His mother and father hadn’t grown apart. They had had a dinner party last Friday. Papa had raised a glass to her across the table. ‘To my beautiful wife,’ he had said. And all the time he knew she was going to leave with this William.
It couldn’t be true, could it?
His mother stood there, afraid to touch him in case he shrugged her off, shook her away. ‘I love you, Anders. You may find that hard to believe, but I do. And your father does too. Very much. He doesn’t show it but it’s there; great pride and great love.’
‘They are different things, pride and love,’ Anders said. ‘Was he proud of you too, or did he love you?’ Anders looked at her properly for the first time.
‘He was proud that I kept my side of the bargain. I ran the house well; I was a satisfactory escort to him at all those interminable dinners; I was a good hostess. I gave him a son. I think he was pleased with me, yes.’
‘But love?’
‘I don’t know, Anders. I don’t think he ever loved anything except his firm and you.’
‘He never sounds as if he loves me. He is always so distant.’
‘That’s his way. He will always be like that. But I have been there for all of your life and he does love you. He just can’t express it.’
‘If he had expressed it for you, would you have stayed?’
‘That’s not a real question. It’s like wishing that a square was a circle,’ she said. And because he believed her, Anders held his hands out to her and she sobbed in his arms for a long time.
It all moved very swiftly after that.
Gunilla Almkvist packed her clothes, as Fru Karlsson sniffed in disapproval, but left all her jewellery behind. A cover story was devised. She had been offered this post in London working for a satellite broadcasting station. It would be criminal to let the opportunity pass. Anders was going off to university; her husband was fully supportive of the move. That way there would be no accusations about a runaway wife, a failed marriage. None of the oxygen of gossip, which would be so relished and yet so out of place at Almkvist’s.
Patrik Almkvist seemed courteous and grateful. He never discussed the matter with his only child. He looked pleased that Anders had had his hair properly cut and that he’d been measured for a good suit.
He spent more and more time at the office.
The night before Anders’ mother left, the three of them went out to dinner together. Patrik raised his glass to his wife. ‘May you find all you are looking for in London,’ he said.
Anders stared at them in disbelief. Twenty years of life together, two decades of hope and dreams ending, and his parents were still acting out a role. Was this what everyone did? He had a feeling at that moment that he would never fall in love. It was all for the poets and the love songs and the dreamers. It wasn’t what people did in real life.
Next day, he set off for Gothenburg and university. His new life had begun.
He had only been there a week when he met Erika, a textile and design student. She came straight over to him at a party and asked him to dance.
Later, he asked her why she had approached him that night.
‘You looked smart, that’s all. Not scruffy,’ she said.
Anders was very disappointed. ‘Does that sort of thing matter?’ he asked.
‘It matters that you care enough about yourself and about the people you meet to present yourself well. That’s all. I’m tired of scruffy people,’ she said.
They were an item from then on, it seemed. Erika loved to cook but only when she wanted to and what she wanted to. But she loved to have people to her apartment, and when she found out that Anders could play the
nyckelharpa
she was appalled that he hadn’t brought it with him to university. So the very next time he went home she insisted that he bring it back with him. And then she set about organising jam sessions at her place, and she would make the most delicious suppers.
Erika was small and funny and thought that women’s rights and fashion were not incompatible. She loved to dress up for any occasion, and astonished Anders when she was the most attractive and stylish woman in the room. They made each other laugh, and quite soon became inseparable.
It was just before Easter time that she told him she would never marry him because she thought marriage was a kind of enslavement, but she would love him all of her life. She said she needed to explain this to him at once lest there be any grey areas.
Anders was startled. He hadn’t
asked
her to marry him. But it all looked good, so he went along with it.
Erika asked him home to meet her parents.
