I turn onto the narrow dirt road leading down to the farm. Torstein’s sheep are lying down by the old milk-churn stand and I slow right down, nudge the car through the flock, rev the engine to get them to shift, but the sheep just go on lying there basking in the sunshine. They look at me, blink weary eyes and show no sign of moving. I rev the engine a bit harder several times, and this time they start to bleat, a bell tinkles faintly. I rev up again and suddenly they all jump up and trot off into the field. I sit and watch them for a moment or two, then I release the clutch and drive on, loose grit scrunching nicely under the wheels as I do so. I roll slowly over the little hilltop and down to the farm.
Oh, to see the farm lying there at the end of the pale-green birch avenue, freshly painted and well-kept, with the sparkling blue sea beyond, it does my heart good. To see the house and the cottage and the barn lying there bathed in sunlight, it makes me so happy. There’s no place I’d rather live, this is where I belong, on the farm that my great-great-grandfather started. Like Knut Hamsun’s Isak Sellanrå, he came here. With his own hands he felled the trees from which he cut timber, with his own hands he built up this farm and it’s been handed down from my great-great-grandfather to my great-grandfather, from my great-grandfather to my grandfather and from my grandfather to my dad, and every one of them has prided himself on making sure that the farm would be in as good if not better shape when he passed it on than when he took it over. And that thought, the thought of how much hard work has been put into this farm over the years, fills me with respect and gratitude; it encourages me to work even harder and put up with that much more. Because now it’s my turn to carry on the family tradition and make my mark on the farm, now it’s my turn to develop the business and bring it up to date. Just as my great-grandfather invested in a reaper and later in a tractor, and just as my grandfather started breeding mink and foxes, I’d like to be remembered for switching to fish farming. And it won’t end with me either, I’m glad to say, one day it’ll be Daniel’s turn, one day he’ll take over and live here with his wife and children. Or, at least I hope he will, although obviously there’s no guarantee, but as long as we make sure that he thrives and is happy here I can’t see why he wouldn’t. I mean, it’s actually such a great gift, to be able to grow up on and spend your life on a farm like this, simply to grow up knowing that you’re part of this line that doesn’t stop with you. If you ask me that alone is worth every bit as much as the countryside, the fresh air and the peace and quiet, because being a part of such a line, it makes you feel sure of who you are and who you should be, it gives your life direction and if you ask me that’s what Jørgen lacks and what he needs more than anything else, it’s because he doesn’t have all this that he’s so restless and aimless, I’m certain of it.
I glance across at him and smile, but he doesn’t look at me, just sits there doing his best to seem laid-back, so I look away again, drive with one hand on the wheel and the other dangling out of the window. The plumber’s here already, I see. The white pickup truck is parked alongside the steps of Mum and Dad’s house with the new washing machine in the back, well tied down and wrapped in plastic. I park next to the pickup, reach round behind me, grab the state wineshop carrier bags and get out of the car, set the bags on the ground and stretch, then I pick up the bags and stroll across the yard to the house.
“Don’t forget we’ve got a deal, Jørgen,” I say. “It’s work for you on Monday, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, sounding a bit pissed off again, maybe he feels he’s being dictated to after all, maybe I didn’t quite manage to make him feel he had a choice. I stop on the steps and stand there watching him, he leans his skateboard up against the wall, kicks off his shoes and opens the door. “I’m goin’ up to my room to lie down,” he mutters.
“Now?” I say.
“I’m tired, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps.
“Hey, no problem, I wasn’t getting at you,” I say with a disconcerted little laugh.
“Yeah, right,” he says. “Is this something new you’ve started?”
“What?”
“Everything you say to me sounds like an accusation,” he says.
“Aw, Jørgen, come on,” I say. I put my head on one side, look at him. “Now you’re being unfair,” I say.
“You see – now you’re accusing me of being unfair,” he says, raising his voice. He stares at me, pauses for a moment. “I just don’t know why you can’t give over remarking on every single thing I say and do. I don’t know why you can’t just leave me alone. I don’t need you keeping me right all the time. Show a little faith in me, for Christ’s sake.
