Ida Brandt (12 page)

Mrs Lund stared out from behind the big glasses that sat so uncomfortably on her nose.

“And now we’ve lived here undisturbed for almost thirty-five years.”

Old Lucie approached along the path, grumbling and mumbling.

“There,” said Mrs Lund, “Lucie’s off again now. Oh, it’s not easy, my dear. If only she would just sit down. But she wants to be in on everything and she is not one of the cleanest. One minute she is over the food, and the next she’s making beds.”

Mrs Lund shook her head and Ida smiled, though a little reluctantly. There were those in the area who found it a little difficult to eat in the forester’s house because Lucie liked to help with the food.

“But,” said Mrs Lund, “as I say to Lund, she must be allowed to die here.”

The “student”, the youngest of “the boys” poked his head in through the garden door.

“Is it Ida,” he said. “Come on, come on out. We’ re picking cherries.”

All the young people were down by the cherry trees, shouting and laughing. Two of the “boys” were up in the branches, picking and throwing down the cherries.

“Is that Ida,” shouted one of them.

“Catch.” Ida received two cherries in her face as she looked up.

The girls were catching the berries and laughing.

“O-o-h,” the cherries flew down.

“O-o-h,” how good Emilie Frederiksen was at catching.

“There,” one “boy” jumped down from the branch in the midst of the group.

“Here’s some more for you,” shouted the other, and he threw some cherries down to Ida. But by that time they were all lying down on the grass beneath the trees.

“Oh, it’s so nice here,” said Emilie, stretching her legs right out.

“Yes,” said Ida, almost with tears in her eyes; she did not know how she had fallen into that mood, sad or perhaps as it were uneasy… ever since she had been indoors with Mrs Lund.

Emilie lay there, looking down at her skirt, which bore the stains of three crushed cherries.

“I shall never get rid of those,” she said, patting down her skirt.

Ida rose. She would rather go home…such a strange mood had come over her

“Oh well, dear,” said Mrs Lund, who went with her to the outside door and stood there, nodding to her. “Remember me to your mother when you write.”

As Ida was walking down the road through the woods, Reck’s wagonette was approaching. It was full of ladies with coloured parasols.

Miss Constance Reck, sitting on the box and holding a slender ivory whip, stopped the horses and spoke to Ida.

Ida said something in return, and Miss Constance said:

“It is really lovely for Miss Schrøder to have got you out here.”

Miss Constance lowered the whip and the parasols moved a little as the carriage moved off.

Ida went on. She was lost in thought and turned down to walk past the bailiff’s wing without realising it…

Two of the young gentlemen were standing on the steps leading up to the big new glass-covered veranda; they were each leaning against a doorpost, smoking cigarettes, each with his trousers pulled half way up his legs to display his colourful socks. One of them raised his white felt hat to Ida, as did the other after a brief pause, and after she had passed she heard him say:

“Was
that
Miss Brandt?”

Ida increased her pace. She felt all the time as though something must have happened in the main building, and she said to the maid in the corridor:

“Is everything all right?”

The maid, who was bringing flowers for the table, replied:

“Yes; we are about to have dinner.”

And Ida felt quite calm again as she changed her clothes… She heard a dress rustling out on the garden path. It was Mrs von Eichbaum, who was going for a walk before dinner.

Ida was standing in front of her mirror when the gong sounded.

Sitting at table must surely be the worst thing of all for Karl Eichbaum, she thought.

Schrøder was standing by the open kitchen window pouring the soup into the soup plates when she saw a bare-legged boy coming up round the lawn.

“Who’s it for?” she shouted out of the window, past the two maids who were waiting.

It was the telegraph boy. But he was not in a hurry.

“It’s for Miss Brandt,” he said.

“Who?”

“It was for Miss Brandt,” the boy said again, slowly.

“Oh Lord,” Schrøder let go of the saucepan. “Oh Lord, then it must be bad news.”

“Where is she?” she said immediately afterwards, but then in the same breath: “Oh, let me serve the soup first.”

One of the maids took the telegram; she would take it up.

