‘I’ve told you about David’s father, haven’t I? Bertil has dementia, but both David and Ingrid are determined to pretend that everything is OK. They cling to Bertil’s lucid moments, blame tiredness, a cold, the wrong medication for any aberrations. Support each other in their denial while Bertil slowly disappears into his own mind. Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Some things are just so sad. Losing the person you love is bad enough, but to do it slowly, until all that remains is an empty shell, is almost unbearable.’
They have dinner with David’s parents. The house, which is Ingrid’s childhood home, is in the middle of Tornaby, and is one of the oldest and largest in the village. Enormous garage, guest accommodation at one end of the perfectly manicured garden.
To the right of the front door hangs something that Thea recognises: a Green Man figure. This one is made of pale green hawthorn twigs instead of brambles.
‘Welcome! I was just telling Bertil how well the TV recording went.’ Ingrid hugs her with unexpected warmth. ‘You saved the day,’ she whispers in Thea’s ear. ‘But don’t tell David I said so!’
*
After pre-dinner drinks David and his mother disappear into the kitchen, leaving Thea in the library with Bertil. She doesn’t really mind. They’ve met on only a handful of occasions, but she’s fond of him.
David bears a close resemblance to his father. The same square face and well-defined nose, the same neatly trimmed beard, although Bertil’s is white and rather more sparse.
The library is spacious, with fitted shelves. One wall is covered with framed photographs, awards, pennants – so many that the wallpaper is barely visible. Most of the photographs feature Bertil with politicians, businessmen and women, and sports stars. Her father-in-law is always equally smart; he appears only occasionally without a jacket or blazer. In fact, Thea has never seen Bertil in anything other than a shirt and tie. Tonight is no exception, although he has replaced his blazer with a cardigan.
In one of the photographs ten-year-old David is standing with Ingrid outside a wintry Stockholm City Hall along with a young man in a peaked cap and an old-fashioned police uniform. This must be Ingrid’s younger brother Arne, probably on the day he qualified as a police officer. The uniform and the cap are a little too big, and his moustache seems out of place on his childish face.
Christmas 1985, it says at the bottom. Only four months before Elita Svart’s death.
Thea had intended to ask David about the spring sacrifice in the car on the way over, but he was on the phone all the time, so she didn’t get the chance.
In another photograph David must be about thirty. He’s wearing his chef’s whites, standing in the doorway of his first restaurant with his arm around his mother. He looks happy – so does Ingrid. She is looking at her son with such pride.
The best picture is right in the centre of the display: Bertil and Ingrid’s wedding. They’re so young – not much more than twenty. Their faces are smooth, unmarked, but it’s the expression on their faces that moves Thea. They are gazing at each other with so much love that it still, almost forty-five years later, radiates from the frame.
A low, subtly lit display cabinet completes the collection. Cups, plates, vases, bowls, most with the date, the name of the award and some special citation engraved.
‘Look at this, Thea.’
Bertil opens the cabinet and takes out a pewter goblet. It’s not the biggest in the collection, but Thea already knows it’s the most important piece.
‘The national bridge championship in 1980,’ he says proudly. ‘We won the whole thing!’
Thea nods, giving no indication that he showed her the goblet the last time she was here.
‘Fantastic, Bertil.’
He beams, for a moment looking much younger than his sixty-nine years. Then the expression vanishes, replaced by confusion as soon as he puts the goblet back in the cabinet.
‘So how’s it going with . . .’ Bertil frowns, waves his hand.
‘The castle. Very well, I think. David’s working extremely hard.’
Bertil nods, then looks irritated, as if he didn’t mean the castle at all. He shakes his head.
‘You’ll have to forgive me. I’m on new medication, and it makes me a little . . .’ He taps his temple. ‘Shall we sit down?’
He takes one of the leather armchairs, signals to her to take the other.
‘And your job?’ he asks. ‘How are you getting on as . . . ?’
‘Good, thanks – I started today. I’m taking over as the local GP from Sigbritt Andersson.’
Bertil takes a sip of the whisky and soda Ingrid put out for him a little while ago, next to his pipe and ashtray.
‘And you’re happy at Bokelund?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you met the count? Rudolf?’ Bertil shakes his head crossly. ‘No, I mean his boy. Hubert.’
‘No, we’ve only seen each other from a distance.’ Thea thinks of the face she saw at the window during the thunderstorm. The sorrowful man in the west wing.
Bertil nods slowly. ‘Just be careful. A lot of bad things have happened at Bokelund.’
‘Like what?’
Bertil frowns. He suddenly looks irritated again, as if he’d intended to say something completely different.
‘How . . .’ he says after some thought. ‘How’s it going with . . .’ He waves his hand again, as if he’s trying to catch the right words. Thea realises that the conversation has reached its conclusion. Regardless of who David’s father once was, the people he’s met and the things he’s achieved, he is now on his way into the great oblivion. The thought makes her feel very sad.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ Ingrid calls from the hallway with exaggerated cheerfulness. The sound of her voice makes Bertil’s eyes light up.
‘Wonderful! Let me escort you to the table, my dear.’
He gets to his feet and gallantly proffers his arm.
*
They chat their way through the starter. The castle, the preview dinner, the weather, the TV report. Ingrid and David do most of the talking. Bertil sits in silence at the head of the table, concentrating on his food, and Thea doesn’t have much to contribute.
‘So how was your first day at work, Thea?’ David’s mother asks when the main course has been served.
‘Good, thanks. Dr Andersson showed me the surgery, then we made a home visit to Kerstin Miller.’
‘She’s not ill, is she?’ David asks.
‘Just a touch of the flu. I think it will be difficult to stop her from going back to work too soon.’
Thea thinks she sees Ingrid cast an anxious glance at her husband, but Bertil is fully occupied with his meal, and doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to the conversation.
‘I heard an old story while I was out there,’ Thea adds.
‘Oh? What story was that?’ Ingrid asks.
Thea hesitates, then realises she’s said too much to stop now.
‘It was about Elita Svart.’
Bertil drops his fork onto his plate with a crash. His face is ashen.
‘The spring sacrifice,’ he says in an unexpectedly clear voice. ‘Poor child. You must never tell anyone. Never, never, never . . .’
He stops, then bursts into tears.