Beatles

  Strawberry Fields Forever

  Spring ’67

  Dad roared. Dad roared as I had never heard him roar before. He waved his mittens and stamped his overshoes. I roared too, banged on the railing and roared. The Swan was on the last lap, his skates flashing like knives in the ice, but it was too late. Verkerk had already hit the final straight. Maier ‘the Swan’ was way off. But we roared anyway, and banged and stamped, the frozen breath from our mouths like clouds of mist.

  ‘7.30.4’ shouted the commentator.

  Verkerk and the Swan glided round the inside lane resting on their thighs, without the energy to straighten up. The spotlights made the ice shine beneath them and they cast crouched shadows on all sides.

  Dad raised his mittens again and roared like a man possessed. The hot dog man waddled over with his steaming wares pressed against his stomach.

  Afterwards we walked through the white streets, across Urra Park and down Farmers’ Hill. Dad was carrying a rucksack packed with all the newspapers on which we had been standing.

  ‘Verkerk’ll win,’ he said.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I answered. ‘Just so long as he doesn’t win the 1,500 metres. Because that would give him three distances.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll win the 10,000, too?’

  ‘Depends on the Swan and “Concrete” Guttormsen.’

  ‘And Schenk,’ he added.

  That was how Dad talked. He seemed to have changed after Christmas, after becoming the branch manager. I didn’t quite understand it, thought he would go all bossy, but no, hardly any ranting, no slamming of doors. He smiled. Strange.

  ‘Do you know how much money we had in the vault yesterday, Kim?’

  ‘No. How much?’

  ‘350,000 kroner!’

  ‘Imagine if there was a robbery!’

  Dad laughed and slapped my back.

  ‘That only happens in films. And on TV’s crime hour.’

  Mum was waiting at home with cocoa and rolls, but we were pretty full. We must have eaten at least twenty sausages between us. On the late night news there was a review of the world championships and as Verkerk came down the final outside lane in the 5,000 metres, one arm on his back, his neck tensed, we could see Dad and me roaring and banging on the railing in the background. It was only a quick flash, but we had been on TV. I wondered how many people had seen it. Had to be quite a few, I supposed.

  The telephone rang. Mum took it. She returned laughing.

  ‘Ringo Starr wants to talk to Paul McCartney,’ she said.

  I felt embarrassed and toddled off.

  Ola sounded quite animated.

  ‘Session at S-S-Seb’s!’ he groaned.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘His d-d-dad’s sent the new Beatles r-r-record from England!’

  ‘On my way!’ I yelled, jumping into clothes and steaming out faster than Keiichi Suzuki on the home straight, without even leaving any prints in the snow.

  The tension at Seb’s was at bursting point, worse than at Bislett stadium. He hadn’t opened the parcel yet. It was on the table, flat, square, magical. Now we were just waiting for Gunnar. Couldn’t he get a move on!

  ‘Dad’s been to Liverpool,’ Seb said proudly.

  At last Gunnar arrived, to drum roll and fanfare, and was just as excited as we were. He stepped into the room, red-faced and white-haired.

  ‘Boys!’ he panted. ‘D’you know what?’

  He sank onto the sofa.

  ‘Yes,’ we said. ‘We know what.’

  We pointed to the record lying on the table.

  Gunnar’s voice returned to its normal pitch and he got up again. There was a narrow stripe of snow up his back. Must have run here at quite a speed, too.

  ‘Stig told me his friend who reads English papers said The Beatles weren’t goin’ to break up after all!’

  ‘Is that true!’ we screamed with one voice.

  Gunnar took a deep breath. His eyes were rolling.

  ‘They’ve signed a recording contract for nine years!’

  We danced and cheered until Seb’s mother banged on the wall. We sent each other serious looks, stood in a tight circle in the middle of the floor and looked each other in the eyes.

  ‘C-c-course The Beatles aren’t goin’ to s-s-split up,’ Ola said.

  ‘Of course not,’ we said.

  ‘The Beatles’ll never split up,’ I said.

  ‘Never,’ said the others.

  ‘Not for nine years and not ever,’ Seb said.

  ‘Not ever,’ we said.