“Are you out of your mind?” said Schrøder and snatched it from her.

“You take the soup in.”

Schrøder calmed down again: she would tell John the coachman to be ready in case he was needed; and she went into the servants’ room, where he sat waiting for his coffee.

“Then she’ll be able to have her meal first,” thought Schrøder, and suddenly she began to weep.

“Poor thing,” she said.

When she arrived back in the kitchen, in tears, Ida was standing there.

“What on earth is wrong, Schrøder?” she asked. “What is it?” she repeated, in a more worried voice. And when Schrøder, confused, reluctantly held out the telegram to her, she said:

“It’s mother…” and she had torn the telegram open and read it.

“Oh dear, Ida, dear Ida,” was all Schrøder said, putting an arm around her.

Ida had not spoken. It was as though her eyes failed to see anything as she went into Schrøder’s room.

“Dear child,” Schrøder went on. “Dearest child…what is it?”

But Ida made no reply, and, scared as she stood there before the pale, stiff face, Schrøder simply went on using the old pet name, dear child, dear child – rocking Ida’s head backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, as though, in fear, she wanted to shake the tears out of her.

“I’ve ordered the carriage.”

“Thank you.” And then Ida voiced the only thought she had:

“If only I can manage to see her.”

Speaking made her start to weep, and Schrøder said – quite relieved – she had, of course, simply not known whether Mrs Brandt was still alive.

“Oh yes, oh yes, it’s not as bad as all that…she’ll get over it all right, you’ll see, my dear.”

Ida simply placed her arms wearily down on the chair.

“You must go,” she said. “They are waiting for you up there.”

“Oh,” said Schrøder, almost angrily, “let them wait.”

The door opened; it was Miss Rosenfeld.

“Have you ordered the carriage?” she asked, in a low voice, as though she had entered a sickroom.

“Yes.”

She nodded to Schrøder, who went out.

“We’ll get off straight away,” she said, sitting down quietly and taking hold of Ida’s cold hands.

From the kitchen, Anne Marie, the kitchen maid, had crept out into the servants’ hall to hear what was going on.

“So I suppose it’s all over,” she said slowly.

“I suppose so,” replied Johan.

Anne Marie stared vacantly ahead, standing straight, in her black socks.

“She’ll leave a bit,” she said, nodding.

“She’ll leave
a lot
,” said Johan.

“Aye,” and he stretched his artilleryman’s legs in front of him: “Is there any coffee?” He drank it and got ready.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we’ll take the landau on an occasion such as this.”

Ida was fetched and put in the barouche.

Silence fell on the dining table as Mrs Falkenberg attended to His Lordship and left the doors ajar.

“It doesn’t sound as though they are enjoying themselves in there. Why not?” asked His Lordship.

“We are enjoying ourselves, Your Lordship.”

“Good, but, when people are enjoying themselves, you can usually hear it,” the old man said.

Mrs von Eichbaum said she had recently been reading what Bishop Mynster had written in his “Reflections” on the subject of dying suddenly: “They were words to remember”.

“But,” she added: “little Brandt’s future is assured, I suppose.”

When the carriage drove up on the gravel path, Ida quietly entered it – her eyes had as it were become very big in her face – and Miss Rosenfeld, who had put her coat on, climbed in and sat down beside her.

“You are not going to go alone,” she said.

Karl von Eichbaum had left the table and gone down. He stood, beside the bailiff, over in front of the house by the horses. Then he reached a hand in over the carriage door, without saying anything.

When Schrøder turned to go inside – the coach was right down on the Brædstrup road by this time – she saw the telegraph messenger still sitting on the bench in front of the kitchen windows; he was waiting for his receipt.

Dinner was over and all the dishes were in disarray on the kitchen tables. Schrøder had to have them tidied up before she could start on the servants’ dinner. The sun betrayed a large number of grey hairs above her temples as she stood bending over the big bread slicer.

The gardener’s assistant came out of the garden. He slowly raked the gravel path, hiding the traces of the carriage that had just left.

The white marker stones flew past the rattling carriage, in which no one spoke. Mile followed after mile, as the horses trotted.

Ida saw nothing and heard nothing. All her life seemed to be gathered in her clenched hands.

One single thought was forcing its way out in words without a sound, as though she wanted to overturn a sense of guilt:

“I had said I wouldn’t go…”

She rocked her clenched fists up and down.

“Now I shan’t even be able to see her…”

“But…Ida…”

“No, I shan’t be able to see her…”

And then they were there. The horses refused to stand still – two dogs came rushing at them.

Ida saw nothing but Sofie’s puffed-up face as she came down the stairs.

“The doctor’s here,” said Sofie in a whisper.

Ida supported herself on the banister.

“So she’s not dead.”

“I’ll fetch Mrs Jørgensen,” said Miss Rosenfeld.

Ida nodded without having heard, and she opened the door to the sitting room; it was dark, and she waited. She could hear the doctor’s footsteps in the bedroom.

“It happened at twelve o’ clock,” whispered Sofie.

But Ida simply groaned.

“And then we sent a telegram,” Sofie whispered again.

As though glimpsing a couple of shadows, Ida saw Miss Sørensen, who came in carrying two silver candlesticks, and Miss Thøgersen, who was bringing a cloth.

“Oh,” said Sofie, starting to tremble: “this is for the last communion…and she sat down on a chair.

“We’ re expecting the minister,” whispered Miss Sørensen and the two continued to tiptoe around – with so many things.

Ida only listened to the doctor’s footsteps.

Then she heard the sound of her mother’s heavy breathing, just as she knew it…And suddenly she started to sob, quietly and desperately with gratitude.

The doctor approached her, and she made to get up.

“I heard the carriage,” he said, and she looked up into his face.

“It might be best not to go in immediately,” he said. “Your mother has been rather irritated…”

Ida continued to look at him.

“In her condition…that you were not here…”

Ida made no reply. She had closed her eyes for a moment, and she failed to notice the hand he reached out to her.

“We will wait until this evening. Goodbye.”

Ida had bowed her head. She had understood: she was not to go in there.

She saw Miss Sørensen drag the myrtle across the floor, and she heard the doctor’s voice again. “Keep that out of the way,” he said and actually struck out at the myrtle.

She merely thought that she was not to go in there.

She did not realise that she had risen and gone across the floor, in to the little sitting room, to the stool,
her
stool behind the big chest of drawers.

Doors were opened and doors were closed; there was the sound of footsteps. Miss Thøgersen came and laid a desperate hand on her shoulder.

“The minister,” she breathed, and they could hear Sofie weeping.

“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.”

But Ida did not move.

There was no sound but the minister’s murmur. Then came the sick woman’s breathing. Ida heard only that.

“Vater unser, Vater unser,” Miss Thøgersen suddenly prayed in her own language, but she got no further.

“The Lord Jesus the same night in which He was betrayed took bread; And when He had given thanks, He brake it and said, Take, eat; this is my body which is broken for you; this do in remembrance of me.”

Ida did not pray; she had no room for prayers. She only felt her heart stopped and heavy like a stone in her breast.

“Vater unser, Vater unser…”

“After the same manner also, He took the cup, when He had supped, saying, this cup is the new testament in my blood; this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me…”

Looking in through the door, Sofie could see, against the candles, the minister bend down over the dying woman and lift her pillow.

“God the Holy Spirit, God the Holy Spirit,” she whispered, falling back against the back of the chair. There was silence for a moment, and then Sofie got up again.

“The keys,” she said all at once, almost shrieking.

She had seen the bunch slide from under the pillow, slip over the sheet and fall down on the floor.

“The Body of Christ…”

They heard no more, while the night nurse also started to weep.

Ida had folded her hands on her lap:

If she fell asleep, she could go in there; when she was asleep, she could go in…

“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.”

It became quite silent. Miss Thøgersen had ceased weeping and sat rocking her head to and fro.

“She is nevertheless dying as a respected person,” she said, and her tears began to flow again.

Ida heard her name as in a fog, and she stood up. It was the minister, who held out a hand to her.

“You have been away?” he said in a mildly concerned voice.