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

By that stage, Britt-Marie had already put the keys to the recreation center on the dish rack and sneaked out behind them. If they did notice, and maybe they did, they let her go without a word, because they liked her enough to do that.

Afternoon turns to evening in Borg, quick and merciless, as if dusk is pulling a Band-Aid off the daylight. Britt-Marie kneels with her forehead against Sami’s headstone.

“My darling boy, I’ll never regret that I was here.”

On Monday the bulldozers are coming to Borg. Britt-Marie doesn’t know if she is religious, but she imagines that it’s good enough, the knowledge that God has plans for Borg.

She has grass stains on her tights when she walks on her own down the road through the village. The white jerseys are still there on the fence. New candles have been lit underneath. The recreation center is lit up by the glow of a television and she can see the shadows of the children’s heads inside. More children now than ever. A club more than a team. She wants to go in, but she understands this would not be appropriate. Understands that it’s best this way.

In the graveled parking area between the recreation center and the pizzeria are two quite gigantic old trucks with their headlights turned on. A group of grown men with beards and caps are moving about in the beams of light, huffing and puffing, groaning and shoving each other. It takes a good while before Britt-Marie understands they are playing soccer.

They are playing.

She continues down the road. Stands for a few heartbeats outside a modest little house with a modest little garden. If you didn’t know it was there you could easily walk past without paying any attention to it and, in this sense, the house has a great deal in common with its owner. The police car is not parked outside, the windows are not lit up. Once she’s absolutely certain that Sven is not at home, Britt-Marie sneaks up to the door and knocks on it. Because she wanted to do that once in her life.

Then she quickly moves off, keeping herself to the shadows, and walks the remaining distance to Bank’s house. The flower bed outside no longer stinks. The “For Sale” sign on the lawn has been removed. There’s a smell of fried eggs when Britt-Marie steps into the hall; the dog is sleeping on the floor, Bank is sitting in her armchair in the living room with her face pressed up so close to the TV that Britt-Marie actually wants to warn her that it might be harmful to her eyes, but on second thought realizes it would be better not to.

“Might one ask who’s playing?” she says instead.

“Aston Villa and Liverpool! Aston Villa are leading two to none!” says Bank, very agitated.

“Ha. So should I presume, then, that you also support Liverpool, like all the children seem to?”

“Are you mad? I support Aston Villa!” hisses Bank.

“Might I ask why?” asks Britt-Marie, because when she thinks about it more closely, it occurs to her that this is the first time she has ever seen Bank pay any attention to a televised soccer match.

Bank looks as if this is a preposterous question. Thinks for a moment. Then answers, grumpily:

“Because no one else supports Aston Villa… and because they have nice jerseys.”

Britt-Marie finds the second argument a touch more rational than the first. Bank lifts her head, turns down the volume on the TV. Takes a pull at her beer and clears her throat.

“There’s food in the kitchen. If you’re hungry.”

Britt-Marie shakes her head, clutches her handbag hard.

“Kent is coming soon. We’re going home. He’s driving his car, and I am driving mine, but he’ll drive in front of me of course. I don’t like driving in the dark. It’s best if he’s at the front.”

Bank gets to her feet with a lot of laborious cursing at the armchair, as if it’s the chair’s fault that people get older.

“Not that I want to get involved, but I think you should learn to drive in the dark.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” answers Britt-Marie into her handbag.

Bank and the dog give her a hand with the bags and the balcony box from upstairs. Britt-Marie washes up and cleans the kitchen. Sorts cutlery. Pats the dog behind its ears. A person on the TV starts yelling loudly. Bank disappears into the living room and comes back looking irascible.

“Liverpool just scored. Now it’s two to one,” she mutters.

Britt-Marie walks around the house one last time. Straightens rugs and curtains.

When she comes down into the kitchen she says:

“I’m not the kind to stick my nose in, but I could hardly avoid noticing that the ‘For Sale’ sign on the lawn has been taken down. I’d just like to congratulate you on getting your house sold.”

Bank laughs bitterly.

“Are you joking? Who would buy a house in Borg?”

Britt-Marie adjusts her skirt.

“It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption to make given that you’d just removed the sign…”

“Ah, I thought I’d stay on in Borg for a while, that’s all. I was thinking I’d go and have a word with my old man. I thought it might be easier now he’s dead, because he can’t interrupt me all the time.”

Britt-Marie wants to pat her on the shoulder, but she realizes it’s best to leave it. Not least because Bank has her stick within reach.

There’s a knock. Bank goes into the hall but then continues on into the living room without opening the door, because she knows who it is.

Britt-Marie looks around the kitchen one last time. Runs her fingers close enough to the walls to feel them, but not close enough to touch them. They are very dirty, after all. She hasn’t had time to sort them out. She would have needed more time in Borg for that.

Kent smiles with relief when she opens the door.

“Are you ready to go?” he says anxiously, as if he still fears she may change her mind.

She nods and grasps her bag. Then the commentator on the TV suddenly starts roaring like mad. It sounds as if someone has walloped him.

“What on earth is going on?” Britt-Marie exclaims.

“Let’s go now! Or we could get stuck in the traffic!” Kent tries, but it’s too late. Britt-Marie goes into the living room. Bank is swearing and hissing at a young man in a red shirt who’s charging about yelling until his face turns purple.

“Two to two, Liverpool has tied, it’s two to two,” she mutters, kicking the armchair as if it’s responsible for the situation.

Britt-Marie is already halfway out the door.

Kent’s BMW is parked in the street. He comes running and reaches out to her, but she pulls away. Of course, it’s not appropriate at all, a grown woman running as if she were a criminal fleeing justice. She stops herself by the edge of the pavement, her breath hot in her throat, and she turns around and looks at Kent with tears streaming down her face.

“What are you doing, darling? We have to go now,” he says, but his voice breaks because he can probably recognize very clearly what she’s doing.

Her skirt is creased, but she doesn’t adjust it. Her hair is almost untidy, as untidy as it is possible for Britt-Marie’s hair to be. Her common sense throws in the towel in the end, and allows her to raise her voice:

“Liverpool have tied! I think they’re going to win!”

Kent allows his chin to sink towards his chest. He shrinks.

“You can’t be their mother, darling. And even if you can, what’ll happen after that? When they don’t need you anymore? What happens then?”

She shakes her head. But defiantly, rebelliously, not with sadness and dejection. As if she’s fully intending to jump off an edge, even if only the edge of the pavement.

“I don’t know, Kent. I don’t know what happens after that.”

He closes his eyes, looking once again like a young boy on a landing, and then says in a quiet voice: