Camilla Läckberg - The Hidden Child

‘I saw… that you had company. I thought… What’s…?’ He lowered his gaze. Elsy could see that he was afraid to bother them, but she was grateful that he’d come.

‘Pappa’s boat ran into a mine,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘There were no survivors.’

Hans’s knees buckled and he wavered for a moment. Then he went over to the cabinet where Elof kept the strong drink and resolutely filled six glasses, which he set on the table.

‘I think we could all use a stiff drink right now,’ he said in his lilting Norwegian, which had become closer to Swedish the longer he’d stayed with them.

Everyone gratefully reached for a glass, except for Hilma. Elsy cautiously picked up a glass and set it in front of her mother. ‘Here, Mamma, try some of this.’

Hilma obeyed her daughter and raised the glass to her lips, downing the drink with a grimace. Elsy looked at Hans, her eyes filled with gratitude. It was good not to be alone right now.

Another knock at the door. This time it was Hans who opened it. The women had started to arrive. All those who knew what it was like to live under the threat of losing their husbands to the sea. They brought food and helping hands and consoling words about the will of God. And it helped. Not much, but they all knew that one day they might need the same sort of solace, and so they did their best to ease the pain of their friend who was now suffering.

Her heart hammering with grief, Elsy took a step back and watched the women flock around Hilma while the men who had brought the news bowed sorrowfully and then left to deliver the news elsewhere.

By the time night fell, Hilma had fallen asleep, exhausted. Elsy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, empty, incapable of taking in what had happened. She saw her father’s face in her mind. He had always been such a comforting presence for her. Listening to her, talking with her. She had been the apple of her father’s eye. She had always known that. For him, she had been so precious, transcending all else. And she knew that he would have noticed that something was going on between her and the Norwegian boy, for whom he had developed such a fondness. But he had let them be. He had kept a watchful eye on them, giving his silent consent. Maybe he was hoping that someday he would have Hans as his son-in-law. Elsy thought he would have approved. And she and Hans had respected both him and her mother. Limited themselves to stolen kisses and cautious embraces; nothing that would prevent them from looking her parents in the eye.

Now, as she lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, it no longer mattered. The pain in her heart was so great that she wouldn’t be able to endure it alone, and she slowly sat up and put her feet on the floor. There was something in her that still hesitated, but grief was tearing at her, driving her to seek the only relief that she could find.

Quietly she crept down the stairs. She peeked in to look at her mother as she passed her parents’ bedroom, feeling a pang in her heart when she saw how small Hilma looked in that big bed. But she was sound asleep, exhaustion granting her a temporary respite from reality.

The front door creaked faintly as Elsy turned the lock and opened it. The night air was so cold that it took her breath away when she stepped out on to the porch in her nightgown, and the icy chill of the stone stairs almost hurt under the soles of her feet. Quickly she padded down the steps and found herself standing outside his door, hesitating. But that lasted only a minute. Grief urged her to seek solace.

He opened the door at her first knock and moved aside to let her in without a word. She went inside and then just stood there in her nightgown, her eyes fixed on his, without speaking. His eyes silently asked a question, and she replied by taking his hand.

For a short blessed time that night she was able to forget the pain in her heart.

Kjell felt strangely agitated after the meeting with his father. For all these years he had successfully managed to hold on to his hatred. It had been so easy to see only the negative, to focus on all the mistakes that Frans had made during his childhood. But maybe things weren’t really so black and white after all. He shook himself in an attempt to dismiss that idea. It was so much easier not to see any grey areas, to claim there was only right and wrong. But today Frans had seemed so old and frail. And for the first time it struck Kjell that his father wasn’t going to live for ever. One day he would be gone, and then Kjell would be forced to look at himself in the mirror. Deep inside, he knew that his hatred burned as strongly as it did because he still had the possibility of reaching out his hand, of taking the first step towards reconciliation. He didn’t want to do that. Had no desire to do that. But the possibility existed nonetheless, and it gave him a feeling of power. When his father died, it would be too late. Then Kjell would have only a life of hatred left. Nothing else.

His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the phone to make a few calls. Of course Erica had said that she would contact the authorities to check if there were any records on Hans, but he wasn’t used to relying on anybody else. He might as well do it himself. But an hour later, his phone calls to various Swedish and Norwegian agencies had drawn a blank. Having only a name and an approximate age to go on made it difficult, but there was bound to be a way. He hadn’t yet exhausted all the possibilities, and he had managed to find out enough to convince him that the boy hadn’t stayed in Sweden. So it was most likely that Hans had returned to his homeland when the war ended and he was no longer in danger.

Kjell reached for the folder containing the articles and suddenly realized that he had forgotten to fax Olavsen’s photograph to Eskil Halvorsen. He picked up the phone again to call the man and get his fax number.

‘I’m afraid that I haven’t found anything yet,’ said Halvorsen as soon as he heard who was calling. He listened as Kjell explained the reason for his call, then said, ‘Yes, a photo might be helpful. You can fax it to my office at the university.’

Kjell jotted down the number and faxed the article which had the clearest picture of Hans Olavsen. Then he sat down at his desk again. He was hoping that Erica’s research would prove more fruitful, since he felt as if he’d come to a dead end.

Just at that moment the phone rang.

‘Grandpa is here!’ Per shouted towards the living room, and Carina came out to join them in the hall.

‘Could I come in for a moment?’ asked Frans.

Carina noticed that he didn’t seem himself and it worried her. Not that she’d ever had especially warm feelings for Kjell’s father, but she was grateful to him for what he had done for her and Per recently. ‘Of course, come on in,’ she said, leading the way to the kitchen. Noticing that he was studying her intently, she replied to his unspoken question: ‘Not a drop since the last time you were here. Per can vouch for me.’

Per nodded and sat down across from Frans at the kitchen table. The look that he gave his grandfather bordered on hero worship.

‘Looks like your hair is starting to grow out,’ said Frans with amusement, patting the stubble on his grandson’s head.

‘I guess so,’ said Per, embarrassed, but then he ran his own hand over his scalp, looking pleased.

‘That’s good,’ said Frans. ‘That’s good.’

Carina gave him a warning look as she spooned coffee into the filter. He nodded faintly, to confirm that he wasn’t about to discuss politics.

When the coffee was ready and Carina had sat down at the table with them, she turned to him with an enquiring look. He stared down at his coffee cup. She thought again how tired he seemed. Even though she didn’t approve of the causes he espoused, he had always seemed to her the epitome of strength. Right now he was not at all his usual self.