Dancing in the Dark: My Struggle Book 4 (19 page)

‘I’m at Trond’s still. I was thinking of coming over. Tomorrow actually, but if your dad’s gone I might come tonight.’

‘Could you? That would be great.’

‘I’ll see. Arvid would have to drive me. He might have time. Anyway, perhaps see you tonight then!’

‘Fantastic!’

I cradled the phone and went to see what food there was in the fridge.

When mum drove up the hill an hour later I had fried some sausages, onions and potatoes, sliced some bread, put out the butter and set the table.

I went to meet her. She drove the car into the garage, got out, stretched up on her toes, grabbed the door and closed it.

She was wearing white trousers, a rust-red sweater and sandals. She smiled when she saw me. She seemed tired, but then she had been driving all day.

‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Did you have a nice time in Denmark?’

‘Yes, great. And what about you? Did you have a nice time in Sørbøvåg?’

‘Yes, I did.’

I leaned forward and gave her a hug. Followed her into the kitchen.

‘Have you made some food?!’ she said.

I smiled.

‘Take the weight off your feet. You’ve been driving all day. I’ll put some water on for tea. I didn’t know exactly when you would get here.’

‘No, of course. I should have rung,’ she said. ‘Tell me then. How was it in Denmark?’

‘It was really good. Some fantastic pitches. We played a couple of games. And then we went out on the last night. But the best fun was the class party. That was really great.’

‘Did you meet Hanne there?’ she said.

‘Yes. That was the great bit.’

She smiled. I smiled too.

Then the phone rang. I went in and answered it.

‘Dad here.’

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Is mum there now?’

‘Yes. Do you want to talk to her?’

‘No, what should I talk to her about? We were wondering if you would like to visit us on Monday. A little house-warming party.’

‘Love to. When?’

‘Six. Have you heard anything from Yngve?’

‘No, I think he’s on Tromøya.’

‘Tell him he’s invited too if you hear from him.’

‘OK, will do.’

‘Good. See you.’

‘See you.’

I put down the phone. How could his voice be so cold now when he’d put his hand on my shoulder only a few hours ago?

I went into the kitchen, where mum was pouring hot water into the teapot.

‘That was dad,’ I said.

‘Oh?’ she said.

‘He invited me to dinner.’

‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’

I shrugged.

‘Have you heard from him this summer?’

‘No, only from his solicitor,’ she said, putting the teapot on the table and sitting down.

‘What did the solicitor have to say?’

‘Well . . . it’s all about how to share the house. We can’t agree, but it’s nothing you have to worry about.’

‘Have to? I can worry about it if I want, can’t I?’ I said as I put the spatula in the pan and transferred some sausages, potatoes and onions onto a plate.

‘You don’t have to take sides. I suppose that’s what I mean,’ she said.

‘I took sides years ago,’ I said. ‘When I was seven I took sides. So that’s nothing new. Or a problem.’

I stuck the fork into a bit of sausage that had curled up in the heat, put it to my mouth and sank my teeth into it.

‘But if things go the way it looks as if they’re headed we won’t have much money in the future. That is, you’ll get your payments from dad of course. They’re yours to dispose of as you like, I suppose. But as I’ve got to buy his share of this house it’s going to be tough economically for me.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s only money. That’s not what life’s about.’

‘True enough.’ She smiled. ‘That’s a good attitude to have.’

Yngve and Arvid arrived at about ten. Arvid just poked his head round the door to say hello before leaving again while Yngve dragged a suitcase and a big bag up to his room, which he had hardly used in the three years we had lived there.

‘You’re not going tomorrow, are you?’ I said when he came back down.

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘The plane leaves the day after. Perhaps. I’ve got a standby ticket.’

We went into the living room. I sat down in the wicker chair, Yngve sat beside mum on the sofa. Outside two bats flitted to and fro, disappearing completely in the darkness of the mountains across the river, then reappearing against the lighter sky. Yngve poured coffee from the Thermos.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s debriefing time.’

