Britt-Marie is no connoisseur when it comes to solariums, and as a result she was possibly not very familiar with the basic functions of the machine. Her idea had been to sit on a stool next to the lit-up bed, sticking her hand into the light, and gently closing the lid on top of it. How long she would have to sit there bronzing her hand into one without a white mark on it she did not know, but she imagined that the process could not be more elaborate than cooking salmon in the oven. Her plan was to simply remove her hand now and then and see how it was all going.
It must have been something to do with the soporific humming of the machine, perhaps, as well as the heat of it, especially as she had gone around all day being enthusiastic—that was how it happened. Her head slumped, as one’s head has a way of doing when one goes to sleep on a stool, and then her forehead struck the lid of the tanning machine very hard, and her hand got horribly twisted under the lid. She rolled onto the floor and passed out, and now she’s in the hospital. With a bump on her head and broken fingers.
Ben’s mother is sitting next to her, patting her on the arm.
The cleaning staff found her, and this makes Britt-Marie even more indignant, because everyone knows how cleaning staff gossip at their meetings.
“Don’t be upset, things like this happen to the best of us,” whispers Ben’s mother encouragingly.
“No, they don’t,” says Britt-Marie, so that her voice cracks. She slips off the bench. Ben’s mother holds out her hand but Britt-Marie glides away. “Enough people in Borg are giving up, Britt-Marie. Don’t become one of them, please.”
Britt-Marie may want to retort something, but humiliation and common sense compel her to leave the room. The children from the soccer team are sitting in the waiting room. Quite decimated, Britt-Marie avoids their eyes. This is something new to her—the feeling of having yearned for something, only to collapse on the ground. Britt-Marie is not used to hoping.
So she walks past the children and wishes with all her heart that they were not here.
Sven is waiting with his cap in his hands. He has brought a little basket with baguettes in it.
“Well, ah, I thought that . . . well, I thought you wouldn’t want to go to the restaurant now . . . after all this, so I made a picnic. I thought . . . but, yeah, maybe you’d rather just go home. Of course.” Britt-Marie shuts her eyes hard and holds her bandaged hand behind her back. He looks down into his basket.
“I bought the baguettes but I wove the basket myself.”
Britt-Marie sucks her cheeks in and bites them. There’s no way Sven and the children knew what she was doing in the salon, but this makes her feel all the more ridiculous. So she whispers:
“Please, Sven, I just want to go home.”
So Sven drives her to Bank’s house, even though she wishes he wouldn’t. And wishes he’d never seen her like this. She hides her hand under the bamboo screen and more than anything she’d like to be taken back to her proper home. Her real life. And be dropped off there. She’s not ready for enthusiasm.
He tries to say something when they stop, but she gets out before he has time. He’s still standing outside his police car with his cap in his hands when she closes the front door. She stands motionless on the other side, holding her breath until he leaves.
She cleans Bank’s house from top to bottom. Has soup for dinner, alone. Then slowly walks up the stairs, fetches a towel, and sits on the side of the bed.
21
Bank comes home spectacularly drunk somewhere between midnight and dawn. She is carrying a pizza box from Somebody’s pizzeria, and is singing songs so uncivilized that they’d make a sailor blush. Britt-Marie sits on the balcony and the dog seems to look up at her, establishing eye contact as Bank stands there swearing and fidgeting with the key in the lock. The dog almost appears to shrug its shoulders in weary resignation. Britt-Marie can empathize.
The first thump from downstairs is the sound of a picture frame being knocked off the wall by Bank’s stick. The second thump is followed by a splintering sound, when the frame hits the floor and the sheet of glass on a photograph of a soccer-playing girl and her father is broken and scatters all over the floor. This continues methodically for almost an hour. Bank wanders about on the ground floor, here and there, then here again, smashing all her memories, not furiously and violently but with the simple, systematic approach of grief. One by one the pictures are broken, until only empty walls and abandoned nails remain. Britt-Marie sits motionless on the balcony and wishes she could call the police. But she doesn’t have Sven’s telephone number.
And then finally the noise stops. Britt-Marie stays on the balcony until she realizes Bank must have given up and gone to sleep. Shortly afterwards she hears soft steps on the stairs, a creak of her door, and then feels something touching the tips of her fingers. The dog’s nose. It lies beside her, sufficiently far away not to be intrusive, but close enough for each to sense the other’s presence in case of movement. After that everything is quiet until morning comes to Borg, to the extent that morning comes at all to Borg.
When Britt-Marie and the dog finally dare to come downstairs, Bank is sitting on the floor in the hall, leaning against the wall. She smells of alcohol. Britt-Marie doesn’t know if she’s sleeping, but she’s certainly not about to lift her sunglasses to check, so instead she just fetches a broom and starts sweeping up the glass. Collects all the photographs and puts them in a neat pile. Stacks the frames one against the other in a corner. Gives the dog breakfast.
Bank is still not moving by the time Britt-Marie puts on her coat and makes sure she has her list in her handbag, but Britt-Marie nonetheless collects herself and puts the beer next to her and says:
“This is a present. I should like to insist that you don’t drink it today, because it seems to me that you had quite enough yesterday, and if you’re ever to smell like a civilized person again you’ll need a bath in baking soda and vanilla extract, but don’t think I’m trying to stick my nose into your business.”
