Time to Let Go (12 page)

“Okay,” she promised but then turned away quickly.

Walter began counting out Biddy’s tablets for the day. It was unlike him to do this so late into the routine.

“I was surprised Henrik called,” Walter said to Hanna, once they had started breakfast.

“That is a great name, Henrik,” Biddy chipped in. “Do I know him?”

“Yes,” Walter answered. “He is your son.”

“Who’s my son?”

“Never mind,” Walter said and turned back to Hanna. “What did he want? He didn’t tell me.”

“Who?”
Biddy interrupted again.

“Henrik!”
Walter said, getting impatient with her.

“Do I know Henrik?”

“He just wanted to check in with me,” Hanna said evasively. “He does that once a month or so.”

“But here of all places? How did he even know you were here?” Walter asked.

“Who are you talking about?” Biddy asked once more. “I still don’t know.”

“Please just let us talk for a minute!” Walter
said abruptly. “Tell me Pumpkin.”

“I was just asking who it is,” Biddy said quietly and sulkily.

“I know, Biddy,” Hanna told her mother. “Don’t be upset.”

“I give up.” Walter sighed.

“Who are you talking about?” Biddy insisted.

“My brother Henrik,” Hanna said. “You have met him once.”

“No, I have not.”

“You’ll know him when you see him.”

“When I see who? Who is coming?” Biddy asked, sounding even more alarmed.

“What did you have to say that for?” Walter scolded her. “Now she is going to panic about someone visiting.”

“Nobody is coming,” Hanna assured her mother, then turned back to her father. “She’ll forget about it soon enough. We mustn’t lose our patience.”

Walter shook his head in anger.

“So how is your brother?” he asked.

“He didn’t say much. Why don’t you call him and find out yourself?” Hanna asked.

“He is always so busy, I don’t want to impose. He knows where we are.”

“Who is coming?” Biddy started again.

“I give up,” Walter sighed.

“Nobody is coming,” Hanna said turning her attention to her mother again. “Do you want some more toast?”

“If someone is coming I need to get ready,” Biddy said, looking at her pyjamas.

“You have plenty of time. I’ll make you some more toast,” she insisted. “You can get ready afterwards.”

Hanna was secretly quite pleased with this disruption for her own sake; with it she was safe from Walter’s grilling. She could also not hold on to any thought long enough, and her uneasy feeling about what the phone calls represented was slipping from her mind in all the chaos of this crossed conversation. The effect was a little disorientating but refreshing at the same time.

“Dad, I need to make more phone calls this morning,” she said after breakfast. “No idea how long it will take me.”

“That is fine Pumpkin. I need to go to the supermarket today. We are short of a few things, despite your big shop yesterday. I will take your mother with me and you can have the whole house to yourself for a bit.”

Biddy was reluctant to go with Walter at first and tried to stay behind.

Hanna could see the anger in her father but he held it together and patiently persuaded her mother until she agreed to go with him.

After her parents had left the house Hanna first called Nicky, the trade union rep.

“Hanna, thank God you called! I was so worried. How are you feeling my poor darling?” asked a sympathetic voice.

“To be honest, I am not so good,” Hanna admitted.

“I am not surprised, sweetheart. Half of the crew on that flight are currently off sick with shock, and they were not even in the thick of it as you were,” Nicky told her.

“Are they alright? How about Monica, the girl that was working with me? She was in a really bad way when I last saw her.”

“She is feeling better now. She is home with her family.”

“Do you know, is Mr White pressing charges?”

Nicky took a small breath before answering:

“I am afraid he has pressed charges but his case is not looking very good. Our advice is to be in touch with our legal department as much as
you can. Every letter you get: copy it and send it to us. Every email: forward it to us. Everything you write: copy us in. Or better: send it to us to approve of first. You need to tell your manager to involve us at every stage of the proceedings.”

“Is that really necessary? Isn’t the company on my side?” Hanna asked, pale with shock at the thought.

“They should be. Recently however some big companies have started to point the finger at their staff, searching for loopholes in the employment contracts regarding liability. So far we have not had any cases in the aviation industry, but we are preparing for it,” Nicky explained.

“God almighty,” Hanna said, her back beginning to sweat.

“I am sorry,” apologised Nicky. “I am better at fighting than at counselling.”

“Okay
. I have had a few emails and letters from the company but all of them were very generic and didn’t say anything specific. I will forward them to you in a minute.”

