ve been busy for years. So Kent called and said he was staying at the office for a few hours. Just a few hours, he was having another conference call with Germany. Even though it’s actually Christmas in Germany as well. But he never came home. So I tried calling him. He didn’t answer. I left a message. Eventually the telephone rang, but it wasn’t Kent.”
Her lower lip trembles.
“I don’t use perfume, but she does. So I always see to it that he has a fresh shirt. That’s all I ask, that he should put his shirt directly in the washing machine when he comes home. Is that so much to ask?”
“Please, Britt-Marie . . .”
She swallows spasmodically and spins her wedding ring.
“It was a heart attack. I know that because she called and told me, Alf. She called me. Because she couldn’t stand it, she couldn’t. She said she couldn’t sit there in the hospital and know that maybe Kent would die without my knowing. She simply couldn’t stand it. . . .” She puts one hand in the other, closes her eyes and adds in a quivering voice: “I have an excellent imagination, actually. It is excellently good. Kent always said he was going for dinners with the Germans or that the plane was delayed by snow or that he was just passing by the office for a bit. And then I pretended I believed it. I pretended so brilliantly that I believed it myself.”
She rises from the bench, turns around, and hangs the shirt elaborately on the edge of the bench. As if she cannot allow herself even now to take out her feelings on something freshly ironed.
“I’m very good at pretending,” she whispers.
“I know that,” whispers Alf.
And then they leave the shirt on the bench and go home.
It has stopped snowing. They travel in silence. Mum comes to meet them at the front entrance. She hugs Elsa. Tries to hug Britt-Marie. Britt-Marie keeps her at a distance. Not vehemently, just with determination.
“I don’t hate her, Ulrika,” she says.
“I know,” Mum says with a slow nod.
“I don’t hate her and I don’t hate the dog and I don’t hate her car.”
Mum nods and takes her hand. Britt-Marie closes her eyes.
“I don’t hate at all, Ulrika. I actually don’t. I only wanted you to listen to me. Is that so much to ask? I just didn’t want you to leave the car in my place. I actually just didn’t want you to come and take my place.” She spins her wedding ring.
Mum leads her up the stairs, her hand firmly but lovingly around the floral-print jacket. Alf never shows up in the flat, but Santa does. The boy with a syndrome’s eyes light up as children’s eyes do when someone tells them about ice cream and fireworks and climbing trees and splashing about in puddles.
Maud sets an extra place at the table and gets out more gratin. Lennart puts on more coffee. George washes up. After the parcels have been handed around, the boy and the woman in the black skirt sit on the floor and watch Cinderella on the TV.
Britt-Marie sits slightly ill at ease next to Elsa on the sofa. They peer at one another. They don’t say anything, but probably this is their cessation of hostilities. So when Elsa’s mum tells her she has to stop eating chocolate Santas now or she’ll get a stomachache, and Elsa keeps eating them, Britt-Marie doesn’t say anything.
And when the evil stepmother turns up in Cinderella, and Britt-Marie discreetly gets up and straightens out a crease in her skirt and goes into the front hall to cry, Elsa follows her.
And they sit on the chest together and eat chocolate Santas.
Because you can be upset while you’re eating chocolate Santas. But it’s much, much, much more difficult.
31
PEANUT CAKE