The Farm (29 page)

That night, when I spoke to my dad, he informed me that my mum had passed out from dehydration. The doctors were asserting that under the Mental Capacity Act she didn’t have the right to refuse liquids or food. If they took the decision to use a saline drip and she pulled it free from her arm, she would be restrained. Later, speaking to Mark, he was largely silent. He was hoping I’d make the decision to come home without being told.

On the brink of giving up, I jotted down possible flight times to return to London. That evening there was a knock on the door. It was Dr Norling. The charm and eloquence were gone, although the delicate sandalwood fragrance remained. He was abrupt to the point of rudeness, saying he couldn’t stay long:

‘You shouldn’t have come. You’ll achieve nothing. Tilde needs to return to reality. She doesn’t need more fantasy.’

He gestured at my empty notebook on the table:

‘This is fantasy.’

He added:

‘You know that, don’t you?’

There was a mild threat in his question, as though he were eyeing the issue of my sanity, like mother like son. That was the moment I decided to stay.

Had my mum remained in Sweden, Santa Lucia would surely have been a key event in her chronology, containing, in her eyes, some incident of great importance. I intended to arrive early in the hope of selecting a seat at the back, observing local society as they entered, trying to imagine which relationships my mum might have reacted to.

The church was located in a historic square, the oldest and highest point in town, perched on a small hill. With white stone walls and a high white tower, the building seemed to rise up out of the snow more like a natural phenomenon than a man-made structure. Doubting that I, a stranger, could possess a valued ticket, the woman at the front primly told me the event was sold out. When I produced a ticket she checked it carefully before begrudging me admission.

Inside there was no electric light, just the flicker of a thousand candles, lighting up walls decorated with biblical scenes painted on timber planks stripped from the hulls of old fishing boats. The leaflet I’d taken from the entrance informed me that this church was once a place where wives and sons and daughters would pray for the safe return of their husbands and fathers from the stormy sea, a perfect location to pray for the return of a missing daughter or, in my case, a mother present and missing at the same time.

On my lap, hidden inside the song sheet, was a re-creation of my mum’s list of suspects. The mayor was the first suspect to arrive, with the admirably political intention to meet and greet the attendees. He saw me and studiously ignored me – the only chink in his otherwise incessant jocularity. The front row of seats had been reserved and the mayor took his place, with the remaining seats filled by, among others, the detective and the doctor. The church was full when Håkan entered, accompanied by his wife. I could tell that he enjoyed having the eyes of the whole town follow him to his reserved space at the front.

Once these important society figures had been seated the service began. A procession of young men and women dressed in bridal white flowed through the aisle, the men holding gold stars on sticks, the women holding candles, singing as they slowly walked, assembling into rows at the front of the church. The lead girl wore candles mounted in a steel ring, a crown of flames in her blonde hair, the Saint of Light, a role that Mia had played in last year’s ceremony. The service lasted an hour. The congregation celebrated light and warmth not as an abstract idea but as a powerful need, a missed loved one. Despite the obvious opportunity, no mention was made of Mia. The omission was striking. There was surely calculation behind it, rather than mere oversight; a request had been made, and the priest had agreed not to raise the matter. It hardly qualified as evidence but it jarred, particularly with Håkan seated at the very front, and particularly since Mia had been the last to play the role of Santa Lucia.

After the service I waited outside by the line of flickering lanterns laid in the snow, keen to catch a word with Håkan. Through the church doors I could see him talking with members of the community, shaking hands, more like a statesman than an ordinary citizen. Upon seeing me he paused, too self-controlled to show a reaction beyond the pause itself. He eventually emerged with his wife. As I stepped up to Håkan he turned to Elise, ordering her ahead to a private reception. She glanced at me, and perhaps it was my imagination, but there was something in that look, not pity, or hostility, but something else – remorse, or guilt. It was the briefest of moments, I could have been mistaken, and she hurried up the candlelit track.

