The Farm (25 page)

I locked the door behind me, reviewing my predicament. Instead of saying nothing, I’d said too much. My only option was to escape. I examined the window, but, as with everything in that house, it was bespoke, it didn’t open. The thick frosted glass couldn’t be easily broken, certainly not without making a great deal of noise. There was no escape. I was still holding the stitched quote and I folded it neatly, slipping it into my satchel with no intention of returning it, one of the most important items of evidence I’d collected. There was no choice but to emerge from the bathroom and find another way out. I expected both men to be there, waiting, arms outstretched. But the hallway was empty. I peered down, seeing them outside the study in conversation. I contemplated running in the opposite direction, finding another way out. But Norling looked up and saw me, so I walked towards him. I’d simply explain that I was tired and that I’d like to go home. They had no legal power. They couldn’t detain me. I laid down the challenge – I was going to leave.

I’m leaving!

Norling considered. He nodded, offering to drive me. Would it be so easy? I turned the offer down, explaining I wanted fresh air and would prefer to cycle. Norling gently protested, reminding me that I’d just claimed to be tired. I stuck by my decision, scarcely able to believe that my ordeal was coming to an end.

Even though they weren’t open I walked towards the giant oak doors, waiting for these men to jump me, or stick me with a needle, but the manservant dutifully pressed a button and the great doors swung open and I exited into the sea breeze. I was free. Somehow I’d survived. I hurried down the steps to my bicycle.

Once I was on the coastal track, cycling fast, I glanced back. Norling’s expensive car was emerging from his discreet garage like a spider creeping out of a hole. He was following me. I turned face forward and, ignoring the pain from my blisters, flattened my feet on the pedals and accelerated. Norling’s car could’ve overtaken me, but he was shadowing me into town. I raced across the bridge, turning sharply onto the cycle path alongside the river, glancing over my shoulder as Norling was forced to drive on the main road. At last I was free of him, if only temporarily, because there was no doubt in my mind he was heading to the farm. Maybe the doctor needed Chris’s consent in order to take me to the hospital. I skidded to a stop and asked myself why was I cycling back to the farm, what safety was there at this farm? My old plan was dead, I’d told them everything. Things couldn’t carry on as normal, there was no going back to life on the farm, our dream was over, the farm, the barn, the salmon fishing, it was over. I’d been lying to myself, pretending somehow the two lives could coexist, but they couldn’t. It was an investigation or denial, there was no compromise, and I’d made my choice.

I was alone. I needed an ally. The only person I could think of, since you were in London, the only person who might give me a fair hearing, far removed from the events in this community, was my father.

• • •

M
Y MUM’S CHOICE SURPRISED ME
:

‘You haven’t seen your father for fifty years. He didn’t even know you were in Sweden.’

‘I wasn’t going to him because we were close. I was going to him because of his character.’

‘Based on what? The man you knew as a child?’

‘He wouldn’t have changed.’

‘According to you Dad has changed. And over the course of just one summer.’

‘Chris is different.’

‘Different how?’

‘He’s weak.’

Considering my dad had been accused of the most serious sexual crimes, I’m not sure why this insult struck me as particularly barbed. Perhaps it was the impression that of all the vices, my mum despised weakness the most. And, perhaps, because if Dad was weak then, surely, so was I:

‘Your father is strong?’

‘He’s incorruptible. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He was a local politician. Whereas that might be a joke to some, in his part of the country that meant he was scrupulous and highly respected. His image and reputation were everything. It didn’t matter that we were estranged. He’d be on the side of justice.’

‘Mum, he thought you killed Freja.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would you go back to him when you were looking for someone to believe you? You left him because he didn’t believe you!’

Rather than talk over her shoulder, my mum rotated so that we were now both cross-legged on the bed, looking directly at each other, our knees touching, like two teenage friends baring our souls:

‘You’re right to query the decision. However, in this case, I wasn’t being accused. This was about other people’s crimes. And unlike last time, I had evidence and facts, dates and names. I was asking him to be objective.’

I dared a provocation:

‘The only way this makes sense to me is if you accept that he correctly assessed the events of the summer of 1963. He got it right then. So you think he’ll get it right now?’

