He signed it with his customary ‘V.’ and hurried out to the hall. He noted that Birger Butt’s pale-blue sandals were in residence, put on his jacket and left home.

  Lily’s Bakery had just opened, the smell of newly baked bread came wafting out of the open door like a vague promise, and in an instant Ante Valdemar Roos’s anxiety evaporated. Fresh rolls for breakfast at Lograna, he thought as he went into the shop.

  He didn’t just get the rolls, he also bought a loaf of rye bread and a bag of biscuits. He had a distinct feeling he recognized the woman behind the counter, but as he drove out of town on the virtually empty roads – there really was a difference between five past seven and quarter past eight – he wondered where he had seen her before. He hadn’t been in Lily’s Bakery for quite a while, but he was sure he knew her from somewhere else.

  As he was going round the Rocksta roundabout it came to him that she was Nilsson’s wife. The free-church member and mother of six children – she’d paid a visit to Wrigman’s once, a couple of years back, and something about her red hair and her blazing eyes had etched itself in his memory.

  Particularly the latter; they were the sort of eyes you were expected to have if you had beheld Christ, Valdemar supposed, and wondered if he was allowed to laugh at the thought or not. There was something particular about Nilsson’s eyes, too, when he came to think about it; presumably it was the same for male believers as for the female ones.

  That positive prospect of the hereafter.

  For his own part, Valdemar Roos didn’t believe in God. Not your standard, white-bearded Heavenly Father, anyway. Perhaps there was something else, he would think. Something higher, which we couldn’t comprehend and weren’t intended to, either. In the months after his father took his own life, he had occasionally put his hands together and sent up a doubtful prayer – but he had never detected any response and he had not tried again since. Life was one thing, what potentially came after it was another matter. Why should I think about something I can’t even conceive of? he would ask himself from time to time. When I find it so hard to comprehend what’s right beside me.

  In any case, this was no morning for speculative theology; that was plain to see once he had joined the 172, when he started to catch glimpses of the dark waters of Kymmen between the trees and his rear-view mirror showed him the sun starting to break through the clouds.

  No, it was a morning for drinking coffee and eating fresh rolls. With his young guest out at Lograna. Two chairs and a stool set against the wall of the outbuilding, a pipe of tobacco with their second cup . . . Jesus, he thought, putting his foot down, sometimes life’s so simple it’s almost laughable.

  And as for that anxiety with which he’d woken a couple of hours before, where it came from and where it had gone, well, there really was no point speculating.

  He parked beside the apple tree and got out of the car. No sign of life, apart from a few late bumblebees buzzing in the mignonette by the stone base of the cottage. Maybe she was still asleep; it wasn’t even eight. Young people tended to sleep later in the mornings, he knew that – Wilma and Signe were world champions in the art – and she wouldn’t be expecting him until half past nine.

  He tried the door. Locked.

  He felt for the key, but it was not in the lock. Of course not, he thought. She’s bound to lock the door from the inside at night. I’d do the same.

  He tapped lightly at the door, but there was no reaction from inside. He banged on it with his fist, and then went over to one of the living room windows and rapped on it a couple of times with the dangling hook of the window catch. Strange that it was on the outside, he hadn’t thought about that until now.

  Five seconds went by, then she opened the window and stuck her head out.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to lock you out. I had such trouble getting off to sleep last night.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Valdemar. ‘It’s only eight o’clock, I’m a touch early today.’

  ‘Only eight? Hang on a minute and I’ll open the door.’

  ‘It’s a fine morning,’ he declared, putting the paper bag from the baker’s on the kitchen table. ‘I bought us a few fresh rolls. Why did you have trouble sleeping?’

  She bit her lip and hesitated.

  ‘I was a bit scared,’ she said.

  ‘Scared? Why?’

  ‘Just as I was on my way to bed I noticed a man out there, looking at the house.’

  ‘What?’ said Valdemar.

  She gave an earnest nod.

  ‘But what in heaven’s name are you saying?’ asked Valdemar.

  ‘Yes, he was standing out on the road, just staring in. I was scared shitless.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Nothing. I hadn’t put the light on, so I don’t know if he saw me. I kind of hid and when I looked again a bit later he’d gone.’

  Valdemar pondered this information. ‘Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. It might just have been the farmer from Rödmossen, out for a walk. Or someone picking mushrooms.’

  ‘I know. I thought the same. But it was nearly nine, and getting quite dark. It scared me a bit, anyway, and that was why I couldn’t get to sleep.’

  Valdemar laughed and patted her on the shoulder. ‘You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get hold of a gun, a proper shotgun, and bring it out here so you can defend yourself if any uninvited guests turn up.’

  Anna laughed too. ‘You do that,’ she said. ‘By the way, weren’t you meant to be bringing some sandpaper and stuff today?’

  Valdemar cleared his throat. ‘Well this is what I thought,’ he said. ‘We’ll have breakfast and smoke a pipe, then we’ll go into town and do the shopping together.’

  She couldn’t contain her delight. She threw her arms round his neck and gave him a big hug. Like a ten-year-old at Christmas, he thought. Where is all this leading, I wonder?

