Little Star (15 page)

By the time Teresa turned
four, it was obvious that it was Daddy who mattered. Not that she distanced herself from Maria, but it was Göran she turned to in all essential matters. With the boys, the situation was reversed. For example it was Maria who drove them to football training. No actual decision had ever been taken, it was just the way things were.

Maria wanted to
do
things, while Göran was perfectly happy to sit quietly with Teresa while she was drawing or pottering about. If she asked a question he answered her, if she wanted help with something he helped her, but without making a fuss about it.

Her favourite activity was making necklaces with plastic beads. Göran had acquired every plastic bead in the toy shop in Rimsta, in every imaginable shape and colour, and had even got the assistant to go down to the storeroom and dig out some boxes they had taken off display. Teresa had an entire shelf stocked with at least sixty little plastic containers into which she had sorted the beads according to a system only she understood. Sometimes she would spend days altering the system.

The beads were threaded onto coloured wool or fishing line, and after patient instruction Teresa had learned to tie the knots herself. It was a constant production line; the only problem was the product.

Maria’s parents had been given theirs. Göran’s parents had been given theirs. Family and friends and relatives of friends had been given theirs. Anyone who might possibly deserve a necklace made
of plastic beads had been given one. Or two. Göran’s father was the only one who wore his. Probably to annoy Göran’s mother more than anything.

But it would have taken a family of biblical proportions to generate a demand to meet the supply. Teresa made at least three necklaces a day. Göran had put up lots of tacks above her bed to hang the necklaces on. The wall was now more or less full.

One Wednesday afternoon in the middle of October, Göran picked his daughter up from the childminder as usual. She got out her beads and thread as usual and put them on the kitchen table, and Göran sat opposite her with his usual evening paper. Concentrating hard, Teresa tied a stop-knot at one end of a length of fishing line. Then she made a selection from among her containers, and started threading.

When Göran had finished looking for news about the EU decision on Sweden’s state monopoly on alcohol sales and found nothing but more misery from Hallandsås, he lowered the paper and looked at his daughter. She seemed to have decided on a necklace in red, yellow and blue. Using her fingers as tweezers, she skilfully picked up one bead at a time, threading them onto the line as she breathed audibly through her nose.

‘Sweetheart?’

‘Mm?’

‘Couldn’t you make something other than necklaces with your beads? It’s just that you’ve got such a lot.’

‘I want a lot.’

‘But what for?’

Teresa stopped dead, a bright yellow bead between her fingers. She looked at Göran with a frown. ‘I collect them.’

She held his gaze, as if she were challenging him to question her. His eyes flickered down to the newspaper, open at a picture of some lake somewhere. Pollution. Dead fish. Local population up in arms.

‘Daddy?’ Teresa was studying the yellow bead, her eyes narrowed. ‘Why do things
exist?’

‘What do you mean?’

Teresa’s eyebrows moved even closer together, and she looked as if she were in pain. She took a few breaths through her nose as she always did when she was concentrating. Eventually she said, ‘Well, if this bead didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be holding it.’

‘No.’

‘And if I didn’t exist, then nobody would be holding this bead.’

‘No.’

Göran sat there as if he had been hypnotised, staring at the bright yellow dot between his daughter’s fingers. The grey October day outside the window had gone. Only the yellow dot existed, and Göran felt as if something was pressing against his eardrums, like when you’re sinking towards the bottom of the swimming pool.

Teresa shook her head. ‘Why is it like that?’ Her gaze swept over the containers on the table, their multi-coloured contents. ‘I mean, all these beads might not exist and there might not be anybody to make necklaces with them.’

‘But the beads do exist. And so do you. That’s just the way things are.’

Teresa put the yellow bead back in its container and crossed her arms tightly over her chest as she continued to look at the kaleidoscope of coloured dots in front of her. Gently Göran asked, ‘Have you all been talking about this at Lollo’s?’

Teresa shook her head.

‘So what made you think about it, then?’

Teresa didn’t reply, but stared at her array of beads with an expression that could best be described as furious. Göran leaned forward with his chin resting on his hand so that he was closer to her level, and said, ‘There is actually one person who hasn’t had a necklace; do you know who that is?’ Teresa didn’t react, but Göran gave her the answer anyway, ‘It’s me. I’ve never had a necklace.’

Teresa bent her head so that her nose was pointing at the floor, and her voice broke as she said, ‘You can have them all if you want.’

Göran got up from his chair. ‘But sweetheart…’

He knelt down next to his daughter’s chair and she fell into his arms, rested her forehead on his collarbone and wept. Göran stroked her head and said, ‘Sssh…’ but Teresa just carried on weeping.

When Göran said, ‘Couldn’t you make me a necklace? I’d like a yellow one. All yellow,’ she banged her forehead against his collarbone so hard that it hurt both of them, and kept on weeping.

Since Teresa had been born
late in the year, she started school before she turned seven. She could already read simple books and add up and take away, so the schoolwork itself wasn’t a problem. At the first parents’ evening Göran and Maria heard a great deal of praise for their daughter, who approached every task with diligence and great seriousness.