I raise my eyebrows, gaze at him in astonishment.
“But Jørgen, I just offered you a job. If that isn’t showing a little faith in you I don’t know what is.”
“You haven’t offered me any fucking job,” he says. “You just blackmailed me into working at your bloody fish farm, that’s not the same thing at all.”
“Jørgen,” I say, running a hand over my head and sighing, “I made one condition, that’s all…”
“You know what,” he says, breaking me off. “When I’m at my dad’s there’s nobody trying to keep me right all the time, and you know what, when I’m there I behave pretty much the way you’d like me to behave. But here, here it’s nothing but nagging and nitpicking and snide comments the whole bloody time, and then I certainly don’t feel like behaving properly.”
I look at him, and I’m just about to say that maybe Tom Roger doesn’t interfere because he doesn’t care as much as he should, but I bite my tongue – I might as well tell Jørgen that his father doesn’t really love him, and that wouldn’t be right of me. I scratch the back of my head, look at him, then drop my hand and sigh.
“But Jørgen,” I say, lowering my voice so no one else will hear. “You know I have to react to the fact that you’ve been selling hash again, you know I can’t stand idly by when you do something like that?”
“Yeah, but this isn’t just about that, is it? It’s about the way you always fucking treat me, the way you talk to me,” he says. “And no, I don’t see why you have to react to the fact that I’ve been selling hash either. I’m all in favour of free hash and you bloody well know it,” he says, and then he nods at my state wineshop bags. “Hash does a lot less damage than what you’ve got in those bags and as long as that’s legal I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to buy and sell a few grams if I want.”
I look at him, don’t quite know what to say. I can’t get into a discussion about free hash right now, I can’t be bothered anyway, we’ve discussed this so many times that each of us knows exactly what the other is going to say. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, then open my eyes and breathe a little sigh, making it plain to him that I’m not in the mood for this, that we have to let it go, both of us. I look at him and smile a rather weary smile, he stands there staring at me for a second, then he gives a snort, he doesn’t show the slightest sign of meeting me halfway, he doesn’t say a word, just turns on his heel and walks off into the house.
I stay where I am, gazing at the steps for a second or two. “Well, well,” I mutter to myself, then I shake my head and follow him. I step into the hall and see Jørgen disappearing into his room. After a moment or two our bedroom door opens and Helen comes out. She’s still in her nightie, her hair all mussed up. She comes towards me with Daniel on her hip, dear little Daniel, his face lights up the minute he sees me. He smiles, displaying his one tooth.
“Ba-pa,” he says putting out his hands.
I look at him and smile. She’s put him in a pink babygro, I notice, I don’t like him wearing pink, know I shouldn’t care about such things, but I can’t teach myself not to, no matter how hard I try, I can’t, but I don’t mention it.
“Well, well, if it isn’t little Daniel, if it isn’t the best boy in the whole world,” I say, keeping the smile on my face as I set the state wineshop bags on the floor. I put out my hands and take him, lay my cheek against his warm, soft one and rock from side to side, close my eyes and say, “Mmm”. “Oh, it’s so nice to see you,” I say. I open my eyes and see that Helen is on her way back into the bedroom, she just turns and walks away, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even say hello.
“What’s the matter, Helen?”
She turns and looks at me. I take a step closer, catch the scent of her, the warm fug of sleep and cigarettes.
“What’s the matter?” she says. “I’m in agony and I’ve hardly slept and Daniel’s been crying and crying and he’s just about driving me up the wall, I feel like throwing up.”
I look at Daniel, look at his chubby hands and his lovely rolls of baby fat, dear little Daniel, it cuts me to the quick to hear her talk about him like that, I don’t like her doing that, especially not when he’s listening, I mean I know he doesn’t understand what she’s saying, but I still don’t like it. I lay my cheek against his again, cuddling him while I look at Helen.
“Well, why don’t you ask Mum to give you a hand?” I say.
“Your mother!” she says. “No bloody way, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.”
“What?”
