Читать книгу The Girl in the Woods - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 7

‘Do you think your mother will wear white?’ Erica asked as she turned to look at Patrik lying next to her in bed.

‘Ha, ha. Very funny,’ he said.

Erica laughed and poked him in the side.

‘Why is it so hard for you to accept that your mother’s getting married? Your father remarried a long time ago, and there was nothing strange about that, right?’

‘I know I’m being silly,’ said Patrik, shaking his head as he swung his legs off the bed and started putting on his socks. ‘I like Gunnar, and I think it’s great my mother won’t have to live alone any more, but …’

He stood up and pulled on his jeans.

‘It feels a little odd, to be honest. Mamma has lived alone for as long as I can remember. I suppose you could say there’s some sort of mother-and-son thing going on, for some reason it feels … strange, Mamma getting married again.’

‘You mean it feels strange that she and Gunnar are having sex?’

Patrik raised his hands to cover his ears.

‘Stop!’

Laughing, Erica tossed a pillow at him. He instantly threw it back, and all-out war ensued. Patrik flung himself on top of her, but the wrestling quickly turned to caresses and heavy breathing. She moved her hands to his fly and undid the top button.

‘What are you guys doing?’

Maja’s bright voice made them both stop and turn towards the open doorway. Maja was not the only one standing there. She was flanked by her little twin brothers, who were happily staring at their parents on the bed.

‘We’re just tickling each other,’ said Patrik, out of breath, as he sat up.

‘You need to fix the lock on the door!’ Erica hissed, pulling up the covers to hide her bare breasts.

She sat up and managed to smile at her children.

‘Why don’t you go downstairs and start breakfast. We’ll be there in a minute.’

By now Patrik had put on the rest of his clothes, and he shooed the kids ahead of him.

‘If you can’t fix the lock yourself, you could ask Gunnar. He always seems ready with his tools. Assuming he’s not busy with something else with your mother, that is.’

‘Cut it out,’ laughed Patrik, leaving the room.

With a smile on her face, Erica sank back on the bed. She could allow herself a few more minutes before getting up. Not having a set schedule was one of the benefits of being her own boss, though it might also be regarded as a disadvantage. Making her living as an author required stamina and self-discipline, and sometimes it could be a little lonely. Yet she loved her job. She loved writing and bringing to life the stories and fates she chose to depict. She loved all the poking around and research as she tried to work out what had actually happened and why. She’d been longing to sink her teeth into the case she was working on right now. The case of little Stella, who had been kidnapped and killed by Helen Persson and Marie Wall, had affected her deeply. It was still affecting everybody in Fjällbacka.

And now Marie Wall was back. The celebrated Hollywood actress was in Fjällbacka to star in a film about Ingrid Bergman. The whole town was buzzing with rumours.

Everyone had known at least one of the girls or their families, and everyone had been equally upset on that July afternoon in 1985 when Stella’s body was found in the small lake.

Erica turned on to her side and wondered if the sun had been as hot back then as it was today. She’d have to look that up when it was time for her to walk the few metres across the hall to her home office. But not quite yet. She closed her eyes and dozed off as she listened to Patrik and the kids talking in the kitchen downstairs.

Helen leaned forward as she looked around. She propped her sweaty hands on her knees. A personal record today, even though she had gone out running later than usual.

The sea shimmered clear and blue in front of her, but inside her a storm was raging. Helen straightened up and stretched, wrapping her arms around her torso. She couldn’t stop shaking. ‘Someone just walked across my grave.’ That’s what her mother always used to say. And maybe there was something to it. Not that anyone was walking across her grave. But maybe across somebody’s grave.

Time had lowered a veil; the memories were now so hazy. What she did remember were the voices of all those people who wanted to know exactly what had happened. They’d said the same thing over and over until she no longer knew what was their truth and what was hers.

Back then it had seemed impossible to come back and build a life here. But all the whispering and shouts had diminished over the years, transformed into low murmurs until at last they ceased altogether. She’d felt as if she was once again a natural part of life.

And now the gossip was going to start again. Everything was going to be dredged up. As so often happens in life, several events had coincided. She’d been sleeping badly for weeks, ever since receiving the letter from Erica Falck, telling her she was writing a book and would like to meet with Helen. She’d been forced to renew the prescription for the pills she’d managed to do without for so many years. She needed the pills to deal with the next piece of news: Marie was back.

Thirty years had passed. She and James had been living quietly, without drawing attention, and she knew that was what James preferred. Eventually all the talk will stop, he’d said. And he was right. Their dark moments didn’t last long, provided she made sure everything went as smoothly as possible. And she’d been able to ward off the memories. Until now. Images began flashing through her mind. She could see Marie’s face so clearly. And Stella’s happy smile.

Helen turned her eyes towards the sea again, trying to focus on the waves slowly rolling in. But the images refused to loosen their grip. Marie was back, and with her came disaster.

‘Excuse me, where can I find the loo?’

Sture offered a look of encouragement to Karim and the others who had gathered for Swedish lessons in the refugee centre in Tanumshede.

Everyone repeated the phrase, doing the best they could. ‘Excuse me, where can I find the loo?’

‘How much does this cost?’ Sture went on.

Again they repeated in unison. ‘How much does this cost?’

Karim struggled to connect the sounds Sture was uttering as he stood at the blackboard with the text in his book. Everything was so different. The letters they were supposed to read, the sounds they were supposed to make.

He glanced around the room at the valiant group of six students. Everyone else was either outside in the sun playing ball or inside lying in bed. Some people tried to sleep away the days and the memories, while others sent emails to friends and relatives who were still alive and possible to reach, or they surfed the Internet for news reports. Not that there was much information to be gleaned. The government broadcast nothing but propaganda, and the news organizations around the world had a hard time getting their correspondents into the country. Karim had been a journalist in his former life, and he understood the difficulties of reporting accurate and updated news from a country at war like Syria, which had been ravaged both from within and without.

‘Thank you for inviting us over.’

Karim snorted. Now there was a phrase he’d never use. If there was one thing he’d quickly learned, it was that Swedes were a reserved people. They’d had no contact whatsoever with any Swedes, except for Sture and the others who worked for the refugee centre.

It was as if they’d ended up in a separate little land inside the country, isolated from the rest of the world. Their only companions were each other, along with their memories of Syria. Some of the memories were good, but most of them were bad. Those were the ones many people relived over and over again. For his part, Karim tried to suppress all of it. The war that had become their daily existence. The long journey to the promised land in the north.

He’d made it here, along with his beloved wife Amina and their two precious children Hassan and Samia. That was the only thing that mattered. He’d managed to bring them to safety and give them an opportunity for a future. The bodies floating in the water sometimes forced their way into his dreams, but when he opened his eyes they were gone. He and his family were here in Sweden. Nothing else was important.

‘How do you say when you have sex with someone?’

Adnan laughed at his own words. He and Khalil were the youngest of the men here. They sat next to each other and egged each other on.

‘Show some respect,’ Karim said in Arabic, glaring at them.

He shrugged an apology as he looked at Sture, who gave a slight nod.

Khalil and Adnan had come here on their own, without family, without friends. They’d managed to escape Aleppo before it got too dangerous to flee. They’d had to decide between leaving and staying. Both could be deadly.

Karim couldn’t muster any anger toward them, despite their blatant lack of respect. They were children, frightened and alone in a strange country. Their cockiness was all they had. Everything here was unfamiliar to them. Karim had spent some time talking to them after the lessons. Their families had collected all the money they could find to make it possible for the two young men to leave Syria. A lot was riding on the boys’ shoulders. Not only had they been thrown into a foreign world, they were also obligated to create a life for themselves here so they could rescue their families from the war. Karim understood them, but it still was not acceptable for them to show such lack of respect for their new homeland. No matter how scared the Swedes were of the refugees, they had welcomed them and provided them with shelter and food. Sture came here in his spare time, struggling to teach them how to ask for the price of things and how to find a loo. Karim might not understand the Swedes, but he was eternally grateful for what they’d done for his family. Not everyone shared his attitude, and those who displayed no respect for their new country ruined things for them all, making the Swedes regard them with suspicion.