My mum looked up at the ceiling:

‘You believe I killed Freja too!’

‘I don’t, Mum. But if your dad got it wrong, why go to him now?’

My mum’s eyes filled with tears:

‘Because I wanted to give him a second chance!’

Since the rationale was an emotional one, I stopped being obstructive, only pressing for some understanding of the logistics. Maybe there’d been communication that I wasn’t aware of over the summer:

‘When were you last in touch with him?’

‘He wrote to me when my mother died.’

About ten years ago, I remembered my mum reading the letter at the kitchen table, surrounded by the remains of our breakfast. I’d been at school. It had been the summer term. Worried that the news would distract me before my exams, she’d tried to hide the letter, but I’d caught sight of the Swedish over her shoulder and asked about it. To me, the news had seemed so remote from our lives. My grandmother had never visited or been in touch. She was a stranger to us. The letter had been sent after the funeral, giving my mum no chance to return and attend. Since that was their last communication I asked:

‘Could you even be sure of his address?’

‘He’d never move. He built that farm with his own hands. He’ll die there.’

‘Did you phone first?’

I decided not to. It’s harder to shut a door in someone’s face than it is to hang up a phone. So, you see, I had my doubts too. Obviously I couldn’t cycle all the way there. My only option was to steal our van and drive across Sweden. I abandoned my bicycle in the fields, approaching the farm through the crops in case they were watching the road. If you doubted me earlier when I said Norling was following me, you were wrong. His car was at the farm, parked in the drive – that didn’t surprise me. The problem was that he was parked in front of our van. There was no way out! I couldn’t accept that this was the end. I’d take the wheel of that van and smash my way out, ramming Norling’s expensive car onto the road.

At the window I peered inside, seeing Norling with Chris. There was no sign of Håkan but he’d be coming soon. I didn’t need to go inside since the keys were in my satchel. I ran as fast as I could to the van, opening the door, slamming it shut and locking myself in. I started the engine and the old van shuddered noisily. Chris ran out of the farmhouse. As I backed up, he banged his fist on the door, trying to get in. I ignored him, putting the van into gear and accelerating straight towards Norling’s car. At the very last second I changed my mind, driving around the car – otherwise he’d call the police and I’d be guilty of criminal damage. Instead, I drove onto my garden, my precious garden, crushing onions and marrows, months of work, straight into the hedge, bursting out onto the road. The van had lost a lot of speed and sat in the middle of the road. Chris was running after me. I could see him in the side mirrors, along with the damaged vegetables. The view was heartbreaking, but that dream was over – the farm was over. As Chris caught up with the van I accelerated away from him.

It was inevitable that they’d pursue me, in expensive cars, racing up and down the narrow country lanes, hunting me, and a white van would be easy to spot, so I drove fast, dangerously fast, picking roads at random.

Once I was clear, using a map of Sweden I plotted a route to my father’s farm, estimating it would take six hours. It was a tiring journey. The van’s difficult to drive, cumbersome and hard to handle. The weather changed markedly, from mild sun to bursts of rain. I crossed regional borders, leaving Halland and entering Västergötland, where I was forced to top up with petrol. In the service station the man behind the counter asked me if I was okay. The sound of kindness almost made me cry. I declared that I was more than okay. I was excited. I was on a great adventure, the last adventure of my life. I’d been travelling for many months, that’s why I looked a bit out of sorts, but I was almost home now.

In the service station bathroom I examined my reflection in the mirror, accepting that I’d lost a great deal of weight these past few weeks and had been neglecting my looks. Women are treated with suspicion if they neglect their looks, more so than men. Looks are important when trying to convince people of your sanity. I washed my face with a dollop of pungent pink soap from the dispenser, straightening my hair, taming the wild strands, scrubbing my fingernails, fixing my appearance as best I could for my father, a man who insisted on cleanliness. Just because we lived in the country didn’t mean we lived like pigs, that’s what he’d say.