  ‘No one better, no one even close,’ Gunnar said.

  ‘No one!’

  We laid our hands on top of each other’s in a big clump and stood there in a circle, our piled-up hands between us.

  We stood like that for some time and it felt good.

  Afterwards Seb put the Gerard on the floor, locked the door and pulled down the blinds. Then we carefully lifted the parcel and with our hearts in our mouths, our eyes and ears on stalks, we unwrapped the paper.

  ‘“Penny Lane”,’ I whispered. ‘“Penny Lane”.’

  ‘“Strawberry Fields Forever”,’ Gunnar whispered.

  We sat for about an hour examining the cover.

  Seb was the first to say something.

  ‘They’ve got moustaches,’ he said.

  They had moustaches. We tugged at our top lips. There was not a lot to tug at. There was nothing.

  We sat for a while rubbing a finger under our noses.

  Then Seb placed the 45 on the deck and pressed ON. The arm crossed the first grooves and when it lowered itself we held our breath, the world stood still, the sounds from the street were nothing to do with us, they were from another planet.

  Our ears were as big as umbrellas.

  Afterwards we lay stretched out, our ears folded over, with a falling pulse. That was how it felt. That was how it was. Like hearing God say ‘Let there be light’ on the first day. There was light.

  Ola said:

  ‘Just like “Eleanor Rigby” and “Yellow S-S-Submarine”. Two s-s-sides of the s-s-same coin.’

  Ola had the words.

  We lay for a while ruminating.

  ‘Dad wrote in his letter that Penny Lane is a street in Liverpool,’ Seb said.

  ‘Like Karl Johan in Oslo,’ Gunnar suggested.

  ‘At least the trumpets are better than those off-key attempts on May 17,’ I said.

  ‘We c-c-could get summer jobs,’ Ola burst out. ‘And buy instruments with the m-m-money we earn!’

  Of course we could! We all talked at the same time, working out how much we had and how much we needed. Yes. There were plans. We warmed to the topic. The Snafus! They were no limits. We were on our way.

  ‘Perhaps we could have Goose on the organ,’ I said.

  Gunnar, Seb and Ola looked me up and down.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Would be alright to have an organ. The Animals have an organ!’

  ‘Goose just plays psalms!’ Seb said with emphasis.

  They continued to talk about guitars, drum kits, mikes and amplifiers, but I couldn’t get Goose out of my head. His eyes which had been yellow with fear were matt and closed now, as though they had turned and were staring at the inside of his skull. At the Christmas party he had played organ with fizzes and squeaks and he had sat like a statue in the midst of all this vibrating noise, enclosed, a captive inside his own chords.

  ‘We can practise in the cellar at our place,’ Gunnar said.

  ‘Perhaps we can p-p-play at the autumn school party!’

  Then we played the record again. ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’. Gunnar buzzed around the speaker like a wasp.

  ‘What’s happenin’ there at the end?’

  ‘Playin’ backwards,’ I suggested. ‘Just like on “Rain”?’

  ‘Groovy lyrics,’ Seb said, pricking up his ears and listening with closed eyes.

  ‘What does strawberry mean?’ Ola whispered.


  I explained the title to him.

  Let me take you down, ’cause I’m going to.

  ‘Way out lyrics,’ Seb puffed.

  Living is easy with eyes closed.

  ‘The M-M-Monkees can sh-sh-shove it,’ Ola said. ‘The Monkees are a b-b-bucket of sh-sh-shite!’

  ‘And Herman’s Hermits.’

  We studied the pictures again. Moustache. George had a beard as well. Seb scratched his chin.

  ‘Dad says that if you shave every day it grows quicker,’ I said.

  ‘Even if you don’t have any beard?’

  ‘Yep.’

  We considered this for a while. Then we had to leave. Ola flitted round the corner. Gunnar and I walked up Bygdøy Allé together.

  ‘Verkerk’ll smash Maier and Guttormsen,’ I said.

  ‘Saw you on the evenin’ news,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know your dad was crazy about skatin’.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  It was beginning to snow. That didn’t bode well for the ice.

  ‘You know the shop-owner who caught Goose,’ Gunnar said.

