Frozen Music (14 page)

Linus looked around the racks of little suits and shorts and shirts. It was warm for April, so shorts would be OK. A pair of those nice long ones that French and Italian boys wore. Navy-blue velvet perhaps? And a white shirt to go with them. He explained to the assistant. They did not have velvet, she told him, but she could show him a very nice pair in navy cord. ‘And this little shirt?' She held up a white shirt with blue edging round the collar and cuffs.

‘Perfect.' Linus smiled at her. ‘He's four, but he's not very big for his age.' At the last minute his eye was caught by a sleeveless Fair Isle jumper and he added that to his purchases. He left the shop, carrying the bright-yellow-and-orange bag, and feeling pleased with himself. He could already see Ivar wearing his new clothes.

‘No, Linus,' Lotten said. ‘I'm sorry to spoil your fun, but you really should have checked with me before spending all that money. Mummy has made Ivar a really great little denim suit. No, I'm afraid this will have to go back.' She handed him the bag with Ivar's clothes.

Linus looked downcast. ‘I don't know that denim is quite right,' he said.

‘Oh don't be such an old stick-in-the-mud. What century are we living in, for heaven's sake?'

‘Look what Granny made for me.' Ivar, wearing his new denim suit, the shirt buttoned the wrong way, was tugging at Linus's arm. Linus woke with a start and sat up, resting on one elbow. He turned on the reading light by his bed and squinted at the alarm clock. ‘Ivar, my little friend.' He sighed. ‘It's five thirty in the morning.' Then he grinned and lifted the boy into the bed. Next to him, Lotten snorted in her sleep and turned on her other side.

Ivar wriggled in his arms. ‘When's the party?'

Linus yawned and folded back the duvet, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Pass me my dressing-gown, there's a good boy.' He got out of bed and wrapped himself in the soft tartan cotton. ‘The party isn't until this evening. You'll have to be patient.'

In the kitchen he yawned again, staring at the cupboards, then, shaking himself he asked Ivar, ‘So what shall we have?'

‘Party food,' Ivar squealed, jumping up and down until he tripped on the long hem of his trousers and fell flat on his behind. ‘Party food,' he chirruped, undeterred.

‘Don't you think we'd better have cereal?'

‘No.' Ivar had got up from the floor and now he shook his head so hard Linus thought he'd do himself damage. ‘Party food because it's a party day.'

‘Be careful shaking your head like that.' By way of a reply, Ivar nodded violently instead. Linus sighed, then he smiled. ‘Maybe you're right. Maybe we should have party food.' He peered inside the cupboard. ‘What do we have? O'Boy chocolate powder… and… marshmallows!' He pulled out the half-empty bag sealed with a green plastic clip. Lotten had a whole store of those clips which she used to
seal things with, the inner bag of cereal packets, bags of rice and flour, of sweets. ‘What have we here?' Triumphantly Linus held up a jar of popping corn. ‘Now you get a mixing bowl,' he told Ivar. Ivar scrabbled round the cupboard by the cooker. ‘This one?' He held out a large Pyrex bowl for his father to see.

‘Perfecto,' Linus said, pouring some cooking oil into a saucepan. Next he covered the base of the pan with corn, before putting it on the hot plate with the lid securely on. After a moment he beckoned Ivar closer and lifted him up. ‘Can you hear it popping?'

Ivar listened, his small mouth set in concentration. Then he turned to Linus, wide-eyed. ‘Can I look?' He put his hand out towards the lid but was stopped by Linus.

‘You mustn't take the lid off.'

‘Why?'

‘They'll all pop right out of the pan,' Linus said. ‘It's hot and they want to get out.'

Ivar stared at him, open-mouthed, then he started to sob. ‘You have to let them,' he wailed. ‘Daddy you have to let them out.'

Linus put him down on the floor and took the pan off the heat. Kneeling down in front of Ivar he explained as best he could that he had only been joking; popcorn did not have feelings.

‘Why?'

‘Because they're not alive.'

Ivar's sobs started anew. ‘You mean we've killed them,' he wailed.

‘Have you never watched when Mummy makes you popcorn?'

‘No.'

‘But I know you've had them before.'

‘But Mummy never killed them.'