Nor did gymnastics or practical subjects pose any difficulties for her. She found it easy to understand instructions, and her fine motor skills were very good. She was always well-behaved.

The teacher closed her file. ‘So…all in all I think we can say things have gone very well indeed. She’s a…serious little girl, Teresa.’

Göran had reached for his jacket and started to put it on, but Maria thought she picked up a change of tone in the teacher’s last remark, and asked her to elaborate. What did she mean, serious?

The teacher smiled as if to smooth things over. ‘Well, as a teacher I couldn’t wish for a better pupil, but…she doesn’t play.’

‘You mean…she’s not with the other children?’

‘No, no. When they’re given things to do, she has no problem working with others. But, how can I put this, she doesn’t like to use her imagination. Play. Make things up. As I said, she’s…serious. Extremely serious.’

What Göran had accepted long ago, Maria now perceived as a warning bell. Since she herself was a sociable person, she found it difficult
to see her daughter as a serious-minded lone wolf. For Maria, loneliness was not to do with inclination or choice; no, loneliness was a failure. She had a number of hobby horses, but the most important was: ‘People are made to be together.’

Göran was not about to contradict her, particularly as he thought she was right, theoretically. He was popular at work as a conscientious and reliable person, but he wished he took greater real pleasure in the company of others.

The work at the liquor outlet suited him down to the ground. A customer came up with their numbered ticket, you exchanged a few words and dealt with their purchase. You might perhaps chat for thirty seconds or so if there weren’t too many people waiting. He looked smart in his green waistcoat and shirt, he was polite and knowledgeable about the stock, he was
service minded.
He met a lot of people, but in small doses—it was perfect for him.

Maria, on the other hand, was pally with lots of her customers. Practically every day she came home with long stories the customers had told her, and several dog and cat owners had become her friends. She was invited to more parties and weddings and so on than she could ever manage to attend.

Göran would suffer agonies for several days in advance if there was to be some kind of social tasting night at work. If it hadn’t been for his purely professional interest in, for example, new wines from Languedoc, he would probably have declined. As far as he was concerned, it would have been better if they’d just sent small samples by post.

As a consequence, they interpreted the information from the parents’ evening differently. Göran was pleased that things were going so well for Teresa at school, while Maria was worried that things were so difficult for Teresa at school. Every day she started quizzing Teresa about what she had done during break times, who she had played with, who she had talked to. It got to the point where Göran started hoping Teresa would lie, make up some friends and games just to satisfy Maria. But making things up just wasn’t in her nature.

Arvid and Olof were always having friends round. Some of these friends had younger brothers and sisters, and Maria would occasionally ring the parents and explain the situation, begging them to send a small sibling along for Teresa as part of the package. In Göran’s opinion, Teresa handled things as well as she could. She would show the visitor her things, suggest games they might play and try in her own way to make the best of their forced proximity.

His heart swelled a little with pride as he watched his daughter take responsibility for a situation not of her making, and contracted with pain when he saw how badly things went. Teresa would meticulously set out the game and explain the rules while the other child looked anxiously around, wanting to go to the toilet. It would end in silence with a small sibling tugging at its big brother’s sleeve and asking to go home.

In the spring Göran was made manager of his store. Rudolf retired and recommended Göran in glowing terms. He was already in charge of ordering and product selection, and was responsible for much of the contact with suppliers.

He had to go for an interview, and felt it went reasonably well. Later he was told that he had been given the job due to his extensive knowledge, despite some reservations about his suitability for the managerial role itself. He understood perfectly.

From a purely practical point of view it meant an extra twelve thousand kronor a month, more responsibility and longer working days. He was no longer able to finish early on Wednesdays. He and Maria took the bold step of securing a loan to renovate the kitchen, and for the first time in their lives they were able to buy a brand new car.

By May Göran had already begun to wish he could step down from the post he had taken up in March, but once an upward movement has begun, it takes a great deal of determination to break it. Göran did not have that determination. He gritted his teeth and stuck with it, worked harder. His daring decision to carry a wider selection
of wines in Tetra-paks was a success, and sales increased.

In June he led a team-building weekend at a conference centre, and when he came home he was so worn out that he slept for fourteen hours.

It pained him that he had less time to spare for Teresa. He did his best to be there for her and the boys when he came home exhausted, but something had slipped away from him and he didn’t have the strength to work out how to get it back.

Teresa had taken over her brothers’ Lego since they lost interest in it. Maria had kept all the instructions, and Teresa spent a lot of time putting together all the different models as she listened to a tape of Allan Edwall reading Winnie-the-Pooh, over and over again.

Sometimes Göran would come in and just sit down in the armchair in her room to watch her, to listen to the clicks as the Lego pieces fitted into one another and Allan Edwall’s dark, gentle voice. He would feel close to her for a while, until he fell asleep.

In the October of Teresa’s
second year in school there was to be a fancy dress disco at Hallowe’en. There would be soft drinks and sweets, and prizes for the best costumes. Maria had managed to miss the whole thing, and it wasn’t until she got home at five o’clock that she spotted the piece of paper saying the disco would start at six.

Göran was busy stocktaking and probably wouldn’t be home until late evening, so with every scrap of her positive determination Maria sat Teresa down on a chair in the kitchen and asked her what she wanted to be.

