She did not even want to have that house. Or rather, she did, of course. They had plans, she and Hartvig, and she was a practical person. They were together on the house, for a time at least. He had money and connections, she could put things straight. Moreover, she could speak when Hartvig was at a loss for words, which he was, constantly. You truly have the gift of the gab, he told her admiringly, but later on he would use that against her. You certainly have a devilish way with words, and with that evil laughter of yours it’s not too hard to believe you come from hell.
The wife from hell, that was her. Things went swimmingly as long as they were busy establishing their home, furnishing the rooms, planning and sowing the lawn outside. God only knows how many hours she put in decorating and sewing. She was good at it, that was the truth, she was quite simply good at that sort of thing. But she did not actually want the house. When it became a reality. She did not want the type of life she and Hartvig gradually came to have, did not want Hartvig. He did not truly see her. He saw nothing other than the fits of rage. She realised that now. That every time she lost her temper she had to be the most docile and endearing wife one could imagine for at least a week. Only in so doing could she offset the balance. One sin required payment by seven good deeds. But she did not want to. Could not. It was abhorrent to her, because Hartvig vexed her. She did not love him sufficiently. But how was it actually, did he love her as deeply as he said he did? When perhaps he did not need to, not as much as her, seeing as he had his work, seeing as he was also capable of switching off his feelings. How did he do that? Oh, she does not know if she even knew him, or just grew accustomed to him, his risibly servile behaviour upon meeting men he admired, for instance. How that annoyed her. And his idiotic jokes, which he made with those he ventured to socialise with as friends. In general, they were so-so, the friends, but always slightly below standard, being with them bored her, those awful bridge evenings were a case in point. But Hartvig was on top form then, in his element, because if there was one thing he was not, it was stupid. Neither was she. She was certain of that. Certain she was meant for something else. She said it to Mama once, but Mama had met her with a sharp look and told her she did not want to hear that kind of talk. So lacking in humility, she said. No, Cessi, you have to play the cards you are dealt.
But which cards did Mama mean exactly? Surely it was not that all the world saw in her was her practical turn of mind, testiness and sarcasm (you and your sarcasm) – was that supposed to be the sum total of all she was?
She, who was meant for something else.
What could that be?
Might it not simply be what she had dreamt of? Running her own sewing atelier? Employing girls to make dresses according to the patterns she had created. She herself would only sew selected models. Only the most beautiful and difficult-to-make dresses would come from her hands. She pictured the atelier being located in New York, but after the children were born, she realised it would have to be in Oslo. Perhaps it was even the better location. In America it could be hard to break through and get ahead, while in little Oslo there were few who could sew to such a level, few of class. So she could be the one who occupied that position, why not? If others could become famed and fabled then why not her? She could then earn enough money to pay for trips to America, travel over from time to time to gather inspiration. Was that so impossible, she could not see how a dream like that could be viewed as conceited, and it had an element of realism to it? So why did it not come to pass?
Because everyone demanded so much of her, and had always done so. Oh, her life had been ruined, out of consideration for everyone else, and what did she get in return? Aches and pains everywhere, aches in her joints, pain in her hands, in her soul.
She could still sew. She stared at the sewing machine, knowing there was no one and nothing to prevent her, she had all the time in the world. But she was just not able. It was too late. She no longer had the desire. Now that she could have sewn the clothes she had seen in her mind’s eye, it was too late. Well, not that she remembered how she had envisaged the individual garments, but she recalled the feeling she experienced thinking them up. Ideas like that did not come to her any more. No, she was too weary. Better to have a cigarette, a rest, watch a little television. Carry out some chores in between, because she was still good at taking care of practical matters. She polished the floors herself, gave everything a thorough clean, was even able to replace the washers on the taps, Finn had taught her how. All that in spite of her being over seventy years old and nobody expecting great things of her. They never had, but when the children were small, they demanded such intense love from her. She had loved them too, but they had crowded her, were always around, she did not have the energy for it, found it hard to breathe, became angry.