Håkan’s civility was unconvincing:

‘I hope you enjoyed the service.’

‘Very much. It’s a beautiful church. But I was surprised we didn’t pray for your daughter’s safe return.’

‘I did pray, Daniel. I pray for her every day.’

Håkan had joined my parents in refusing to shorten my name to Dan. Fighting my instinct to avoid conflict, I recalled something my mum had said:

‘I’m struggling with how Mia left your farm. She couldn’t drive. She didn’t take her bike. She can’t have walked. There was no public transport. Now that I’m here, I understand how remote it is.’

Håkan stepped sideways, into the snow, isolating our conversation. He lowered his voice:

‘Your father and I became close over the summer. He was worried about you. Do you mind me telling you this?’

It wasn’t enough for Håkan to attack me. He wanted my permission to do so.

‘Go ahead.’

‘According to him, your career was going nowhere. After the opportunities provided to you, none of which your parents enjoyed, you hadn’t thought for yourself, following in their footsteps, taking the easiest possible course. He wondered if your failure was why you’d cut yourself off from your family. You rarely phoned. You never visited. When I heard Chris repeat your excuses I thought to myself – that man is lying. He doesn’t want to come. Chris was hurt by your absence. Tilde was too. They couldn’t understand what they’d done wrong. They feared there was a chance you wouldn’t come at all this year. But the part I find the hardest to believe is that you actually believed they were rich! Could this really be true?’

I was ashamed and considered making a qualified reply, defending myself, but in the end decided for a simple admission:

‘It’s true.’

‘How? I knew as soon as they arrived that they were struggling. That’s why I’d always pay for your father when we drank together, that’s why when we invited them to parties we never asked them to bring anything expensive, like salmon or meat.’

Amid my humiliation, the mystery of why he’d asked my mum to bring potato salad was solved. It was an act of charity, with a touch of condescension. Håkan paused, assessing my reaction. I was unable to protest. Having completed his attack, he now turned to his defence:

‘No one is more upset about Mia than me. I have done everything expected of me. To have my role publicly questioned by a man who did nothing for his parents, a man who wasn’t even aware that his mother was shouting murder at every shadow, well, it is offensive. You’re upsetting my wife. You’re insulting my friends.’

‘No insult was intended.’

Putting on his gloves, Håkan had the demeanour of a man disappointed that the fight had been so one-sided. But before he left I quickly added:

‘All I want are some answers, not for me, but for my mum, and right now, despite your efforts, there are none. We don’t even know how Mia left your farm.’

Perhaps Håkan saw in me a flicker of my mum’s belief, because it was the only time I witnessed him lose control over his words:

‘You couldn’t even spot that your own parents were broke. What use could you be? This visit isn’t about helping your mother and it certainly isn’t about helping me. You feel guilty. You’re trying to feel better about yourself. But you’re not allowed to do it by nosing around in my life, in my community, insinuating that we’ve done something improper. I won’t have it!’

Composing himself, Håkan gave one final twist of the knife:

‘Unlike many here, I don’t believe there’s any shame in losing your mind. And maybe she didn’t know it, but I like Tilde. She was strong. Her problem was that she was too strong. She shouldn’t have fought me so hard. There was no reason for it. She got it into her head that I was her enemy. I could’ve been a friend. I see your mother in your face. But I see none of her strength. Chris and Tilde have brought you up to be soft. Children rot when they’re indulged in too much love. Go home, Daniel.’

With that, he left me standing in the snow.

Driving back to the farm, I felt no anger towards Håkan. His remarks had not been unfair. However, on one important point he was wrong. I wasn’t motivated by guilt. My task was not pointless. There were answers here.

At the farm I set about trying to find the words my mum had written on the walls. I hadn’t seen them anywhere during my week. Searching in earnest, I eventually noticed that a cabinet had been moved. There were small scratches in the wood floor around the base of the legs. Pulling it back, I was disappointed to see just one word:

Freja!