  But there was no time to dwell on the question.

  ‘Thank you Valdemar,’ she said. ‘You know what, I was so lucky to meet you. I just can’t get over it.’

  He felt himself blush – something he thought he had given up about forty years ago – and self-consciously scratched the back of his neck. ‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘Time for some coffee, I think.’

  ‘What do you say to having lunch while we’re in town?’

  It was eleven thirty. They had bought not only sandpaper and masking tape but also a few other things Valdemar thought might come in handy: two rag rugs, a red and white checked cloth, some pot-holders, a wooden bowl, a couple of candlesticks, a doormat, some hooks to put up on the wall, towels, coffee mugs, an electric kettle, two folding garden chairs and a matching table. The car was chock-a-block with purchases. Anna had not been in a town for a month and a half, nor in a shop for almost as long – except for chocolate and cigarettes when the Elvafors girls were taken on their trips to Dalby – and was feeling exhilarated and a little dizzy after two hours of rushing around the shops and to and from the square at Norra torg where they’d parked.

  Almost happy. I’m like a kid at the funfair, she thought, and the notion that he ought to have been her dad kept stubbornly coming back.

  ‘Lunch?’ she said. ‘But surely we can’t . . .?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to Ljungman’s for herring and creamed potatoes. You like herring, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anna. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had it.’

  Valdemar stared at her.

  ‘You’re twenty-one years old and you’ve never had herring? Well you ought to thank your lucky stars you met me.’

  ‘That’s what I told you,’ she said, tucking her hand under his arm as they cut across the square to Ljungman’s restaurant.

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Well there you are. But you have to have lingonberry jam with it. Ideally the one made with the uncooked berries.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t care about food?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Valdemar. ‘When it comes to herring and creamed potatoes I’m very choosy.’

  Anna finished her cola and looked around the busy dining room. ‘What do you suppose they’re thinking?’ she asked.

  ‘About what?’ said Valdemar.

  ‘About us,’ said Anna. ‘Do you reckon they think we’re a dad eating lunch with his daughter? Or . . .?’

  Valdemar thought about it. ‘Why not? Or we could be work colleagues.’

  ‘Yes, though you don’t go to work any more. Not that they would realize that, of course. Is . . . is there anybody you know in here?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Valdemar, looking around him with slight concern. ‘And I shouldn’t think so. I don’t know many people. I’m an antisocial loner, like I told you.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re an antisocial loner at all,’ said Anna, putting her hand on his arm and giving him a broad smile.

  I like the way she dares to smile at me so openly, thought Valdemar. I really do.

  ‘It’s only because I’m in such charming company,’ he said. ‘But perhaps we ought to be making tracks for Lograna now, eh? So I have time for my afternoon nap, at least.’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ said Anna. ‘And I’ll start on the painting after you go. It’s a bit of a shame that . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That you won’t be coming to see how I’m getting on until Monday.’

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ said Valdemar. ‘If I get a chance, I might drop by on Sunday.’

  ‘Hope you will,’ said Anna.

  They left their table and moved towards the exit; at the door they came face to face with a couple on their way in, a man and woman in their fifties.

  ‘Hello Valdemar,’ said the woman, looking surprised.

  ‘Hello,’ said Valdemar.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ said Valdemar, elbowing his way past with Anna in tow.

  ‘Who were they?’ she asked once they were out in the square.

  ‘I don’t know who the man was,’ said Valdemar, ‘but I’m afraid the woman was one of my wife’s best friends.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Anna. ‘Do you think . . . I mean . . .?’

  ‘To hell with it for now,’ said Valdemar. ‘Sufficient unto the day and all that. Let’s talk about something nicer.’

  He left Lograna just after five and a sudden feeling of abandonment descended on her. Like a wet blanket, or whatever the saying was.

  I’m ridiculous, she thought. I’ve only been in his company for three days and I’m already like a puppy missing its mother. How did I ever think I would cope on my own in the world? Young girl, dumb girl.

  She sat in one of the new chairs outside and lit the pipe. The sun had still not gone down behind the fringe of trees and it was pleasantly warm. I wish I really did live here, she thought. And that Valdemar, my extra dad, did too. And that . . . that I had a job I could get to by bike or moped every morning, and that I didn’t need to worry one bit about the future.

  She knew these were childish thoughts, and that the childishness, the finding it so hard to grow up, was linked to the drugs.

  All her addict friends had been the same, wanting to stay in some kind of childhood state, maybe because they had never properly experienced such a thing when they were little.

  Yes, it probably was as simple as that. That they had, for whatever reason, been robbed of all those things that are so important in the early years – play, laughter, freedom, a carefree heart – and that this was what they were now attempting to compensate for by using one drug after another. It was so bloody tragic, thought Anna, and so utterly doomed to failure.

  At any rate, that was the analysis all the so-called experts liked to present, she thought. She didn’t normally have much time for experts, but in this case she did. If there was one common denominator for all the losers in the world, it was surely that they had a lost childhood which they now carried with them.