Her father ran a tiny restaurant; her mother was a taxi driver. They welcomed Anders warmly, and he envied the kind of family life they all had. Her sister and brother, twins aged twelve, joined in everything and argued cheerfully with their parents about every subject from pocket money to breast implants, from God to the royal family – subjects that had never been discussed in the Almkvist household. The twins asked Erika when would she be going to meet Anders’ family. Before he could answer, Erika said quickly that there was no hurry. She was an acquired taste, she explained. It would take longer for people to welcome her in.
‘What’s an acquired taste?’ her brother asked.
‘Look it up,’ Erika teased.
Later, Anders said, ‘I would be happy for you to come and stay at my father’s house.’
‘No way. I don’t want to give the man a heart attack. But I might go with you and stay at your mother’s in London, though.’
‘I’m not sure if that would be a good idea . . .’
‘You just don’t want to meet William and think of him sleeping with your mother, that’s all.’
‘Not true,’ he said and then, because he couldn’t keep up the lie, ‘Well, I suppose it’s a little true.’
‘Let’s see if we can get to London. I’ll try and find a project, and we can improve our English
and
see London
and
check out your new stepfather at the same time.’
It was April when they finally made the visit to London. The daffodils were out in all the parks and gardens and everything seemed alive and sparkling. Gunilla and William were living in an elegant house in a beautiful square quite close to the Imperial War Museum; from there, it was only a few minutes’ walk to the River Thames and all the history and pageantry London was famous for. It was the first time they had seen the city and all the richness and bustle. The crowds and the noise were daunting at first, but they dived in with enthusiasm, determined to make the most of every moment.
Gunilla was relaxed and delighted to see them. If she had any doubts about Erika’s suitability as the partner of the next head of Almkvist’s, she did not even hint at them. William was very welcoming and took three days off work from his television production company to show the young visitors the real London. The first stop was the London Eye, from where they could see for miles in every direction. He had looked up a few of the folk-music clubs in the city so they could take off on their own for an evening if they wanted to. To Anders’ delight, William had even found out that there would be
nyckelharpa
playing at a Scandi session in a pub not far away in Bermondsey.
Anders found that it was easier to talk to his mother than it had ever been. No longer was she complaining about how he looked. In fact, she was full of admiration.
‘Erika is just delightful,’ she told Anders. ‘Have you taken her to meet your father yet?’
‘Not yet. You know . . .’
If his mother
did
know, she didn’t say so.
‘Don’t leave it too long. Take Erika to meet him soon. She’s lovely.’
‘But you know how snobby he is, how much he cares about what people do, and are. You’ve forgotten what he’s like. She stands up for herself. She hates big business. She can’t bear the kind of people he deals with all day.’
‘She will be much too polite to let any of that show.’
Anders wished he could believe her.
Gunilla wanted to know about the office. Did Anders go in there much when he went home?
‘I haven’t been home much really,’ he admitted.
‘You should go and keep an eye on your territory, your inheritance,’ she said. ‘Your father would like that.’
‘He never asks me or suggests it.’
‘You never offer, you never visit,’ she answered.
When they got back to Sweden, Anders telephoned his father. The conversation was formal: it was as if Patrik Almkvist was talking to a casual acquaintance. In as far as Anders could understand, his father sounded pleased that he was coming home for the summer and hoped to work in the office.
‘Somewhere that I can’t do too much damage,’ Anders suggested.
‘Everyone will go out of their way to help you,’ his father promised.
And so it was. Anders noticed, with some embarrassment, that people in the firm
did
go out of their way to help and encourage him. They spoke to him with a respect that was quite disproportionate for a student. He was definitely the young prince-in-waiting. No one wanted to cross him. He was the future.
Even his two cousins, Mats and Klara, were anxious to show him how much they were pulling their weight. They kept giving him an update on all they had done so far and how well they were handling their own areas. They tried hard to understand what interested young Anders. He didn’t seem to want expensive meals in top restaurants; he wasn’t concerned with business gossip; he didn’t even want to know of rivals’ failures.
He was a mystery.
