Astrid and Veronika (20 page)

Astrid nodded, her lips firmly closed.

‘Turn your back towards me,’ Veronika said, and Astrid did as she was told. ‘Now, lean on my arm. I will hold my arm under your shoulders while you stretch out your legs.’ The old woman slowly leaned back until she was resting on Veronika’s arm. ‘Spread your arms, look at the sky. Let the water carry you. And breathe.’

And slowly, through the surface in front of Astrid, the tip of her toes emerged, like pale mushrooms growing on the still surface. ‘Ah,’ she said, nothing more.

When the old woman seemed comfortable and her breathing calm, Veronika gradually loosened her hold of Astrid’s shoulders, until her body was supported only by a light touch at the back of her head, then finally just the tips of Veronika’s fingers.

When the old woman stood up again, she leaned over and put her cool fingers, where the skin had wrinkled, on Veronika’s cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and waded uncertainly towards the beach. Veronika went further out and dived into the golden water.

When she walked back across the sand she found Astrid sitting in her usual fashion, legs stretched out in front of her. She wore her faded sunhat and her glasses and she was reading from a small book.

‘It’s been so long since I read this,’ she said, holding up the book. ‘Karin Boye. Sit down and let me read you this one.’ She indicated the blanket and Veronika sat, hugging her shins and squinting out over the lake. ‘It is called “Min stackars unge, My poor little child”.’ Astrid’s voice trembled a little as she began to read:

She took off her glasses and closed the book. ‘I have always loved it.’ She let the book sink onto her lap. ‘ “Let me sing you gentle songs.” It is such a beautiful line,’ she said. Veronika stretched out her hand and Astrid handed her the open book. ‘I have never heard it before,’ she said, her eyes on the page. She read silently for a while. ‘It is. It is very beautiful.’ She held the book in her hands and looked out over the lake.

They drove back with the windows open and the wind against their faces. When Veronika stopped to let Astrid off at her gate, the old woman turned and looked at her. ‘I think I shall call this my birthday, too. Welcome to our joint birthday celebration tonight.’ She put her hand on Veronika’s for a moment, before stepping out of the car.

 

Veronika had showered. Dripping and naked she wiped the steam off the mirror over the hand-basin and looked at her image. It felt like a very long time since she had seen her reflection. She studied her face, the large green eyes framed by short black eyelashes and distinct black eyebrows, the long nose, the wide mouth. She wondered if she might have lost weight. Her face seemed thinner, the cheeks a little hollow. Or perhaps these were just signs of ageing. She lifted her hair and inspected her chin. She touched her breasts, weighed them in her hands, wondering if they, too, had aged. She ran her palms over the skin of her arms, her stomach, her thighs. And she could feel the softness.

She dressed in jeans and a white shirt and with a glass of white wine in her hand she went and sat on the front step. Heat still lingered in the air. She looked up at the sky, which seemed to arch infinitely above, and she knew that this was the moment when the shift occurred. Nothing had changed from the moment immediately before, yet everything had just changed irrevocably. Summer was no longer pausing: it had begun its retreat.

She could hear music through the open kitchen window as she approached Astrid’s house. The intense sounds of the Brahms sonata seemed to reinforce her sense of loss. The awareness that time was finite, an end approaching. She stopped in her steps, her eyes on the window, where she could see Astrid moving in the lit kitchen, and she was overcome by a memory from her childhood. Standing outside a house, looking through the window at her parents kissing. She realised now that it was her only memory of any sign of affection between her parents. She must have been young, perhaps five, but old enough to be outside in the darkness. On her own, outside.

She entered the kitchen, where Astrid was busy by the stove. On the table there was a serving plate with thinly sliced gravlax and a small bowl with mustard sauce. A basket with dark rye bread stood to one side, and two champagne flutes next to a chilled bottle of fine French champagne. The table was again set with the delicate china and the wine glasses were crystal, decorated with a gold pattern. Astrid moved purposefully between stove and table, her red skirt flowing around her legs. She had changed her white blouse for a long-sleeved sheer jacket of cream silk. The sleeves were wide and she had pulled them up, leaving her arms bare. She noticed Veronika’s look and shrugged her shoulders as if embarrassed.