“I know damn well there’s nothing she’d like better than to have me asking her for help, but that’s not the main reason she wants to help, no, no, she’s out to prove that I’m not capable of looking after the house and the kids.”
“You should’ve seen the look she gave me when I took Daniel over there the day before yesterday,” she says, putting her hands on her hips and nodding at me. “Oh, yes, and you’d no sooner gone this morning than she was over here working on the flowerbed,” she says. “And of course she made a point of leaving the spade and the little rake on the porch so I’d see them when I went out for my morning smoke,” she says, and she crosses her arms and smirks. “She does everything she damn well can to make me feel lazy and useless.”
“Helen, come on, you shouldn’t take everything the wrong way.”
“I’m not, but I’m onto her, so I am,” she says. “For God’s sake, Ole, she’s forever doing things like that. Only the other day she came in here and scrubbed all the pots while we were out.”
“She just wants to help, Helen. And besides, she feels it’s good to have something to do, she’s not the type to sit twiddling her thumbs.”
“Oh, kiss my arse!” she says. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, then she opens her eyes and looks at me again. “What do you think she’d have said if I’d scrubbed all her pots while she and your dad were out, hmm?” she says. “Hmm? D’you think she’d have been pleased, or d’you think she might’ve been offended?” she asks. She stops, looks straight at me, and I look at her, don’t really know what to say. “She’d have been offended,” she says. “Of course she would, she’d have been furious, and she’d have had every right to be, because traipsing into somebody’s house and cleaning it like that, it’s as good as saying they don’t keep it clean enough. It’s a sneaky way of telling people they’re no better than pigs, that’s what it is.”
“Or maybe she just wants to be useful,” I say.
“Useful,” Helen sniffs. “If that’s what she wants why the hell doesn’t she join a bloody aid agency or something. I’m sure they’d have a use for her and be happy to have her. In fact I’m sure she could run a whole aid agency single-handed, the way she’s working at the moment, racing around the fucking farm like a bloody Duracell rabbit. It’s not normal.”
“Helen, please,” I say. “Don’t make this into a problem.”
“But it is a problem, for Christ’s sake,” she says.
“You don’t think… isn’t it more that you need a problem right now, something to vent your frustration and anger on?” I say. “So you fall back on the old cliché of the meddling mother-in-law. You’re crediting Mum with opinions and motives she doesn’t have, just so you’ll have somebody to offload all your anger onto.”
“Yeah right, because nobody could possibly be mad at your mother,” she sneers.
“Hey, Helen,” I say, and I lay my cheek against Daniel’s again, cuddle him as I look at Helen and smile.
She looks at me and smirks.
“You know what, Ole,” she says, “I really don’t give a shit what your mother thinks of me, she can clean the whole house from top to bottom once a week if she likes, that’s fine by me, but she still won’t make me feel the way she wants me to feel,” she says and she looks me straight in the eye, still with that smirk on her face. “And she can just carry on telling the neighbour’s wives about how much she has to do in our house, because I don’t give a fuck what they think of me either.”
“Wow,” I say. “I don’t know what to say, when you … would you like me to speak to her?”
“Ole, aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?” she says, still smirking. “I don’t give a shit what she thinks of me and I don’t give a shit about all the rumours she spreads about me, so you can do exactly as you please.”
I look at her. I’m about to say that I know she’s not telling the truth now, but I don’t, there’s no point in pursuing this, not when she’s in this mood, we should talk more about it some other time instead. “Right then,” I say, giving her a faint smile. “I’d better be getting to work. I have to finish clearing that cottage plot up on the hill for the viewing next week,” I say. “Should I ask Mum if she can look after Daniel for a few hours?”
“By all means,” Helen says.
I stand there looking at her, feeling suddenly at a loss. If I take Daniel over to Mum she’ll use that against me later, I know she will, even though she says it’s okay, she will. But if I leave Daniel here with her she’ll end up climbing the walls because she’s so tired and she got so little sleep again last night, I can tell just by looking at her that she will. So I really don’t know. I just stand here looking at her, hesitating.
