I Am Behind You (7 page)

Peace. He feels peace.

*

Benny raises his head, cocks one ear. He can hear a new sound, coming from far away. He glances at his master and mistress, who are sitting at the table, but they don't appear to have noticed anything. Benny edges along to the opening and looks out.

Several Hes and Shes are approaching. Benny turns his head and sees his master open the cold box next to his basket and take out a few cans. Benny has experienced this kind of thing before. There will be loud voices and lots of people trying to pat him, which he doesn't like. He screws up his courage and slips out, in the direction of the noise.

All the Hes and Shes go inside the awning, while Benny stares into the emptiness. It is impossible to see where the noise is coming from, but he recognises it. It is the same as the sound that comes from his master's box, the one on the table. Benny is satisfied, and decides to inspect the area while all the Hes and Shes are safely inside.

The absence of smells from other animals is distressing. There doesn't seem to be much point in marking his territory when there is nothing against which to defend it, but he goes through the motions anyway. You never know. A Fox or Dog
could
just turn up and get the idea that this is their place. Or Cat might start taking liberties.

Benny glances at Cat's caravan, wondering whether to go over and
show himself so that Cat won't forget about him, when a squeaking noise catches his attention. He heads towards it and spots the small He and She.

Benny is wary of small people. They sometimes pull his tail and behave unpleasantly in all kinds of ways. He stops at a safe distance and tilts his head on one side, trying to see what they are up to.

They have opened a flap and Benny senses that they are doing something that isn't right. She looks fine, but He doesn't. Benny is exactly the same when he has stolen a sausage. Benny knows all about Right and Wrong, and the small He is clearly doing something that is Wrong.

Benny cannot work out what this might be, but one thing he does know: the small He is going to get a good smack on the nose. Sooner or later. End up with no dinner. That kind of thing.

*

Majvor has been married to Donald for forty-six years. He proposed on his twenty-fifth birthday, and she said yes straight away. She saw no reason to give him a different answer. In those days Donald was just an ordinary employee at the sawmill, but Majvor knew that he would soon make progress. She was right.

She has given him four sons, and they are all decent men. She has run a large household, cooked, cleaned, shopped, done the laundry. She has had her hands full for almost thirty years, and has never felt the need to complain.

He has never hit her, and is not a big drinker. She is pretty sure he has been unfaithful, but this hasn't particularly bothered her. Men are men, and although she might have shed a few tears over a shirt carrying the scent of an unfamiliar perfume, she has quickly put the matter behind her and has never plagued him with questions.

He has accompanied her to church on high days and holidays even though he does not share her faith, which is kind of him. In return she has never tried to convert him or force him into a piety that is not in his nature.

They have been lucky, all in all. She'd grown up poor, with no special talents, and so had Donald, but together they have raised four fine sons, and can rest on their laurels in a large house by the sea, with two cars and a boat. The Lord has indeed smiled down upon them. To think anything else would be the height of arrogance.

Majvor doesn't know what to make of the situation in which they now find themselves. The Lord may or may not be involved, as is so often the case. When she has a moment to herself, she will ask Him for advice. He probably won't answer, and as usual she will be left to her own devices. That's how it should be.

But it looks as if it will be a while before that moment comes. The people from the other caravans are arriving, one by one or two by two, at Donald's invitation. Majvor gets up to welcome them. She is a good hostess, as she has been told so many times.

She intends to carry on being herself, a person who is basically kind. Whatever happens.

*

‘Why are we doing this?'

‘Because it's fun, of course.'

‘How is it fun?'

‘You'll see, you stupid dog.'

‘I don't want to be a dog any more. Tell me.'

‘Tell you what?'

‘About the monster and so on.'

‘Nope.'

‘But you promised! You said that if I—'

‘First of all I have to be sure you won't say anything.'

‘I won't.'

‘You swear?'

‘I swear!'

‘Do you swear on your mummy's life? If you say anything, she'll die?'