‘I know, it’s a strange thing to wear. Not really intended for social occasions. It used to be my mother’s. A sort of camisole, I suppose. But it is so very beautiful and I thought it would be appropriate for this celebration.’ She smiled a little smile and turned back to the stove.

Veronika poured the champagne and they drank a toast, letting the glasses clink lightly. While Astrid cooked, they helped themselves to slices of bread with salmon and mustard. The light from the setting sun made slanted inroads, blending with the light over the table. The candles on the table flickered in the breaths of warm wind that wafted in through the window.

‘Now, let’s sit down,’ Astrid said, carrying a plate and a bowl across from the stove. ‘It’s been an eventful day for me. Filled with new experiences,’ she said. ‘This dish is not new to me, but I have never cooked it. And it’s been a very long time since I tasted it. My mother used to make it and it was my favourite. She had a name for it, but my father just called it fish balls.’

She spread her napkin over her lap and held out the plate for Veronika to serve herself. ‘I had the shop get me fresh pike,’ Astrid said, putting the plate back on the table. Without serving herself, she looked expectantly at Veronika, who helped herself to new potatoes and snow peas, and then the fish balls. The old woman sat still, watching, until Veronika started to eat.

‘It is delicious,’ Veronika said, realising that she sounded surprised. ‘Absolutely delicious.’

Astrid smiled and finally began to serve herself. She had bought New Zealand wine. Ordered at the local shop and carried back home. The vivid picture of the old woman making several trips to the shop made Veronika’s throat tighten, but when she looked across at Astrid, she saw a face reflecting peace and happiness, perhaps even anticipation. Veronika relaxed, took a sip of the cool wine and let the flavours fill her mouth.

When they had finished eating they cleared the table and Astrid went to the pantry, returning with a cut-crystal bowl half filled with wild strawberries. ‘I had intended to make a cake but I ran out of time. All this swimming,’ she said with a smile. ‘But I rather prefer them like this, with just a little cream poured over.’

She sat down and pushed a slim package across the table. ‘Your present,’ she said. ‘Happy birthday, Veronika.’ Veronika unwrapped the package to reveal a small leather-bound book. The leather was dark brown, cracked and worn.

‘It’s my mother’s diary,’ said Astrid. ‘You will find the recipe for the fish balls in there. But also so much else.’ She stood and walked around the table, sitting down on the chair next to Veronika’s. ‘It begins like a diary. In April the year I was born. Here, look.’ Astrid carefully opened the book on the first page. ‘
To Sara on her birthday from Tate
. It was a present from my grandfather. And you will see that it reads like a diary at first. She didn’t write daily, just now and then. But here, at the beginning, it contains dated short notes about her life. It’s personal and straightforward. As you read on, you will see the difference.’ Astrid turned the pages slowly, her eyes scanning each one. ‘I have read it so many times, each page is clear in my mind. Every word, the look of the ink on the page. I don’t need it any more. But I want to see it in the hands of someone who will protect it.’ She closed the book and pushed it towards Veronika, her hand still covering it. ‘I can’t think of a better keeper.’

Veronika was close to tears. She took the book and held it in her hands. ‘Oh, Astrid.’ She bent forward and placed a kiss on the old woman’s forehead. ‘I will keep it and I will protect it. Thank you.’

Astrid returned to her seat opposite Veronika. ‘Don’t read it now. Wait until you are ready. There is no hurry,’ she said. ‘There will be time.’

Veronika nodded slowly.

‘When I woke up this morning, I thought about my birthday a year ago,’ she said. ‘And I thought I would never again be able to enjoy a birthday.’ She looked at Astrid and stretched out her hand across the table, reaching for the old woman’s. ‘But you have given me the best birthday I have ever had.’

‘Remember, it’s mine, too,’ Astrid said, and smiled.

