‘So how did it happen?’
‘I want answers just as much as you do.’
Louise got up, went into the tent and came back with a bottle of water. She constructed a stand so that she could hang the coffee pot above the fire, then she fetched the Thermos flask and my cup, which I had left in the tent. She gave me the mug and kept the cup for herself. There were a couple of spoonfuls of instant coffee in the bottom of the mug.
A gust of wind came from nowhere and blew smoke in her face. The smell of the fire reminded me of the night my house burned down.
‘I might as well say it here as anywhere else,’ Louise suddenly blurted out. ‘And I might as well tell you now as later.’
I don’t really like the taste of instant coffee. It brings back those long years as a medical student when I never drank anything else.
I put down the mug. Her words made me feel anxious. I thought about Harriet and her incurable illness. Was there something wrong with Louise too? My heart was pounding, just as it had when I rushed out of the burning house a few weeks ago.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘It sounds serious.’
‘It is.’
I kicked over my mug, and coffee splashed over the side of the tent.
‘Tell me, please.’
‘I’m pregnant.’
She hurled the words at me as if I were a crowd to whom she was delivering an important message.
Curiously enough, they instantly evoked a memory, something I thought I had long since forgotten. Before my relationship with Harriet, when I had just started medical school, a young woman had stood in front of me, radiant with happiness, and told me she was pregnant. She was studying to be some kind of chemical researcher. We had met at a student party. Untroubled by whether what I was saying was true or not, I had showered her with declarations of eternal love, painting a picture of our future together, our family. She had believed me. Now she was pregnant. I faced her happiness with dumbstruck horror. I didn’t want children, not with her or anyone else. I remember her heart-rending despair when I more or less forced her to have an abortion. If she didn’t go through with it, I told her, I would leave her. Which I did anyway, as soon as she had got rid of the foetus.
Now Louise was hurling those words at me. She wasn’t radiant with joy, however; there was a kind of caution about her, as if she were simply stating something that had to be said.
I couldn’t take it in. I had never imagined her as a mother. I don’t think Harriet had either. I had once asked her about Louise’s boyfriends, and she had simply replied that she knew nothing about her daughter’s sexuality. I never asked again. From time to time, when Louise disappeared or returned from her mysterious trips, I had naturally wondered if there was a man in the background. I had never found any evidence of a secret lover. I must admit that I do poke around in her bags and pockets now and again, but I’d never come across the slightest hint about that part of her life.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
She impatiently interrupted my train of thought.
‘Of course. But it might take me a while to understand it.’
‘I’m pregnant. It’s fairly straightforward, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You don’t get pregnant on your own.’
‘That’s the only question I won’t answer,’ she said. ‘The identity of the baby’s father is my business.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s how I want it.’
‘Do you know for sure who it is?’
I didn’t have time to think that question was a mistake before she leaned across the fire and punched me in the face; I didn’t realise my nose was bleeding until the blood trickled down onto my top lip. Louise didn’t say anything, even though she must have seen it. I had a dirty handkerchief in my pocket; I scrubbed at my face and the flow of blood stopped.
‘I won’t ask,’ I said. ‘And of course I have no doubt that you know who the father is. How far gone are you?’
‘Three months.’
‘And everything is as it should be?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
‘I haven’t been to see a doctor, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘You have to make an appointment!’
We weren’t conversing; as usual we were sparring with one another. My phone rang; a welcome interruption.
It was Veronika.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No.’
‘I wanted to let you know that Axel died.’
At first I didn’t understand who she meant. Axel? I didn’t know anyone called Axel. Then I realised that was Nordin’s name. Axel Nordin.
‘Are you still there?’ she asked.
I could tell from her voice that she was upset. Or maybe she was afraid? Young people often react to sudden death with fear.
‘I’m still here.’
‘He passed away just after four o’clock this morning. Margareta called me; she was devastated.’
I knew that Nordin’s wife was called Margareta. I also knew that they didn’t have any children, which was a great source of sorrow to them. The whole thing felt very strange and unpleasant, bearing in mind that I was sitting here talking to my daughter about the fact that she was expecting a baby and that her dreadful behaviour might have contributed to Nordin’s death.
I stood up and walked out onto the rocks.
‘I don’t think I’m going to open the cafe today,’ Veronika said.
‘I understand. I assume the shop will be closed too,’ I said. ‘Who will take over?’
‘It’s owned by the fishermen’s association. You’d have to ask them.’
‘I’ve ordered some wellington boots,’ I said. ‘I hope I’ll be able to get hold of them.’
Veronika wasn’t impressed, and to be fair I wished I hadn’t mentioned my wellingtons.
‘Who cares about something like that right now?’ she said.
I didn’t respond to her question; I simply said I would get in touch with Margareta, and we ended the call.
When I went back to the fire, Louise was inside the tent. Her expression was grim when she eventually emerged.
‘Nordin is dead,’ I informed her. ‘He had a brain haemorrhage and passed away in the early hours of this morning.’
‘Who?’
‘The man in the shop where the keys to the shower block are kept.’
I thought I saw a fleeting look of worry pass across her face, but it was gone in a second.
‘It can’t have anything to do with me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t give him that much of a hard time.’
‘Nobody is suggesting it’s anything to do with you. All I know is that he’s dead.’
Louise got to her feet.
‘Let’s go. It’s cold.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Around the island.’
‘This isn’t an island. It’s a skerry.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The size, maybe.’
We clambered over the rocks, slithering and sliding across the stones at the water’s edge. Louise moved with confidence, while I was always afraid of losing my balance. At one stage she was ahead of me, up on a high rock from which she could look down on me. She stopped and turned. She didn’t say a word, she just gazed at me. Then she carried on, still without a word.
I felt a surge of rage that immediately ebbed away. I’m afraid I am hopelessly, furiously envious of all those who will continue to live when I am dead. I am equally embarrassed and terrified by the thought. I try to deny it, but it recurs with increasing frequency the older I get.
I wonder if other people feel the same way? I don’t know, and I am never going to ask, but this envy is my deepest darkness.
Can I really be alone in feeling like this?
We returned to the fire, which had almost gone out.