“Okay,” I say, looking at her and smiling. “You try and get some sleep.”
“So I’ll be in a better mood and easier to live with, you mean?”
“Humph,” I sigh, turning a rather sad, weary face to hers. “I meant just what I said, Helen. No more than that.”
“No, of course not.”
“Helen, hey.”
“Yes, yes,” she says, shaking her head as she raises one hand and kind of waves me away. Then she turns around and heads for the bedroom. “Oh, by the way,” she says, looking back at me, “have you seen my diary?”
“No,” I say.
I look at her, I know she was writing in it in bed yesterday when she was feeding Daniel and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she’s looked there, or on the bedside table, but I don’t have a chance. She simply turns away without a word, walks into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her. I stay where I am, eyes fixed on the door for two or three seconds, then I give a faint shake of my head and let out a small sigh, my heart always sinks a little when she’s like this. Oh well, I would probably be just as cranky if I’d had as little sleep and was in as much pain as she is, so I’ll have to try to be patient with her, she doesn’t mean any harm by it, and anyway, she’ll feel better once she’s caught up on her sleep. And besides, I bought some wine and some whisky. I can soften her up with that, she usually loosens up once she’s had a little drink, so it’ll all sort itself out. I look at Daniel and smile.
“Now then, shall we go over and see Granny and Grandpa, you and I?” I say. “Hmm?” I say. I kiss his cheek, rub his little button nose with mine, then I turn and walk off, walk out of the house and out onto the steps. Two swallows swoop down to the barn and I turn Daniel round and point them out to him, but they dart under the roof ridge before he can see them. I walk down the steps and into the yard. And there are Mum and Dad, sitting on the cottage porch, having coffee and listening to the radio. Dad puts his hands on the wheels of his chair and rolls it slightly farther forward and only now do I see that he has the cat on his lap. He picks it up and lets it drop onto the step. The cat lands softly, pads down onto the grass, sits down and proceeds to lick one of its paws.
“Hello,” Dad says, looking at me.
“Hello there,” I say.
I pat Daniel’s back as I stroll over to them. I look at Mum and smile. “Do you think you could mind Daniel for a few hours so Helen can get a rest?” I ask.
“Well, I had actually been planning to finish painting the window-frames,” she says, nodding towards the two windows to the right of the door. One of them glistens with fresh white paint, the other is scraped and ready for painting, I see, the pot of paint sitting on the grass underneath it with the brush lying across the top, so she must have been just about to start. “But well… I’ll have to put that off till later,” she says.
I look at her, there she goes again, she always does this when I ask her a favour, she makes it sound like she’s making a sacrifice for me. Even if I ask her to do something I know she really wants to do, she still has to give the impression that she’s depriving herself of something. It’s annoying, but not worth getting upset about. And maybe it’s her funny way of showing that she loves us, an attempt to show that she would go out of her way to help us, I don’t know.
“Great,” I say, looking at Mum and smiling. She picks up a white rag and a bottle of turps from the porch rail, soaks the rag and wipes her hands with it. They glisten in the sunlight and the gnarled veins on their backs stand out even more clearly than usual. She looks at Daniel and smiles.
“Who’s Granny’s lovely boy?” she coos. “Eh? Has Granny’s lovely boy come to see her? Are we going to keep each other company again today, you and me?” she says. She puts down the turps-soaked rag, pushes her glasses a bit farther up her nose and then she stretches out her arms and claps her hands at Daniel. “Come to Granny, pet,” she says. “There now! But what on earth,” she suddenly says in a slightly different voice. “What’s that she’s put on him – a pink babygro?” She stares at me open-mouthed and almost gleefully for a moment or two, then she shakes her head despairingly and turns to Daniel again. “Dear, oh dear,” she says, cooing again, “come to Granny, my pet,” she says, “we can’t have you wearing a pink babygro, a sturdy little lad like you, no we can’t,” she says.
