Alex Gray: The Swedish Girl

No fur your benefit, son. It’s in case ye tak us tae a tribunal if ye get dermatitis, ken?

Colin had nodded, understanding the man’s aggrieved tone. There had been so much red tape involved at the beginning of this summer job, forms to fill in, things to sign. And he was only a kitchen hand, after all. It was not as if he was handling any of the stuff out of the ovens, like some of the other young lads, or being yelled at by the head chef.

He untied the greasy apron from around his waist, hung it on the peg behind the door and slipped out into the lane that ran behind the restaurant, the sudden daylight making him blink. A couple of the older chefs were lounging at the corner, taking a quick fag break now that the lunchtime rush was over. They barely glanced at Colin as he walked along the cobbled lane and crossed over to the car park that separated Ashton Lane from the university buildings. But that was fine. Nobody usually gave Colin Young a second look. The sort of guy who would be lost in a crowd , one of his pals at school had said. The rest of them had laughed, Colin with them, but afterwards, looking in the wardrobe mirror in his bedroom, he had wondered about that remark. There was nothing wrong with his appearance: at seventeen he had reached his full height of five feet eight in his stocking soles, a slim verging on skinny teenager with a pale face that was the result of too much late-night study for end of term exams.

Now, three years on, little had changed. He was still slightly built, his mid-brown hair cut shorter and better styled than it had been in his schooldays but there was nothing unpleasing about Colin’s appearance. Whenever he smiled his eyes would crinkle at the corners and one could almost believe his was an attractive sort of face. It was when he spoke that people turned to give him a second look, this young man with that unusual lilt in his voice that came from being born to a Lewis woman whose own speech had been peppered with Gaelic words and phrases.

The students’ residence office was situated over the hill and along one of the streets that criss-crossed the area between Great Western Road and University Avenue. Colin glanced at his watch and quickened his pace. He’d have to hurry if he was to pick up the details of the other flats he’d been offered before catching a bus out to Anniesland. The afternoon sun beat down on his head as he turned into Great George Street. Well, at least he had a decent break before his evening shift and maybe there was even the chance of lounging about in the park, watching the skateboarders, letting the heat soak into his skin.

The bus stopped with an ear-splitting squeal of brakes and Colin descended onto the pavement, his eyes turning immediately to the street on his left. There was a pub just around the corner from Merryfield Avenue, he noticed, where afternoon drinkers were enjoying their pints outside in the Glasgow sunshine. A couple of blue and yellow parasols that boasted the logo of a well-known brewery made the place almost festive and Colin paused for a moment, wondering if this might become his local, if he were lucky enough to get a room in the flat.

There was the usual line of names by an entryphone buzzer and Colin saw the name Magnusson right at the top. Typical, he thought, raising his eyebrows, every student flat he knew was on the top floor. He pressed the bell and waited. There was a crackle followed by a man’s deep voice: ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Colin Young. I’ve come about the room.’ Colin bent forward, his mouth close to the intercom.

There was a pause then a click. ‘Come up. Top right,’ the voice said and Colin pushed open the green-painted main door, his eyes blinded for a moment by the change from bright sunlight into the comparative gloom of the close. A few blinks dispelled the dullness and, as he made his way up the stone staircase, Colin could see that this was a smart place. Not only were the stairs in good nick, but each landing seemed to have a collection of huge plants, the residents here evidently taking some pride in their property.

‘Up here,’ an echoing and disembodied voice called down and Colin sprinted up the last few stairs to come at last to the doorway of Henrik Magnusson’s house.

His first impression was of the man’s height: six four at least, Colin guessed. He was a handsome man, Colin saw, taking in the tanned face, the shock of pale blond hair and a pair of piercing blue eyes that commanded his attention. But there was something stern about him that made the younger man want to flinch.

‘Come in,’ Magnusson said, holding open the door and stepping aside.

Afterwards, Colin tried to describe number 24 Merryfield Avenue but it was hard to remember every detail of the flat. The smell of new carpet lingered in every room as Colin was given the guided tour of everywhere, except the bedroom next to the kitchen, his eyes feasting on the antique furniture in the hall and lounge and the pictures hanging on the walls. It was not , he told his brother later, like any student flat he’d ever been in before. They had ended up standing beside a huge black lacquered table in the spacious kitchen, Magnusson staring at him as he threw one question after another: was he a smoker? No . What were his political leanings? A doubtful shrug and Scot Nat, probably . Did he make time to see his own family ? Oh aye , but not that often since he didn’t have a car and it was a bit of a trek out to Armadale in West Lothian; the train took hours to get there. Nothing about his course at uni, no wonderings about his future career at all, but plenty of questions about his likes and dislikes. Football, the occasional drink, no he didn’t do drugs (reddening at the directness of the question), no girlfriend at the moment (nosy beggar, but maybe this was worth it if he could manage to secure a room in this amazing flat).

‘You’ll be sharing the flat with my daughter and three other students,’ Magnusson said at last. Then, the very ghost of a smile as he offered his huge hand in a firm grasp. Ah, his daughter, thought Colin, remembering the room with the closed door.

‘That’s it?’ Colin said, surprised. Then he smiled too, a smile that turned into a grin of genuine delight.

‘You can choose one of three rooms,’ Magnusson told him, leading the way back into the hall. ‘The one next to my daughter’s.’ He waved a hand as they passed the large bedroom next to the communal bathroom. ‘Or one of the two upstairs. The front bedroom has already been taken.’

Colin considered for a moment, entering the square room that looked down over the railway. It was airy enough and had the advantage of being near the front door so he could come and go without being heard, should he manage to keep on the evening shift at the restaurant. Like the other three bedrooms he had already seen it was furnished with a smart modern desk and a decent-sized bed (probably IKEA, but top of their range), as well as a brand new wardrobe and a comfortable-looking Lloyd Loom chair painted in a shade of pastel green to match the duvet and curtains. An empty pinboard hung above the desk and there was a green desk lamp placed to one side. The other rooms upstairs did not have an old-fashioned lamp like this and Colin nodded, imagining himself writing here late into the night, his fingers flying over the keys of his ancient laptop.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll have this room, thanks.’

‘A decent young man, I’d say, and the girl is definitely going to be an asset.’ Henrik Magnusson lifted his wine glass, eyes twinkling over its rim as Eva looked at him enquiringly. They were dining tonight in the Chardon D’Or, a quiet restaurant in the city centre that was handy for Magnusson’s hotel.

‘How do you mean?’ the girl asked, head tilted to one side.