  Yes, I knew him.

  Gunnar grinned.

  ‘He’s shut up shop.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘My dad told me. Went off his chump after Goose’s mother turned up at the shop and told him he had rung her. Lost his marbles.’

  We went our separate ways at the chemist. I watched Gunnar waddle towards Gimle with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, short and stocky. He turned and waved, shouted something I didn’t catch. I shouted something too, I don’t suppose he heard it either.

  First Goose. Now the shop-owner.

  I walked back to Seb’s.

  His mother was in the sitting room with a man. There were bottles on the table and the room was full of blue smoke. Seb dragged me into his room and slammed the door.

  ‘That bastard comes here every Saturday,’ he snarled. ‘Gets drunk and shouts and vomits. Fat pig!’

  He clenched his fists and slumped down on the sofa. Then he realised that I had come back.

  ‘Did you forget somethin’ or what?’

  I sat down on the sofa, too.

  ‘The person who caught Goose didn’t ring his mother. I did.’

  ‘Thought so,’ Seb chuckled.

  ‘Now he’s gone barmy too. Closed down his business.’

  ‘It’ll pass,’ Seb said. ‘He’ll just be a bit confused. Not so strange. And then he’ll forget the whole thing.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Dead cert.’

  ‘And Goose?’

  ‘Goose has always been like that.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What happened that evenin’ was just the dottin’ of the ‘i’s and the crossin’ of the ‘t’s. Goose is fine now. In great form.’

  My heart rate slowed. My stomach settled. I looked at Seb with gratitude. He was laughing without opening his mouth.

  ‘You weren’t thinkin’ of goin’ nuts too, were you!’ he grinned.

  From the sitting room came the murky sound of laughter and something fell on the floor. Seb gave a start and went to the window.

  ‘How’s it goin’ with Guri?’ I asked.

  He stood with his back to me.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen her for a while, by the way.’

  I didn’t ask any more questions. Had thought of asking if she had said anything about Nina, but I refrained.

  Seb turned to me.

  ‘I hardly dare touch her,’ he exclaimed. ‘After what happened to her, the abortion and all that. I don’t dare. I’m scared… scared of hurtin’ her, sort of.’

  I pondered, searched for something to say, it was my turn to say something now.

  ‘That’s not so strange,’ I said. ‘After what she’s been through.’

  Seb just looked at me.

  ‘I mean, perhaps she’s scared too. So you could tell her that. Tell her you’re scared, I mean.’

  Seb smiled, pulled out a drawer and produced his harmonica. He held it in his hands, moistened his lips and closed his eyes. Then he blew, blew and sucked, it sounded like a dog outside howling at the moon or someone sobbing their heart out.

  Seb stopped.

  ‘That’s all I can do so far,’ he said.

  ‘Bloody great!’ I said. ‘Wow, it’s bloody great!’

  Then I went home and shaved.

  After his return from Paris, Uncle Hubert looked elegant with a black beret, checked scarf and a long coat that swept along the ground. Dad almost turned round in the doorway when he showed up. Hubert had a radio for me, a Kurér, which ran on batteries and when I fiddled with the dial in the evening I could receive all of Europe, all sorts of voices and languages and sounds filled the room. Sometimes I could get Copenhagen too. Then I switched it off. Then I switched it back on again.

  One evening I went to Hubert’s place in Marienlyst with a pile of cakes, as Mum always had eight sorts of cake until well into February. It was just as messy as before. Hubert was sitting in the middle of a pile of papers when I arrived and it wasn’t long before we had eaten all the cakes.

  ‘You can’t keep Christmas goodies until March, can you,’ Hubert laughed between the crumbs.

  Then he brought a Coke for me and a beer for him.

  ‘Does your dad like his new job?’ he asked, taking a drink.

  ‘Think so! Last week he had 350,000 kroner in the bank vault!’

  Hubert snapped his fingers.

  ‘Oooh! We should’ve had that, Kim!’

  I agreed.

  Hubert went for more beer.

  ‘350,000,’ he said, returning with a full glass.

  ‘That’s a lot of money,’ I said.