I look at her, saying nothing, but feeling a little annoyed with her for starting all this again. I don’t like Daniel wearing pink either, but that’s really neither here nor there because I did tell her that Daniel would be wearing clothes in all sorts of colours, and that she has to respect. And she talks as if it goes without saying that Helen must have dressed him – if anything, that’s even more annoying: has she put a pink babygro on him she says, although she knows very well that I dress and change Daniel just as often as Helen, but she acts as if she doesn’t know that, acts as if things are exactly the way she imagines they are and I’m supposed to feel that there’s something wrong when they aren’t. It’s a kind of protest, I think.
“You’ve got nappies and formula, haven’t you?” I ask and she looks at me and nods, then she buries her face in the hollow of Daniel’s throat and rubs her nose back and forth.
“Mmm, yummy, yummy, you’re good enough to eat,” she says and then she looks up at me again, gives her glasses another nudge. “Yes, but Ole,” she says putting on this kind of plaintive voice, “you shouldn’t let her dress him in pink, you really shouldn’t,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Hmm?” she says. “You have to talk to her about it, promise me you will.”
“No, but you have to,” she says, and then she looks at me, pauses. “Well, I mean I can’t talk to her,” she says. “If I do she’ll fly off the handle right away.”
“Oh, Mum, now you’re exaggerating, and besides…”
“Ole,” she breaks in, twisting her lips into a smile that says in matters like this we both know she’s always right. “Helen doesn’t exactly dote on me,” she says, “that’s no secret.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that,” I say. I put my head on one side and stand there looking a bit sad, and I feel a bit sad too. The idea that she thinks Helen doesn’t like her, that she thinks Helen is out to get her and would like to be rid of her, that is kind of saddening. “Helen just feels sometimes that we live a bit too close for comfort,” I say. “She finds it a bit hard to get used to us popping in and out of each other’s houses whenever we feel like it and…well, you know…that’s why she can seem a bit…standoffish at times,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.”
The cat has wandered over to me, he weaves around my legs and I crouch down and stroke his head, he closes his eyes, tilts his head back slightly, purring blissfully. I glance up at Mum again, she’s sitting there looking at me with a smile on her face that says she doesn’t believe a word I’ve said.
“Yes, well,” she says, closing her eyes then opening them again. “But still, a pink babygro,” she says. “I doubt if your dad would have let me dress you in pink when you were a baby. Would you, Steinar?” she asks, turning to Dad.
“Nope,” Dad says. He tips his wheelchair back slightly and swings it to the side, nudging the newspaper that’s lying on the rail as he does so and knocking it into the flowerbed underneath. I get up and go round to pick it up; there are two brown coffee rings on the front page, just under the green lettering of the masthead: Nationen. I bend down, pick up the newspaper and put it back where it came from. “Not that it seems to have done this one much good, dressing him in blue,” Dad adds and then he looks at me and smirks.
I look at Mum and pretend I didn’t catch what he said.
“It was me that put that suit on him, Mum,” I say, lying in her face, don’t really know why, maybe to protect and defend Helen in some way, or maybe to make it clear to Mum that I really don’t care what colour Daniel’s clothes are.
“There, you see, it didn’t do the slightest bit of good, him wearing blue,” Dad says with a faint grin, nodding at mum then looking at me again. He picks up his coffee cup, leans forward and blows on his coffee while he waits for a reply. I eye him a little helplessly. I almost say that I feel secure enough in my own masculinity not to mind changing my kid’s nappies, but I don’t, I can’t be bothered arguing with him about this.
“It’s okay, Ole,” he says. “I’m only joking.” He always does this, he always says he’s joking or pulling my leg when he gets in one of his little digs, but when he’s with his mates he voices exactly the same thoughts without a trace of humour, so I know he means what he says. I look at him and smile, act as though I believe him when he says it’s just a joke.
“So how long’s Helen planning to sleep for this time,” Mum asks. This time, she says, making it sound as if Helen does nothing but sleep. I look at her and smile, ignore the note of accusation in her voice.
