The Lost Village(32)

She walks over to the table and gently puts her hand on Staffan’s shoulder.

“Staffan,” she says quietly.

He doesn’t make a sound. She gives his back a cautious rub.

“Staffan,” she says again.

Now she feels him start to stir. He raises his head slightly, then, with a low groan, lifts it all the way off the table. It takes his eyes a few seconds to focus, but she can already make out the shame in them before he blinks.

Nowadays it always seems to be there.

He looks at her. His eyes are bloodshot, and he hasn’t shaved. He looks like a drunkard, the way Einar always looked whenever she’d found him in the church and had to haul him back into the chapel to sleep it off.

She waits for the anger, as does Staffan—she can see it from the way he contracts beneath her gaze. But she doesn’t have the heart. She feels no anger. Only sadness.

“Get up and go to bed, Staffan,” she says quietly.

She strokes his head. Staffan purses his lips and gives a short nod, his eyes glassy.

As Staffan lumbers upstairs, Elsa’s eyes stay fixed on his empty chair. It needs repainting. They all need repainting. The kitchen chairs are a brilliant turquoise, which always brings a smile to visitors’ faces on entering the house. It’s something unexpected, like their green front door. Elsa likes color. If it were up to her, the whole house would be fizzing with it—blues and purples and oranges and turquoise—but that would look a sight. So she’s reined herself in to the odd splash here and there: the front door, the kitchen chairs. The flowerbeds in spring and summer, and the glossy apples in autumn.

She pulls a peeling flake of paint from the back of the chair. The gray, lifeless wood peers out from underneath.

It’s as though the spark within him has died.

Elsa closes her eyes.

Elsa has always known what needed to be done. Even in her very darkest moments, she has always known what was required of her. She had looked after her mother when she was at death’s door; spoon-fed her, held her over the chamber pot, changed her diapers. All without letting her see her shed a tear.

Elsa has always been able to give advice, has always been the kind of person others could lean on. Ask Elsa, that’s what they say down in town. Be it for help or advice, or simply a kind ear, just ask Elsa. It’s something she takes pride in.

But now she wakes up in the mornings with the feeling that she can’t breathe.

What shall we do?

They still have a little money left, but nowhere near enough to buy a house elsewhere. It’ll keep them going for a few more months if she asks to defer their bills, but after that …

There’s no work to be had. Not in Silvertj?rn. But there’s nowhere else they can go. The world is closing in around them.

She opens her eyes. She doesn’t have the time for this. It’s no use thinking that way.

Elsa quickly takes the gingerbread, what remains of the cold chicken, and the last of the black-currant juice, and puts them in the basket. She needs to buy more. She tries not to think about what feeding Birgitta is costing her now that they hardly have enough for themselves.

The morning air is cold and crisp, with a late-winter sharpness. The village stands in stark relief against the brightening sky, which is high and clear. Only the odd bright cloud is hovering on the horizon, and the snow crunches underfoot as Elsa sets out toward Birgitta’s hut.

It’s empty down in the village. This time a year ago it would have been bustling, even before sunrise. The villagers on the Sunday shift would have been out on their way to work, and there would always be something to look forward to on the way out to see Birgitta; Elsa would share a joke with the boys heading off to the mine, ask after their mothers and sisters and wives. Now she almost fears these early morning walks, for if she does see anyone it’ll be because they’ve spent the night on the streets, tired and befuddled, or that they’re drifting around with nowhere to go, like listless ghosts.

It’s colder out than Elsa had imagined—she should probably have put on a scarf just in case—but despite the cold it feels like spring is in the air. The river has started to course faster, and although the evenings and mornings are still dark, the midday sun is strong and warm. She can feel her heart start to lift as she walks. It’s going to be all right; it always is. However bad things might seem, they always come good in the end.

By the time she reaches Birgitta’s hut she can give the door her usual sprightly knock.

“Birgitta,” she says. “It’s me, Elsa.”

Birgitta recognizes her voice and opens the door. She seems more timid than normal, and when Elsa steps inside she realizes Birgitta has been hurting herself again. There are bruises on her face.

“Oh, Birgitta,” she says softly.

At times Elsa almost wishes she could take Birgitta in her arms and rock her like a child, even though Birgitta isn’t so much younger than herself. But Elsa knows that Birgitta would panic if she even tried to. She dislikes physical contact, as Elsa has learned over the years.

As she watches Birgitta start to unpack the food according to her own special ritual, Elsa feels an echo of that horrible sinking feeling in her chest.

The house isn’t the only reason why they can’t leave Silvertj?rn. For if they left, then who would look after Birgitta?





THURSDAY