Chapter 21 - Only Human

She finally found a job. Stylish ready-to-wear garments for ladies. Well, there is stylish and there is stylish, it was, for the most part, nylon stockings and brassieres. And, true enough, it was part-time, but together with the sewing at home and the financial contributions from Hartvig, things went fairly well. The shop was close to Storgaten, she took the tram from Frogner plass in the mornings, but walked home in the afternoons, in spite of her swollen feet, she needed the air so desperately. Oh, standing like that the whole day smiling tired her out, and was so exceptionally hard on the legs, her varicose veins throbbed so. Even though it was not a full working day. Fortunately they went out of business after two years. So she was spared from handing in her notice, from the defeat of having to tell Hartvig, of seeing that smile of his, the one he so loved looking at other people with: what did I say, it meant, what did I say. Spared because she would scarcely have held out much longer. Mrs Rugstad was the worst thing about it. Old bag. Oh, she hated women. Always wearing those knowing expressions, coming up with little remarks. Mrs Rugstad! No, she had no intelligence to speak of, she was easily knocked off her high horse, did not understand Cessi’s sarcasm at all. But Miss Espeli did, she tittered, and Mrs Rugstad went red in the face. But working there was not pleasant, no, it was not. Having to dance attendance on crabby housewives from the east side of the city. Who would have thought that Cessi could end up in such a desperate situation. You’re courageous, Mama said. Mama, so kind, coming over to them in the afternoons back then, preparing supper and stroking Cessi across the cheek. My child, Mama said, and to think she has been in the ground ten years already. So strange, because it did not seem long ago, she and Mama sitting on the balcony drinking coffee and chatting while the girls, still small, ran around in the warm summer evening. Cessi was darning socks and the sky in the east was red as the sun was setting, she harboured hopes of things somehow improving. She was hardly meant to end up here, in a tiny little apartment in the city, she and the girls, who were almost grown, crammed together in these little rooms and her providing for them on the pittance she earned from a rotten little shop. She, who had once had a garden, run a household and been married to a barrister, there she was all of a sudden, being treated as though she were backward by some fat matrons. For shame. But rather them than have old neighbours or acquaintances as customers, having to stand there knowing full well they would backbite her afterwards, laugh maliciously. The way her friends in the club would no doubt do. Oh, she had such a lovely time with them, but they did talk, about one person after the other, and it was not always gracious, no, it was not. So why should she be spared, it was unlikely she was. Her with all her problems. She did not try to conceal them after all. They knew all about Finn, how it was her lot in life to have such a difficult boy, how worn out she was by him, yes, frankly, did he not contribute directly to her marriage to Hartvig falling apart?

Her dear, darling boy, her beloved Finn.

As he grew older his troublesome nature had become obvious to everyone. They had done what they could. Professionals had taken care of him at times, that sort of thing had to be worked on, agitation such as that, and his wildness, temper and jealousy were completely beyond the pale. Oh, how jealous he was. To say he was difficult was an understatement, so they had sent him to the boys’ homes, on several occasions. Good, decent places they were, and the periods he spent there were not so very long. Finn makes it sound as though he was gone for years, but his longest stay was barely a school year. Minus holidays and a few weekends. She was so tired back then, tired, and angry into the bargain, about everything and nothing. Hartvig, the girls, the house. Everything just built up, merely thinking about it gave her anxiety.

But it kept happening. All the time he was at school and afterwards when he started working, he just was not able. She had not been completely off the mark when she said he was unruly and there was something not right about him. He began to find it hard to sleep, grew listless and her heart bled for him. She would have liked so much to care for and coddle him, he could have lived with her, if only he had not been so angry. Not that he wanted to, oh no. Besides he drank too much, at least he said he did. Standing there so defiant in the middle of her living room, of course he never took off his shoes. I’ve gone and got drunk, he might say, I don’t remember where, don’t remember what happened, but I woke up in Frognerparken. She did not know if he was telling the truth or not. Anyway it was a long time ago now, in his younger years, before he met Linda and they had that child. He might well still be at that kind of thing, and he probably does drink too much, she had a feeling he did, but fortunately it was no longer her concern, as it had been when he was young. Oh, she was so afraid then, because she thought of Papa, his drunkenness, his bad behaviour that went beyond all boundaries. She knew her fear was not unfounded. She and Finn, they had something in them, and that something came from Papa. Mean, nasty genes.