“Great. Anything else you need just let
us know,” Nicky said.

“Please remember that you are not allowed to talk to the press about it. The company is really sensitive about that kind of thing. Be careful with your friends, too. Make sure they don’t sell your story.”

Next on her list was the union lawyer. She doubted he would be answering his phone on a Saturday but to her surprise he answered personally after only a few rings.

“Thank you for calling me back,” he said politely.

“Thank you for doing a weekend shift Mr Lewis. So how bad is it?”

“Oh, please call me
Richard,” he said. “And it is not too bad. In a nutshell: you are protected and covered by your training records and by your employment contract. From the preliminary notes that I have about your case the accusations are rather vague and far-fetched, to say the least. Unless the man comes up with something serious and new I can’t see a problem. We will, however, have to meet up with the police to go over your statement. I suggest you and I meet to go over your side of the story before we meet with the police. Trust me, this may be an emotional ordeal, and a little annoying for you, but as far as I can see there is no realistic threat to you or the airline at all. Everyone just has to follow procedures.”

“Thanks. You are heaven sent,” she said, exhaling with relief.

“Your manager will want to speak to you about the incident again as well. A lot of the defence that the company can build if it comes to a trial will rely on you and your statement. If you want I can call Martin and the police on your behalf and arrange both meetings right now?” Richard offered.

“That would be brilliant. Just leave me the weekend to come to myself. Is Tuesday too late?”

“Tuesday is fine. Nobody can force you to rush into it. This is not a criminal investigation, yet. Stay by your phone. I am sure I will have times for our dates with Martin and Derek in twenty minutes tops,” Richard promised.

He called her back half an hour later and informed her that he had arranged everything for Tuesday as requested.

Having set everything in motion Hanna felt better already. She was still not thrilled at the prospect of having to relive the moment and being grilled about it by people with their own agenda, but she knew couldn’t continue to hide from it forever.

Her crew community had some marvellous individuals and kind souls who would love to hear her out and lend a shoulder to cry on, but sadly many of them did have their own hectic lives and their own problems, and it felt wrong for Hanna to impose on them. Her two best flying friends were on vacation and with the airline being so adamant on keeping a lid on the affair she was unsure whom else she could trust to tell.

It was impossible to stop the rumour mill in a company like hers, but it would certainly not bode well if she was quoted personally on the incident. It was one of the most fascinating features about the flying community, that rumours could spread like a wildfire within minutes and yet it could bypass the ones most affected by it. There were stories you heard on almost every flight, in variations, and no one could remember who had told them about it. The flow of information seemed as unreliable, inconsistent and flawed as her mother’s brain.

Hanna decided to listen to some self-hypnosis tracks to help her calm down and
blissfully fell asleep as the soothing voice told her to control her breathing and relax. She remained unconscious as her i-pod played through ‘Relaxation’, ‘Deep Sleep’ and ‘Inner Calm’. When she woke up she felt much calmer and refreshed.

Downstairs p
reparations for lunch were almost done. Walter was making one of his ‘legendary’ soups and attempting another pasta dish. He was in full cooking concentration mode and gave little attention either to his wife or to Hanna coming in; he only briefly looked up when the door opened, and said nothing.

Biddy was reading the paper but she made a huge fuss when Hanna came into the room.

“There you are!” she said to her daughter and beamed a broad smile across the room. “Sit down, come here, and sit with me.”

“That is ni
ce Biddy, thank you for the invite,” Hanna replied as she sat down next to her mother at the kitchen table. She looked around the room for inspiration, but all she could think of was the tried and trusted: “Is there anything interesting in the newspaper?”

“Yes. Let me have a look,
” her mother said, as she folded the newspaper back to the front page and scanned the article in front of her with intense concentration.

“Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg…” Biddy began, and read the entire article remarkably well, without any errors.

After finishing Biddy asked: “What is the Taliban?”

Walter shot his daughter a warning look and shook his head.

“Oh, they are politicians,” Hanna said vaguely. “A lot of people do not like them.”

“Ah, politics,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment then she went back to the paper.

“Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg…”

“Is everything ok
with you?” Walter asked his daughter whispering so as not to disturb his wife’s reading.

“Oh yes, all good,” s
he nodded enthusiastically.

Walter turned away from the stove and looked at her intently.

“There’s something you’re not telling me. I’m not stupid!”