‘How nice the weather is today,’ said Sture, carefully enunciating the words as he stood at the blackboard.

‘How nice the weather is today,’ Karim repeated, smiling to himself.

After two months in Sweden, he understood why the Swedes were so grateful every time the sun came out. ‘What bloody awful weather,’ was one of the first phrases he’d learned to say in Swedish. Though he still hadn’t fully mastered the pronunciation.

‘How often do you think people have sex at their age?’ Erica asked, taking a sip of her sparkling wine.

Anna’s laugh made the other customers in Café Bryggan turn to stare at them.

‘Are you serious, Sis? Is that what you go around thinking about? How many times Patrik’s mother is getting laid?’

‘Yes, but I’m thinking about it in a broader context,’ said Erica, eating another spoonful of her cioppino. ‘How many years are left for a good sex life? Do people lose interest somewhere along the way? Do they replace their sexual desires with an irresistible urge to do crossword puzzles or Sudoku and eat sweets, or does it remain constant?’

‘Hmm … I don’t know.’

Anna shook her head and leaned back in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Erica felt a lump form in her throat. It wasn’t long ago that they’d both been involved in the horrible car accident that had caused Anna to lose the baby she was expecting. She would always have the scars on her face, but soon she would give birth to the child she and Dan had created from their love. Sometimes life could be truly surprising.

‘For instance, do you think—’

‘If you’re about to say “Mamma and Pappa”, I’m going to get up and leave right now,’ said Anna, holding up her hand. ‘That’s not something I even want to think about.’

Erica grinned.

‘Okay, I won’t use our parents as an example, but how often do you think Kristina and Bob the Builder have sex?’

‘Erica!’ Anna covered her face with her hands and again shook her head. ‘You need to stop calling poor Gunnar “Bob the Builder” just because he happens to be such a nice handy guy.’

‘Okay, let’s talk about the wedding instead. Have you been summoned to give your opinion about the dress? I can’t be the only one who has to pretend to be enthusiastic and approving when she shows me one hideous matronly gown after another.’

‘Yup, she asked me too,’ said Anna, struggling to lean forward to eat her open-face shrimp sandwich.

‘Why don’t you balance the plate on your belly?’ Erica suggested with a smile that was rewarded with a glare from Anna.

No matter how much Dan and Anna had longed for this baby, it wasn’t much fun being pregnant in the intense summer heat, and Anna’s belly was huge.

‘Couldn’t you try steering her in the right direction?’ Erica went on. ‘Kristina has such a great figure. She has a smaller waist and nicer boobs than me, but she doesn’t dare show them off. Think how beautiful she’d look in a lacy, low-cut sheath dress!’

‘Keep me out of it if you’re going to try to give Kristina some sort of makeover,’ said Anna. ‘I’m planning to tell her she looks fantastic no matter what she shows me.’

‘You’re such a chicken!’

‘You can take care of your own mother-in-law, and I’ll take care of mine.’

Anna took a bite of her shrimp sandwich, savouring the taste.

‘Right – like Esther’s difficult to get on with,’ said Erica, picturing Dan’s sweet mother, who would never express the slightest criticism or offer any conflicting opinions.

This was something Erica knew from personal experience, because a long time ago she and Dan had been an item.

‘No, you’re right. I’m lucky to have her,’ said Anna, then swore when she dropped her sandwich on her dress.

‘Hey, don’t worry about it. Nobody’ll even notice – they’ll be too busy looking at your enormous bazookas,’ said Erica, pointing at Anna’s breasts, which currently required a bra with size G cups.

‘Shut up.’

