Chapter 2 - Only Human

OSLO, THE FIFTH OF JUNE 1939. She is writing to him. In the account book. The columns of numbers abruptly broken by furious handwriting. Confounded heat! The claw-foot table stands in the centre of the dining room. There she sits. Around her the heavy furniture, the sunshine. Outside, the veranda, then the garden, the birch trees, and the tall pine trees that screen the neighbours’ house. The boy is on the lawn. It is nice not to have him indoors. He stands facing the copse. She writes: You must understand! My nerves cannot take this strain! The boy starts making his way into the trees, probably going over to the Heyerdahls’ to play. But Mrs Esther Heyerdahl and her friends, they are not her cup of tea. When she has been over there, they speak to her as though she is slow on the uptake. They do not think she knows anything, whether it be about politics or modern child-rearing, she can sense it, in the air. Just because Esther has an education in mental hygiene she thinks she is above everyone, but no education in the world helps if you are foolish. And no matter if she is a psychologist or not, Esther is foolish. She and Alice agree completely on that.

Thank God for Alice, she would never have managed without her. You’re my only friend, she often says, you must never leave me. Nonsense, Cessi, Alice says, laughing, you know plenty of people. Yes, but none of them are like you, Cessi says, no, and they’re certainly not like you either, she replies, after all, you’re not exactly normal, and then they would both laugh. But Alice knows what she means. They are best friends, for life. Not so strange perhaps, since they have always known one another, the same way Mama has always known Alice’s mother. Speaking of which, Mama could give Mrs Heyerdahl and those gossiping geese a good run for their money herself. There is nobody like Mama, and the boy adores her. But he stays away from his own mother. It is mean, he is mean. It is not her fault at any rate. The boy has a difficult nature. She is not able to cope. You’re of a delicate disposition, Mama says, you can’t help that.

It feels as though someone is watching her. A malicious eye upon every single wall in the house. In the sky outside. She is not good enough. But after all a child should not be allowed to scream so that they get their way. It makes her want to scream herself. She is livid, livid, out into the garden with him, bloody child. She writes to Hartvig: You are simply too dreary to be a man, you are weak, it is unmanly. Why should I keep house for you? You are never at home. I hate you!

Sunshine behind the curtains. The room is much too bright, she will not get back to sleep again. Hartvig is snoring. Lying on his back thinking no doubt he is well within his rights to do so. A quarter to six according to the alarm clock, but it is already far too hot. A heatwave, while she wants rain, it would better suit her frame of mind.

She cannot manage anything. She has to organise everything on her own. Even though it is Hartvig who will soon get up with the boy, she is the one who ought to do it, feels it is her responsibility. The burden of responsibility is on her shoulders, and she just does not have the energy. This big house. She does not even know if she likes Hartvig. He is so slow and boring. She hears Margit beginning to prepare breakfast down in the kitchen. The boy turns from side to side in his bed, soon to wake up. The sun disappears, the light in the room changes, now we are in shadow, she thinks, picturing a planet in outer space, and that from it she is able to look down at herself in bed, she feels a pull, grows dizzy and experiences a falling sensation even though she is lying flat out on the mattress. When she was a child she thought feeling dizzy was lovely, but now she finds it unpleasant.

The boy does not call out for her but for Hartvig. He takes a little time to react, first turning over on his side, breaking wind twice and sighing, before he throws the duvet aside. The smell of fart makes her queasy and she turns her back, cannot face talking to him.

We mustn’t wake Mummy, she hears the boy say from the nursery, he prefers his father and she is only too pleased, for the moment at least, as she is so dreading getting up. Their voices grow weaker as they make their way to the bathroom and close the door behind them. A rushing sound in the pipes as the taps are turned on. Hartvig helping the boy wash. Then the door to the hall opens, and Hartvig calls out to Margit. Indolent Margit. She is the one who helps Finn get dressed. She hears them laughing and chatting in the nursery before going downstairs and all is quiet again. Very well, so she was cross with him again yesterday. But if he only understood how impossible he can be. Constantly doing things he is not supposed to, climbing up on the worktop, standing on it with his shoes on, pulling things out of drawers and cupboards, turning switches on and off, spilling water, and when he does not get his way, he howls. Very well, so she howled back at him, took hold of his arms and shook him, tugged him by the hair a little too. Then he was quiet, but afterwards he would not speak to her, and went out to Margit who was doing something in the garden, and a good thing too. What is wrong with that boy, she said to Hartvig, he is not as he should be, she cannot deal with him, but generally it is impossible to tell what Hartvig thinks. He chuckles while she is speaking, but what about? Then all this about Finn being a boy, how she needs to remember that boys are more boisterous. But does he actually think that or is it just codswallop?

She turns over onto her back, makes to get up, but sinks back down. Is she going to have to drag herself around, force herself through every single chore? She must cover a few miles each day just moving around the house. Running up and down the stairs, four storeys from cellar to loft. The tall pine trees outside make the living room so dark, yes, there are shady, sad nooks all over the ground floor. But Hartvig will not cut back the trees, he likes them, he says.

She feels grubby, it’s disgusting everywhere, she does not feel like doing anything. But a cigarette. When things are quiet. Once Hartvig has left, and the boy is in the garden, the weather is nice after all. She really does not know why she allows that story from November to trouble her now, so long afterwards. It is probably down to the scene that took place yesterday. That she did not manage to control her temper then either. Still, it does not happen as often as Hartvig makes out. She is only human. There is no sense in dredging up something that happened months ago. Besides, she had her reasons for doing what she did, even if she cannot quite remember what they were. It all started because the boy was to accompany her into town to pick up her wristwatch at the clockmaker’s. Margit was ill and could not look after him and, true to form, she had also forgotten to leave out clean clothes for him. Cessi had to look for some, while at the same time the boy was making such a commotion over something or other. Then she lost her patience. After all, they had a tram to catch. She had jabbed him in the chest, had she not, again and again, out of the living room, get out, impossible child, you can’t be in the house, you changeling, had she not shouted things like that? Yes, you changeling, she shouted. The hearth, the boy tripping and crying. They had both cried, but what good was that?

