The Summer Book

  “He knows, anyway,” said Grandmother, who was lying on her back in the bow. The thing about God, she thought, is that He usually does help, but not until you’ve made an effort on your own.

  The plastic sausage glided slowly along in the green depths where the shadow of the sea begins, a great bubble of living water. Everyone knows that rain water is lighter than salt water, but in this case, the pump had sucked in a lot of mud and sand. It was very hot in the boat, and there was a smell of petrol. The motor was working like mad. Grandmother fell asleep. The sea was as glossy as ever, and the banks of clouds had piled up high above the coast. The enormous plastic sausage rose leisurely over a reef and bounced down on the other side. The motor raced and the boat sped up and then jerked back again and took in water over the stern. And then it moved on again, but very slowly. Grandmother started snoring. A hard, dry clap of thunder rolled out between the islands, and black breezes sprang out across the water and then vanished.

  As they rounded the long point, there came a second thunderclap, just as the plastic sausage slid over another reef. Grandmother woke up. She saw a short, glassy wave pour in over the stern, and she realised she was wet. The air had cooled off a little. Confused puffs of clouds were racing across the sky, and the water in the boat felt warm and pleasant. The landscape had grown darker, the shallows glowed bright yellow, and it smelled of rain. They drove slowly in towards the island while the storm laid its shadow over the sea, and all three of them sat silent and breathless in that state of uncertainty that so rarely seems exciting at the time. It was shallower here, and every time the plastic sausage struck bottom, the water level rose in the boat, until finally the sea was pouring in steadily over the railing. And just then came another clap of thunder.

  Papa undid the sputtering motor and waded ashore, and Sophia followed him with the hose. Very carefully, Grandmother rolled over the side and started to wade, occasionally swimming a couple of strokes just to remember what it felt like. Then she sat down on the rock and poured the water out of her shoes. The bay was full of small, angry waves, and the plastic sausage glowed beneath the surface like an apricot from Paradise. Papa dragged and hauled, and very slowly it lifted its bright orange stomach and its brass navel towards the sky. He connected the hoses and started the pump, and a big clump of mud and sand flew straight up into the air. And after that, a stream of water slammed against the rock and sent the moss flying.

  “Water! Water!” Sophia screamed, soaking wet and a little hysterical. She clasped the pulsing hose to her chest and felt it pumping water for Clematis, Nelly Moser, Freesia, Fritillaria, Othello, and Madame Droutschki, for Rhododendron and Forsythia spectabilis. She saw the powerful stream of water arch in over the island and down into the dry basin. “Water!” Sophia roared, and she ran to the poplar and saw what she had expected to see – a green root sprout. And in the same instant, the rain came, warm and tumultuous, and the island was doubly blessed.

  Grandmother had had to be frugal all her life, and so she had a weakness for extravagance. She watched the basin and the barrels and every crevice in the granite fill with water and overflow. She looked at the mattresses out being aired and the dishes that were washing themselves. She sighed contentedly and, absorbed in thought, she filled a coffee cup with precious drinking water and poured it over a daisy.

  The Crooks

  ONE STILL, WARM AUGUST NIGHT there came a ringing trumpet blast from out at sea – like Gabriel blowing his horn. A double row of lights came gliding in towards the island in a slow curve. It was a huge yacht, purring as only very expensive and very fast boats can purr, and carrying lights of every colour from dark blue and blood-red to white. Around it, the whole ocean seemed to be holding its breath.

  Sophia and her grandmother stood out on the granite in their nightgowns and watched. The strange boat slid closer and closer, with its motor throttled down and its lights reflecting in the water like dancing snakes of fire. Then it disappeared behind the island. Sophia’s father had put on his trousers, and he ran out to meet it. For a long time there was perfect silence, and then faint music floated towards them from across the island.

  “They’re having a party,” Sophia whispered. “Let’s go, too. Let’s get dressed and go over right now!”

  But Grandmother said, “Wait a bit. Wait till he comes to get us.”