“Just let her sleep,” I say. “If you have to go out or if you need anything you’d best call me on my mobile and I’ll come,” I add. “I’m only going up the hill to clear the last cottage plot, so I won’t be far away.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just gives me a look that is both surprised and mildly exasperated, then she raises her eyebrows and shakes her head, making it quite clear what she thinks about leaving Daniel with me if she has to go out. I put my head on one side and give a rather strained little smile.
“Now Mum,” I say. “Helen hardly slept at all last night and she’s in so much pain that she scarcely knows what to do with herself sometimes.”
“Oh, is she?” Mum says, in a voice designed to make it clear that she doesn’t believe Helen gets as little sleep or is in as much pain as we make out. I look at her, saying nothing. To be honest I think she could put up a better front, I think she could make more effort to keep her doubts and suspicions to herself. I almost feel like lying and telling her that the doctors have actually found out what might be causing the pain Helen’s having. it would be so good to present my mother with a diagnosis or something that would quash her suspicions. But I don’t. I can’t lie and I won’t. I just stand there looking at her. She sets Daniel on her knee, takes his hands and jiggles him up and down as if he’s on a horse, opening her eyes wide and saying “clippety-clop, clippety-clop”.
“Oh, by the way,” she says. “I saw they were looking for part-time help down at the Co-op. “Why doesn’t she apply for that?” she asks, looking straight at me and giving me a stiff smile. I don’t answer right away. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her that Helen isn’t fit to work, not the way she is at the moment, she will not drop it. She acts as if she takes it for granted that Helen is looking for work, hoping that this will make me see what she has apparently long since recognized: that Helen is more than well enough to work and that what she really needs is a good kick up the backside. I look at her, realize that I’m getting a mite tired of this, I think she could be a little more understanding, considering how low she was herself at one time, she ought at least to be able to show Helen a little more understanding than she does.
I look at her and force a smile.
“I’ll let her know,” I say. “But Mum,” I say, and then I pause, look at her and smile again. “You mustn’t go comparing everybody with yourself, you know. Not everybody is as much of a glutton for work as you are,” I say, telling her what she wants to hear, it’s the best way to stop her criticizing Helen. This might not even be about Helen, anyway. When Mum starts hinting that Helen’s neglecting her duties it might be that what she really wants is for us to remember that she has never done that. This might be her way of saying she’d like us to show respect for how hard-working and conscientious she has been, how she soldiered on and how much she sacrificed after Dad was left paralysed. She’s been far too hard on herself at times, Mum, in fact if you ask me she’s been just about running herself into the ground lately. I’ve told her so many times that she should take it a bit easier, but it does no good. I look at her. “And anyway,” I say, “times have changed. Maybe people just aren’t used to working as much or as hard as you and Dad did,” I add, making sure to give him his share of the credit.
“Yes, well, that’s as may be,” Mum says. She likes this turn in the conversation, I can see, her face immediately brightens up. She tries to hide it by burying her nose in the hollow of Daniel’s throat again, but I can tell that she’s pleased. “Well, that just how things were in those days,” she says. “I had to learn to work hard to keep things going, because there wasn’t much help to be had,” she goes on, adopting this very matter-of-fact tone, trying to make out that it was no big deal, but I can tell by her face and her voice that she’s gratified and she shows no more sign of bitching about Helen, maybe she doesn’t feel the need as long as she’s being given credit for always being such a hard and conscientious worker.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dad says, breaking in and grinning wryly as he picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip.
Mum turns and gives him a dirty look, she holds his eye for a moment or two, but doesn’t say anything, simply gives a little sniff, then she turns away again.
No one says a word. The flies are buzzing around the flowerbed. “In the Summertime” is playing on the radio. I look at Dad, he puts his cup down on the rail, then he looks at me and grins and I don’t really know what to say, I never really know what to say when he gets like this. It’s hard to make any comment without referring to the fact that he’s disabled, I mean it’s because he’s disabled that he plays up like this, I know it is, it really rankles him that Mum had to run the farm almost single-handed after his accident, and this is how he reacts, by being sarcastic in a kind of mean, spiteful way. Another moment or two passes and still no one says anything, and then I feel a surge of guilt, because I know that any mention of how hard-working Mum is only reminds him of his own inadequacy, it’s been like that ever since the accident so that was a bit thoughtless of me.
“No, we’re going to go in and put another suit on you, so we are,” Mum says, acting as if she isn’t the least bit bothered by Dad. “Aren’t we, Daniel?” she says. “Yes we are, we can’t have you wearing a pink babygro, can we? Not when you’re called after a big, tough lion killer,” she adds, and she gets up off the step. “Talk to you later,” she says, looking at me and smiling for a second, then she carries Daniel off into the house.
Neither Dad nor I say anything. On the radio someone is talking about the semi-finals of the World Cup being on television this evening and a bumblebee drones quietly past. It lights on one of the sunflowers growing up the side of the house and the flower bobs under its weight for a moment or two.
“Well, I’d better be getting on, as well,” I say.
“Yes, indeed,” Dad says. “If you’re going to sell off your birthright then you’d better get on with it.” He looks at me and smirks.
“Dad, come on,” I say.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it, there’s a lot to get shot of,” he says.
“Look, we’ve been through all this.”
“Yes, and a fat lot of good it did, seeing as your mind was already made up,” he says, still smirking.
I’m about to start explaining why it makes sense to sell this plot and the others I’ve cleared for summer cottages, but I don’t, he’s heard it so many times before and to be honest I think he does understand why it has to be this way, it’s just that he cares so much about our land, that’s why he acts the way he does. It may only be a matter of a few acres of rock, heather and blueberries that we can’t use for anything, and it may well be that we need the money, but that doesn’t mean it’s any easier for me to sell it, I’ve never said it was, not when we’re talking about land that’s been in our family for generations. I run a hand over the top of my head and give a little sigh. I almost say that selling the land is as hard for me as it is for him, but I don’t have the chance, because just then the plumbers appear, carrying the old washing machine. They come up the basement steps and along the hall. It’s Svendsen himself and his apprentice, their backs are straining, they’re a bit red in the face and their mouths are drawn so tight you can’t see their lips.
“Oops, looks like we’d better get out of the way,” I say, moving aside. The plumbers don’t say a word, they just sidle past us, taking short, quick steps, edge down the wheelchair ramp and over to the van, then they dump the washing machine onto the gravel with a thud.
“Holy shit,” the apprentice puffs. He takes off his cap and wipes his brow with the back of his hand.
“That’s a right beast of a machine,” Svendsen says. He rests his elbow on the side of the pickup and lets out a loud “whew”, stands for a second or two getting his breath back then he looks up at Dad. “Twenty-five years old, was that what you said?” he asks.
“Yep, twenty-five,” Dad says.
“The machines they’re making these days are a bit lighter, to put it mildly,” Svendsen says, taking off his work glove and running a hand through his grey, almost white hair.
“Maybe so,” Dad says, “but I don’t really recall it being all that heavy,” he says, trying to seem a little surprised. I can tell by his face and his voice, he’s pretending to be surprised by how heavy they think the machine is, so we’ll all think that he must have been a real he-man in his day. I can read him like a book, and I know that’s what he’s after. I look across at Svendsen and his apprentice, they’re still struggling to get their breath back before heaving the washing machine onto the bed of the truck. “But of course I was a young man when I carried it down those stairs,” Dad adds, then he picks up his cup and takes a sip of coffee.
“Aye, I’ll bet you were,” Svendsen mutters, shooting a glance at the apprentice and raising his eyebrows. The apprentice grins back at him. It hurts me to see this, I turn to look at Dad, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed and I feel a little relieved, I know how that sort of thing can get to him, he’s so touchy. I look at him, look at his skinny legs – thighs and calves so thin that even the narrowest trouser legs lie in folds around him on the wheelchair seat. I watch him for a moment and then I feel myself being overwhelmed by concern and fondness for him. I have the urge to say or do something that will make him happy, something that’ll make him feel useful or whatever.