“There is no
thing going on that you should be concerned about,” Hanna said, shifting in her seat. “You are doing a fantastic job looking after mother. Stick to that as your family duty. I can manage my life. I am forty years old, for crying out loud.”

“Who is the Taliban?” Biddy interrupted.

“They are politicians,” Hanna repeated.

“What kind of politicians?”

“Not very nice ones,” Hanna replied. “A lot of people don’t like them.”

“Ah,” Biddy nodded, looking at the paper. Then she turned back to Hanna and asked “W
ho is it that the people don’t like?”

“The Taliban, Biddy.”

“Who is the Taliban?”

“They are politicians.”

“Hanna save yourself the effort, you are hardly going to teach her about world politics now,” Walter said, but Hanna ignored him.

“What kind of politicians?” Biddy asked again.

“You don’t need to worry about them,” Hanna put a comforting hand on her mother’s shoulder. “The government is dealing with them. They have no relevance to you or me.”

“Are you sure?” Biddy was shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Hanna pressed harder on her mother’s shoulder.

“Qu
ite sure.”

“Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg…”

“I admire your endurance,” Walter said, blatantly talking over his wife. “If I were you I would just steer the conversation to something else. Why should she concern herself with the Taliban?”

“Why should she concern herself with anything these days?” Hanna shot back. “It doesn’t really matter what she engages with. As long as she interacts and asks questions I am glad for her.”

“You can only confuse her by talking about abstract things like that. Keep it simple.”

“I am not going to discourage her if she shows interest in something. I
just want her to feel valued, surely that is worth a few repetitive moments.”

“We’ll see how you feel when you have done this for a week, or a month,” Walter said. “Don’t get me wrong, I love your patience.
Just don’t burn yourself out.”

After lunch Biddy retreated to the living room without being promp
ted by her husband. She lay herself down on the sofa for her nap and left Hanna and Walter doing the dishes.

“How is your family chronicle coming along?” Hanna asked, while filling the sink with hot water.

“Slowly but steadily. It won’t be long before I will write about you and the younger generation,” Walter said.

“How are you going to handle the controversial issue of writing about yourself and your own generation in your book?” she queried.

“What do you mean controversial? It is easy: I will give a detailed account of all of our lives with as many facts and data that I can provide,” he answered.

“That can become a very one sided affair,” Hanna said provocatively. “I can only imagine what
you are going to say about me or about yourself for that matter.”

“Subjectivity is difficult to achieve in such affairs,” Walter lectured her. “However, if anyone in this family is capable of it than it would be me. I hope that my notes won’t be the only source of information about your generation.
History won’t end where I leave it. You can write your own story and put it next to mine. Then whoever reads it can make up their own mind about you.”

“I guess that’s fair enough,” Hanna agreed. “How woul
d you like to be remembered by the future generations?”

“You will find out when I have written that part of the chronicle,” he said
, slightly defensively.

“I have read my share of autobiographies and most of them reek of self-glorification. Do
esn’t it always end up as your version of what you would like to be the truth?”

“That’s a very good point,” Walter said
. “No biographer can guarantee complete distance from the events. I shall hope that my true character comes through in my notes, written between the lines as it were. Maybe you and your brothers would do me the honour and add a few things, post mortem?”

“That
would definitely produce a different picture of you,” Hanna said.

“Just try to b
e objective,” he replied.

“It is hard to do that. I would write it already quite different
ly now to the way I would have done as a teenager,” Hanna said.

“How did you see me as a teenager then that is so different from now?” Walter wanted to know, suddenly very interested.

“Well, we’ve both changed over the years,” said Hanna evasively. “Of course, I would have thought of you differently back then.”

“Then write about both phases. Don’t you want the old part of me remembered and passed o
n, too?” Walter said.

“To be honest, I sometimes try to forget that person you were then. You were not much fun for me as a teenager.”

“Well, now we are getting somewhere,” Walter tried, but failed, to disguise his hurt feelings.

“It can’t come as a big surprise to you that I thought that, Dad. Come on. You were there. How do you remember our relationship when I was a child?” Hanna defended herself.

“I remember teaching you sports, taking you and the boys to places. You had all the opportunities you wanted. You could learn instruments, I paid for trainers, tutors and sports lessons, we went hiking and cycling and spent a lot of time together, I can’t understand why you paint me as unlikeable. We went bowling, rowing, to water parks. You name it and we did it. Other children have parents who just sit on their fat bottoms, staying inside all day, who only ever watch TV and don’t pay any attention to their kids at all.”