  They lay down in their beds while they waited, and pretty soon they fell asleep. And the next morning the boat was gone. It had sailed away.

  Sophia threw herself down on the rock and wept. “He could have come to get us!” she wailed. “He let us sleep and they were having a party; I’ll never forgive him!”

  “He behaved very badly,” said Grandmother sternly. “And I’ll tell him so when he wakes up.”

  The image of the mysterious boat returned to overwhelm Sophia and she screamed with grief.

  “Blow your nose,” her grandmother said. “It was a dreadful disappointment, but blow your nose anyway. You look awful.” She waited a moment and said, “I’ll bet they were very unpleasant people. They only inherited the boat. They don’t know a thing about boats. But,” she added vindictively, “they did do the interior decorating themselves, and the colours are awful.”

  “You really think so?” moaned Sophia, sitting up.

  “Awful,” her grandmother assured her. “They’ve got shiny silk curtains that are brown and gold and puce, and they’ve got standing lamps and plastic plates and paintings on velvet – humorous ones, which makes it worse …”

  “Okay, okay,” said Sophia impatiently. “Go on.”

  “And if someone hadn’t given them the boat they would have stolen it.”

  “Who from?”

  “From a poor smuggler. And they stole all his contraband, too, every bit of it, and they only drink fizzy drinks themselves. They only took it for the money,” Grandmother went on, warming to her subject. “And they went off without a map and without any oars!”

  “But why did they come to our place?”

  “So they could hide everything in the ravine and then come back and get it later.”

  “Do you believe all that?”

  “Some of it,” said Grandmother cautiously.

  Sophia stood up and blew her nose. “Now,” she said. “Now I’ll tell you what happened last night. You sit down and listen. When Papa came down to their boat, they wanted him to buy a bottle of ninety-six proof, and it was really expensive. Now you be Papa. Say what he said.”

  “He said, very proudly, ‘It’s beneath my dignity to buy ninety-six proof. I’ll find my own liquor if I want some, salvage it from the sea at the risk of my life. So keep your precious rotgut, my dear sir. What’s more, my family doesn’t like the taste.’ Now it’s your turn.”

  “‘Oh indeed? So you have a family, sir? And where is this family of yours, pray tell?’”

  “‘Nowhere nearby.’”

  “But we were right here all the time!” Sophia shouted. “Why didn’t he say we were here?”

  “To spare us.”

  “Why? Why do we have to be spared whenever something happens? That’s not the truth. We didn’t have to be spared if they were playing dance music!”

  “They had the radio on,” Grandmother said. “Just the radio. They were waiting for the weather and the news – to find out if the police were after them.”

  “You can’t fool me!” Sophia shouted. “There isn’t any news at one o’clock in the morning. They were having a party and having fun, and we missed it!”

  “Have it your own way,” Grandmother said angrily. “They had a party and a lot of fun. But we don’t go to parties with just anyone.”

  “I do,” said Sophia defiantly. “I go to parties with just anyone, as long as I can dance! Papa and I both do!”

  “Well, then, go ahead,” Grandmother said, and started to walk away along the shore. “Go to a party with crooks if you want. As long as your legs hold out – that’s the main thing. You don’t care about anything else.” r />
  The boat had thrown its rubbish overboard – expensive rubbish that showed exactly what they’d been doing. Most of it had washed up on the rocks.

  “Orange peels and sweet wrappers. And crayfish!” said Sophia with emphasis.

  “Crooks are famous for eating crayfish,” Grandmother observed. “Didn’t you know that?” She was tired of the whole business and had a feeling the conversation should have been used for some more instructive purpose. And, for that matter, why shouldn’t crooks eat crayfish?

  “You’re saying the wrong thing,” Sophia said. “Now, think for a minute. I was saying that Papa had a crayfish party with the crooks and forgot about us. That was how the whole thing started.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Grandmother said. “Well, make up something for yourself then, if you don’t believe my story.”