  She set down the pipe and put her hands together. Dear God in your goodness, she prayed, please can you see your way to keeping a watchful eye on me. I really don’t want to fall into that again, I want to live life with dignity. I’m not fussy about the details, but I think what I need is a generous dose of security, at least for the next little while. Thank you for putting Valdemar in my path. He is very welcome to stay in my life for a long, long time, and I actually think I do him a bit of good as well. Thank you in advance, very best wishes from Anna. Amen.

  She sat there for a while longer, until the sun had vanished behind the forest to the west and the evening chill had come creeping in. Then she went into the house to make a start on the decorating.

  20

  ‘The Faringers are coming this evening. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So then you won’t need to go to his surgery on Monday.’

  It was Saturday morning. Valdemar was lying in bed with his newspaper, coffee and a fair sprinkling of crumbs. Alice had just come out of the shower.

  ‘Well, we were going out to meet up with Mats and Rigmor,’ she went on, ‘but they had some problem with their dogs, so I rang the Faringers instead.’

  ‘You rang them while you were in the shower?’

  ‘No, I rang them last night.’

  ‘You didn’t mention it last night.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Valdemar waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Alice stepped onto the scales instead and checked the result with a worried expression. ‘Useless bloody scales,’ she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. Then she stepped off and repeated the procedure. As far as Valdemar could tell, the result was just as depressing second time around.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘We’ll be spending six hours shopping and cooking then, I presume?’

  ‘No,’ said Alice. ‘What we thought was that we’d just have mussels and garlic bread. Ingegerd and I will get it ready while you talk to Gordon. I asked him if that would be all right.’

  Valdemar drained his coffee and closed his eyes.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So while you and Mrs Faringer deal with the mussels and sample the wine in the kitchen, Mr Faringer and I are going to sit in the study analysing my depression.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Alice. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  Valdemar paused for thought.

  ‘Nothing, Alice dear. It sounds a brilliant idea. Where do you get them all from?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Alice.

  ‘I hope Wilma and Signe and Birger Butt will be joining us too,’ continued Valdemar, inspired. ‘Gordon could grab the chance of examining Birger Butt while he’s at it, I think he could do with it. But maybe he hasn’t got a psyche?’

  Alice, arms akimbo, dug her clenched hands into what had once been her waist and glared at him.

  ‘Now you’re being unfair again, Valdemar! Of course he has. But none of them are going to be in tonight. Wilma and Signe are going to Stockholm to the dinner show at Wallmans salonger with their father, I’ve told you that ten times already.’

  ‘Oh, is it today?’ said Valdemar.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘It’s today.’

  ‘I thought it was next weekend.’

  ‘It’s all part of your depression,’ said Alice. ‘Not concentrating, forgetting things.’

  ‘I have been feeling a bit forgetful lately, it’s true,’ admitted Valdemar, heading for the bathroom.

  ‘So how are you?’ Gordon Faringer asked him, ten hours later. ‘No need to see this as an official consultation, by the way. But we can have a little chat now we’re here, seeing as Alice is so keen.’

  ‘At least we get out of scrubbing the mussels,’ said Valdemar.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Faringer. ‘And this will be as confidential as any formal session, of course. So if you want to unload, be my guest.’

  ‘There isn’t much to unload, I’m afraid,’ said Valdemar. ‘It’s Alice who claims I’m depressed, not me.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ said Faringer. ‘But mild depressions are actually easier for other people to pick up on than for the person affected. Even the mild kind aren’t much fun, you know, they can be a real drag.’

  ‘I agree depression isn’t a fun subject,’ said Valdemar.

  ‘Now now, no need for sarcasm,’ said Gordon Faringer, winking as he raised his glass. ‘Cheers, by the way.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Valdemar.

  They drank, and sat in silence for a while.

  ‘Would you like me to ask a few questions?’ Faringer said after a while.

  ‘Yes, go on,’ said Valdemar.

  ‘You know that psychiatry isn’t an exact science, not like you with your financial figures. But it is based in observable phenomena, nonetheless.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Valdemar. ‘There’s no need to apologize.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Faringer. ‘Well, let’s start with your mood. Would you say you were feeling in low spirits?’

  Valdemar mulled this over. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But it’s been like that for forty years.’

  ‘Nothing special to exacerbate it recently?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of.’

  ‘How are you sleeping?’

  ‘I feel pretty tired.’

  ‘But when you sleep, you sleep properly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any recent change you’ve noticed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Though one doesn’t feel any perkier as the years go by.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ said Gordon Faringer, plucking out one of his nose hairs. ‘Your concentration, then? How’s that? Any problems with that at work?’

  Valdemar sipped his wine. ‘Um, it’s pretty much as usual there, too. But then concentration’s never exactly been my strong suit. Alice says I forget things and I expect she’s right.’

  ‘Mhmm?’ said Faringer. ‘But you can still look forward to things?’

  ‘Er,’ said Valdemar, ‘Christ knows. Can you?’

  ‘Thanks for asking,’ said Faringer. ‘Well I’ve got my boat and the sea, you know. And the grandchildren, I get a lot out of all that, actually. But if I can press you a little on this one, how about your spark, your zest for life?’