“And that’s another thing-they’re always buying television sets, and they have to be the size of a house these days…”
“And new refrigerators.”
“And stoves.”
Tilda didn’t get to hear any more, because the door to Gerlof’s room opened.
Gerlof’s long back was slightly bent and his legs were shaking just a little-but he was smiling at Tilda like an old man without a care in the world, and she thought he looked more alert today than when she had seen him the previous winter.
Gerlof, who was born in 1915, had celebrated his eightieth birthday in the summer cottage down in Stenvik. Both his daughters had been there, his eldest daughter, Lena, with her husband and children, and her younger sister, Julia, with her new husband and his three children. That day Gerlof’s rheumatism had meant that he had to sit in the same armchair all afternoon. But now he was standing in the doorway leaning on his stick, wearing a waistcoat and dark gray gabardine trousers.
“Okay, the weather forecast has finished,” he said quietly.
“Great.”
Tilda got up. She had had to wait before going into Gerlof’s room, because he had to listen to the weather forecast.
Tilda didn’t really understand why it was so important-he was hardly likely to be going out in this cold-but presumably keeping an eye on the wind and the weather was a routine left over from his days as captain of a cargo ship on the Baltic.
“Come in, come in.”
He shook hands with her just inside the door-Gerlof wasn’t the kind of person who hugged people. Tilda had never even seen him pat anyone on the shoulder.
His hand was firm as it grasped hers. Gerlof had gone to sea as a teenager, and despite the fact that he had come ashore twenty-five years ago, the calluses were still there from all the ropes he’d hauled, all the boxes of cargo he’d lifted, and the chains that had torn the skin from his fingers.
“So what’s the weather got in store, then?” she asked.
“Don’t ask.” Gerlof sighed and sat down on one of the chairs by his small coffee table, his legs stiff. “The radio station has changed the time when the forecast starts yet again, so I missed the local temperatures. But in Norrland it’s going to get colder, so I should imagine it will down here too.” He cast a suspicious glance at the barometer next to the bookcase, then looked out of the window toward the bare trees, and added, “It’s going to be a hard winter this year, a cold, early winter. You can see that by the way the stars shine so brightly at night, especially the Big Dipper. And by the summer.”
“The summer?”
“A wet summer means a hard winter,” said Gerlof. “Everybody knows that.”
“I didn’t,” said Tilda. “But will it make any difference to us?”
“It certainly will. A long, hard winter influences just about everything. The shipping on the Baltic, for example. The ice delays the ships and the profits fall.”
Tilda moved into the room and was confronted by all the memories of Gerlof’s time at sea. On the walls were
black-and-white pictures of his ships, oiled nameplates, and framed ships’ certificates. There were also small photographs of his late parents and his wife.
Time stood still in here, thought Tilda.
She sat down opposite Gerlof and placed the tape recorder on the table between them. Then she plugged in the flat table microphone.
Gerlof gave the recording equipment the same look as the barometer. The tape recorder wasn’t very big, but Tilda could see his eyes flicking back and forth between it and her.
“Are we just going to… talk?” he said. “About my brother?”
“Among other things,” said Tilda. “That’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it?”
“But why?”
“Well, to preserve the memories and stories… before they disappear,” said Tilda, and added quickly, “Of course you’re going to be around for years yet, Gerlof, that’s not what I mean. I just want to record them to be on the safe side. My dad didn’t tell me much about Grandfather before he died, you know.”
Gerlof nodded. “We can talk. But when something’s being recorded, you have to be careful what you say.”
“There’s no problem,” said Tilda. “You can always record over a cassette tape.”
Gerlof had agreed to the recording almost without thinking when she had called him in August and said she was moving to Marnäs, but it still seemed to be making him a bit tense.
“Is it on?” he said quietly. “Is the tape running?”
“No, not yet,” said Tilda. “I’ll tell you when.”
She pressed down the Record button, saw that the tape was running, and nodded encouragingly at Gerlof.
“Right… we’ve started.” Tilda straightened up, and it seemed to her that her voice was more tense and formal than usual as she went on: “This is Tilda Davidsson, and I am in
Marnäs with my grandfather Ragnar’s brother Gerlof, to talk about our family… and about my grandfather here in Marnäs.”
Gerlof leaned forward a little stiffly toward the microphone and corrected her in a clear voice: “My brother Ragnar did not live in Marnäs. He lived on the coast outside Rörby, south of Marnäs.”
“Thank you, Gerlof… and what are your memories of Ragnar?”
Gerlof hesitated for a few seconds.
“There are a lot of good memories,” he said eventually. “We grew up together in Stenvik in the twenties, but then of course we chose completely different professions… he bought a little cottage and became a farmer and a fisherman, and I moved down to Borgholm and got married. And bought my first cargo ship.”
“How often did you see each other?”
“Well, whenever I was home from sea, a couple of times a year. Around Christmas and sometime in the summer. Ragnar usually came down to us in town.”
“Were there celebrations then?”
“Yes, especially at Christmas.”
“What was it like?”
“Crowded but good fun. Lots of food. Herring and potatoes and ham and pig’s trotters and dumplings. And of course Ragnar always brought plenty of eel with him, both smoked and pickled, and lots of cod soaked in lye…”
The more Gerlof talked, the more he relaxed. And so did Tilda.
They carried on talking for another half hour or so. But after a long story about a windmill fire in Stenvik, Gerlof raised a hand and waved feebly. Tilda realized he was tired, and quickly switched off the tape recorder.
“Fantastic,” she said. “It’s amazing how much you remember, Gerlof.”
“The old family stories are still in my head, I’ve heard
them so many times. Telling stories like this is good for the memory.” He looked at the tape recorder. “Do you think it got anything?”
“Of course.”
She rewound the tape and pressed Play. Gerlof’s recorded voice was quiet and slightly grumpy and repetitive, but it could be heard clearly.
“Good,” he said. “That’ll be something for those researchers into ordinary people’s lives to listen to.”
“It’s mostly for me,” said Tilda. “I wasn’t even born when Grandfather died, and Dad was no good at telling stories about the family. So I’m curious.”
“That comes with the years, as you acquire more and more of a past to look back on,” said Gerlof. “You start to get interested in where you came from, I’ve noticed that with my daughters too…How old are you now?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“And you’re going to be working here on Öland?”
“I am. I’ve finished all my training.”
“How long for?”
“We’ll see. Until next summer, at any rate.”
“That’s nice. It’s always good when young people come here and find work. And you’re living here in Marnäs?”
“I’ve got a one-bedroom place just by the square. You can see south along the coast…I can almost see Grandfather’s cottage.”