And then they exchange letters. On Elsa’s envelope it says “ELSA,” and, on Britt-Marie’s, “THE BAT.” Britt-Marie reads hers out 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 inside 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.