Anna did her best to wipe the mayonnaise off her dress. Erica leaned forward, took her little sister’s face in her hands, and kissed her on the cheek.

‘What’s that for?’ asked Anna in surprise.

‘Love you, that’s all,’ said Erica lightly, raising her glass. ‘To us, Anna. To you and me and our crazy family. To everything we’ve been through, to everything we’ve survived, and to not having any more secrets between us.’

Anna blinked a few times before raising her glass of cola to drink a toast with Erica.

‘To us.’

For a moment Erica thought she glimpsed a dark glint in Anna’s eyes, but the next second it was gone. She must have imagined it.

Sanna leaned over the Philadelphus coronarius and breathed in the scent. This time it didn’t soothe her as it usually did. Customers were walking around, picking up pots and placing potting soil in their trolleys, but she hardly noticed. The only thing she could see was Marie Wall’s phoney smile.

Sanna couldn’t for the life of her fathom what Marie thought she was doing, coming back after all these years. As if it weren’t bad enough having to run into Helen in town and being forced to nod a greeting.

She had accepted that Helen lived close by, that any moment she might catch sight of her. She could see the guilt in Helen’s eyes and how it was eating her up more and more as the years passed. But Marie had never shown any remorse, and her smiling face could be seen in every celebrity magazine.

And now she was back. Phoney, beautiful, laughing Marie. They’d been in the same class at school, and Sanna had always looked with envy at Marie’s thick lashes and her long blond hair curling down her back, but she’d also seen the darkness inside her.

Thank goodness Sanna’s parents wouldn’t have to see Marie’s smile here in town. Sanna was thirteen when her mother died from liver cancer, and she was fifteen when her father passed away. The doctors hadn’t been able to give a precise cause of death, but Sanna knew what it was. He had died from grief.

Sanna shook her head, feeling a headache coming on.

They had forced her to move in with her mother’s sister, Aunt Linn, but she’d never felt at home there. Linn and Paul’s own children were several years younger than Sanna, and they didn’t have a clue what to do with an orphaned teenager. They hadn’t been mean or treated her badly, they’d done the best they could, but they’d remained strangers to her.

Sanna had chosen to attend a community college specializing in horticulture far away, and she found a job soon after graduating. She’d supported herself ever since. She ran this small garden centre on the outskirts of Fjällbacka. She didn’t earn a lot, but it was enough to make a living for herself and her daughter. And that was all she needed.

Her parents had been transformed into the living dead when Stella was found murdered, and she understood why. Certain people were born with a brighter light than others, and Stella had been one of them. Always happy, always cheerful, always offering kisses and hugs to everyone. If Sanna could have died instead of Stella on that hot summer morning, she would have gladly taken her place.

But Stella was the one who was found in the lake. After that, nothing was left.

‘Excuse me, but are there any roses that are easier to take care of than others?’

Sanna gave a start and looked up at the woman who had come over without her noticing.

The woman smiled, and the furrows on Sanna’s face relaxed.

‘I love roses, but I’m afraid I don’t have green fingers.’

‘Is there a specific colour you’d like?’ asked Sanna.

She was an expert at helping people find the plants best suited to them. Certain people did better with flowers that needed a lot of care and attention. They were able to make orchids thrive and blossom, and they’d have many happy years together. Other people could barely even take care of themselves, so they needed plants that were tolerant and strong. Not necessarily cacti – those she saved for the worst cases – but she might suggest, for instance, a Peace Lily or a philodendron. And she took pride in always pairing the right plant with the right person.

‘Pink,’ said the woman dreamily. ‘I love pink.’

‘In that case, I have the perfect rose for you. It’s called a burnet rose. The most important thing to remember is to give it some extra attention when you plant it. Dig a deep hole and soak the soil with water. Add a little fertilizer – I’ll give you the right kind – before you put in the rosebush. Fill in the hole and water it again. Watering is very important in the beginning when the roots are taking hold. Once it’s established, it’s more a matter of regular maintenance so the rosebush doesn’t dry out. And cut it back every year in early spring, when buds are starting to appear on the birch trees.’