Throughout our childhood we three had sat chatting, that was what I was used to, but this was the first time we had done it without dad living in the house, and the difference was immense. Knowing that he couldn’t walk in at any moment, forcing us to think about what we were saying and doing, changed everything.

We had chatted about everything under the sun then too, but never so much as a word about dad, it was a kind of implicit rule.

I had never thought about that before.

But we couldn’t talk about him now, that would have been inconceivable.

Why?

Perhaps it was bound up with loyalty. Perhaps with a fear of being overheard. But irrespective of what had happened during the day and irrespective of how upset I was, I never talked to them about it. To Yngve on his own, yes, but not when the three of us were together.

Then it was as though a dam had burst. Everything suddenly flowed into the same channel, into the same valley, which was soon full of something that excluded everything else.

Yngve began to talk about himself, and it wasn’t long before we were going through one incident after the other. Yngve told us about the time the B-Max supermarket opened and he was sent off with a shopping list and some money, under strict instructions to bring back a receipt. He had done that, but the sum in his hand hadn’t tallied with the till receipt and dad had marched him into the cellar and given him a beating. He told us about the time his bike had had a puncture and dad had walloped him. I, for my part, had never been beaten; for some reason dad had always treated Yngve worse. But I talked about the times he had slapped me and the times he had locked me in the cellar, and the point of these stories was always the same: his fury was always triggered by some petty detail, some utter triviality, and as such was actually comical. At any rate we laughed when we told the stories. Once I had left a pair of gloves on the bus and he slapped me in the face when he found out. I had leaned against the wobbly table in the hall and sent it flying and he came over and hit me. It was absolutely absurd! I lived in fear of him, I said, and Yngve said dad controlled him and his thoughts, even now.

Mum said nothing. She sat listening, looking at me then Yngve. Sometimes her eyes seemed to go blank. She had heard about most of these incidents before, but now there was such a plethora of them she might well have been overwhelmed.

‘He had such chaos inside him,’ she said at length. ‘More than I realised. I saw him angry of course. I didn’t see him hitting you. He never did when I was around. And you didn’t say anything. I tried to compensate for his bouts of anger. To give you something else . . .’

‘Relax, Mum,’ I said. ‘We got through it. That was then, not now.’

‘We always talked a lot, didn’t we,’ she said. ‘And he was manipulative. He was. Very. But he did also have some self-awareness. He made that clear to me. So I . . . well, I always saw it from his side, what happened. He said he had so little communication with you, and it was because I stood between you and him. And in a way that’s true. You always turned to me. When he was there you left. I had a bad conscience about that.’

‘What happened happened, and it’s fine,’ Yngve said. ‘But what I have a problem with is that when you moved here I was left to cope on my own. You didn’t help me. I was seventeen years old, at
gymnas
and had no money.’

Mum took a deep breath.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I was loyal to him. I shouldn’t have been. That was wrong of me. It was a big mistake.’

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s over, all of it. It’s just us now.’

Mum lit a cigarette. I looked at Yngve.

‘What shall we do tomorrow then?’

He shrugged.

‘What do you feel like doing?’

‘Swimming maybe?’

‘Or we could go to town? Check out some record shops and cafés?’

He turned to mum. ‘Can I borrow your car?’

‘Yes, you can.’

Mum went to bed half an hour later. I knew all she was thinking about was what we had been saying and she would be lying awake and reflecting. I didn’t want her to feel like this, to be so tormented by it, she didn’t deserve that, but there was nothing I could do.

When we heard the creaks in the ceiling on the other side of the living room Yngve looked at me.

‘Coming out for a smoke?’

I nodded.

We walked quietly into the hall, put on shoes and jackets and crept out to the opposite side of the house from where she was sleeping.

‘When are you going to tell her you smoke?’ I said, watching the flame from the lighter flicker across his face, the glow that came to life when the lighter died.

I heard him blowing out the smoke.

‘When will
you
?’

‘I’m sixteen. I’m not allowed to smoke. But you’re bloody twenty.’

‘All right, all right.’

I was offended and walked a few steps into the garden. There was a heavy aroma coming from the big bush with white flowers at the end of the potato patch. What was it called again?