As a matter of fact she did sew, she made clothes for her daughters and grandchildren, it was no bother to her, on the contrary, she found it relaxing, joyful almost, forgot all about herself. Bought Burda patterns and fabrics, silk sewing thread and corduroy, velvet ribbons and flowery cotton material, it was terrific fun, she told Alice on the telephone. And they would come, and try on the clothes as she was in the process of making them, the grown-up children, and the little grandchildren. Standing there so sweetly and patiently while she took measurements and pinned seams. Afterwards she prepared open sandwiches and made hot chocolate and they went into the living room to chat, all sitting together cheerful and cordial. She opened the balcony door and windows, because it was almost the height of summer outside, and the chestnut trees were in bloom. When they had left, she sat by the open windows sewing long into the evening. She loved the summertime, there was so much hidden hope in the warm smells, the low voices of the passers-by.
But it was too late for the other thing. Or too difficult. That was just how it was. Twenty years had passed since the divorce, it was nothing, the sand in an hourglass, the years had gone before she knew it, and what had she done? Lots of small things, nothing big, nothing of importance, she scarcely remembered. Enjoyed herself with friends, that was true. Visited her children and grandchildren. Taken care of Mama. Run errands. Strolled the streets. Cried her eyes out.
No, she did not want the house. But that time Finn came round and told her that Hartvig and his fancy woman were going to build a new house beside the old one, then she felt the old pain again. It was not that woman’s plot of land, and the new house had been intended for Cessi from the start. She and Hartvig had talked about it for many years, a new house, one which was easier to clean. The costs would not be too high as they could rent out the old one, because that had to stay within the family, Hartvig said. Property was the safest investment one could make, it had perpetual value.
That Finn got to live in the house was of some small comfort. On the day he moved in with his wife and their little girl she felt such a strong sense of relief she could hardly stand, and had to lie down on the bed for a while. Finally some of her kin were returning to the house. Not that she could visit them very often, that is to say, she probably could, but it did not turn out that way. Finn’s moods were so changeable, she simply did not have the energy for him suddenly berating her over something or other. If she then told him her nerves were weak and he needed to take her age into consideration, he grew even angrier, it was like waving a red rag. Besides, she had the distinct impression that Linda thought badly of her. And God knows what Finn said. They no doubt talked ill of her. Dreaded her coming to visit, only felt obliged to invite her. One notices that sort of thing. She was certain it was down to Linda at the end of the day. Even though Linda was in no way suited to the house, not to it, the neighbourhood, nor Hartvig’s family. Neither had Cessi been, back when she had moved in, but then she had known how to behave, she had conquered her place. Nobody rode roughshod over her. And the house was hers, she had worked on it from the ground up. Something Linda obviously did not understand.
Oh, by all means, Cessi might say, I am certainly not going to let it bother me, laughing at the same time, so surely Linda could laugh along? But no, Linda looked away and it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. She did not understand that Cessi was speaking in jest, and she wanted everything done her way, the house, the garden and the manner in which the children were brought up. It was impossible to have a natter with her about the Heyerdahls, or gripe about Hartvig’s fancy woman, because Linda did not understand these people, did not know how to have a heart-to-heart, she did not get the tone of the conversation.
Nevertheless, she was surprised when Finn came and told her that he and Linda were to be divorced. After all, he had been so happy with her and the child. All of a sudden he was standing in her living room telling her it was all decided. But that was not all, no, his mother was to be upbraided for all the woes of the world that day. Firstly, there was the matter of the house, the fact that he was not to live there any more, his eldest sister was. So Hartvig had decided.
After all, he could not occupy the house now he was alone, he agreed with that, nor did he want to. Fucking shithole, he said, but they were words spoken in anger, the same as she had uttered on many occasions, except she had been addressing Hartvig. Even so, he was furious. You don’t get it, Mum, he spat, I’m being thrown out of my own home.
And after being allowed to live there for so many years, it was preposterous. She told him as much, what about your sister, she said, is it not her turn soon?
It’s always her turn, Finn roared, always this poor her, so sweet, so kind and good and talented, so fragile, go stick it up your arse, Mum.