His father, too, seemed to have problems working out where Anders’ interests lay. He asked courteous questions about life at university. Whether the teachers had business experience as well as academic records.
He asked nothing about whether Anders had other interests or a love life, whether he still loved music, still played the
nyckelharpa
or even who his friends were. In the evenings, they sat in the apartment in Östermalm and talked about the office and the various clients that had been seen during the day. They ate at Patrik’s favourite restaurant some evenings; otherwise they had supper at home sitting at the dining table and eating cold meats and cheese laid out by the silent and disapproving Fru Karlsson. The more his father talked, the less Anders knew about him. The man had no life apart from the one that was lived in the Almkvist office.
Anders had promised his mother that he would make an effort to break his father’s reserve but it was proving even harder than he had thought. He tried to speak about Erika.
‘I have this girlfriend, Father. She’s a fellow student.’
‘That’s good,’ his father nodded vaguely and approvingly as if Anders had said that he had updated his laptop.
‘I’ve been to stay with her family. I thought I might invite Erika here for a few days.’
‘Here?’ His father was astounded.
‘Well, yes.’
‘But what would she do all day?’
‘I suppose she could tour the city and we could meet for lunch, and I could take a few days off to show her around.’
‘Yes, certainly, if you’d like to . . . Of course.’
‘She came to London with me when I went to see Mother.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It all worked very well. She found plenty to do there.’
‘I imagine everyone would find something to do in London. It would be rather different here.’ His father was glacial.
‘I’m very fond of her, Papa.’
‘Good, good.’ It was as if he was trying to stem any emotion that might be coming his way.
‘In fact, we are going to move in together.’ Now he had said it.
‘I don’t know how you expect to be able to pay for that.’
‘Well, I thought it might be something we could discuss while I’m here. Now, may I invite Erika for next week?’
‘If you like, yes. Make all the arrangements with Fru Karlsson. She will need to prepare a bedroom for your friend.’
‘We will be
living
together, Father. I thought she could share my room here.’
‘I don’t like to impose your morality and standards on Fru Karlsson.’
‘Father, it’s not
my
morality, it’s the twenty-first century!’
‘I know, but even with your mother’s shallow grasp on reality she realised the importance of being discreet and keeping one’s personal life just that. Fru Karlsson will prepare a bedroom for your friend. Your sleeping arrangements you can make for yourselves.’
‘Have I annoyed you?’
‘Not at all. In fact I admire your directness, but I am sure you see my point of view also.’ He spoke as he would in the office, his voice never raised, his sureness that he was right never wavering.
Erika arrived by train the first week in July. She was full of stories about her fellow passengers. She wore jeans and a scarlet jacket and had a huge backpack of work with her. She said she was going to study in the mornings and then meet him for lunch each day.
‘My father will insist on taking us out to some smart places,’ he began nervously.
‘Then it’s just as well you got yourself some smart clothes,’ she said.
‘I didn’t mean me, I meant . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Anders. I have the shoes, I have the dress,’ she said.
And she did. Erika looked splendid in her little black dress with the shocking-pink shawl and smart high heels when they went to his father’s favourite restaurant. She listened and asked intelligent questions, and she spoke cheerfully about her own family – her demon twin brother and sister, her mother’s adventures in the taxi trade, her father’s restaurant which served thirty-seven different kinds of pickled herring. She talked easily about the trip to London and how Anders’ mother had been a marvellous hostess. She even talked openly about William.
‘You probably don’t know him, Mr Almkvist, because of the circumstances and everything, but he was quite amazing. He’d found a pub in Bermondsey where they were playing the
nyckelharpa
– Anders loved it – and then we went to dinner in a restaurant with the most amazing gold mosaic ceiling. He owns a television production company, did you know? Totally capitalist, of course, and against any kind of social welfare, which he called a handout. But generous and helpful as well. Proves that people can’t be put in pigeonholes.’