‘I don’t want to be anything,’ Teresa replied.

‘At the fancy dress disco, I mean,’ said Maria. ‘What do you want to dress up as?’

‘I don’t want to dress up.’

‘But we’ve got loads of stuff. You can dress up as anything you like—a ghost or a monster, whatever.’

Teresa shook her head and got up to go to her room. Maria stepped in front of her and made her sit down again.

‘Sweetheart. Everybody else will be dressed up. You don’t want to be the only one who isn’t dressed up, do you?’

‘Yes.’

Maria massaged her temples. It wasn’t because she found this difficult. It was because she found it totally absurd. She couldn’t think of
one
good reason why a person wouldn’t dress up when they were going to a fancy dress disco. However, she controlled herself and did
something she perhaps did all too rarely. She asked a question.

‘OK. Can you tell me
why
you don’t want to dress up?’

‘I just don’t.’

‘But
why?
You can dress up as somebody else.’

‘I don’t want to be somebody else.’

‘But it’s fancy dress. If you don’t dress up, you can’t go.’

‘I won’t go, then.’

Teresa’s attitude was as crystal clear as it was untenable. Maria couldn’t accept it. Teresa would end up being odd if she was allowed to follow every whim. Since Teresa wasn’t old enough to have an overview of the consequences of her actions, it really came down to a question of upbringing, of taking responsibility as a parent.

‘Right,’ said Maria. ‘This is what’s going to happen. You
are
going to the disco and you
are
going to dress up. The matter is not up for discussion. There’s only one thing I need to know: what do you want to dress up as?’

Teresa looked her mother in the eye and said, ‘A banana.’

If Maria had had a different sense of humour, she might have laughed at her daughter’s obviously defiant answer, then hunted out everything yellow she could lay her hands on. However, she didn’t have that particular sense of humour. Instead she nodded grimly and said, ‘OK. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll decide for you. Stay there.’

It is possible that we inherit certain characteristics from our parents. If this is the case, it was her sense of order that Teresa had inherited from her mother. In the clothes storeroom was a big box labelled ‘Fancy Dress’, since neither Arvid nor Olof had anything against getting dressed up—quite the opposite, in fact. After a few minutes Maria was back in the kitchen with black and red make-up, a black cape and a pair of plastic fangs.

‘You can be a vampire,’ she said. ‘Do you know what a vampire is?’

Teresa nodded, and Maria took this as a sign of approval.

When Göran got home at eight o’clock, Maria asked him to pick Teresa up from the disco. He turned around in the hallway and went
mechanically back to the car. This week had almost finished him, and the world felt like a piece of flat stage scenery as he drove towards the school.

Music was pounding from the gym, and a few children in costume were charging around outside the entrance. Göran blinked and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t do it. He just didn’t have the strength to walk into that pulsating grotto of excited little bodies and well-meaning parents.

He wanted to go home. He knew he couldn’t. With an effort he hauled his soul to its feet from its slumped, sideways position and walked towards the entrance, smiling and nodding at the parents who had been kind enough to organise this inferno.

Multi-coloured lights flashed across the darkened room. Sweets and popcorn were scattered all over the floor, and infants dressed as monsters were running around chasing one another while Markoolio sang that song about heading for the mountains to drink and screw. Göran peered into the darkness, trying to spot his daughter so that he could take her home.

He had to walk around before he found her sitting on a chair by the wall. She had thick black kohl all around her eyes, and her mouth looked oddly swollen. From the corners of her mouth ran painted-on trickles of dried blood. Her hands were resting on her knees.

‘Hi, sweetheart. Shall we go home?’

Teresa looked up. Her eyes shone bright within their frame of black. She got up and Göran held out his hand. She didn’t take it, but followed him out to the car.

It was a relief to close the car door. The sound was muted and they were alone. He glanced at Teresa, sitting in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, and asked, ‘So did you have a good time?’

Teresa didn’t reply. He started the car and pulled out of the school car park. When they were driving along the road, he asked, ‘Did you get any sweets?’

Teresa mumbled something in reply.

‘What did you say?’

Teresa mumbled something again, and Göran turned to look at her. ‘What’s that in your mouth?’

Teresa parted her lips and showed her fangs. A cold shudder ran down Göran’s spine. For a brief moment he thought she looked genuinely horrible. Then he said, ‘I think you could take those out now, sweetheart. So I can hear what you say.’

Teresa removed the teeth and sat there with them in her hand, but she still didn’t say anything. Göran tried again.

‘Did you get any sweets?’ Teresa nodded and the best follow-up Göran’s weary brain could come up with was, ‘Were they nice?’

‘I couldn’t eat them.’

‘Why not?’

Teresa held out the fangs. Göran felt a stab of pain in his chest. A dot of sorrow grew and grew, pressing against his ribs. ‘But sweetheart, you could have taken them out. So you could eat your sweets.’

Teresa shook her head and said nothing more until they had parked on the drive at home. When Göran had switched off the engine and they were sitting in the darkness she said, ‘I told Mum I didn’t want to go. I
told
her.’