The woman cast an adoring glance at the rosebush Sanna placed in her trolley. She understood completely. There was something special about roses. She often compared people to flowers. If Stella had been a flower, she would definitely have been a rose. Rosa Gallica. Lovely, magnificent, with layer upon layer of petals.

The woman cleared her throat.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

Sanna shook her head, realizing that once again she’d got lost in memories.

‘Yes, I’m fine, just a little tired. This heat …’

The woman nodded at her vague reply.

Actually everything was not all right. Evil had returned. Sanna could sense it as clearly as she smelled the fragrance from the roses.

Being on holiday with children couldn’t really be classified as relaxing, thought Patrik. It was an odd combination of all that was wonderful and yet completely exhausting. Especially when he had sole responsibility for all three kids while Erica went to lunch with Anna. Against his better judgement, he’d taken them to the beach to keep them from climbing the walls at home. It was usually easier to prevent them from fighting if they were fully occupied, but he’d forgotten how the beach could make things more difficult. For a start, there was always the risk of drowning. Their house was in Sälvik, right across from the bathing area, and many times he’d woken in a cold sweat after dreaming that one of the kids had slipped out and wandered down to the sea. Then there was the sand. Noel and Anton insisted not only on throwing sand at other children, which earned Patrik angry looks from other parents, but they also, for some inexplicable reason, enjoyed stuffing sand in their mouths. The sand was one thing, but Patrik shuddered to think of all the other nasty things going into their little mouths along with it. He’d already taken a cigarette butt out of Anton’s sandy fist, and it was only a matter of time before a piece of glass followed. Or a pinch of discarded snuff.

Thank God for Maja. Sometimes Patrik felt guilty his little girl took on so much responsibility for her younger brothers, but Erica always claimed Maja enjoyed doing it. Just as Erica had enjoyed taking care of her own little sister.

Right now Maja was watching the twins so they didn’t go too far out in the water. If they did, she hauled them back towards shore with a firm hand, checking to see what they’d put in their mouths, and brushing off the other children when her little brothers threw sand at them. Sometimes Patrik wished she wasn’t always so dutiful; he worried she’d have plenty of ulcers ahead of her if she continued to be such a conscientious child.

Ever since the heart trouble he’d experienced a few years back, he knew how important it was to take care of himself, allowing time to rest and unwind. But it was questionable whether being on holiday with the kids fit the bill. Much as he loved his children, on days like these he longed for the peace and quiet of the Tanumshede police station.

Marie Wall leaned back in her deckchair and reached for her drink. A Bellini. Champagne and peach juice. Well, not like at Harry’s in Venice, unfortunately. No fresh peaches here. She had to make do with the cheap champagne the skinflints at the film company had put in her fridge, mixed with ProViva peach juice. She had demanded that the ingredients for Bellinis should be here when she arrived and it seemed this was the best they could come up with.

It was such a strange feeling to be back. Not back in the house, of course. It had been demolished long ago. She couldn’t help wondering whether the people who owned the new house built on that plot were haunted by evil spirits after everything that had gone on there. Probably not. No doubt the evil had gone to the grave with her parents.

Marie took another sip of her Bellini. She looked around and wondered where the owners of this house had gone. A week in August with fantastic summer weather should have been the time when they got the most enjoyment out of a house that must have cost them millions, both to buy and to renovate, even if they didn’t spend much time in Sweden. Presumably they were at their chateau-like property in Provence, which Marie had found when she googled their name. Rich people seldom settled for anything less than the best. Including summer houses.

Yet she was grateful to them for renting out their house. This was where she retreated each day the moment filming was finished. She knew it couldn’t last. Some day she was bound to run into Helen, and she’d no doubt be struck by how much they had once meant to each other, and how much had changed since. But she wasn’t yet ready for that.

‘Mamma!’

Marie closed her eyes. Ever since Jessie was born, she’d tried in vain to get her to use her first name instead of that dreadful label. But the child had insisted on calling her ‘Mamma’, as if by doing so she might change Marie into one of those dowdy earth-mother types.

‘Mamma?’

The voice was right behind her, and Marie realized she couldn’t hide.

‘Yes?’ she said, reaching for her glass.

The bubbles prickled her throat. Her body grew softer and more pliant with every sip.

‘Sam and I were thinking of going out in his boat for a while. Is that okay?’

‘Sure,’ said Marie, taking another sip.

She peered at her daughter from under the brim of her sun hat. ‘What do you want?’

‘Mamma, I’m fifteen,’ said Jessie with a sigh.

Good God, Jessie was so pudgy it was hard to believe she was her daughter. Thank goodness she’d at least managed to meet a boy since they’d arrived in Fjällbacka.

Marie sank back and closed her eyes, but only for a second.

‘Why are you still here?’ she asked. ‘You’re blocking the sun, and I’m trying to get a tan. I need to go back to filming after lunch, and they want me to have a natural tan. Ingrid Bergman looked as brown as a gingerbread biscuit when she spent her summers on the island of Dannholmen.’

‘I just …’ Jessie began, but then she turned on her heel and left.

Marie heard the front door slam. She smiled to herself. Alone at last.

Bill Andersson opened the lid of the basket and took out one of the sandwiches Gun had made. He glanced up before swiftly shutting the lid. The seagulls were quick, and if he didn’t watch out they would steal his lunch. Here on the pier, he was particularly vulnerable.

Gun poked him in the side.

‘I think it’s a good idea, after all,’ she said. ‘Crazy, but good.’

Bill closed his eyes for a moment as he took a bite of his sandwich.

‘Do you mean that, or are you only saying it to make your husband happy?’

‘Since when do I say things to make you happy?’ Gun replied, and Bill had to admit she was right.

During the forty years they’d been together, he could recall only a few times when she had not been brutally honest.

‘Well, I’ve been thinking about this ever since we saw that documentary, Nice People, about the Somali bandy team that lives and trains here in Sweden. In my opinion, something similar ought to work here too. I talked with Rolf at the refugee centre, and they’re not having much fun up there. People are such cowards, they don’t dare approach the refugees.’

‘I get treated like an outsider in Fjällbacka because I’m from Strömstad,’ said Gun, reaching for another fresh roll, bought at Zetterlinds, and slathering it with butter. ‘If locals treat people from the next county as foreigners, it’s no surprise they’re not exactly welcoming the Syrians with open arms.’

‘It’s about time everybody changed their attitude,’ said Bill, throwing out his hand. ‘These people have come with their children, fleeing from war and misery, and they’ve had a terrible journey getting here. So the locals need to start talking to them. If Swedes can teach people from Somalia to ice-skate and play bandy, surely we should be able to teach Syrians to sail. Isn’t Syria on the coast? Maybe they already know how to sail.’

Gun shook her head. ‘I have no idea, sweetheart. You’ll have to google it.’

Bill reached for his iPad, which he’d put down after completing their morning Sudoku puzzle.

‘I’m right, Syria does have a coastline, but it’s hard to know how many of these people lived near the sea. I’ve always said, anybody can learn to sail. This will be a good chance to prove I’m right.’

‘But wouldn’t it be enough for them to sail for fun? Why do they need to compete?’

‘According to the documentary, those Somalis were motivated by accepting a real challenge. It became a kind of statement for them.’

Bill smiled. It felt good to express himself in a way that sounded both knowledgeable and reasonable.

‘Okay, but why does it have to be a – what was it you said? A “statement”?’

‘Because it won’t have any impact otherwise. The more people who get inspired, like I was, the more it will have a ripple effect, until it becomes easier for refugees to be accepted by society.’

In his mind, Bill pictured himself instigating a national movement. This was the way all big changes started. Something that began with the Somalis entering the world bandy championships and continued with the Syrians competing in sailing contests could lead to anything at all!

