A Week in Winter(62)

Some of the guests had thought they heard shouting in the night. A thing of nothing, Chicky explained, and they moved on to talk about plans for the day.

They called on Dai Morgan later in the morning.

‘There’s a human being alive today because of you,’ he said.

‘But for how long?’ Henry asked. ‘He’ll do it again, won’t he?’

‘Maybe not. He has agreed to go into hospital for observation. He says he will take his medication and he might talk to a counsellor. That’s a long way further down the road than before.’

Henry and Nicola looked at each other.

Dai went on talking. ‘I’m anxious to get my own move started as soon as possible. I’ll start telling people today. I was wondering . . . it’s a bit far out, but I was wondering . . .’

They knew what he was going to say.

‘I’ll need a locum for a couple of months. Would you think of it?’

‘They wouldn’t trust us. We’re outsiders.’

‘I was an outsider.’

‘But that’s different. They don’t know anything at all about us.’

‘They know you saved Shay O’Hara’s life. That’s as good a calling card as any,’ said Dai Morgan.

And then there was a lot to talk about, as plans were made.

‘It doesn’t have to be for thirty years, like me,’ Dai told them.

He watched them as they stood together in the winter sunshine, relaxed now as they had never been before.

‘Or then again, of course, you might even stay longer,’ he added.





Anders

When Anders was at school and they asked him what would he be when he grew up, he always said that he would be an accountant like his father and grandfather. He would go to work in the big family firm with its impressive office in Stockholm. Almkvist’s was one of the oldest companies in Sweden, he would tell you proudly.

Anders was a very happy child with blond, floppy hair in his eyes. He loved music from an early age and could play the piano creditably at the age of five. He wanted a guitar when he was older, and learned to play without any instruction. You could hear him playing in his room night after night after he’d finished his homework; then their housekeeper, Fru Karlsson, introduced him to the nyckelharpa, the traditional Swedish keyed fiddle. It had belonged to her grandfather, and as she had learned how to play from him so she now showed Anders. She taught him some traditional Swedish songs to play on it, and he fell in love with its ethereal sound.

He lived with his parents, Patrik and Gunilla Almkvist, Fru Karlsson and their dog, Riva, in a beautiful apartment overlooking Djurg?rdskanalen. He told people that his was the best school in Sweden, and that Riva was the best dog in the world. To praise Papa’s office was only just another part of the contented world he lived in. Two of his cousins, Klara and Mats, had gone to work in the family firm already, gaining office experience as they did their accountancy studies. Mats was a bit self-important but Klara was very down to earth and already knew the business inside out. They knew that Anders, as the heir and successor, would leave his piano and his nyckelharpa behind and go away to university to be groomed for the job that would one day be his. Meanwhile, they would take him out for coffee and tell him stories of the clients they met.

All kinds of well-known personalities from big business, sports and entertainment filed through the big arched doors of the office. There were meetings in the boardroom, there were discreet lunches in the private dining rooms of restaurants. Everyone in the office dressed very well; Mats wore designer suits and immaculate shirts, while Klara always managed to look elegant. Although she wore understated, sober office clothes she always looked as though she was ready to step on to a catwalk. Efficiency, style and discretion were the watchwords at Almkvist’s. Mats and Klara looked and sounded the part. Anders wondered whether he would ever feel comfortable in this world.

It was the style aspect Anders found the most challenging. He hardly noticed what other people wore, and always liked to dress comfortably himself. He could not begin to understand the importance of handmade shoes, precision Swiss watches and pure silk ties, and they certainly didn’t figure in the world of folk music to which he was most drawn.

His mother laughed at him affectionately.

‘Well-cut clothes make you look much more handsome, Anders. The girls will admire you if you dress well.’

‘They won’t notice clothes. Either they will like me or they won’t like me.’ He was fifteen, awkward, unsure.

‘So wrong, so very wrong. They’ll love you but first they have to look at you. It’s the first impression that counts. Believe me, I know.’ Gunilla Almkvist always looked elegant. She worked for a TV station where they set a high value on style. She never left the house before she was properly prepared for what the day would bring. She walked the two kilometres to work wearing her trainers; her elegant high-heeled shoes were kept in her office on the bottom shelf – seven pairs of them.

She made every effort to interest Anders in dressing more smartly, trying to build an enthusiasm where none existed. By the time he was eighteen she had stopped cajoling.

‘It’s not a joke any more, Anders. If you were in the army you’d have to wear a uniform. If you were going to be in the Diplomatic Service there would be rules about what to wear. You are going to work in Almkvist and Almkvist Accountants. There are rules. There are expectations.’