Bank is sitting so still that Britt-Marie has to lean forward to assure herself that she is breathing. The fact that Bank’s breath seems to be burning off the surface of Britt-Marie’s retinas indicates that she’s doing exactly that. Britt-Marie blinks and straightens up and suddenly hears herself saying the following:
“I suppose I have to assume you’re not the sort of person whose father was a supporter of Liverpool. You see, I’ve been informed that anyone whose father supported Liverpool never gives up. . . . Or an older brother. As I understand it, in some cases the same thing also goes for an older brother who supports Liverpool.”
She stands on the front porch and has all but closed the front door behind her when she hears Bank mumbling from inside the gloom:
“Dad was a Tottenham supporter.”
Somebody is sitting in the kitchen of the pizzeria and smelling just like Bank, though her mood is a good deal better. If she notices Britt-Marie’s bandaged hand she certainly says nothing about it. She hands Britt-Marie a letter that “some bloke from town” apparently brought in.
“Something about that soccer coach. ‘For the attention of the coach.’ ”
“Ha,” says Britt-Marie. She reads the paper without properly understanding what it means—something about “the need for registration” and “a license.”
She is far too busy to concern herself with some silly letter, so she stuffs it in her bag and sets about serving coffee to the men with caps and beards, who have their heads buried in their newspapers. She doesn’t ask for the crossword supplements and they don’t offer her any either. Karl picks up a parcel and has some coffee. When he’s done, he takes his cup to the counter, nods at Britt-Marie without looking at her and mumbles, “Thanks, that was nice.”
Britt-Marie’s common sense prevents her from asking what he could possibly be getting in the post all the time, which is probably just as well. Those parcels could have anything in them. Maybe he’s building a bomb. That’s the sort of thing you read ab
out. Admittedly Karl seems a taciturn sort of man who mostly keeps himself to himself and doesn’t bother other people, but in fact this is precisely the sort of person neighbors describe whenever a bit of bomb-making has been going on.
Crossword puzzle writers like bombs, so Britt-Marie knows all about it.
Sami and Psycho come in after lunch. Psycho lingers by the door, with something doleful in his eyes as he scans the premises, apparently looking for something he’s lost. Britt-Marie must be visibly unsettled by this, because Sami gives her a calming look and then turns to Psycho and says:
“Can you go and check if I left my phone in the car?”
“Why?” asks Psycho.
“Because I’m fucking asking you to!”
Psycho does something with his lips as if he’s spitting without any saliva in his mouth. The door tinkles cheerfully behind him. Sami turns to Britt-Marie.
“Did you win?”
Britt-Marie stares at him, nonplussed. His face cracks open in a purposeful grin as he points at her bandaged fingers:
“Looks like you’ve been in a fight. What kind of state did you leave the other lady in?”
“I’ll have you know it was an accident,” protests Britt-Marie, praying she’ll be able to avoid going into the details.
“Okay, Coach, okay,” laughs Sami, with a flurry of play punches in the air. He produces a bag, gets out three soccer jerseys from it, and puts them on the counter. “This is Vega, Omar, and Dino’s kit. I’ve washed them over and over, but some of the stains won’t bloody go away whatever I do.”
“Have you tried baking soda?”
“Would that help?”
Britt-Marie has to grab hold of the register to contain her enthusiasm.
“I . . . it’s . . . I can try to get rid of the stains for you. It’s no trouble at all!”
Sami nods gratefully.
“Thanks, Coach. I could do with a few pointers. I mean the stains on these kids’ clothes, anyone would think they live in the fucking trees.”
Britt-Marie waits until he has left with Psycho before she goes to the recreation center. The stains do go away with baking soda. She also washes towels and aprons for Somebody, even though Somebody insists there’s no need. Not that Somebody has a problem with Britt-Marie doing the washing for her; it’s more because she really doesn’t think the laundry needs doing. They have a brief dispute about this. Somebody calls Britt-Marie “Mary Poppins” again and Britt-Marie retorts that she’s a “filthy little piglet.” Somebody bursts out laughing about this, at which point the argument runs out of steam.
Britt-Marie puts out some Snickers for the rat. She doesn’t wait until it appears, because she doesn’t want to explain how things went with her date. Not that she’s sure the rat will be keen to know about it, but either way she’s not ready to talk about it yet. Afterwards, she goes back to the pizzeria to have her dinner with Somebody, because Somebody seems to care either too little or too much about Britt-Marie to ask.
Sven doesn’t pass by the pizzeria that evening, but Britt-Marie catches herself leaping out of her chair, and also her heart racing, every time there’s a tinkle from the door. It wouldn’t have annoyed her even if he showed up in the middle of their meal. But it’s never Sven. Just one or other of the children, until they’re all assembled, with crisp, clean soccer jerseys, because the children seem to have someone at home taking care of that.
This fills Britt-Marie with a sort of hope for Borg. That there are still people here who understand the value of a freshly washed soccer jersey.