“You know that complaint I filed against the guy who built the new jetty,” I say. “We’ve got an arbitration meeting with the Consumer Council coming up soon, you wouldn’t consider coming with me and giving me a bit of support?” I ask, saying the first thing that pops into my head, but it wasn’t such a stupid thing to say because I know such situations are right up Dad’s street, he loves it when he has the chance to show that nobody can take him for a ride, and this arbitration meeting could easily provide him with just such a chance. “I’m bloody hopeless at things like that,” I add, just to emphasize that I really could do with his help, and it’s true, I could do with his help at this meeting.
“You mean you need a grumpy old sod like me, is that it?” Dad says, grinning and speaking loud enough for the plumbers to hear us, calling himself a grumpy old sod, but grinning all the while to let the plumbers know he’s only joking, he wants them to think: here’s a man who stands up for his rights, that’s what he’s after.
“Well, if you want to put it like that,” I say and I glance at the plumbers and chuckle, like I’m in on the joke.
“Nah, you know what, Ole,” Dad says. “You’re nearly forty and if you ask me it’s a bit ridiculous for you to come running to me every time things don’t quite go your way.”
I stand there staring at him. The plumbers glance at us, then they look at each other and grin again. I feel my cheeks start to burn, this’ll make a great story for Svendsen to tell, it’ll be all round the island in a couple of days, I’m sure. I look at Dad, feeling both embarrassed and annoyed, I mean, how often do I ask him for help? I don’t know when I last asked him for anything and yet he goes and does this, making me look like a little boy who runs crying to his daddy every time things get difficult. Although I know why he says these things, of course, I know he’s doing this to make himself look like the man he longs to be. He’s the one who needs help, not me, but he talks as if it was the other way round, reinventing himself as a man whom I’m somehow supposed to be totally reliant on, that’s what he’s doing. I stand for a moment just staring at him, and now it’s his turn to blush, he must realize that he’s gone too far, making a fool of me like this, he must realize that I can contradict his statement, any time I want, make fun of it even. I’ve half a mind to do it too, I’ve half a mind to point to that wheelchair and ask who cries for whom when things get difficult, but I won’t, I wouldn’t sink that low. I shouldn’t grudge him this fleeting sense of having some power in his life.
“Ah, well,” he says with an attempt at a grin, he knows it’ll put him in a bad light if I say what I’m thinking, so he’s trying to laugh the whole thing off. I look at him and try to smile back, as if confirming his version of what’s going on between us, as if acknowledging that he was only joking. “It’ll be fine, I’m sure,” he carries on. “Just you put me in the picture and I’ll come with you.”
“Great,” I say, still smiling. I shoot a glance at the plumbers, but they’re not looking our way, they’re both hunched over the washing machine, trying to get a good grip on it, and I turn back to Dad. “Right, well, see you later,” I say and raise a rather limp hand in a wave.
“See you,” he says.
I turn and make my way across to the car and all at once I feel a little tired, a little heavy-headed after all that’s been said and done this morning. It’s been a bit much, all this, first that bother with Jørgen, then with Helen, and finally with Mum and Dad. Oh, well, it’ll all work out okay in the end – this, too. I open the car door and heavily slump down onto the seat, look back at Dad as I start the car, he picks up his newspaper, gives his thumb a little lick before opening it. I feel a surge of pity for him. I know he doesn’t want to be pitied, or at least that’s what he’s always saying, but I can’t help it, no matter how many years it’s been since the accident, sometimes I still feel pity for him. Not so much because he’s in a wheelchair, but because he’s never been able to reconcile himself to that fact. He won’t admit it to himself, but everybody around him knows that he hasn’t reconciled himself to it, not altogether, not properly. He still has this urge to help in ways in which he can’t possibly help, and this bothers him more than he’s prepared to acknowledge, maybe even more than he actually realizes, because I’m not sure he’s aware that it’s this urge that lies behind his constant need to call attention to himself and appear bigger and more important than he is. I don’t think he is, I don’t think he realizes that this craving for attention represents a vain attempt to free himself from his handicap. I drive out of the yard and up the slope, hear the rattle of the trailer as I turn onto the bumpy farm track running up to the top of the hill.