  An empty bottle of Old Smuggler was bumping gently against a rock. It was quite possible that he hadn’t forgotten at all, that he just thought it was nice to be on his own. Perfectly understandable, actually.

  “Now I know,” Sophia burst out. “They gave him a sleeping potion. Just when he was about to go and get us, they put a pinch of sleeping powder in his glass, and that’s why he’s sleeping so late!”

  “Nembutal,” Grandmother suggested. Grandmother liked to sleep. Sophia stared at her with wide-open eyes. “Don’t say that!” she screamed. “What if he never wakes up!” She turned around and started to run. She was crying out loud in terror, and she turned and jumped and started running, and right then, right there, on top of a rock, held down with a stone, was a huge box of chocolates. It was a great big pink-and-green package tied with silver ribbon. The bright colours made the rest of the island look greyer than ever, and there was no doubt that the wonderful box was a present. There was a little card inside the bow. Grandmother put on her glasses and read it to herself. “Love and kisses to those too old and too young to come to the party.” “How tactless!” she muttered through her teeth.

  “What does it say? What did they write?” Sophia shouted.

  “It says,” her grandmother said, “what it says is: ‘We have behaved very badly, and it’s all our fault. Forgive us if you can.’”

  “Can we?” Sophia asked.

  “No,” said Grandmother.

  “Yes. We ought to forgive them. In fact, you should always forgive crooks. How nice they really were crooks after all. Do you think the chocolates are poisoned?”

  “No, I don’t think so. And that sleeping powder was probably pretty weak.”

  “Poor Papa,” Sophia sighed. “He just barely escaped.”

  And indeed he had. He had a headache all day long and could neither eat nor work.

  The Visitor

  SOPHIA’S FATHER EMPTI ED THE GROUNDS from the coffee pot and carried the flowerpots out to the veranda.

  “What’s he doing that for?” Grandmother asked, and Sophia said the plants would be better off outdoors while he was gone.

  “What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Grandmother asked.

  “For a whole week,” Sophia said. “And we’re going to stay with some people on one of the inner islands till he gets back.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Grandmother said. “No one told me.” She went into the guest room and tried to read. Of course, you moved a potted plant to wherever it would get on best. It would do fine on the veranda for a week. If you were going to be gone longer than that, you had to leave it with someone who could water it. It was a nuisance. Even potted plants got to be a responsibility, like everything else you took care of that couldn’t make decisions for itself.

  “Come and eat!” Sophia called from outside the door.

  “I’m not hungry,” Grandmother said.

  “Don’t you feel well?”

  “No,” Grandmother said.

  The wind blew and blew. The wind was always blowing on this island, from one direction or another. A sanctuary for someone with work to do, a wild garden for someone growing up, but otherwise just days on top of days, and passing time.

  “Are you mad?” Sophia said, but her grandmother didn’t answer. The Övergårds came by with the mail, and Papa found out he didn’t have to go into town after all. “Oh, good,” Sophia said, but Grandmother didn’t say a word. She became very quiet and no longer made bark boats, and when she did the dishes or cleaned fish, she didn’t look as if she enjoyed it. And on nice mornings she no longer sat in the woodyard and combed her hair, slowly, with her face turned towards the sun. She just read, and didn’t even care how the books came out.

  “Can you make kites?” Sophia said, but Grandmother said she could not. As the days went by, they became strangers to each other, with a shyness that was almost hostile.

  “Is it true you were born in the eighteen-hundreds?” Sophia yelled through the window.

  “What of it?” Grandmother answered, very distinctly. “What do you know about the eighteen-hundreds?”

  “Nothing, and I’m not interested, either,” Sophia shouted and ran away.

  The island was blessed with mild night rain. A lot of lumber drifted by and was salvaged. No one came to visit, and there was no mail. An orchid bloomed. Everything was fine, and yet everything was overshadowed by a great sadness. It was August, and the weather was sometimes stormy and sometimes nice, but for Grandmother, no matter what happened, it was only time on top of time, since everything is vanity and a chasing after the wind. Papa did nothing but work at his desk.

