Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 24 - Deep in the Ground

That was quite a phrase to use about a whole mining operation! It was clear that he felt it was beneath him.

But his laughter when he said it – slightly proud and slightly shy – was disarming. Practically in the same breath he continued, “I’m only here every now and then to make sure that things are running smoothly. I was just on my way back to town but waited to bid you welcome upon your arrival. My clerk will see to you. Nilsson!” he shouted.

Anna Maria grew tense. Was he the one who didn’t want a young lady on the premises? The one named Kol or something like that ...

“The Director called!” answered a servile voice. An overgrown cherub dressed in black clerk’s clothes and long white oversleeves appeared. No, she thought. It certainly wasn’t him.

He had made an attempt to part his hair down the middle by combing and straightening it. But he had failed, and tufts of hair stuck out here and there. He had probably tried to model it on Adrian Brandt’s modern hairstyle, with small curls pulled forward at the temples. Nilsson’s curls had resisted, so the result was rather comical. Both men wore the high, stiff, white collar nicknamed the “father killer”. It must be very uncomfortable to wear, Anna Maria thought.

“Nilsson,” said Adrian Brandt in his quick, somewhat hectic tone. “You’ll show Anna Maria Olsdatter the premises, won’t you? I must be off now.”

Nilsson bowed and scraped, making his tight waistcoat creak at the seams. He quickly brushed a few cake crumbs from his clothes. “Of course, Mr Director, of course! You can count on me, Sir!”

Adrian Brandt bade her farewell. “Nilsson will take care of everything, just ask him if there is anything you need help with. I’ll return at the end of the week together with my family – my mother and my two sisters. They like to get some country air every so often.”

Then he rushed out.

She felt somewhat brushed aside. He could have given her a warmer welcome, she thought, but perhaps she hadn’t made much of an impression on him six years ago: at least it hadn’t been as great as the impression he had made on her as a child.

“Director Brandt has many irons in the fire,” Nilsson said, smiling, his round cheeks looking as though they were ready to explode. “Of course, he leaves most of it to me.”

His eyes glided lizard-like and quick as lightning over her as his tongue quickly licked his childish pout.

“I would like to be shown to my room,” she said in as friendly a voice as she could muster. “And I would like to know where the school is.”

“Yes, of course. Follow me.”

He took a bunch of keys from the writing desk, rattling them importantly.

“Can the young Miss really teach?” he asked in his oily voice. “You don’t look much more than a schoolgirl yourself.”

Anna Marie guessed him to be about thirty-five to forty years old, an overripe church angel, who consoled himself with too much cake and other unhealthy food, though how he was able to afford it on a meagre clerk’s salary was unfathomable. But at least he seemed harmless.

That impression was one that would later change.

They went outside. He was actually carrying her travelling bag, which she hadn’t expected him to do, and she told him briefly about her education as he locked up. Then they walked around the corner of the building.

“Where will I live?”

“At Klara Andersdatter’s, which is the third house from here. She is allowed to go on living in Ytterheden because she does the men’s laundry and washes their floors. Her husband, who used to work here, ran off with the Clump’s wife, so she doesn’t really have the right to remain here. The Clump had to move back to the barracks. But perhaps we should look at the schoolroom while we are here ...”

To Anna Maria’s consternation, Nilsson headed for the empty storeroom she had entered earlier as he went on chatting away all the while. “But the young Miss must beware of the men around here. Their manners aren’t always like ours. They are uncultivated plebeians.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“We had been expecting a somewhat older person.”

The question she then posed to him came rather spontaneously. “Perhaps not everyone is pleased to have a female teacher here? Perhaps they would have preferred a man?”

“Oh, it’s only Kol, that barbarian, who’s been complaining about it. Don’t worry about him.”

“Kol?”

“Yes, the foreman. He was the one who insisted that the children here have some schooling. It’s like casting pearls before swine, if you ask me.”

He opened the door to the ugly, echoing, empty room she had only recently been into. “Yes, well, this is the classroom. Kol has promised to have it ready with benches and a lectern by Wednesday. Then the young Miss can begin teaching.”

She looked around in dismay. She would never be able to create a good atmosphere in here, and that was of the utmost importance in a classroom, she believed. Everything seemed dilapidated, neglected and cold.

“What will we do in the winter?” she asked meekly. “About heating it, I mean?”

“That will be taken care of,” he promised.

“Kol? Is that his first name or his surname?”

“He actually has a completely different name but it was too hard to pronounce. He is of Walloon descent, from the Belgian blacksmiths that came to Sweden in the 1600s.”

Anna Maria nodded. She had heard about them.

“Didn’t they keep to themselves for a long time?”

“Yes, that’s why our foreman has a foreign name. Guillaume Simon, I think it is, but simple miners can’t pronounce that. They aren’t educated like us. So he’s just known as Kol Simon or usually just plain Kol – which comes from the word ‘coal’, because he’s so black.”

“Black – how?”

“His hair and eyes. He’s also hard as nails. He gets dangerous when he’s angry. But he’s good at what he does.”

Yes, hard as nails, she could believe that all right: she had heard the tone of his voice. Already once too often, she thought.

“Yes,” she said despondently, as she cast a last glance around the bleak room. “Shall we go to my lodgings, then?”

Nilsson once again took her bag chivalrously as he locked the door. “It’s heavy,” he commented.

“Books,” she said laconically.

He made no comment.

As they walked down the autumn-dry road – or street, if it was possible to use that term to describe it – Nilsson continued to chatter.

“When the director isn’t here I am the one who is responsible for everything, of course ... here at the first house is where Gustav, the blacksmith, lives. All his children have consumption ... And I believe that the director is satisfied with my work. He is going through a very difficult time so it is understandable that he is leaving much of the work to me.”

Anna Maria nodded. “He has just become a widower, I know.”

“A terrible tragedy,” Nilsson said unctuously. “And such an adorable wife! She died in childbirth. Of course, it’s not uncommon, but she was a pure angel! This next house is where Seved lives. His wife receives visitors whenever he’s in the mines. No one, least of all herself, knows who is the father of her youngest child. Well! Here we are! And here is Klara, with whom you will be staying. Hello, Klara, this is your new lodger.”

The bitter, haggard woman at the door said nothing. She just gave Anna Maria a sour nod and gestured her to come inside with a movement of her hand. “Well then, I’ll return to the office,” Nilsson said. “I have much to see to.”

Klara mumbled something about a “gossipmonger in trousers” as she led Anna Maria into the hall. It was gloomy and the paint on the walls was peeling, but everything smelled clean. Klara, a woman of uncertain age, opened a door.