Gun placed her hand on his and smiled at him.

‘I’ll go and talk to Rolf today and set up a meeting at the centre,’ said Bill, reaching for another roll.

After a moment’s hesitation he picked up a second roll and tossed it to the seagulls. After all, they too were entitled to food.

Eva Berg pulled up the stalks and placed them in the basket next to her. As usual, her heart skipped a beat when she looked out across the fields. All this was theirs. The history of the place had never troubled them. Neither she nor Peter was especially superstitious. Yet when they bought this farm ten years ago there had been a lot of talk about all the misfortunes that had struck the Strand family, the former owners. But from what Eva understood, a single tragic event had caused all the other troubles. The death of little Stella had brought about the sad chain of events that had befallen the Strand family, and that had nothing to do with this farm.

Eva leaned forward to look for more weeds, ignoring the ache in her knees. For her and for Peter, their new home was paradise. They were from the city, if Uddevalla could be called a city, but they’d always dreamed of living in the country. The farm outside Fjällbacka had seemed perfect in every respect. The fact that the asking price was so low because of what had happened here simply meant it was within their budget. Eva hoped they had been able to fill the place with enough love and positive energy.

Best of all was the way Nea was thriving here. They’d named her Linnea, but ever since she was tiny, she’d called herself Nea, so it was only natural for Eva and Peter to call her that too. She was now four years old and so stubborn and headstrong that Eva was already dreading her teenage years. But it seemed she and Peter were not going to have more children, so they’d at least be able to focus all their attention on Nea when the time came. At the moment, those days seemed very far away. Nea ran around the farm like a little ball of energy, with her fluff of blond hair, which she’d inherited from Eva, framing her bright face. Eva was always worried that the child would get sunburned, but she merely seemed to get more freckles.

Eva sat up and used her wrist to wipe the sweat from her forehead, not wanting to smudge her face with the dirty gardening gloves she wore. She loved weeding the vegetable garden. It was such a refreshing contrast to the work of her office job. She took a childish pleasure in seeing the seeds she’d sown become plants that grew and flourished until they could be harvested. Their garden was intended only for their own use, since the farm couldn’t provide them with an income, but they were able to meet much of their household needs with a vegetable garden, a herb garden, and a field of potatoes. Yet occasionally she felt guilty about how well they were doing. Her life had turned out better than she’d ever imagined. She needed nothing more than Peter, Nea, and their home on this farm.

Eva began pulling up carrots. Off in the distance she saw Peter approaching on the tractor. His regular job was working for the Tetra Pak company, but he spent as much of his free time as possible on the tractor. This morning he’d gone out early, long before Eva was awake, taking along a sack lunch and a Thermos of coffee. A small wooded area belonged to the farm, and he’d decided to clear out the underbrush, so she knew he’d bring back firewood for the winter. He’d no doubt be sweaty and filthy, with aching muscles and a big smile.

She put the carrots in her basket and pushed it aside. The carrots were for the supper she’d cook this evening. Then she took off her gardening gloves and dropped them next to the basket before she headed towards Peter. She squinted her eyes, trying to catch sight of Nea on the tractor. She’d probably fallen asleep, as she always did. It had been an early start for the child, but she loved going to the woods with Peter. She loved her mother, but she adored her father.

Peter drove the tractor into the farmyard.

‘Hi, honey,’ said Eva after he switched off the engine.

Her heart beat faster when she saw his smile. Even after all these years he could still make her weak at the knees.

‘Hi, sweetheart! Have the two of you had a good day?’

‘Er, um …’

What did he mean by ‘the two of you’?

‘What about the two of you?’ she said.

‘What?’ said Peter, giving her a sweaty kiss on the cheek.

He looked around.

‘Where’s Nea? Is she taking an afternoon nap?’

There was a great rushing in Eva’s ears, and as if from far away she heard herself say:

‘I thought she was with you.’

They stared at each other as their world split apart.