After that evening for him everything was about Kristin. He went to Bergen on 2 January and the house felt empty, but only for a day or two until I was used to it, and life continued as it had before with its minor developments in one direction or another, all the unforeseen events that fill our lives, some of which lead to a locked door or a deserted room while others might have consequences which only come to fruition many years later.
I started doing local radio with Espen. We broadcast one programme a week, it was live and the basic format was that we played records by our favourite bands and talked about them. I told everyone I knew they should listen, and many of them did, now and then, it was not uncommon for people at school or on the bus to comment on something we had said or some of the music we had chosen. Radio 1 was a small station, there were not many listeners on a normal weekday evening, and Nye Sørlandet was not a big newspaper, but between them they gave me a sense that I was on my way.
The radio programme meant that I had to stay in town after school, there was no point going home, turning round and going back, and I made it a habit to pop in to see grandma and grandad, they were a safer bet than dad for food, and I also avoided the uncertainty that a visit to dad entailed: would he ask me in or not, would it be too much for him or not?
After these long evenings in town, having dinner with my grandparents first, then meeting Espen at the radio station, planning the programme with him and then doing it, I would get on the bus and listen to music the whole weary way home, including the last kilometre, locked inside myself, hardly noticing the white world I was passing through until I removed my headset, opened the door, untied my boots, hung up my jacket and went into the kitchen to have a bite of supper.
Mum was on the first floor watching TV. When she heard me she switched it off and came down.
‘Did you hear it?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Was it embarrassing when we got the giggles or was it OK?’
‘No, it wasn’t embarrassing. Just funny. Karl Ove, grandma rang while you were out.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation, I’m afraid. She said. . well, she said you weren’t to go there any more. She said you’d never had anything to eat whenever you turned up, you were shabbily dressed and were always asking them for money.’
‘What?!’ I said.
‘Yes,’ mum said. ‘She said it was my job to look after you and not theirs. It was my responsibility. So now they don’t want you to go there.’
I started crying. I couldn’t help myself, the tears came with such force. I turned away from her, my face contorted into ugly grimaces, I covered it with my hands, and even though I didn’t want to, I sobbed.
I took a saucepan from the cupboard and filled it with water.
‘This has got nothing to do with you,’ mum said. ‘You have to understand that. This is about me. It’s me they want to hurt.’
I put the pan on the stove, barely able to see through all the tears, raised my hand in front of my face again, bowed my head. Another loud sob rolled out.
She was wrong, I knew that, this was about me. I had been there, I had physically felt all the silences and all the unease I carried with me, and in a way I understood them.
But I said nothing. The convulsive twitches in my face let up, I took a few deep breaths, wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my jumper. Sat down on a chair. Mum didn’t move.
‘I’m so angry,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry before. You’re their grandchild. It’s difficult for you now. It’s their duty to support you. No matter what.’
‘It isn’t difficult,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You have hardly anyone around you. The few people you have cannot turn their backs on you.’
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ I said. ‘Don’t give it a second thought. I’ll manage fine without them.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ mum said. ‘But they’re turning their backs on their own grandchild! Can you imagine! No wonder your father struggles.’
‘You don’t think he’s behind this then?’ I said.
She looked at me. I had never seen her so furious before. Her eyes were blazing.
‘No, I truly don’t. Well, not unless he has changed totally in these last six months.’
‘He has,’ I said. ‘He’s a completely different person.’
She sat down.
‘And there’s one more thing,’ I said. ‘Which you don’t know. Yngve and I were given a hundred kroner each for Christmas. I was supposed to pass the money on to Yngve, but I spent it. Afterwards I forgot all about it. When we were there over Christmas it all came out.’
‘But, Karl Ove,’ mum said with a sigh, ‘even if you’d stolen the money that’s no reason for them to turn their backs on you. It’s not up to them to punish you.’
‘You’ve got to understand,’ I said. ‘It’s obvious they were angry. And what grandma said is right. I eat whenever I’m there and they give me money for the bus.’
‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Don’t even think it,’ she said.
But I did, of course. I lay awake for the first hours of the night as the cold took a grip on the countryside and caused the timber walls of the house and the ice in the river below to creak. Then, in the darkness, I was able to see the matter in a colder, clearer light. If they didn’t want to see me, well, then they wouldn’t see me. I hadn’t gone to visit them for my benefit, I lost nothing by staying away. And there was a sweetness in my decision never to see them again. Not even when they lay on their deathbeds would I go and see them. Indeed, even when they had died and were about to be buried, even then I wouldn’t go and see them. Unlike dad, who during my childhood years had boycotted them for periods, cut off all contact for a month or two, only to resume relations as though nothing had happened. No, I would stand firm. I would never see them again, I would never talk to them again.
If that was how they wanted it, that is how they would get it. I didn’t need grandma or grandad, they were the ones who needed me, and if they didn’t understand that, well, good luck to them.
One afternoon I caught the train alone to Drammen, where Simple Minds were playing at the same venue that U2 had played the year before. I loved their new record, the sound was so monumental and the songs so brilliant I played them again and again that autumn. It was perhaps a bit commercial and the tracks were perhaps not as strong as those on New Gold Dream, but I loved it nevertheless. Leaving the concert, I was, however, somewhat disappointed, not least with Jim Kerr, who had become quite flabby and actually stopped the gig when a fan ran onto the stage and pinched his red beret. He crouched down at the edge of the stage and said they wouldn’t play any more unless he got his hat back. I couldn’t believe my ears and from then on it didn’t matter how good the songs were, for me Simple Minds were a thing of the past.
I arrived back in Kristiansand by train in the middle of the night. There were no buses and it was too expensive to take a taxi home, so I had arranged with Unni that I would sleep in her flat. She had given me a key; all I had to do was let myself in. So half an hour after I had clambered off the train I inserted the key into the lock, warily opened the door and carefully stepped into the flat. It was a 1950s or 60s build, consisted of two rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, and had a view of the town from the sitting room. I had been there two or three times before, for dinner with dad and her, and I liked it, it was an elegant flat. The pictures on the wall were nice, and even though I didn’t care much for the Sosialistisk Venstreparti-style ceramic cups and woven fabrics, it was her style, and that was indeed what I noticed about the room, the harmony.