  One evening, Sophia wrote a letter and stuck it under the door. It said, “I hate you. With warm personal wishes, Sophia.”

  All the words were correctly spelled.

  Sophia made a kite. The directions were in a newspaper she found in the attic, but even though she did exactly what it said, the kite did not turn out right. The tape wouldn’t stick and the tissue paper tore and the paste got in all the wrong places. When the kite was finished, it refused to fly and kept slamming into the ground as if it wanted to destroy itself, and finally it threw itself in the marsh. Sophia put it outside Grandmother’s door and went away.

  What a smart little girl, Grandmother thought. She knows that sooner or later I’ll make her a kite that can fly, but that doesn’t help. That doesn’t matter at all.

  One calm day, a little white boat with an outboard motor approached the island. “It’s Verner,” Grandmother said. “He’s back with another bottle of sherry.” For a while she considered being ill, but she changed her mind and went down to meet him.

  Verner was looking very dapper, with a linen hat. The boat was obviously from the inner islands, but it made an attempt to be sporty. It had a hogged keel. Verner declined assistance and came towards her with his arms spread wide and called out, “Dear old friend, are you still alive?”

  “As you can see,” said Grandmother dryly, allowing herself to be embraced. She thanked him for the bottle, and he said, “You see that I remember. It’s the same sherry I brought in nineteen-ten.”

  How silly, she thought. Why could I never bring myself to tell him I hate sherry? And now it’s too late. It really was a shame, seeing that she had now reached the age where a person can safely be truthful about small things.

  They took some perch from the live box and ate a little earlier than usual. “Skoal,” said Verner gravely, and turned towards Grandmother. “To the final landscape of our old age, as summer fades. This is a fine moment. Silence settles around us, each of us wanders his own way, and yet we all meet by the sea in the peaceful sunset.”

  They took tiny sips of their sherry.

  “I suppose,” Grandmother said. “But they did promise a breeze for tonight. How much horsepower does your motor have?”

  “Three,” Sophia guessed.

  “Four-and-a-half,” said Verner curtly. He took a piece of cheese and looked out the window.

  Grandmother could see that his feelings were hurt. She tried to be as nice as she could through coffee, and then she suggested the two of them go for a walk. They took the path t
o the potato patch, and she remembered to lean on his arm every time the ground was uneven. It was very warm and still.

  “How are your legs?” Verner asked.

  “Bad,” said Grandmother heartily. “But sometimes they seem to work all right.” And she asked him what he was doing these days.

  “Oh, a little of everything.” He was still offended. Suddenly he burst out, “And now Backmansson is gone.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He is no longer among us,” Verner explained angrily.

  “Oh, you mean he’s dead,” said Grandmother. She started thinking about all the euphemisms for death, all the anxious taboos that had always fascinated her. It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn’t have time.

  Now he was talking about someone else who was gone, and about the assistant at the shop, who was so unfriendly. They were building such ugly houses everywhere, and people went ashore on other people’s land without so much as a by-your-leave, but of course there had to be progress.

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense,” Grandmother said. She stopped and turned to face him. “Just because more and more people do the same dumb things, that’s nothing to make such a fuss about. Progress is another thing entirely, you know that. Changes. Big changes.”

  “My dear,” said Verner quickly, “I know what you’re going to say. Forgive me for interrupting, but you’re about to ask me if I never read the papers.”

  “Not at all!” Grandmother exclaimed, very much hurt. “All I’m asking you is, don’t you ever get curious? Or upset? Or simply terrified?”

  “No, I really don’t,” Verner replied frankly. “Though I guess I’ve had my share of upset.” His eyes were troubled. “You’re so hard to please. Why do you use such harsh words? I was only telling you the news.”

  They walked by the potato patch and came down to the meadow by the shore. “That’s a real poplar,” said Grandmother, to change the subject. “It’s taking root, look. A friend of ours brought over some genuine swan droppings from Lapland, and it liked them.”