The stove had gone out and the house was cold, nevertheless, she grabbed her coat and ran out to catch the tram. Down at Honnørbryggen pier, the sea was black and gaping. Always a bitter wind there, along the jetties out towards the headland at Vippetangen. She walked and walked. She had forgotten her purse, so the wristwatch stayed where it was.

There was no way out, of course. Nothing fixes itself. She had to pay, and she had nothing to pay with, only dark sea. That child was difficult though, he was the one who made her feel this way, angry and unhappy. Damn him.

The stove had not lit itself, the house was empty and just as cold when she got home. There was food out in the kitchen and the boy had made a mess, but he was nowhere to be seen. By the time she found him it was getting dark. He was sitting in the outhouse with Hartvig’s torch turned on beside him, without a coat and white in the face. It was obvious he had tried to make something, tools and short lengths of plank lay on the floor. The saw was there too, and the sheath knife. Oh no, oh no, what had she allowed to happen? Her tongue tingled and the pulse at her collarbone throbbed, it was as if the boy was dead and she had come too late, he was dead and it was her fault, everything seemed to teeter on an edge, her head pounded, wave upon wave of warm pain beating against her temples. But nothing has happened, she told herself, it is not that bad. All the same, she went back out when the boy had fallen asleep, threw away everything he had cut and sawn up, and hung the tools back on the wall. She double-checked to make sure they were all in the right place. Hartvig must not notice anything.

She tried talking to him but got no response. He would not make eye contact, would not answer her, and his hand lay limp in hers as she led him inside. She gave him hot chocolate at the kitchen table and told him he looked like his uncle, my brother, she said. That was something she said to him at happier moments, but it was also meant in reproach, because he was not his uncle and all the times he was impossible it was doubly obvious, for how could he let down his own mother in such a way, by bearing a resemblance to her beloved brother, and yet be different?

But Christmas came soon after, and it went well. As though nothing bad had happened. Perhaps the boy had already forgotten the whole thing. Hartvig stood in the kitchen, his coat open and a layer of wet snow on his shoulders. He had one hand on the Christmas tree he had bought, the stem of it resting on the black-and-white checked floor, gloves on so as not to prick himself. The room was chilly, she was airing out the steam from the roast and outside it was dark and snowy. They laughed about something, she could not recall what. The boy ran from room to room, stopping now and again to hug her, filled with anticipation. The apron was tight and her hips were a little too round for her liking, but she was not tired and Mama was spending Christmas with them. Thank God for Mama.

There is a Persian rug in the doctor’s office that looks like the one in the living room at home.

It is of course her nerves. Dr Vold tells her as much when she asks him for a diagnosis, something definite. Her nerves would certainly appear to be the cause. She needs to take it easy. He says other things as well, but what sticks in her mind as the single most pertinent is: in future she must avoid these distressing episodes. She must get up out of the mire, she tells herself.

She tells Hartvig that they need to send the boy away for a while. He seems perplexed, is reluctant. Shouldn’t she manage to mind her own child? he says. Looking after the boy does fall under her remit and in point of fact was the very reason for her being at home instead of earning a living. Then she snaps. She pounds her chest, slaps her face with both hands, tears at her hair and throws things at him. The whole of this big house. The maid. The garden. That demanding boy. Her health. Her nerves. Doesn’t he understand anything? She’s weak. She screams and sobs. Smashes things. But fine, she cries, the boy stays but you have to stop working so much. Home at five o’clock. No more twelve-hour work days.

He gives in then, naturally.

She groans about having a headache when Hartvig and the boy come in to say goodbye. That will make them realise how mean they are being. This is certainly not something she wishes for, but something that has to be done. Her body is crying out for rest. It is impossible to make Hartvig understand that, even though she has explained it over and over. So she resorts to having a headache. He cannot object to that. She is confined to bed and has terrible head pain, she cannot look after a child. Moreover, a demanding child. Even Hartvig can appreciate that. All the same, she has to choose her words carefully when speaking to him. She does not quite know why, but she can sense it, him watching her. It could happen suddenly: his not wanting to have anything to do with her any more.

The boy is so excited, he can hardly bring himself to sit still on the edge of the bed while she cries and kisses him. She comforts herself with the thought that it will be a delight for him to take the train, regardless of everything else. Together with his father. He loves trains and begs Hartvig every single Sunday to take a walk down to the station to look at the locomotives. Yes, the train journey will be simply splendid. And at the children’s home he will get lots of fresh air and have friends to play with. People to keep him out of mischief, that will not do him any harm. Truth be told, he is mollycoddled. Mama does not agree but the children’s home comes on the highest recommendations. They have not told him yet, after all, he does not know what a children’s home is. Like visiting Aunt Marthe, Hartvig now attempts to explain, but with that the boy thinks he is going to Marthe’s to help out with the animals. The sheep and the hens and the cat, he says. Hartvig leaves it at that, he is not terribly fond of crying or emotional to-dos. She can almost hear him: ‘There’s damn near nothing but scenes in this house.’ Her scenes, mind you. He wants peace and quiet. Decorum. Well, in that case he should not have married her. Now he can attend to the boy, then he will get some peace.