But Finn was not going to dent the joy she felt. She and her eldest daughter enjoyed one another’s company, the conversation flowed when they were together, about everything under the sun, family, the neighbours, Hartvig. A proper beauty she was too, the most prepossessing of all the children, more beautiful than her mother, truly the one she could be proud of and was happy to show off. That she was to live there was too good to be true. It served to put everything back in its place, after so many years. She would be able to return home, and to her own home this time, not to Hartvig’s house and regime, not to Finn and his erratic behaviour.
Not that she took pleasure at the expense of Finn’s problems, no, but really, were they not just typical of him, nothing lasted when it came to him. No sooner had he got started on something than he took a fresh tack. He was just as he had always been, she had been right all along, he was difficult, a proper troublemaker. No doubt he had let his anger get the better of him with Linda, or his moodiness had become too much for her.
No, Finn’s ill temper would not overshadow her happiness. Her daughter should never have had to leave her home, and neither should she. Now finally they were to return, finally they could live as they ought to have done all these years. Lost time could of course never be regained, but the damage could be put right to a certain extent, and in what better way, by her coming and going in the house, by being there and taking care of things for her daughter, son-in-law and their little ones.
The terrible burden of losing everything, of having to run the gauntlet with the ruin that was her life for everyone to see, the disgrace, all that would fade, melt away, become easier to bear. While at the same time old responsibilities would be lifted from her shoulders, because she would not be looking after work-shy, impertinent maids, or taking care of other practical nuisances, that unruly boy was all grown up and no longer there, the children’s bickering a closed chapter, they were now adults. Not that they did not quarrel any more, but she was spared having to hear it. She did, on the other hand, hear all about it, but she did not have anything against that, truth be told it was entertaining, something she could share with her eldest daughter, a topic for long conversations.
It is just how it ought to be, don’t you think, she said to Alice on the telephone, that life runs its course, she was a grandmother now, and could contribute however she was able, she could help out her daughter who had quite naturally taken over her childhood home. The two others would find a place in the fullness of time. In the meantime it was only right and proper that the one who needed the house most took precedence, the one who managed best and had a good head on her shoulders when it came to money. Moreover, she understood her mother.
Yes, she would perhaps have answered Finn differently if he had not chosen that particular day to ask his questions. There she was, just after getting the rights to her own home back to a greater degree than she could ever have hoped. In a sense she had anyway, because neither Hartvig nor his foolish wife could prevent her from being there. What is more she would offer to do the gardening for her daughter and son-in-law, pick berries, rake the lawn and those kinds of things. In full view of those stupid people. But at the same time she would have to look at Hartvig and his wife in the new house every time she visited, that was a beastly thought, stupid, stupid Hartvig. She turned to Finn.
Well, don’t lay the blame for this on me, she said, I am not the one who owns the house, your father does.
That was the spark that set it all off. There were suddenly no limits to what Finn accused her of, and what he wanted answers to, once and for all. Things she had forgotten, or hardly offered any thought.
Finn always blamed other people when something was amiss. The divorce from Father was her fault, he shouted. Your bloody scenes ruined everything, me especially. How could I hope to be normal, growing up with you as my mother? You and your damned nerves, you like to think you can always just hide behind that.
He was in the habit of saying he had his nervous tension from her, and God knows, possibly there was some truth in it, he had perhaps inherited her mental frailty. But she became so incensed when he said things like that, and on that particular day she was not able to control herself.
It was no doubt your father who put that in your head, she screamed, and you’re forgetting something very important. Let me tell you, and this is a fact, if you had not been so difficult, then I would not have suffered half the problems I did with my nerves, we would have managed fine up there in the house, and divorce would never have been necessary.
She should not say such things, she was aware of that, but could not hold back. It was just as much his fault as her own, when he had been so foolish as to speak to her in that way. Besides, it was true. Not that he understood a word of it, standing there in the middle of her living room with that facial expression she knew only too well, looking all accusatory and hurt, she recognised her little boy then, she certainly did all right.
Could he not just be kind to her! All the times they had faced each other like this, and she knew that all he wanted was to be pampered and cuddled, but she could not, she rebuked him instead, berated him for his behaviour, his manner, his surly retorts, she punished him for all this by being cold, by turning her back, leaving him to himself. Even though she did not want to, did not understand why she did this, when most of all she wanted to lift him up and place him on her lap.