“I know, that is true and I appreciate it. But you did not exactly ask us if we wanted to do any of those things,” Hanna told him. “If one of us declined an offer that you made we had
to suffer you in a sulk for days. So we went through the motions for your sake. Those things you did were fun for you because they were what you were good at.”

“I spent time with you kids and I tried to teach you to get better at whatever you did, to improve yourselves. I hoped you would surpass me if I kept encouraging and challenging you. Does that not count for anything?”

“Of course it counts for something,” Hanna assured him. “You were very rigid though. And fortunately you and I have a better relationship now. You have evolved. I don’t know how much of your previous stubborn self I would want to mention in your chronicle.”

“It should all be there, at least in traces,” Walter stated. “Truth matters.”

“I just don’t know how much I believe in your history project in the first place. Who will really want to know?”

“I would want to know these things about our forefathers, if only I could,” Walter said passionately. “I hate that everyt
hing about our family might be forgotten. I don’t even have any grandchildren as a legacy and may never have, the way things are looking.”

“But ev
en if there were grandchildren, most chronicles and biographies are contrived, made up myths and legends, rather than giving out true and valued information about a person and what they were really like,” Hanna said critically.

“Many have hired publicists and ghost writers to do all that for them. That is no comparison to our little family and what I am trying to do,” Walter contradicted.

“It is the same principle,” Hanna insisted. “The second someone puts pen to paper to write about themselves their story is already coloured the way they want it to be. Either by how they see themselves or by how other people tell them they are: there is no such thing as objectivity.”

“You are taking it to the extr
eme, Pumpkin.”

“Not really.
Your chronicle is going to create a myth about our family and how you thought it was. Future generations may believe it and start using it as a role model. Defining themselves in concepts that you have created that may or may not have been there.”

“How do you mean?”

“People may end up believing what they are prone to be, or think they should behave in a certain way because their ancestors were like that – according to your notes. The talk of a family tradition can limit realistic perceptions and expectations, discouraging our self-fulfilment and self-determination,” Hanna declared full of enthusiasm.

“You are always so dramatic,
Pumpkin! Who is going to read my notes and suddenly say: I come from a family of communists, so I must become one myself?” Walter stated, trying to ridicule her argument.

“Mor
e people than you might think: tradition can be a great comfort, or an excuse for bad behaviour.”

“I would like to think that wh
at I am going to pass on is beneficial for the next generation,” Walter defended himself. “People like to know about history purely for the sake of interest, without agendas and consequences. To know the background they come from can be informative. That way they can be aware of potential tendencies, such as alcoholism. They also have a right to know that some of our family left their home country for their political beliefs.”

“Yes, our great family heroes. If they had been real communists they would have gone to Russia, not the UK. There is your first myth already. How much do we really know about t
hat claim?” Hanna said.

“You’ll get to read
it, Pumpkin,” he said, irritated, and fell silent.

His daughter
retreated to her room and left a grumpy Walter alone with his thoughts. What she failed to realise was how his wife’s disease had worn down his self-esteem, and how hard her words had hit him.

Most
of his life he had never cared much about what other people thought. He knew that Biddy’s illness was nothing to be ashamed of and he would meet any rude comment or provocation head on. Only, such judgement, pity and ridicule were never spoken out loud or voiced in public where he would have been able to confront them. It all happened behind his back - he could feel it and knew it was there. He had heard people talk openly about ‘old lunatics’, before Biddy had been diagnosed. It was obvious to him that this was still going on and would not stop when it came to him and his wife. He braved the outside world for her sake and took her to the familiar places in town, but he hardly went out by himself now and he socialised next to never, feeling far too uncomfortable and paranoid.

There were fewer invitations anyway. Partly because more of their acquaintances and friends had died over the years or had become incapacitated by age related causes themselves, but Walter felt that there was a stigma attached to Biddy’s condition and the people who still held parties were definitely avoiding them.

Walter had been almost arrogantly sure of himself up to this point in his life and had never feared criticism. He had taken comfort in the daily routines and his belief that what he did for Biddy was the right thing. After dealing with the disease for several years, the Korhonen family disagreed strongly on the best way to handle Biddy. Hanna objected to Walter’s theory that a regular timetable and a routine to Biddy’s life were the key to slowing down the mental deterioration process. She claimed that it was not worth the struggle. To her the only thing that had any relevance was laughter and happiness for the patient and anything that could achieve this was acceptable.