The children are on their way out to start their training when the boy turns up in the doorway. He is wearing his tracksuit top with HOCKEY written on it, but there’s no sign of his dad.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Vega wants to know.
The boy pushes his hands deep into his pockets and nods at the soccer ball in her hands.
“I was hoping to play with you—can I?”
“You can clear off to town and play there!” hisses Vega.
The boy’s chin is resting against his collarbone, but he doesn’t back off.
“The soccer team in town trains at six o’clock. That’s when I have my hockey training. But I noticed that you train later. . . .”
Britt-Marie has a clear perception of needing to defend that decision, so she says:
“You actually can’t train in the middle of dinner!”
“Not in the middle of hockey either,” says the boy.
“You don’t belong here, bloody rich kid,” sneers Vega as she elbows past him. “We’re not as good as the team in town, anyway, so why don’t you clear off and play with them if you want to play soccer!”
Still he doesn’t back off. She stops. He raises his chin.
“I couldn’t give a shit if you’re good. I just want to play. That’s how a team is made.”
Vega pushes her way outside with a choice of words that, as far as Britt-Marie is concerned, is far from civilized, but Omar gives the boy a soft shove in the back and says:
“If you can get the ball off her you’re in. I don’t think you’ve got the guts to do it, though.”
The boy has rushed across the parking area before the sentence comes to an end. Vega elbows him in the face. He stumbles onto his knees with blood in his nostrils, but at the same time he sticks out his foot and scoops out the ball, in a long hook. Vega falls and scrapes her entire body through the gravel, a warlike expression in her eyes. Omar nudges Britt-Marie, standing in the pizzeria doorway, and points at them with excitement: “Check it out now, when Vega gives him, like, the worst sliding tackle!”
“What does that mean?” asks Britt-Marie, but she soon finds out when Vega darts across the pitch and, a few feet behind the boy, catapults herself through the air with both legs stretched out, sliding across the gravel until she collides with the boy’s feet, and sends his body into a wild half somersault through the gloom.
That is how Britt-Marie comes to realize why all the children in Borg have jeans that are ripped across their thighs. Vega stands up and puts her foot on the ball in a gesture not so much of ownership but of domination. The boy brushes himself off a bit, displaying an alarming need for baking soda, and digs sharp pebbles out of the skin of his face. Vega looks at Britt-Marie, shrugs her shoulders, and snorts:
“He’s okay.”
Britt-Marie gets out the list from her handbag.
“Would you be good enough to state your name?” she asks.
“Max,” says the boy.
Omar, with great seriousness, points first at Vega and then at Max.
“You cannot play in the same team when we’re playing two-goals!”
Then they do the Idiot. Play two-goals. And they are a team. Sami couldn’t come tonight to light up the field with his headlights, but there’s another vehicle in the same place with its headlights turned on. It’s Karl’s truck, with such an impressive amount of rust down its sides it seems unlikely that such a length of time could have passed since the invention of trucks.
22
When the woman and the man in the red car stop at the far end of the parking area, neither Britt-Marie nor the children react at first, because they’re starting to get used to new players and spectators turning up at Borg soccer team’s training sessions as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Only when Max points at them and says, “They’re from town, aren’t they? She’s the head of the district soccer association. My dad knows her,” does play stop and the players and coach wait suspiciously for the strangers to present themselves.
“Are you Britt-Marie?” asks the woman as she comes closer.
She is neatly dressed, as is the man. The red car is extremely clean, notes Britt-Marie with an initial sense of approval from her old life, which is quickly replaced by an instinctual skepticism that she has picked up in Borg for all things that seem neat and clean. “I am,” answers Britt-Marie.
“I dropped off a document for you earlier today, have
you had time to look through it?” asks the woman, with a gesture at the pizzeria.
“Ha. Ha. No, no, I haven’t. I have been otherwise engaged.”
The woman looks at the children. Then at Britt-Marie.
“It’s about the rules of the competition, the January Cup, for which this . . . team . . . has been entered.”
She says the word “team” in much the same way as Britt-Marie says “cup” when she’s got a plastic mug in her hand.
“Ha,” says Britt-Marie, picking up her notebook and pen, as if arming herself.
“You are named as the soccer coach in the application. Do you have a license for that?”
“I beg your pardon?” says Britt-Marie, while at the same time writing “license” in her notebook.
“License,” the woman repeats, pointing at the man beside her as if he was someone Britt-Marie ought to recognize: “The District Soccer Association and the County Council only allow teams to participate in the January Cup if they have a coach with a local authority coaching license.”
Britt-Marie writes, “Acquire local authority coaching license” in her notebook.
“Ha. Might I trouble you to tell me how I can get my hands on such a license? I will immediately see to it that my contact at the unemployment office ensures th—”
“But good Lord, it’s not something you just pick up! You have to do an entire course in it!” the man next to the woman in front of the red car bursts out a touch hysterically.
Angrily he waves his hand over the parking area. “You’re not a proper team! You don’t even have a pitch to train on!”
At this stage Vega gets fed up, because Vega’s patience is quite clearly of the very shortest kind, and she hisses back at him:
“Hey, you miserable old sod, are we playing soccer here or not?”