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

He takes her hand and she presses her eyelids against his lips. Says, almost panting:

“Vega is afraid even if she mainly seems angry. Omar is angry, even if he mostly seems afraid.”

“Everything is going to be all right,” says Kent into her hair.

“I promised Sami their lives would work out,” sobs Britt-Marie.

“They’re going to be fine, you have to let the authorities take care of this,” he says calmly.

“I know. Of course I do know that.”

“They’re not your children, darling.”

She doesn’t answer. Because she knows. Obviously she knows that. Instead, she straightens her back and wipes her eyes with a tissue, adjusts a crease in her skirt and several in Kent’s shirt. Collects herself and clasps her hands over her stomach and asks him:

“I should like to take care of a last errand. Tomorrow. In town. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t always have to stand next to me, Kent.”

“Yes, I do.”

Then he smiles. And she tries to.

But when he starts walking back to the BMW she stays where she is with her heels dug into the gravel, as you do when enough is finally enough:

“No, Kent, certainly not! I am certainly not going into town with you if you don’t first put on both your shoes!”

One remarkable thing about communities built along roads is that you can find just as many reasons for leaving them as excuses to stay. Some people never quite stop devoting themselves to one or the other.

In the end it’s almost a whole week after the funeral before Britt-Marie gets into her white car with its blue door and drives off along the road that leaves Borg. Admittedly it’s not entirely the fault of the council employees in the town hall. Possibly, they are only trying to do their jobs. It is not their fault that they are not wholly aware of Britt-Marie’s precision when ticking off her lists.

So on the first day, a Monday, the young man who’s working temporarily on reception at the town hall looks as if he thinks Britt-Marie is trying to be amusing. The reception opens at 8:00, so Britt-Marie and Kent have turned up at 8:02 because Britt-Marie doesn’t want to come across as pigheaded.

“Borg?” says the temporary receptionist in the sort of tone you might use when pronouncing the names of beasts in fairy tales.

“My dear boy, surely you can’t be working for the council without knowing that Borg is a part of the local council!” Britt-Marie says.

“I’m not from here. I’m a temp.”

“Ha. And I suppose that’s meant to be an excuse for not having to know anything at all.”

But Kent nudges her encouragingly in the side, and whispers to her that she should try to be a little more diplomatic, so she grimly collects herself, smiles considerately at the young man, and says:

“It was very brave of you, putting that tie on. Because it looks absolutely preposterous.”

Following this, there is a series of opinions exchanged that could not exactly be described as “diplomatic.” But in the end Kent manages to calm down both combatants to the extent that the young man promises not to call the security guards, and Britt-Marie promises not to try to strike him with her handbag again.

One curious thing about communities built along roads is that you don’t need to spend very long in them before you’re deeply and personally offended when young men don’t even know these places are there — that they even exist.

“I’ve come here to demand that a soccer pitch should be built in Borg, for your information,” Britt-Marie explains with her most goddess-like patience.

She points at her list. The young man looks through a file. He turns demonstratively to Kent and says something about a “committee,” which is currently held up in a meeting.

“For how long?”

The young man continues going through the file.

“It’s a breakfast meeting. So, more or less, until about ten o’clock.”

Whereupon both she and Kent have to leave the town hall, because a newly aggressive Britt-Marie has taken umbrage at the idea of a breakfast that lasts until ten o’clock, causing the young man to break his promise about not calling the security guards. They come back at ten o’clock, only to learn that the committee is in a meeting until after lunch. They come back after lunch, when they find out that the committee is in a meeting for the rest of the day. Britt-Marie clarifies her errand to the young man, because she does not believe it should have to take a whole day to get it done. The security guard who the young man has called takes the view that her clarity is somewhat overstated. He tells Kent that if Britt-Marie does this one more time he’ll have no option but to take her handbag away from her. Kent sniggers and says in that case the security guard is a braver man than Kent. Britt-Marie doesn’t know whether to feel insulted or proud about it.

“We’ll come back tomorrow, darling, don’t worry about it,” Kent says soothingly as they are walking out.

“You have your meetings, Kent. We have to go home, I understand that, of course I do understand that. I just hope that we manage to…”

She takes a breath so deep that it seems to be extracted from the bottom of her handbag.

“When Vega plays soccer she doesn’t feel any pain anymore.”

“Pain about what?”

“Everything.”

Kent lowers his head for a moment in thought.

“It doesn’t matter, darling. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

Britt-Marie adjusts the bandage on her hand.

“I’m aware of the fact that the children don’t need me. Obviously I am aware of that, Kent. I just wish I could give them something. At least if I could give them a soccer pitch.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Kent repeats, as he opens the car door for her.

“Yes, yes, you have your meetings, I understand that you have your meetings, we have to go home,” she says with a sigh.

Kent scratches his head distractedly. Coughs gently. Fixes his gaze on the rubber seal between the glass and the metal of the door, and answers:

“The fact is, darling, I only have one meeting. With the car dealer.”

“Ha. I didn’t realize you were planning to buy a new car.”

“I’m not buying. I’m selling this one,” says Kent, with a nod at the BMW that she has just got into.

His face is dejected, as if it knows this is what is expected of it. But when he shrugs he does it as a young boy might, and his shoulders are light and relaxed as if they have just been liberated from a heavy burden.

“The company has gone bankrupt, darling. I tried to save it for as long as I could, but… well. It’s the financial crisis.”

Britt-Marie gawps at him.

“But I thought… I thought you said the crisis was over?”

He considers this for a moment, then simply says, “I was wrong, darling. Totally, totally wrong.”

“What are you going to do?”

He smiles, unconcerned and youthful.

“Start again. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Once upon a time I had nothing, remember?”

She does remember. Her fingers seek out his. They may be old, but he’s laughing:

“I built a whole life. A whole life! I can do it again.”

He holds her hands in his and looks into her eyes when he promises:

“I can become that man again, my darling.”

They’re halfway between town and Borg when Britt-Marie turns to him and asks how things have gone for Manchester United. He laughs out loud. It’s heavenly.

“Ah, it’s gone to pot. They’ve had their worst season in more than twenty years. The manager is going to get kicked out any moment.”