Ida Brandt (8 page)

Schrøder came running back. She had a parcel, she said, something for Ida…Schrøder’s voice broke a little. It was the house that Miss Rosenfeld had drawn during the summer.

“And Ida was to have it…to remember it all by,” she said, weeping as she handed it up into the carriage.

Then Sofie was up there, and Lars said slowly:

“Have you anything else, madam?”

There was nothing else. Ida sat there, looking strangely small alongside her mother, and Schrøder continued to weep.

And then they left.

The other three stayed on the steps and watched them go; and now the carriage disappeared.

Without saying anything, Schrøder took the candle that was flickering in the corridor window and held it up in the doorway, lighting up the bare rooms. Then Lars lit a lamp, and Schrøder extinguished the candle between two fingers.

“It’s very painful after all,” said Lars.

They went out and locked the door to the corridor. Then they left.

“It’s not easy when the breadwinner dies,” said Christen Nielsen’s wife.

And then they went off each in their own direction.

∞∞∞

But then the years she spent as a child in the town came back to her, and her confirmation and the first year as a young adult, that bright year, and then the sickness and the long days…

∞∞∞

Half awake, Ida could hear Sofie fiddling by the chimney and her mother’s difficult breathing beside her – it was as though the sounds of that breathing were to fill the entire house – and almost in her sleep and quite mechanically she put her bare feet out on the knitted rug.

She must get up now. Hans Christensen was there with the milk.

She did not light a lamp, but tiptoed gently around in the dark to dress. She just looked at her mother sitting up in the bed like a broad shadow shutting out the dawn light behind the curtains.

Down in the kitchen, Hans Christensen had already arrived – he was so wrapped in scarves that only his eyes and the tips of his ears could be seen – and she gave him the milk money that lay counted out on the shelf.

“Yes, it’s cold this morning,” he said (his breath emerged from his scarves like a long cloud):

“The pond’s frozen solid now out by our house…”

He took a couple of steps in his clogs to make it sound as though he was going, while Ida managed to pass him the coffee cup and Sofie moved some things over by the chimney in case madam should wake up and hear that they were giving Hans Christensen coffee.

“Goodbye,” said Hans Christensen when he had finished, and he lifted the latch ever so gently.

Ida had taken the frozen butter over to the fire to soften it: there was less of it now. Just as she thought, for she had heard stocking feet in the loft yesterday evening.

She went into the sitting room and started to take the covers from the chairs and to do the dusting while quietly moving the little low-legged lamp from one piece of furniture to the other. This was really her best time – it was almost as though she were stealing it – these mornings while her mother was asleep and she could potter about, quite quietly, engrossed in her own thoughts.

Oh, there was plenty to think about…there was always the question of money and the problem always had to be hidden…Now Hans Ole’s widow was dead, too. So they probably would no longer be provided with meat; there soon would not be any of the old folks left in Ludvigsbakke. And how could you expect the young folk to remember them…

Now Christian from the mill was out of work again – so they would use almost twice as much now – but it was reasonable enough that Sofie should stick with him when she was so fond of him, poor thing.

Ida stopped in front of the mirror and stretched out to polish it; she had a distinctly virginal way of bending her head.

Then there was to be the christening at Olivia’s as well, as soon as the weather was a little milder…She would have to give them a spoon and fork if she was going to be the child’s godmother.

She stopped in front of the mirror and smiled.

“Oh, the little chap had such a lot of hair, and his eyes were just like Jørgensen’s.”

Ida continued to smile; she always thought of so many happy things when thinking of the brickworks and Olivia.

She started to water the flowers and moved them from the floor up on to the window ledge. Her mother’s myrtle was very heavy, and its stem was almost like that of a tree. It looked so healthy as it stood there. And Ida plucked every dead leaf off it. She did not know why, but she thought that myrtle was like a reminder of her father.

“Ida, Ida.”

Mrs Brandt was awake, and Ida put the plant down.

“Yes, mother.”

“I’m lying here
awake
,” said Mrs Brandt.

Out in the kitchen, Sofie poured some warm water into two dishes.

“I suppose you do
intend
to get me up,” said Mrs Brandt.

“Yes, mother.”

Ida started to turn her attention to her mother, tending her and talking to her, tying and untying and telling her the news as she dressed her: they could expect the Lunds today – for they were coming from the wedding – and the pond was frozen solid now according to Hans Christensen.

Ida continued to recite the news; Mrs Brandt simply looked down at her nervous hands:

“You’ve got your father’s fingers,” she said: “they are all thumbs.”

When her hair was set – Mrs Brandt still had a full head of hair – all the food in the house was brought up so that she could inspect it, in bed. Sofie went there, slow and sullen and brought it in, dish after dish, while Mrs Brandt sat up in bed, with her thoroughly padded hair, carefully inspecting the leavings.

She said nothing, but merely sat silently calculating – Ida looked like a customs officer during an inspection of the cashbox – while Sofie stood by the bed, straight as a pole. Mrs Brandt watched every dish that Sofie took out again as though she wanted to follow its way through the door when it was closed.

“And then we must do the joint, mother, for the Lunds…”

“If they come,” said Mrs Brandt.

Ida had again started to attend to her: “But you know they always come when they are in town,” she said.

“Yes,” said Mrs Brandt. “It’s cheaper than eating at the inn.”

She had got out of bed and wanted to go into the sitting room. Ida and Sofie had to support her, one under each arm, (Mrs Brandt was never so heavy as when she had to be moved), and she managed to reach the chair by the window.
There
all her gold trinkets lay waiting for her on the table. Ida hung the watch chain around her neck.

“The watch,” said Mrs Brandt.

“Here, mother.”

She wanted to have Ida’s watch in front of her on a frame, beside her purse. They finally had her settled down. The door to the kitchen was left slightly ajar so that she could “listen”.

Her mother could not stand a warm room, so Ida was wearing a shawl as she bent over the three new sets of sheets, for the linen was taken care of as it used to be in the “old bailiff’s wing”.

“Your threads are always too long,” said Mrs Brandt.

Ida pulled at the thread.

“Mrs Muus is waving,” said her mother.

Ida looked out and flushed as she nodded. Mrs Muus always took a quick and deliberate path close to Mrs Brandt’s window and only waved to Ida.

Mrs Muus was the judge’s wife, and Mrs Brandt continued to follow her in the mirror and watch her fur coat bouncing against her energetic little backside.

Ida also looked out and smiled. Mrs Muus never reached the corner. She stopped in front of every other house as she went by, swinging her hips and stamping and showing all her friends’ windows that she was wearing fur boots.

“Have the Muus’s got a housekeeper?” said Mrs Brandt, continuing to watch her.

“I don’t know, mother.”

“I thought she would be going to the Jørgensens,” said Mrs Brandt. “She’s a Copenhagener.”

And as though in defence of the judge’s wife, Ida said:

“But of course, they haven’t any children, mother.”

Mrs Brandt merely shut her eyes, said nothing and nodded. Sørensen, the local treasurer had appeared at the window of the house opposite and was nodding. Mr Sørensen was going downhill, very much downhill; he could hardly manage to open the newspaper when he wanted to read it.

Mrs Brandt continued to look across at Mr Sørensen. She had the same look in her eyes as when she examined Ida’s hands.

Then she turned her head.

“Do they use coke in the brickworks?” she said.

“Coke and coal.”

“Hm,” said Mrs Brandt. “No, wood is not sufficient in those furnaces, I suppose.”

Ida made no reply, and Mrs Brandt said:

“But it’s a good thing there is plenty of it.”

Sofie was making the beds in the bedroom. She straightened all the duvets as though she wanted to beat them. She was always so energetic with everything when Christian from the mill was out of work.

“It’s eleven o’ clock,” said Mrs Brandt.

Ida knew that; it was time for coffee.

There was the sound of a loud voice from the kitchen. It was Miss Thøgersen, the “housekeeper” to their neighbour, the coppersmith, who was a member of a German “company of confirmed bachelors”. She had brought the newspapers.

“Good heavens,” she said. “It is bitterly cold today.”

Her face was red and blue with cold, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “I stand in the midst of den Wäsche, and no help do I have.”

She emerged in the doorway, completely filling it; the tartan ribbons on her bonnet were fixed with pins and were flapping around her ears like a pair of blinkers.

“Yes, yes,” she said, following this with a torrent of words about the washing.

“And you know what a lot of woollens Thønnichsen uses.”

Miss Thøgersen sat down on the chair by the door, her stomach resting on her distended lower regions.

“Ach, and now that Julie has got herself into trouble,” she said.

Ida was in the kitchen, and Mrs Brandt said that Mrs Thomsen could not be so far gone.

“Ach nein, ach nein.” Miss Thøgersen moved across to the basket chair; she moved and collapsed into ten chairs in the course of ten minutes. “But Maren has. She cannot control herself and yesterday they had to send for the midwife.”

Maren was her “niece”, Julie’s maid-of-all work (the three fruits of the coppersmith’s life with Miss Thøgersen were all referred to as belonging to a collateral branch of the family) and she loyally ran the entire household except for the ten days when the midwife was needed. That happened, almost to the day, around the first of April.

“Ach ja, ach ja…” Miss Thøgersen went on to give them a detailed account of the circumstances surrounding Maren and the need for the midwife. When she was sitting in the basket chair she always spoke quickly and in a half whisper, while Mrs Brandt remained seated, immovable, but with a singular expression on her face as though she was absorbing Maren’s words through an ear trumpet.

“Ach ja, ach ja,” Miss Thøgersen finished, placing her hands down on her legs.

“And otherwise she is such a decent person.”

With her Schleswig accent, Miss Thøgersen accented her words differently and then she sat there in silence.

Mrs Brandt waited for a few moments. Then, from her raised position, she said:

“Who is it – this time?”

“Gott, Gott.” If only she knew.

Miss Thøgersen shook her head.

“But she is so good-natured,” she said in explanation.

Ida came in with the coffee; they both had a cup, Miss Thøgersen holding hers as though it were a basin.

From the platform came an admonition:

“Ida, your mouth …”

Ida often had her mouth open a little when she was carrying something. She offered sugar and went back; she tended to withdraw to the far reaches of the room when Miss Thøgersen was there.

But Miss Thøgersen went on. She had so many concerns.

“And then there was this Gustav who wrote from America – and wanted to come home…But Thønnichsen was not having any of it.”

Miss Thøgersen groaned (Gustav was one of the three).

“Ach nein,” she said, putting the cup down. “Ach nein, it is not the same as when you have stood before the altar.”

Miss Thøgersen had many concerns regarding her family.

The church bells began to ring, and Miss Thøgersen rose from her chair.

“Oh dear, oh dear…and I have to spread sand.”

“It’s Christensen, the painter,” said Mrs Brandt.

“Ach, ja, so sad,” said Miss Thøgersen, assuming a quite different voice. “And with four children.”

“Will his widow stay in the house?” asked Mrs Brandt.

Miss Thøgersen did not know. “But there are people,” she said, “who are kind to a widow.”

There was something about the word “widow” that always touched Miss Thøgersen.

“Yes,” said Mrs Brandt. “He was a freemason of course.”

Miss Thøgersen had gradually moved into Ida’s seat by the window, when she suddenly shouted out in horror:

“Gott, Gott, there comes the minister…”

Miss Thøgersen lived in constant fear of clergymen on account of her illegitimate social position.

The minister went past to the house of sorrow and Miss Thøgersen rushed away. Thønnichsen the coppersmith, spread box cuttings and sand on the road for all his more important customers.

“Have you forgotten the cups?” said Mrs Brandt, and Ida took them.

Mrs Brandt watched through the mirror to follow events in the house of mourning.

The blind was down in Mr Sørensen’s window opposite to keep out the sun. It was always a source of irritation to him when funeral processions came down the street in the middle of the day.

When they came out of school, the boys shrieked as they ran along the pavement. Olivia’s eldest boy was at the front with the remains of a snowball over his left ear.

“Do they let him run about with bare legs now?” said Mrs Brandt. “Oh well, I suppose that’s supposed to be a good thing.”

“Olivia says she thinks it toughens them, mother.”

“Ach, there they are,” shouted Miss Thøgersen from outside on the pavement. She scattered the last handful of sand over the gutter plank and then helped with the box cuttings.