One name, surrounded by space, just like the email she’d sent me –

Daniel!

I’d already discussed with my dad the issue of my mum’s handwriting, wanting to know who’d written the lost diary, the disturbing journal found in a rusted steel box. My dad had explained that my mum was ambidextrous. Over the summer, he’d caught her, late at night, writing on the old papers uncovered in the ground. She’d composed the fictional diary with elegant brown ink and using her left hand.

I picked up the phone, calling my dad. He was surprised by the lateness of the call. Without any of the usual pleasantries, I asked:

‘Dad, why did you move the cabinet to cover up the writing on the wall? Why didn’t you want anyone else to see it?’

He didn’t reply. I continued:

‘You didn’t pack up the farm. You left the boat to freeze in the river. But you took the time to cover up one word.’

He didn’t reply. I said:

‘Dad, when you phoned me from Sweden to tell me Mum was sick, you said that there was a lot I didn’t know. You said Mum could become violent. But she wasn’t violent over the summer. And she didn’t hurt anyone. What were you referring to?’

Silence again, so I asked:

‘Dad, did Mum kill Freja?’

Finally he replied:

‘I don’t know.’

He added, barely audible:

‘But if she did, it would explain a great deal.’

• • •

Unable to sleep, I climbed out of bed and dressed. I made a Thermos of strong coffee and on the embers of the iron stove warmed a roll filled with several thick slices of mild Swedish cheese, allowing it to soften. I packed a small bag, bringing with me a change of clothes and my notebook and pencil, carrying them as mascots, symbols of intent, rather than items being put to any practical use. Leaving the farm on the darkest night of the year, I drove across country, northwards and east, towards the great lake where my mum had swum and where Freja had drowned. For much of the journey I was the only car on the road. When I arrived at my grandfather’s farm it was the break of dawn, with a sky evenly split between night and day.

From my mum’s description of life on this farm my grandfather must have heard my car approach. It took just a single knock for him to open the door, as though he’d been waiting behind it. In this way, the two of us met for the first time. His hair was an attractive white, the hair of a goodly wizard, but it had been slicked down, forming uneven greasy icicles. At eight in the morning he was dressed in a black suit and waistcoat, with a grey shirt and a black tie – funeral attire. An inappropriate desire to hug him came over me, as though this was a reunion. He was a stranger unknown to me for my entire life, yet he was still family and family had always been precious. How could I not feel warmth towards him? Whatever problems there’d been in the past, I wanted him to be part of our small circle. Right now I needed him. With my mum in hospital, he was our only connection to the past. It might have been my foreignness, or my familiarity – maybe, as Håkan claimed, I had a touch of my mum in my face – regardless, he knew who I was. He said, in Swedish:

‘You’ve come looking for answers. There are none here. Except for the one you already know to be true. Little Tilde is sick. She’s always been sick. I fear she will always be sick.’

He called my mum ‘Little Tilde’ without contempt or affection. There was a studious blankness about his voice. His sentences were polished, as if pre-prepared, spoken with so correct a balance of gravitas that they felt devoid of any emotion.

I entered my grandfather’s farm, built with his own hands when he was younger than me. Laid out over one floor, with no stairs or cellar, it was old-fashioned and surprisingly snug considering how much land he owned. The décor hadn’t been changed for several decades. In the living room I noted the smell my mum had referred to, she’d called it the smell of sadness – stale air singed by decrepit electric heaters and curling flypaper. While he prepared coffee I was left alone and studied the walls, the awards for his white wild-meadow honey, the photographs of him and my grandmother. She was plainly dressed and sturdy, reminding me of Håkan’s wife. As for my grandfather, evidently he’d always taken pride over his appearance. His clothes were well tailored. Unquestionably he’d been handsome, and immensely serious, never smiling, even when being handed a trophy, a stern father, no doubt, and an upright local politician. There were no photos of my mum on the walls. There was no trace of her on this farm.