Well, there are worse fates than always pitching your demands on life as low as possible, in the name of social balance. Sheep and goats are sorted from the outset anyway.
She lay down. The bell rang and the whole building fell silent.
It would be so easy to give up. Accept that you were a lost soul, fit for nothing. She would never go to the police willingly, never ever, but there were other ways of giving in.
If she didn't have the strength to walk as far as Vast Bridge, something could surely be managed right here in the attic.
They had let her go home two weeks later. The silence in the large house was as solid as concrete. Gun-Britt had been given notice, presumably because Beatrice couldn't bear the shame of a servant observing her daughter's growing belly. As few eyes as possible must see it. Walks were strictly forbidden. After dark Sibylla was allowed to wander in the garden, but never to stray to the wrong side of the fence.
Her father spent almost all his time at home in his study. Now and then she heard him walk across the tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs.
She ate in her room, her own choice after the first evening meal back home. It had been painful, her parents silent to the point of muteness but somehow still speaking volumes. How could she blame them? Her whole being was in contradiction to their expectations of a daughter. They had looked forward to showing off a model young person, proudly confirming the success and dignity of the Forsenström family. Instead all she gave them was the shame of a total failure, which must be hidden away from the prying, malicious eyes of the local citizenry.
No problem, she really preferred eating on her own.
She did not think often about Mick. He was a dream she had dreamt. He was somebody she met long ago. Someone who didn't exist any more.
Nothing that had been before stayed the same. Everything was different now.
She had been mentally ill.
She had become a person who had been sick in the head -gone mad, weird. Nothing could change that. What she had experienced she would never be able to share with anyone. No one would understand what it had been like. No one would want to try.
At the same time a sense of having being unjustly treated was lurking inside her. It grew stronger day by day until it almost consumed her. It was unfair that she should be here, because she didn't want stay. If only she could, she would have left long ago.
She was carrying a load of guilt on her shoulders, made heavier each day as their disappointed eyes were following her round the house. All she wanted was to get away from them, but instead she was their prisoner. While she was waiting, her stomach was growing steadily bigger. What was she waiting for? What was it?
She was like a tool without a will of its own, helping to build the dream of two unknown adoptive parents-to-be. Her body was working for them.
Of course everyone was becoming very keen on looking after her. Even her mother tried her best. Her swelling stomach became something she could hide behind now, but what would happen when it had gone?
Then what would they do about her?
The word 'adoption' had seemed purely descriptive, free of values. It just sounded like any ordinary word – 'percentage', say, or 'democracy'. It meant giving her child away.
She had to give away this thing that had turned up inside her body without being asked and made her grow bigger and bigger. Now she could feel it kicking when she was lying still. It was kicking against the tense skin on her stomach, as if wanting her to know it was there.
There was a knock on the door. Sibylla checked the time. It must be her supper. 'Come in.'
Her mother entered carrying a tray, which she put down on her desk. Sibylla realised at once that there was something on her mind. Usually the tray ritual was quick, but now Beatrice was taking her time, apparently engrossed in arranging the place-setting just so.
Sibylla had been lying on her bed reading. She sat up, watching her mother's back.
'The vegetables, Sibylla. You didn't eat them yesterday. You should be eating lots of greens, it's important just now.'
'Tell me why.'
Her mother stopped in the middle of a movement. A few seconds passed before she answered. 'It's important for…' She cleared her throat. '… the child.'
Is that so? The child, now. It had taken time for her to get the words across her lips. Even her back had shown what an effort it had been. Suddenly Sibylla lost her temper.
'Why is it so important to look after the baby?'
Her mother turned slowly to face her.
'I haven't been getting… pregnant. It's up to you to take responsibility for your actions.'
Sibylla didn't answer, mostly because there was so much to say.
Her mother seemed to be pulling herself together. Obviously it wasn't just the vegetables she had wanted to talk about. The value of eating your greens had just been an unfortunate sideline. Sibylla watched her as she steeled herself to carry out her real errand.
'I want you to tell me about your child's father. Who is he?' Sibylla did not answer.
'Was it the youth with the car? That Mikael Persson? Was it?'
'Might have been. Why? What does it matter?'
She could not stop herself. Her mother was trying hard to control her anger, but Sibylla wasn't going to help her. Not any more.
‘I just wanted to let you know that he's not in Hultaryd any more. All the motor sports people had to go. Your father owned that property and he decided it was convenient to have it knocked down. I gather that Mikael has moved out of town.'
Sibylla had to smile. It was not the prospect of the YPSMS building being demolished that made her grimly amused, but the likelihood that her mother was not quite normal, mentally. It was the first time she was able to contemplate the possibility. Mum really seemed to believe that she was almighty.
‘I thought you'd better know.'
Beatrice obviously felt everything necessary had been said and was about to leave the room. Her daughter's question hit her halfway across the floor.
'Why did you have a baby?'
Beatrice Forsenström's left foot stuck in the rug. She turned. Sibylla saw something new in her mother's eyes. She had never noticed it before, but now it was unmistakable.
It was fear. Beatrice was afraid of her own daughter.
'Was it because Granny thought it was time for you to produce a child?'
Her mother remained speechless.
'Are you happy to be a mother? At having a daughter?'
They kept staring at each other. Sibylla felt the baby stirring a little inside her.
'What did Granny make of me having a mental illness? Or haven't you told her?'
Suddenly her mother's lower lip started trembling.
'Why do you do this to me?'
Sibylla snorted.
'Why do I do this to YOU? You've got to be fucking insane.'
The swearword tipped Beatrice back into normal mode.
'We don't use words like that in this house.'
‘Is that so? You don't, maybe. But I do! Fuck, FUCK, FUCK.'
He mother was backing away in the direction of the door. Now she was thinking of phoning the hospital. Clearly she had a madwoman in the house.
'Oh, Mummy, why don't you run away and phone. With any luck you'll get rid of me once and for all.' Beatrice had pulled the door open.
'Meanwhile I'll eat all my vegetables. In case that child might be harmed if I didn't.'
Beatrice threw a last terrified glance in her direction and disappeared. When Sibylla heard her hurried steps down the stairs, she ran out on the landing. She watched her mother dash across the hall in the direction of Mr Forsenström's study. Sibylla shouted after her.