and I threw my toothbrush and shampoo into a bag.
No nightie. But I put on the cap he gave me for my birthday. He had a hulking great car, half truck, and I had to shift half a ton of scrap iron before I could squeeze in beside him. We stopped at a petrol station on the way and bought a chunk of cheese and a French stick. He gestured vaguely towards the condoms; I shook my head and drew a coil in the condensation on the window. It was still in place, as a reminder of Örjan.
It was dark when we reached his farm, so I couldn’t get any real idea of my surroundings. But it smelt reassuringly rural and the house was a big, old wooden one, painted red. He ushered me through the porch and into the hall, then disappeared towards the cowshed to do one last evening check.
There was a faintly rural smell even indoors, not very pleasant, to tell the truth. Mildew and sour milk and wet dog.
So I was on my own for my first meeting with his house, which was definitely a pity – I could have done with his warm, dry left hand and its three remainingfingers. Because there was no mistaking that this was where the man with the tasteless gravestone lived.
I started in the kitchen. There was a fluorescent strip light on the ceiling with a few dead flies in it. The walls were greyish blue and clearly had been for the last fifty years. They were fly-specked in some places, in others hung with cross-stitch samplers, some with sayings like “In this Home we find our Rest when Clean and Tidy have done their Best”, and pictures of bright orange flowers in brown baskets, kittens, bluetits and red cottages . On the windowsill stood a row of potted plants as dead as the dusty everlasting flowers in the vintage black Fifties-design vase. There was a kitchen settle with a grubby rag rug on the seat, a dirty teatowel, rib-backed wooden chairs with seat cushions in a brown floral fabric. Perched on top of the refrigerator, which was so old it was free-standing and had rounded corners , were a blue fabric flower in a china shoe and a plastic cat, virtually transparent with age. I put the cheese in the refrigerator; it was all but empty and smelt of compost.
I felt my way into the next room. There was a big black switch by the door, at hip height; dark green embossed vinyl wallpaper, the sort that makes it look as if there’s moss growing on the walls; an old couch with one end kicked through, covered in an odd assortment of shabby rugs; an oak sideboard with a large television set standing on it, an oval mirror hanging above it; an angular, Fifties-style armchair; a magazine rack full of old copies of The Farmer, and more cross-stitch pictures.Plus a framed reproduction of “Urchins at the Farm Gate”.
I gaily told myself: you could open a postmodernist cult café in here! The thought went through my mind that if I’d come across a place like this in Estonia, say, I might have found it touching, even exotic. But I could feel the corners of my mouth trembling with the effort of holding that smile.
And they drooped definitively when I got to the bedroom and saw the unmade bed with the grey- looking sheets.
I went in through the cellar door and used the downstairs shower so I didn’t spread the cowshed smell around the house. I’ve tried to avoid using it much recently, because to be honest, it needs a good scrub. I’ll need the pressure hose if I’m ever going to get it clean again. And there are various other places in the house that could do with it, too. But how the hell to find time?
Mum used to work at least a ten-hour day, and I must work fifteen; that would make twenty-five, which I couldn’t count up to even if I used toes as well as fingers . Let’s face it: sparkling tiles are as much a thing of the past as homemade buns and crisply pressed sheets.
As I stood humming to myself in the shower, I thought I could picture her, my beige beloved, moving her small, pale hands over the kitchen table, laying outthat delicious
No nightie. But I put on the cap he gave me for my birthday. He had a hulking great car, half truck, and I had to shift half a ton of scrap iron before I could squeeze in beside him. We stopped at a petrol station on the way and bought a chunk of cheese and a French stick. He gestured vaguely towards the condoms; I shook my head and drew a coil in the condensation on the window. It was still in place, as a reminder of Örjan.
It was dark when we reached his farm, so I couldn’t get any real idea of my surroundings. But it smelt reassuringly rural and the house was a big, old wooden one, painted red. He ushered me through the porch and into the hall, then disappeared towards the cowshed to do one last evening check.
There was a faintly rural smell even indoors, not very pleasant, to tell the truth. Mildew and sour milk and wet dog.
So I was on my own for my first meeting with his house, which was definitely a pity – I could have done with his warm, dry left hand and its three remainingfingers. Because there was no mistaking that this was where the man with the tasteless gravestone lived.
I started in the kitchen. There was a fluorescent strip light on the ceiling with a few dead flies in it. The walls were greyish blue and clearly had been for the last fifty years. They were fly-specked in some places, in others hung with cross-stitch samplers, some with sayings like “In this Home we find our Rest when Clean and Tidy have done their Best”, and pictures of bright orange flowers in brown baskets, kittens, bluetits and red cottages . On the windowsill stood a row of potted plants as dead as the dusty everlasting flowers in the vintage black Fifties-design vase. There was a kitchen settle with a grubby rag rug on the seat, a dirty teatowel, rib-backed wooden chairs with seat cushions in a brown floral fabric. Perched on top of the refrigerator, which was so old it was free-standing and had rounded corners , were a blue fabric flower in a china shoe and a plastic cat, virtually transparent with age. I put the cheese in the refrigerator; it was all but empty and smelt of compost.
I felt my way into the next room. There was a big black switch by the door, at hip height; dark green embossed vinyl wallpaper, the sort that makes it look as if there’s moss growing on the walls; an old couch with one end kicked through, covered in an odd assortment of shabby rugs; an oak sideboard with a large television set standing on it, an oval mirror hanging above it; an angular, Fifties-style armchair; a magazine rack full of old copies of The Farmer, and more cross-stitch pictures.Plus a framed reproduction of “Urchins at the Farm Gate”.
I gaily told myself: you could open a postmodernist cult café in here! The thought went through my mind that if I’d come across a place like this in Estonia, say, I might have found it touching, even exotic. But I could feel the corners of my mouth trembling with the effort of holding that smile.
And they drooped definitively when I got to the bedroom and saw the unmade bed with the grey- looking sheets.
I went in through the cellar door and used the downstairs shower so I didn’t spread the cowshed smell around the house. I’ve tried to avoid using it much recently, because to be honest, it needs a good scrub. I’ll need the pressure hose if I’m ever going to get it clean again. And there are various other places in the house that could do with it, too. But how the hell to find time?
Mum used to work at least a ten-hour day, and I must work fifteen; that would make twenty-five, which I couldn’t count up to even if I used toes as well as fingers . Let’s face it: sparkling tiles are as much a thing of the past as homemade buns and crisply pressed sheets.
As I stood humming to myself in the shower, I thought I could picture her, my beige beloved, moving her small, pale hands over the kitchen table, laying outthat delicious
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