It took Linus ten minutes, at least, to explain about corn growing in fields and as much about the nervous system and theory of life and pain as he could reasonably explain to a four-year-old. Finally Ivar was reassured and Linus put the saucepan back on the hob. ‘Pass me the bowl,' he instructed Ivar. ‘Syrup.' He nodded towards the larder cupboard. Ivar had to pull up the kitchen steps to reach. Huffing and puffing with the effort, his face bright pink, he handed the bottle of syrup to Linus who
squeezed large toffee-coloured globules of it over the popcorn before mixing it all with a wooden spoon. He bent down with the bowl, holding it out to Ivar. ‘Now you stir.' Ivar grabbed the handle of the spoon with both hands and stirred, every muscle in his body tensing with the effort. Linus brought the chocolate powder across and sprinkled a good handful into the bowl. Ivar mixed some more.

‘Breakfast time.' Linus grabbed two plates from the washstand and brought them over to the table. He patted the chair. ‘You come and sit down.' He dished up a goodish spoonful of the mixture for Ivar, and a smaller one for himself. ‘Yum, yum.'

Linus felt Lotten's eyes like drops of icy water on his back. He turned round slowly to find his wife standing like a vengeful angel in the doorway, if an angel would ever be seen dead, which come to think of it is the only way an angel could be seen, in a washed-out grey-white towelling dressing-gown and white clogs. Ivar, stuffing another fistful of popcorn into his sticky chocolate-smudged mouth, grinned at them both. ‘Look, Mummy, we've made breakfast.'

Lotten ignored him. ‘For God's sake, Linus, what do you think you're doing?'

‘We've made breakfast, that's what I told you, we've…'

‘Do be quiet, Ivar,' she snapped. ‘Look at the state of this kitchen.' She grabbed the bowl from the table and tipped the sticky contents into the bin, scraping off the last, tenacious few bits with the wooden spoon. Ivar, squealing in protest, slid off his chair, revealing his chocolate-smeared self in full figure. ‘I don't believe this,' Lotten hissed, turning to Linus. ‘You did this deliberately, didn't you?'

Linus stared at her. ‘Did what?'

‘The suit. You couldn't stand the fact that Mummy had made him something nice instead of that stuff you'd bought, so you wrecked it.'

Ivar sidled out of the kitchen. ‘You don't really believe that, do you?' Linus asked. Lotten just gave him one more long stare before turning her back on him. ‘I've had enough. I'm going back to bed.' As she left she stepped on some toffee-covered popcorn. Cursing, she picked up the clog and prised off the sticky mess. She turned back and stared at Linus, and for a moment it looked as if she was going to throw the
clog at him. But she just sighed and shook her head before disappearing back to the bedroom. Linus sank back in the chair with a sigh of relief; Lotten had been a mean shot-putter in her schooldays and her aim, still, was as accurate as her arm was strong.

Linus made himself a cup of coffee and went in search of Ivar. He found him in the bathroom where he was busy soaking the front of his denim shirt, desperately trying to get the stains out. ‘I'll do that, little man.' Linus smiled at him. ‘You take it off for now and I'll get it clean for you in no time.'

Lotten was still angry as they arrived at Bertil and Olivia's apartment. Her back, as she stood waiting by the heavy oak front door, turned rigidly the way only angry backs do, her neck stiff. ‘Ho, ho, ho,' Linus said, trying to lighten the mood. The neck and back remained rigidly turned away. ‘Well, Ivar,' he said. ‘I don't expect you remember much about Aunt Ulla, well she's not really your aunt, or mine for that matter, and Cousin Kerstin and Uncle Gerald, now he's really my father's uncle which makes him my great-uncle and your great…'

‘Do we really have to listen to all the ins and outs of your family relationships?' Lotten snapped. The door was opened by Olivia who knelt down instantly to kiss Ivar, chatting away with him in English. They followed her inside, Ivar chatting back in a mix of both languages.

‘My goddess of the dawn sulks,' Linus whispered in Lotten's ear. ‘I love you.'

‘Don't be cheesy,' Lotten hissed.

Once inside the apartment, they went into the drawing-room. Ivar headed straight for the piano, climbing up on the stool and wriggling round, his little legs swinging, proceeding to bang out a tuneless melody. Olivia carried on with her conversation, raising her voice only slightly.

Ulla appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of canapés. ‘So this is Ivar.' She glared at the child, who ceased his playing to meet her gaze.

Then he smiled. ‘I'm playing the piano.'

‘I heard.' Ulla turned to Linus. ‘Children seem to be allowed to wear denim on any occasion these days.' She placed the tray on the rosewood pedestal table by the sofa.