Oh, she felt so alone. She was only human after all, and there were doubtless not many people who would have managed to show their child such patience in the situation she found herself in, very few in fact, she fancied. Alice had often said the same during his upbringing. Dear Cessi, she said, you ought not to judge yourself so harshly, you react in a perfectly natural manner. He is a sweet boy, truly he is, but he is also exacting, and you devote more time to him than most other children are granted. One must not demand the impossible of oneself either, dear.
It did her good to hear that, and it was true, it really was. Nonetheless she would be troubled, disheartened, on the verge of tears. But perhaps Alice was right and she did demand too much of herself, perhaps that was the reason she reacted as she did.
Finn never got enough, he was a drain on her, a dark drain, he never let up, followed her around the house, demanding and demanding. Not any longer, needless to say, not in that way. He called on the telephone now instead and was brutish, or came around unannounced, after something, although she did not know what.
I’m drinking too much, he might say. I can’t sleep at night. Or as is the case now: I’m seeing a psychiatrist. I would hardly have needed to do that, Mum, if everything was as it should have been. If you hadn’t been so bloody selfish, he said. He said this. Him! That self-centred, self-absorbed boy, how had he turned out like this, what had she actually done wrong? Spoilt him perhaps, given him too much attention.
Now he and this psychiatrist were of course discussing his childhood and his wicked mother, yes, they are doubtless in complete agreement, that she was wicked and to blame for all Finn’s difficulties. That must be the reason why he suddenly wants to talk about all kinds of things, the psychiatrist has put thoughts in his head and got him asking about things he ought to have the sense to hold his tongue about.
Why did you send me away so often when I was little, Mum? Was it because of the war?
She should have seized the opportunity and said, yes, naturally, because of the war, why ever else? We wanted to look after you, you see. She should have told him she became unwell, was worn out from looking after that enormous house, from two childbirths in quick succession, infants screaming at night.
Something along those lines, that was what she should have said, but she did not. Because Finn was standing there with that sullen, accusing face of his, and then there was this pickle about which of the children would get to live in the house, the irritation welled up within her. They just came out, the words she knew she must not say, but she was unable to stop herself, she said what he expected to hear, but what he hoped was not the case.
The war, no. I really do not think you realise the toil you put us through. You were so difficult.
It was true, that was exactly what he was.
Goodness, how nasty she was. That cold feeling all the way through. But he asked for it. He should not have asked, no, he should not, that just made it— she could hardly tell him that she realised it was wrong, a dreadful mistake to send him away. Then it would be her fault, and that she could not accept, was not able to. Because look at him. His life was a shambles. He had always been that way, so it could not be because of her.
Dear God, it could not be, could it?
Why did he go right for her in that way, he should not have, he should have realised that she could only give him one answer to that question. It lay there, ready to use, because she had spoken of it with so many people over the course of the years, including Hartvig, and the conclusion was always the same: she could not have acted any differently. They had a tearaway on their hands, kind and good at heart, but exceedingly, exceedingly demanding. His little sisters had to be protected as well, safeguarded from his eruptions of violent jealousy.
So he had his answer, and at the same time she looked out the window, hoping he had not heard, that the words had just disappeared into the air and everything would go back to how it had been. Because it was old news, that is exactly what it was, he had heard that he was difficult a thousand times before, even though she may not have said it was the reason they sent him away, not in so many words. No, naturally they had not spoken of it, but told him they wished he would become calmer, learn to concentrate and listen to what was being said to him. Become a good, kind, hardier boy, on the whole, without the mischief and disruption. Competent, experienced teachers were required to that end, that is what they had said, in words adapted to a child’s level of understanding, naturally, she thinks they said that in any case.
Are you staying for dinner? she asked, getting up from the chair, I had assumed you would.
He stood there with his stony expression and she made sure to totter a little, then he would see that she was getting old, no longer so steady on her feet, he had to be kind to her.
You fucking cow, Finn said, you fucking, selfish bitch.
And she could not help it, she had to laugh, it bubbled up from within, because this corresponded exactly with something she had always felt, a furious urge to shake and destroy.