Fredrik Backman - Britt-Marie Was Here [Britt-Marie var här]

Omar points at the bottles of Faxin.

“Those are thirty kronor each but you can have them on credit.”

“On credit ?”

“Everyone shops on credit in Borg.”

“I certainly don’t shop on credit! I can see maybe you don’t understand such a thing in Borg, but there are some of us that can pay our way!” hisses Britt-Marie.

That last bit just slips out of her. It wasn’t quite how she meant to put it.

Somebody is not grinning anymore. Both the boy and Britt-Marie have red faces, caused by different kinds of shame. Britt-Marie briskly lays down the money on the counter and the boy picks it up and runs out of the door. Soon the thumping can be heard again. Britt-Marie stays where she is and tries to avoid Somebody’s eyes.

“I didn’t get a receipt,” Britt-Marie states in a low voice, which is not at all incriminating.

Somebody shakes her head and smacks her tongue.

“What does he look like, IKEA or something? He doesn’t have, what’s-it-called? Limited company, you know. Just a kid with a bicycle.”

“Ha,” says Britt-Marie.

“What else do you want?” asks Somebody, her tone noticeably less hospitable as she puts the jar of baking soda and the bottles of Faxin in a bag.

Britt-Marie smiles as helpfully as she can.

“You have to understand that one has to get a receipt. Otherwise one actually can’t prove that one isn’t a criminal,” she explains.

Somebody rolls her eyes, which Britt-Marie feels is unnecessary.

Somebody presses a few keys on her register. The money tray opens, revealing not very much money at all inside, and then the register spits out a pale yellow receipt.

“That’ll be six hundred and seventy-three kronor and fifty öre,” says Somebody.

Britt-Marie stares back as if she’s got something stuck in her throat.

“For baking soda?”

Somebody points out of the door.

“For dent in car. I have done one of those, what’s-it-called? Bodywork inspection! I don’t want to, what’s-it-called? Insult you, Britt-Marie! So you can’t have credit. Six hundred and seventy-three kronor and fifty öre.”

Britt-Marie almost drops her handbag. That’s how grave the situation is.

“I have… who… for goodness’ sake. No civilized person walks around with that much cash in her handbag.”

She says that in an extra-loud voice. So that everyone in there can hear, in case one of them is a criminal. On the other hand, only the bearded coffee-drinking men are there, and neither of them even look up, but still. Criminal types do sometimes have beards. Britt-Marie actually has no prejudices about that.

“Do you take cards?” she says, registering a certain amount of rising heat along her cheekbones.

Somebody shakes her head hard.

“Poker players do cards, huh, Britt-Marie. Here we do cash.”

“Ha. In that case I’ll have to ask for directions to the nearest cash machine,” says Britt-Marie.

“In town,” says Somebody coldly, crossing her arms.

“Ha,” says Britt-Marie.

“They closed down the cash machine in Borg. Not profitable,” says Somebody with raised eyebrows, nodding at the receipt.

Britt-Marie’s gaze flickers desperately across the walls, in an attempt to deflect attention from her bloodred cheeks. There’s a yellow jersey hanging on the wall, identical to the one in the recreation center, with the word “Bank” written above the number “10” on its back.

Somebody notices her looking at it, so she closes the register, knots the bag of baking soda and Faxin, and pushes it across the counter.

“You know, no shame here with credit, huh, Britt-Marie. Maybe shame where you come from, but no shame in Borg.”

Britt-Marie takes the bag without knowing what to do with her eyes.

Somebody takes a slug of vodka and nods at the yellow jersey on the wall.

“Best player in Borg. Called ‘Bank,’ you know, because when Bank play for Borg it was like, what’s-it-called? Like money in the bank! Long time ago. Before financial crisis. Then, you know: Bank got ill, huh. Like another sort of crisis. Bank moved away. Gone now, huh.”

She nods out of the door. A ball thumps against the fence.

“Bank’s old man trained all the brats, huh. Kept them going. Kept all of Borg going, huh? Everyone’s friend! But God, you know, God got a shit head for numbers, huh. The sod gives both profitable and unprofitable person heart attack. Bank’s dad died a month ago.”

The wooden walls creak and groan around them, as old houses do, and old people. One of the men with papers and cups of coffee fetches more coffee from the counter. Britt-Marie notes that you get a free top-up here.

“They found him on the, what’s-it-called? Kitchen floor!”

“Pardon me?”

Somebody points at the yellow jersey. Shrugs.

“Bank’s old man. On the kitchen floor. One morning. Just dead.”

She snaps her fingers. Britt-Marie jumps. She thinks of Kent’s heart attack. He had always been very profitable. She takes an even firmer grip on her bag of Faxin and baking soda. Stands in silence for so long that Somebody starts to look concerned.

“Hey, you need something else? I have that, what’s-it-called? Baileys! Chocolate spirit! You know, it’s a copy, but you can put O’boy and vodka in it, and then, it’s okay to drink, if you drink it, you know… fast!”

Britt-Marie shakes her head briskly. She walks towards the door, but something about that kitchen floor may possibly cause her some hesitation. So she cautiously turns around, before she changes her mind, and then turns around again.

Britt-Marie is not a very spontaneous person, one certainly needs to be clear about that. “Spontaneous” is a synonym for “irrational”—that’s Britt-Marie’s firm view, and if there’s one thing Britt-Marie isn’t, it’s irrational. This is not so very easy for her, in other words. But at last she turns around, then changes her mind and turns around another time, so that by the end she’s facing the door when she lowers her voice and asks, with all the spontaneity that she can muster:

“Do you possibly stock Snickers chocolate bars?”

Darkness falls early in Borg in January. Britt-Marie goes back to the recreation center and sits by herself on one of the kitchen stools, with the front door open. The chill doesn’t concern her. Not the waiting either. She is used to it. You do get used to it. She has plenty of time to think about whether what she is going through now is a sort of life crisis. She has read about them. People have life crises all the time.

The rat comes in through the open door at twenty past six. It settles on the threshold and focuses a very watchful gaze on the Snickers bar, which is on a plate on top of a little towel. Britt-Marie gives the rat a stern look and cups one hand firmly in the other.

“From now on we have dinner at six o’clock. Like civilized people.”

After thinking this over for a certain amount of time, she adds:

“Or rats.”

The rat looks at the Snickers. Britt-Marie has removed the wrapper and placed the chocolate in the middle of the plate, with a neatly folded napkin next to it. She looks at the rat. Clears her throat.

“Ha. I’m not especially good at starting these types of conversations. I’m socially incompetent, you see, that’s what my husband says. He’s very socially gifted, everyone says that. An entrepreneur, you see.”

When the rat doesn’t answer, she adds:

“Very successful. Very, very successful.”

She briefly considers telling the rat about her life crisis. She imagines she’d like to explain that it’s difficult to know who you are once you are alone, when you have always been there for the sake of someone else. But she doesn’t want to trouble the rat with it. So she adjusts a crease in her skirt and says, very formally: