Helle Helle - This Should Be Written in the Present Tense

My bike was where I’d left it. I decided to cycle around a bit, I didn’t know what else to do. The chain rattled as I set off. I went back to the nearest T-junction and turned left, then biked on through the open countryside. I thought about Lars, his face and chest, and then further down. In a month he’d be back at college, I pushed the thought away. I started making a little noise whenever it came to mind, a whistling sound from between my teeth while I shook my head. I could make other thoughts go away like that too. One Sunday morning I’d woken up early and lay in bed looking around the room. My strappy high heels were under the table. We’d had wine the night before and after the first bottle I’d insisted we open another. I’d gone out to the kitchen to get the corkscrew, the driving instructor was wiping a dish. I searched through the drawer. When I found the corkscrew I held it up in the air and slammed the drawer shut. The driving instructor looked at me and I looked back into his eyes just a moment too long. He tipped his head to the side under the light and I held his gaze. He looked like he didn’t know what to make of it, but he smiled at me all the same. I smiled back, then turned jauntily on my heels. That Sunday morning I felt ashamed of myself, I made the whistling sound into the duvet. I didn’t even like the driving instructor. Eventually Lars woke up and asked if I was feeling sick, and it was almost like I was.

The chain came off at the edge of a wood. I got off and turned the bike upside down, it was a job getting it back on. The oil was all dried up, but I still got my hands dirty. It got on my shorts as well. I wiped my hands with some dock leaves and decided to find my way home next time I came to a signpost. I got on again.

Just after the wood there was a yellow farmhouse with a flagpole at the front. There were cars parked all down the side of the driveway, one of them was the old Volvo. I turned and biked back to the edge of the wood. I laid the bike down on the ground and went in among the trees and stood and watched. I could smell the suckling pig, a faint chinking of glasses came from the garden. A car came into view at a bend and beeped its horn all the way up to the cobbles. There was a slamming of car doors and laughter. A second later the whole party laughed at once, an eruption.

I went back to the bike and tried to pedal home from memory. It fell short and I got lost. There were run-down cottages with open doors and news on the radio. Gulls flocked around an early harvester in the late sun.

When I got back to Haslev I went up to the bedsit to get some money, then biked down to the phone box and rang Dorte. There was no reply. I rang my parents, it was my dad who answered. They were having coffee and had been busy in the greenhouse, there was some trouble with condensation. He asked how things were doing at the teachers’ association. I said things were fine and we were probably going to Anholt. Then I ran out of change and told him to give my love. I tried Dorte again, but she still wasn’t in. I bought an ice lolly at the corner shop and took it back with me to the bedsit. I lay in bed and ate it. Some rhythmic noises were coming from the next room. I got up and opened the balcony door and tossed the lolly stick into the bushes. I went for a walk. I walked back. I didn’t know what to do with myself, or how to go on.

My bungalow needed decorating for Christmas. I bought two bundles of fir branches and tried to join them together in a long garland to go over the front door. I’d seen one in a magazine, with baubles and snow. After about halfway I gave up. My hands and forearms were all scratched from the wire and my nails were broken, it was a stupid idea. I crumpled the unfinished garland and put it out of the way in the shed. As I turned to go back I almost tripped over the abandoned picnic basket. It occurred to me that I could fill it up with the fir branches and put it on the front doorstep, it would do nicely as a Christmas decoration.

The ticket-office guy had been over to see me twice. His name was Knud. The second time he came his girlfriend was at her sister’s over on Fyn. I’d bought a tin of olives and a bottle of red wine and put it out on the table with two upturned glasses. As soon as I saw him leave the station I turned the glasses the right way up. I opened the door before he even knocked and led him into the front room. He’d brought four chocolate turtles with him. We had a laugh about that, then we sat down. He took an olive.

‘Have you got any music?’ he said.

‘Only the radio.’

‘Don’t you listen to music, then?’

‘Yes, on the radio.’

‘Okay.’

‘Do you want some wine?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Go on, then. Thanks. Nice olives.’

‘They’re from Irma. In Copenhagen,’ I said.

‘Irma, right,’ he said, and then he got up and came and put his hand on my neck. We kissed each other. We got down on the floor and knocked over a chair, we pulled and tore, my leg stuck up in the air like a white post. It wouldn’t do in the front room without curtains. We hobbled into the bedroom. The Hamburg express came through, a slight distraction in the corner of his eye, then he shook the rest of his trousers off and did his little skip. He’d done it the last time too. I’d thought then it might be first-time nerves. His body was firm and triangular, we thumped against the slats. Apart from that we didn’t connect. We flopped apart and sighed separately, it felt better then. We talked about houses as opposed to flats. His girlfriend wanted to move to Vordingborg, she wanted to have a baby as well, that was what frustrated him. When did you know the time was right? If you didn’t know, did it mean it wasn’t? We fetched the wine and the tin of olives and sat with pillows in our backs and a candle in the windowsill. He was so excited by the new perspective on the trains, it was quite touching. I put my hand on his upper arm.

That was ten days earlier. Now I thought about him more than was good for me, reality was something else. His girlfriend still shook her tea towels out of the kitchen window.

I invited Dorte over for mulled wine. I bought ginger snaps and gingerbread creams from the baker’s to go with it, they had three for ten kroner. I ate one on the way back to make sure they were all right. She came over after work, it fitted in with Hardy’s badminton. She’d got herself some new clothes, Christmassy trousers with a slight flare and a cardigan. She brought me some walnuts, a whole bag, it was practically a sack. Plus a piece of brie, some honey and two jars of pickled herring.

‘In case there’s a Christmas party and you need to bring something,’ she said. ‘Are they having one on your course?’

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Just drinks, I think.’

‘Just as well, it only makes your bum fat, all that food,’ she said, and we laughed, she’d just sent a buffet off to Ortved. She’d lost weight herself. It was due to her busy season, she always felt sick in December. That, and the dark. It took it out of her, just getting up in the mornings not being able to see a hand in front of her face. She sat at the table in the kitchen staring out into the darkness with her coffee every morning before six, while Hardy snored like a tractor. She lost her spirit in December, just when it mattered most. People were queuing down the street for her specials, she’d had to take on help.

‘A fat little thing, but good as gold,’ she said, then took a drag on her cigarette. I could tell she was feeling down. Her look was glazed. She’d been to view a flat on the outskirts of Næstved, a new development by the roundabout.

‘I’ve always liked Næstved, you know that,’ she said, and her expressionless eyes grew moist. I went up and put my arm around her, she sniffed and indicated the paper bag from the baker’s on the table.