Summer had turned. Although the weather remained sunny and warm, with each morning the air grew a touch crisper, the light a shade sharper, the evenings a notch darker. The apples on the trees in Astrid’s orchard were ripening, and one day Veronika helped her pick the cherries that remained after the birds had explored the old tree. There weren’t enough to make jam, but in the afternoon they ate the sweet berries seated in the shade on the front porch.

After dinner one evening Veronika sat at her kitchen table. Her book was taking shape, and she was watching the path it took with growing excitement. It wasn’t James’s book, she knew that now. This book had intruded and she was beginning to think that this was just as it should be. She would write James’s book. Just not yet.

She stood up and stretched her arms over her head while she walked towards the door. Out on the front steps she could see the bright yellow full moon smiling in the black sky just over the treetops. It was a Saturday in mid-August and she had invited Astrid for a traditional crayfish dinner. They had adopted a comfortable routine that involved daily walks and dinner once or twice a week, alternating the hosting. Life had taken on a gentle, predictable rhythm. Veronica felt at peace, resting in the present.

She was just about to sit down on the steps when she heard the mobile ring, muted sounds from upstairs, yet ripping the peace with its unexpected insistence. She ran up the wooden stairs and caught the call on its last ring. It was her father.

The moon had inched higher in the sky as Astrid arrived, carrying a bundle of small paper lanterns attached to an electric cord. ‘I found these in the storeroom,’ she smiled. ‘I have no idea if they work. They might be dangerous to use.’ But Veronika took the bundle and began to untangle the cord. She had set the table for two, with red paper napkins and the customary silly paper hats and bibs. There was a serving platter with a mountain of small freshwater crayfish topped with heads of dill. There was bread, butter and two kinds of cheese. And an iced bottle of aquavit. The laptop sat on the kitchen counter playing traditional drinking songs.

Astrid watched Veronika struggling with the cord and she reached out and took one end. Between them they managed to sort out the tangles and Veronika stepped up onto one of the chairs, tying one end of the cord to the fitting holding the window blind. Then she moved to the other side of the window and attached the other end. The string of lanterns hung in a deep bow across the window and when she plugged the cord into the wall socket all but one lit up. Astrid turned off the lamp, and with only the lanterns and the candles on the table, the room took on a different ambience. The corners disappeared into obscurity, and the table looked festive, perhaps even a little mysterious. Veronika changed the music to a CD with folk music. And they sat down to eat.

‘My father rang today,’ Veronika said, as they were finishing the last crayfish. Astrid looked up, still sucking on a shell. ‘He rang to tell me he is coming back to Sweden to live. He has accepted an offer of early retirement. He asked if I would like to come and visit once he has settled in. And then perhaps take a holiday with him. Make another trip together.’ Veronika absentmindedly pushed the crayfish shells about on her plate with her finger. ‘He said he has missed me.’ She had her eyes on her hands, but her mind was elsewhere. ‘And I realised I have missed him, too. I have been thinking that perhaps one day I should go back to New Zealand. That perhaps I need some kind of closure.’ She looked up at Astrid. ‘I have been thinking that I left without finishing my life there. That I need to go back.’

Astrid wiped her fingers on a napkin. ‘I think that if we just listen to ourselves we know what it is we have to do,’ she said slowly. ‘And I have come to think that however much it hurts, however hard it is, we have to listen. We have to live our lives.’ She looked at Veronika, her head tilted a little as if she were trying to find the right words. ‘You have been here half a year now. I think perhaps it is time. When you are ready. There is no hurry. But the day will come when your decision will be clear.’

She poured herself a small glass of aquavit and handed the bottle over to Veronika. ‘Let’s drink,’ she said, and lifted her glass. ‘To you, Veronika. To your life.’ She set the glass on the table and looked at Veronika, her head cocked. ‘There is more to do,’ she said. ‘It’s lingon berry time. And mushroom time. Will you come with me into the forest?’ Veronika nodded and it was decided.