  He leaned back and drained his glass.

  ‘It’s almost too much money,’ Hubert said.

  He belched and put on a sad smile.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he mumbled. ‘Now it’s my turn to work again. To earn money.’

  ‘Don’t you earn money from your pictures?’

  He gave a hollow laugh.

  ‘No, no. Aristocrats. Consultants. Racing drivers. That’s the thing now. Beautiful women that wash up on deserted shores. It’s enough to make you sick, Kim.’

  He showed me a repugnant drawing of a man in a white coat with a stethoscope round his neck. Behind him were two women, one brunette and one blonde.

  Hubert was not so well now. His fingers drummed on the arm of the chair, his eyes were locked in a wild expression and his knees pumped up and down.

  ‘It’s all lies and nonsense, Kim!’ he almost shouted. ‘And my drawings are lies, too. People are not like that! Life is not like that, Kim!’

  The knots were coming. He was enmeshed in one enormous tangle. I could see that. He could see that I could see. I was beginning to understand Hubert better now.

  ‘When’s Henny coming home?’ I asked quickly.

  And he melted like butter and sank deep into the chair.

  ‘In the summer,’ he sighed.

  ‘Nina, too.’

  I walked through Frogner Park on my way home. It was criss-crossed with ski tracks but I didn’t see anyone. I strolled round Dogland, deserted there too, there wasn’t even a dog around. The Monolith was there as always, and the statues were active in the dark. I thought about Nina and Henny, that one day the snow would be gone and that the evenings would be light and warm and almost unbearable. All of a sudden five statues woke up and came towards me from all directions. Their steps were silent, but I heard their breathing and then the movements. I stopped and felt an acrid, burning taste in my mouth. A torch was switched on and shone in my face. I saw nothing. They saw me.

  ‘Out looking for queers, are you?’ a voice asked.

  The burning sensation filled my mouth and nose. The Frogner gang.

  They came closer. They blinded me with the torch. A knuckled fist tapped my head. I felt the pain before it came.

  ‘Aren’t you one of those bloody
commie bastards?’ a voice said.

  I tried to shield my eyes. They brushed my hands away.

  ‘Answer me, dickhead! You commie shit! You’re the type that goes on those demos for the chinks.’

  They shone the light closer.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you! He’s got slit-eyes.’

  I ran forward as fast as I could, found a gap and dived through. They raced after me with the cone of light dancing through the dark. I tripped, fell headlong, my hand hit something, a stone, a stone in the middle of winter! I grabbed it, stood up slowly and swivelled round with my arm raised ready to throw. They stopped too and shone the light on the hand holding the stone. Then they came closer again. I threw. I threw as hard as I could and heard a scream as a shadow held its head and slumped to the ground. Then they were on me. Two held me, one shone the torch and one punched. The fifth was on the ground moaning. I threw up, the one in front of me worked himself up into a fury and kneed me in the balls. Then they let go and I fell in the snow holding my crotch and crying.

  The last man had come to and walked towards me. They were still shining the torch, the light hurt my eyes. I was dragged to my feet again, they held me from behind and the one I had hit with the stone stood in front of me, breathing heavily. Then he took my right hand, I didn’t have the strength to resist, I gave paw, like a craven dog. He carefully bent back my index finger and when it could go no further he pushed with all his strength. I heard a revolting sound, then everything went black.

  When I awoke I was lying in the snow spitting blood. Don’t remember how I got home, only that I had lost the keys and Mum let out a scream when she opened the door. It took quite a long time to explain that I had tripped, fallen on my face and scraped it on a block of ice beneath the snow, ending up with my nose in the earth. She cleaned my wounds with iodine, and put on plasters and gauze everywhere. The only place that really hurt was my finger. But I said nothing about it. Lay awake all night feeling the pain in my finger, I couldn’t get my mind off it, and in fact there was some pleasure in it for there was so much other shit to think about, but now I was just one big finger, one single swollen finger that hurt a hell of a lot.

  Mum spotted it at breakfast one morning. Impossible to hide. The grazes on my face had begun to heal, but the finger was there. I tried to force it into the handle of the tea cup. It wouldn’t go.