The sky was light, the forest beyond the river dark.

‘Did you ever see mum and dad hug?’ Yngve said.

I walked back to him.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not that I can remember. Did you?’

He nodded in front of me in the semi-darkness.

‘Once. It was in Hove, so I must have been five. Dad was yelling at mum so much she burst into tears. She was standing in the kitchen crying. He went into the living room. Then he went back and put his arms around her and consoled her. That’s the only time.’

I started to cry. But it was dark, and not a sound came from me, so he didn’t notice.

Before we left for town I went to find mum. She was wandering around the garden with a pair of large gloves on, trimming the edges of the beds with shears.

‘Could you give me some money?’ I said. ‘I spent all I had in Denmark.’

‘I’ll see what I’ve got,’ she said, and went indoors to get her bag. I followed.

‘Is fifty OK?’ she said, taking a green banknote from her purse.

‘Have you got a hundred? I was thinking of buying a record or two.’

She counted her coins.

‘Ninety. That’s all, I’m afraid.’

‘It’ll have to do then,’ I said, went back to the car, which stood idling on the gravel drive, and got in beside Yngve, who was wearing his Ray-Bans.

‘I’m going to buy myself a pair when I get the money,’ I said, pointing to the sunglasses.

He set off down the hill.

‘Buy them when you get your first study loan,’ he said.

‘That’s
two
years away.’

‘You’ll have to get a job then. Piling planks at Boen or whatever it is you do there.’

‘I was thinking of doing record reviews,’ I said. ‘And interviewing bands and so on.’

‘Oh?’ he said. ‘That sounds like a good idea. Who for?’

‘
Nye Sørlandet
.’

We drove along the narrow road under the deciduous trees, past the old white houses, the river glinting beneath us. When we reached the waterfall and I saw some figures lying on the cliff beside it I turned to him.

‘Let’s go swimming afterwards. We can fit in both,’ I said.

‘Could do,’ he said. ‘At Hamresanden?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘Do they sell ice cream there?’

‘Of course they do. They may even have soft ice cream.’

I took Yngve to Platebørsen, the record shop in the town’s old
børs
, the stock exchange, a situation I relished, now I was the one who knew where everything was and what was good.

He held up a record. ‘Have you got this one?’

‘No? What is it?’

‘The Church.
The Blurred Crusade
. You’ve
got
to have this one.’

‘OK. I’ll get it.’

I also had enough money for a Nice Price record and bought the Talking Heads’
77
. Yngve was going to wait until his study loan came through before he bought any records.

We sat down in the café outside the library and smoked and drank coffee. I hoped someone I knew would come by, so that Yngve wouldn’t think I had no friends in town and because the ones I had would see me sitting with Yngve.

But there didn’t seem to be anyone in town today.

‘Where did mum buy the records at Christmas?’ Yngve said. ‘Do you remember?’

For Christmas Yngve had been given The The’s debut album by mum while I got
Script of the Bridge
by the Chameleons. I had never heard of the Chameleons, but they were absolutely fantastic. Yngve thought the same about The The. We couldn’t work out how she had managed this. There was hardly anyone here in town who followed the pop scene more closely than Yngve and I. Well, she said, she had gone into a record shop and then she had
described
first Yngve, then me, and the assistant had pulled out these two records.

I asked which shop it was, she told me, and over the Christmas period I popped in. Harald Hempel was behind the counter. So now I understood. He played with Lily and the Gigolos, and what he didn’t know about good music wasn’t worth knowing.

‘It’s in Dronningens gate,’ I said. ‘Shall we head down there?’

‘Do a little tour?’

As we drove away from the last shop I pointed to a building in the next block.

‘That’s
Nye Sørlandet
. The paper I was talking about.’

Yngve glanced up as we passed. ‘Looks small,’ he said.

‘Well, it’s the second biggest newspaper here. Like
Tiden
in Arendal, more or less.’

I cast an eye up and down Elvegaten, where dad lived now, to see if I could see him. But I couldn’t.

‘What’s better, do you think?’ I said. ‘Writing an application or going to speak to them?’