She thinks of the photograph again, the children in the masks, the young woman. Walpurgis Night 1986, that’s thirty-three years ago. David was twelve, Thea was fifteen. A completely different person from the one she is now.
TORNABY COMMUNITY CENTRE, announces an unnecessarily large sign at the end of the drive. And in smaller letters: DOCTOR’S SURGERY, FOLK MUSEUM, MEETING ROOM, CAFÉ, CHARITY SHOP. Two women, each with a pushchair, are chatting beneath a cherry tree. They wave as the doctor pulls into the car park.
‘A lot of families with young children move here,’ she says. ‘The new road has helped, and in two years we’ll be linked to the local train service.’ She parks the car, still talking as she extricates herself from the driving seat with some difficulty. ‘This place is perfect for families. There’s a strong community spirit – everyone knows everyone else. This centre is key – a meeting point, thanks to the Bokelund Foundation and the parish council. They’ve also put pressure on the politicians to make sure we keep the school – much better than bussing all the children to Ljungslöv, as so many of the other small villages have to do. We also have a Facebook group you ought to join, Thea. That’s where you’ll find out most of what goes on in the village.’
‘I’m not on Facebook.’
‘Oh?’ Dr Andersson raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t push it. She leads Thea to a side door. ‘You and David don’t have children?’
Thea shakes her head. ‘No. We’re childless.’
Dr Andersson looks embarrassed, as if the word makes her uncomfortable. A simple, if not very nice, trick that Thea learned from Margaux. The truth is that she and David have always avoided the subject, maybe because neither wants to hear the other’s excuses. And now they’re too old anyway.
The surgery is bigger than Thea had expected – twenty-five square metres, with space for an examination couch, several lockable cupboards and a washbasin. The walls are adorned with old school posters showing various parts of the human anatomy. The room smells of soap, the curtains look new and there is a large bouquet of flowers in a vase on the desk.
Dr Lind – a warm welcome from Tornaby parish council, says the card, in David’s mother’s slightly old-fashioned handwriting.
‘As you can see, they’re very pleased to have you here. I expect they’re fed up of me after all these years.’
The comment is meant as a joke, but once again there is that hint of sorrow in the doctor’s voice, suggesting that she doesn’t find it funny at all. The big woman looks at her tiny watch, then rubs her hands together.
‘Twenty minutes before we open. How about a cup of coffee and a slice of homemade cake, Thea? The girls in the café look after us very well. It’s sponge cake on Tuesdays.’
When they return to the surgery, Dr Andersson shows Thea how to log into the database on her laptop, how to upload her timetable, and how to update medical notes. The patients, who are obediently waiting on the chairs in the corridor outside, present the expected challenges.
Thea vaccinates two small children, dresses a wound and diagnoses one case of inflammation of the ear. Dr Andersson lets her do her job, looking perfectly relaxed as she sits in the corner with her coffee.
Most of the patients are young mothers or pensioners. They all welcome her in a way that suggests she’s already been a topic of conversation in the village for some time. The mothers want to know more about David, the restaurant and the opening night. The pensioners prefer to discuss their aches and pains, but almost all of them ask how her father-in-law is, and send their best wishes to both Bertil and Ingrid.
They all open up to her, which seems to impress Dr Andersson. Thea herself isn’t at all surprised. People have always confided in her, ever since she was a child. Her older brother, her father, eventually her fellow students, her colleagues, her patients. All she needs to do is start things off with a little small talk, then sit quietly and listen.
‘Everyone is searching for someone who will listen to them,’ Margaux used to say. ‘Someone who understands and doesn’t judge. And you’re good at it, ma chère. So good that even mussels open up to you. That’s why you need to devote yourself to the living, not the dead. But be careful. With great talent comes great responsibility.’
Thea thinks about the mysterious photograph yet again. What is the story hiding behind it? And who can tell her that story?
9
Walpurgis Night 1986
‘Your mother is so beautiful, Elita.’ I’ve heard that ever since I was a child. Lola is beautiful, but also delicate. She believes in fairies and the creatures of the forest. Spends most of her time talking to her little porcelain figurines.
Father broke one of them once, a white baby rabbit she’d bought at a flea market. Eva-Britt spent hours at the kitchen table with toothpicks and glue until every single fragment was in the right place, and my mother stopped crying. Lola is just like that rabbit – whole on the outside, but still broken. Eva-Britt is the glue. It’s thanks to her that everything sticks together.
Arne arrived at Svartgården just before five. He’d driven carefully, trying to avoid the biggest muddy puddles. He should have carried on to Ljungslöv. Put the vehicle away, hung the keys on the hook behind the desk. But he wanted Elita to see him in the police car. Plus he had important news.
He parked in the middle of the yard, got out and adjusted his belt, handcuffs, radio, and white gun holster. Pulled his peaked cap well down over his forehead.
A shower of dogs came rushing at him, bad-tempered little terriers that always barked at him and nipped at his heels. Arne kicked out at the first one, then stared out the others until they slunk away, tails between their legs. He hadn’t been here for a couple of years at least, and the place looked worse than he remembered. Slates were missing from several roofs, and the top of the barn was covered with a tarpaulin. There was a general smell of dampness and decay that Arne had barely registered before, but today it made him wrinkle his nose.
A homemade sign stood beside the steps leading up to the house; it wasn’t even straight.
LASSE SVART FARRIER
Underneath, in different handwriting:
EVA-BRITT RASMUSSEN AND LOLA SVART
HOMEOPATHIC MEDICINES, EQUINE MASSAGE
The front door opened and Eva-Britt appeared, wiping her hands on a dirty rag. She stared at the police car, then at Arne.
Eva-Britt and Ingrid were about the same age, with the same hard expression, the same sharp tongue. But Eva-Britt looked at least ten years older than Ingrid. Her hair was already turning grey, her mouth permanently locked in a bitter grimace.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she muttered.
Arne glared at her as he mounted the steps. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a coffee?’
Normally Eva-Britt would have stood her ground in the doorway, blocked his path and told him to go to hell, but today she stepped aside. She seemed to realise that he was no longer Downhill Arne, Lasse’s little errand boy, but a person to be respected.
The kitchen was a mess, as usual. Bottles, cups, containers, little bowls everywhere, and there was an unpleasant, acrid smell.
Elita’s mother Lola was heating some concoction on the stove. She didn’t respond to Arne’s greeting. Lola had always been beautifuclass="underline" almond-shaped eyes, long dark hair, white alabaster skin. Once upon a time Arne had only dared to gaze at her in secret, but on closer inspection he could see that she was no longer quite as lovely as he recalled. Or maybe the past few years had taken their toll. Her hands were callused, her back was bent, and her expression was guarded. For a moment Arne was filled with an unexpected feeling of tenderness.