‘One more word from that poisonous old hag and I'm leaving,' Lotten muttered. ‘I mean it.'

‘They're cowboy clothes,' Ivar said.

‘And very smart they are too,' Linus said.

‘Of course children still fall for the myth about the clean-cut denim-clad cowboy, but the reality was very different. Very different indeed,' Ulla said.

‘Now that's very interesting.' Olivia smiled politely. Linus, too, smiled. Ever since he'd known Ulla she had displayed a near religious fervour when it came to imparting information. She was at her most enthusiastic with children. Like a bird she would pull out worms of knowledge from even the most infertile soil and hurry to pass them on to the young. The problem was that her worms were mostly dry, unappetising things, giving neither pleasure nor much nourishment. Linus had always listened, though, like the time that Christmas, when he was fourteen, she told him that nothing was as attractive in a man as knowledge. Linus, feeling distinctly unattractive, had taken her words to heart. As a result he had embarked on a schedule of self-education, which had lasted for the best part of six months. He had listened to music, gone to galleries, stared at nature programmes, mugged up on dates, listened to political debates and read Shakespeare's plays, every single one of them. Because of all this learning he was beaten black and blue by a gang of boys in his class who thought him a show-off, and scorned by the girls for being a pasty-faced swot. The experience had left him with a small scar just above his right eyebrow and a lasting love of Shakespeare. For the latter, he was eternally grateful to Ulla.

‘So where's the birthday boy?' He turned to Olivia.

‘Your father had to go and fetch Gerald and Kerstin; Kerstin's little car wouldn't start again. They should be here any minute.'

And indeed it was not long before the doorbell rang. ‘Happy birthday, Dad.' Linus put his arms round his father, who shied away just slightly before returning his son's embrace. It always happened and Linus barely noticed any more.

‘And Uncle Gerald. Ivar, come and say hello to everyone.' He shook hands with Gerald and kissed Kerstin, his cousin, on both cheeks.
Kerstin, at thirty-five, favoured the kind of whimsical clothes that said the wearer was still just a kid at heart. This evening she wore a short pleated navy skirt and a sweatshirt with tobogganing hedgehogs on it. Her short, straight-cut hair was held in place on one side by a Minnie Mouse slide. As Ivar skipped into view, Uncle Gerald knelt down painfully, emitting a loud fart, like a gunshot, on the way down. Olivia had appeared from the kitchen and, exchanging glances, she and Linus both broke into a hearty rendering of ‘Happy Birthday', followed, as Gerald let out a little trio of farts on his way to stand up, by the Swedish version, ‘
Ja MÃ¥ Han Leva
'. Linus was glad that Lotten was safely at a distance, stirring some sauce in the kitchen; she did not really understand about Gerald.

The final guest, Gerda Holmberg, arrived shortly afterwards. Gerda had managed the accounts and other office matters for Stendal & Berglund for thirty-five years until her retirement five years earlier. ‘I thought this was a Family Occasion,' Ulla hissed in Olivia's direction.

Olivia pretended not to hear. ‘You know Gerda, everyone,' she said instead, ushering them all back into the drawing-room. Ulla proceeded to be condescending to Gerda, showing her around the room as if Gerda had never set foot in the apartment before. Linus was about to come to Gerda's rescue when Ulla remembered about her food. She had insisted on preparing the main course: Caribbean sole. It was a speciality of hers. She had cooked it for the family once before, out on the island the previous summer, and no one had much liked it then, so she was trying it again; she felt that they ought to enjoy it. Ivar was allowed to have his fish scraped bare of any sauce; he was only four, after all. He was seated next to his mother. In Linus's family any child unfortunate enough not to be attended by a nanny was placed next to his mother.

‘He did it again.' Ivar pointed an accusing finger at Uncle Gerald across the table. ‘It's rude, you know,' he added conversationally. ‘Hasn't your mummy told you?' The last part of the sentence was drowned out by a rousing rendering of ‘For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!'

Lotten picked up Ivar's napkin, which had slid to the floor, and as she popped up again, above the level of the table top, she rolled her eyes at Linus who annoyed her further by smiling back inanely.

‘I meant to ask you.' Gerda turned to Olivia. ‘How is your poor English friend? Didn't you say her husband had left her? I remember her very well from the wedding. Nice woman. A little vague perhaps, but really very charming.'