The last of the daylight was fading and it would’ve been hard to navigate as a stranger in a foreign land with only a map. But this was my home. I wasn’t a foreigner here. No matter that it had been fifty years, the countryside hadn’t changed. I recognised the landmarks as if they were birthmarks, the bridges, the great family farms of the region, the rivers and forests, the quaint local towns that had to my eye as a child been like metropolises, home to exotic shops, a department store spread over three floors, bustling squares, expensive boutiques where sophisticates bought French perfume, and gloomy tobacco stores where men stocked up on cigars and chewing tobacco. Passing through now I saw a town asleep at ten, a single backstreet bar with a shamefaced façade catering to the handful of people who didn’t go to bed when the sun went down.

I drove down the country road where I’d ditched my bicycle in the fields and where I’d caught the bus all those years ago, retracing my escape route, past my father’s wildflower meadows, turning towards his farm. It was just the same, the small red farmhouse, built by my father’s own hands before I was born, flanked by a customary flagpole, backed by ponds and redcurrant bushes, a single dim light over the door swirling with gnats and mosquitoes, the only light for miles around.

Stepping out of the van, I waited. There was no need to knock because in these remote parts the sound of a passing car was unusual enough to bring a person outside and my father surely heard the van approach. He would’ve waited by the window, watching the road, to see what direction the van would take, shocked to see it come towards the farm, shocked again when it stopped outside his front door, an unexpected visitor – late at night.

As the door opened, I felt a desire to run away. Had I made a terrible misjudgment coming here? My father was wearing a suit jacket. He always wore a jacket and waistcoat around the house, formally dressed unless he was working in the fields, never casual. I might even have recognised the suit, brown and coarse. But his suits had always looked the same – heavy, itchy and uncomfortable, pious clothes for a pious soul. Everything was familiar apart from the decay – that was new. The redcurrant bushes were overgrown except for one that had died. The ponds were no longer pristine, dense algae strangling the water lilies. The barn’s paintwork was chipped. Machinery for tending the fields had begun to rust. In contrast to his surroundings, my father looked in excellent condition, still upright and strong, eighty-five years old, an old man but not a frail one, not weak, alive, incredibly alive – vigorous and sharp-witted. His hair was white and neatly cut. He’d been to a local hair salon. He was taking care of himself, wearing essence of limes, the only fragrance he ever used. He said my name:

‘Tilde.’

No hint of wonder, or amazement, my name, the name he’d chosen, spoken as a heavy declaration, a fact that brought him no joy. I tried to mimic the sound, except I couldn’t keep the wonder out of my voice:

‘Father!’

I’d left this farm on a bicycle and fifty years later returned in a van. I explained that I wasn’t here to argue, or fight, I wasn’t here to cause trouble. He said:

 ‘I am old.’

I laughed and said:

‘I’m old too!’

We had that in common, at least.

The inside of the farm was 1960s Sweden, imperfectly preserved, like a forgotten jar of jam at the back of a larder, spotty with mould. The accumulation of grime saddened me. My father had been obsessed with hygiene and immaculate presentation. But my mum had been in charge of keeping the farm clean. He’d never lifted a finger in that respect. Since her death he hadn’t adopted her chores. The result was that while he appeared meticulously groomed, around him the farm had sunk into squalor. In the bathroom the showerhead was rusted, the grouting was black, the plughole was clogged with hair, and there was a tiny fragment of shit bobbing in the toilet. And the smell! It was the same, a building in the middle of the countryside with the freshest air in the world, yet the air inside was musty and stale because the windows are triple-glazed with seals to keep out winter’s bitter cold. My father never opened the windows, even in the summer. The house was a closed space, the door never wedged wide to let in a breath of fresh air. You see, my father hated flies. Fifty years later there were still strips of flypaper in every room, some thick with dead or dying flies, some new, and my father couldn’t sit if there was a fly in the house, he’d chase it until it was dead, chase and chase, so no doors were ever opened for longer than need be, and if you wanted fresh air you went outside. This smell, whatever it was – flypaper and old furniture and electric-heated air – this smell, for me, was unhappiness. I began to feel restless as we sat in the living room, breathing this smell, beside a television that must have been bought after I’d run away – a huge black cube with two steel antennae jutting up, like an oversized insect head, with a single curved eye, almost certainly the first and only television he’d ever bought.