‘…'

‘There you go. You will say something.'

‘I won't! I swear!'

‘On your mummy's life?'

‘…'

‘On your mummy's life?'

‘Yes.'

‘Repeat after me:
If I say anything, my mummy will die
.'

‘If I say anything, my…I don't want to.'

‘In that case the monster can have you.'

*

Seven people are gathered around the teak table in Donald and Majvor's awning, three along each side, Donald at the head. Only Stefan and Donald have a can of beer in front of them; the others have soft drinks, or nothing. After all, it's only morning. Presumably.

Donald has told them that the radio is working, and together they have listened to Mona Wessman singing about the hambo, but there is no presenter.

If this was a meeting, it would have been abandoned by now. The atmosphere is oppressive, and no one is saying anything. From time to time someone turns to the opening in the canvas awning, looking for those who are not here. Everyone must be present. Perhaps that is why nothing is happening, nothing is being said.

Donald takes a swig of his beer and leans back, placing his hands on his belly. ‘So…' One or two people nod as if to confirm he is correct. Stefan even goes so far as to say ‘Right', mainly to thank Donald for the beer.

Majvor notices that Isabelle's hands are shaking. She reaches across the table and pats her arm. ‘My dear, are you ill?'

Isabelle swallows audibly. ‘Have you got any sweets? A Mars bar or a Dime, anything?'

Donald snorts. ‘Are you a sugar addict? Oh well, sweets to the sweet, as they say.'

He looks around, but no one even smiles at his joke. He is about to try again, but catches Majvor's steady gaze and takes another swig from his can instead.

‘We've got homemade buns,' Majvor says.

Isabelle rubs her arm and nods. ‘That'll do, thanks.'

Majvor gets to her feet and waddles over to the door of the caravan, mounting the step with a groan. Donald watches her with displeasure and turns to Stefan. He looks as if he is about to say something, but changes his mind. Silence reigns once more.

Donald contemplates the assembled company, searching for an opening. He settles on Lennart and Olof, who are sitting opposite one another at the far end of the table. ‘So what about you two?' he says. ‘Tell me about yourselves.'

The two men shuffle uncomfortably.

‘Lennart.'

‘Olof. Think of the former Centre Party leaders.'

‘I don't know any of their names. Apart from Fälldin. But I do know the name of every single American president.'

‘Impressive,' Lennart says.

‘Very,' Olof adds.

Donald narrows his eyes as he tries to work out whether they are making fun of him, but there is nothing to indicate that this is the case. Their expressions are open and interested, so he holds up his hands and begins to count on his fingers.

‘Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison.'

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Majvor thud down the step with a plate of buns in her hand. He is well aware of her views on demonstrating his little party trick, but he doesn't care.

‘Monroe, Adams, Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison.'

Majvor has barely put down the plate before Isabelle grabs two buns, one in each hand; it almost seems as if she can't chew fast enough to get them down. Majvor smiles and nods. It's nice when people eat what you're offering.

‘Tyler, Polk, Taylor.'

Stefan glances towards the opening and sighs. He can't stop thinking about that bloody herring. Three hundred tins will be on their way to the warehouse. If only he could make a phone call. Why isn't that possible? There might be pockets in the depths of Norrland that have no reception these days, but this is not the depths of Norrland. Not by a long way.

‘Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan, Lincoln!'

Lennart and Olof are frozen, like two small animals caught in the headlights of Donald's gaze; his eyes are fixed on them as the names come pouring out. There is something vaguely frightening and possibly aggressive about the performance. They would like to hold hands, but of course they don't.

‘Johnson, Grant, Hayes, Garfield, Arthur.'

Carina follows Stefan's eyes and assumes he is thinking the same as her. Emil. He has been with that girl for half an hour. She would like to go and fetch him, but knows she shouldn't. Emil doesn't find it easy to make friends; his shyness and reserve get in the way. So Carina ought to be pleased. She tries to feel pleased.

‘Cleveland, Harrison, Cleveland again.'

Donald reels off his list of names triumphantly. Every one is a face, and every face is a period in American history. He is no expert, but taken altogether the names conjure up what America means to him. Opportunity. People who overcome the odds, who rise above their humble beginnings, breaking the chains of the past to be
free
. It is like a prayer, this litany, these names.

‘McKinley, Roosevelt, Taft.'

Isabelle is on her fourth bun. She would really like to grab the whole plate and withdraw to a dark corner like some wild animal to devour the lot. She loves the slim figure her illness gives her, but hates the weakness. She doesn't want anyone to look at her while she is eating.

‘Wilson, Harding…hang on a minute. Wilson, Harding…'

Carina is so busy trying to be pleased for Emil's sake that she doesn't notice he has come into the awning until he hurls himself at
her and buries his face between her breasts. His body is heaving with sobs, and she gently strokes the back of his neck. ‘Whatever's wrong, sweetheart?' Emil shakes his head and presses even closer.

‘Wilson, Harding, then Hoover. But there's one in between. Who is it?'

Carina looks over towards the opening and sees Molly standing there, leaning against one of the supporting posts and staring at her. When their eyes meet Molly smiles, shrugs and shakes her head as if to say: ‘
I
don't know what's wrong with him either.'

‘Help me out here,' Donald says. ‘Wilson, Harding, and then…'

The sound of a car horn brings everyone to their feet. This is what they've been waiting for, although no one dared put it into words. Now they will know. There is anxiety on every face as they move towards the opening; Molly has already run away. Only Donald remains in his seat, staring blankly into space as he mutters: ‘There's one missing. There's one missing.'

*

Isabelle's hunger has been appeased for the time being. She picks up the last bun on her way out. She is happy to leave the awning; the decor is possibly the most vulgar she has ever seen.

Bad taste can actually make her feel physically unwell. Both her parents are aesthetes, and she grew up in a home where every object was carefully chosen. Her bedroom was a monk's cell compared to those of her contemporaries. No posters, no photographs, no bits and pieces.

A week spent camping has been something of an ordeal. At every turn she has been confronted by barbecues and cheap tat, and by people who seem to enjoy that sort of thing. She hates the caravan and she hates Peter for persuading her to come along. Some of the best memories from his ghastly childhood, camping holidays with his mother, blah blah blah. Isabelle hates his rotten childhood too, and his constant references to it.

She has erased her own childhood, left it behind. She doesn't think about it, doesn't talk about it. Above all she doesn't use it as an argument to get her own way. She has other methods of achieving that.

Before she leaves the awning she glances back at Donald, who is sitting there with his mouth hanging open.
No need for you to bother your pretty little head about that, my dear.
No doubt he had a rotten childhood as well. She hopes so. She hopes he carries it with him, and that it really hurts.

Isabelle takes a few steps towards the car, then stops. There is something different about Peter, standing there by the open door with everyone gathered around him. She can't quite put her finger on it, but it is as if the light is striking him from another angle, rather than from above.

*

The first thing Peter says to the group is: ‘Have you had a barbecue?'

They all look at one another. Everyone knows that no one has had a barbecue, and yet it is as if they have to check.
Have you had a barbecue? No. Me neither. How about you? No, when would I have done that? And why is he asking?

It is Stefan who says it out loud: ‘Why do you ask?'

‘I thought I could smell smoke. As if someone was barbecuing. Meat.'

‘Okay…' Stefan glances at the others. ‘But what did you see? What's out there?'

‘Nothing,' Peter replies. ‘Same as here. Nothing.'

Stefan waits for him to go on. At a push he can accept what Peter says, that things are as bad as he feared. But what he can't get his head around is why Peter looks so
pleased
. It doesn't make sense.

Isabelle appears to feel the same. She walks up to Peter and says: ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Don't stand there lying like a fucking idiot. This isn't the time or the place. What did you see?'