But she limits herself, she does. Even though she has no intention of covering up the fact that she is fond of a drop. It is for her nerves, and she does not care a straw about what Dr Vold said that time. Avoid stimulants, he said, alcohol, caffeine and nicotine. For God’s sake, it was twenty years ago. He would probably have said the same thing today, but she could not care less, she knows herself what she needs, and it is not semolina and long walks, she needs to calm her nerves, turn down whatever it is that works itself up within her, the feeling of intense hatred. Of herself. You cannot live with feelings like that and she has never been in any doubt that she will live to the bitter end. If for no other reason than that sherry tastes good and makes the world wonderful. Yes, sherry is the best, because it warms your cheeks and your chest as it goes down, unfortunately it is much too sweet, so she can only manage two small glasses. Red wine, on the other hand, she can drink more of. She does not really care for white wine, it makes her feel sick and does not have the same soporific calming quality as the red. She does not mind beer, but preferably in the summer. Cured pork chops, potato salad and beer, they taste lovely together. She invites Finn, and it is a pleasure to see him eat. He comes on his own, she hardly needs to invite everyone, does she, just because she wants to see her son? She cannot face preparing for so many people, having to be bright and warm and keep the conversation going, that exceeds her energy. They do not understand how tired she is, and neither does she. Besides, Linda hardly wants to, you notice that kind of thing. So all in all it is best that way, for everyone concerned. It has always been easier with Finn when it is just the two of them. Her firstborn. He likes her food. He likes beer as well. That is something they share, a taste for food and drink, not that they talk about it of course. She does not know if he knows, if he notices that sort of thing. He is probably too busy with himself, too busy blaming her. Finn always has his guard up. But it is hardly all her fault. On the contrary. She has no control over nature. Or her finances. Or Hartvig, that wearisome person.

They sit on the little balcony. He tells her about his cars. It is like when he was a child. He has always told her lots about what he is making and how he is doing it. Which small parts he needs for the different things, where he gets hold of them and how he solves the technical difficulties that arise while assembling. When he was a boy, a lot of his chat revolved around his bicycle and the trips he took on it. He went off on expeditions on his own, with his sleeping bag on the rack. Then it was quiet in the house for the duration. Her inventive son, all the things mended and made. He was good with his hands. Steam motors, crystal sets and tree houses. Yes, he was practical, like her. She liked listening to him talk about it. Well, up to a point. This talk of motors could go too far. Now he had bought a car for parts, in order to fix up the other cars he owned. Yes, they rather, I should say. Finn, Linda and the little girl. The little one was adorable. A little shy, perhaps, and plump. But Linda, no, she was not easy to like.

Finn can say all kinds to his own mother. You can be very cruel, she shouts at him when he talks about how she is. You bundle of nerves, he says. Did you have to be so self-centred? It is mean of him to say it. But she knows him, her Finn is so terribly, terribly kind. A rascal, but the kindest of all her children. Reliable and devoted to a fault, she knows him through and through. He is like her. When they sit in the afternoon sun on the balcony drinking beer, and he taunts her, it is fun, she can sense they have the same urges, they want to be borne away, taken somewhere. When he drives her to the doctor, to the shops, or out to Bygdøy to visit friends and he speeds up, jams on the brakes, goes through a red light, he does it to provoke her. True, she is scared, but she likes it, that is how it is, she likes it.

It is peculiar however that he has never criticised her for being mean to Linda. She knows she has been, and in some respects she knows why. She is not well-born, that wife of his, but she puts on airs, thinks she is something because she comes from a bookish family. They might be bookish but when all is said and done they are blue collar, really working class when you get down to brass tacks, and yet so sure of themselves. No, she is not quite sure what it is, but she has felt ill at ease the times she has been to visit Linda’s parents. They are lovely, it is not that. But my God, what do they know about her, those people who think they know everything? Do they actually understand that her life is in ruins? Everything she owned belongs to someone else now. The fancy woman in Vettakollen. As though all that time she and Hartvig spent building a home no longer matters, does not exist, has vanished into thin air. The children she gave birth to, the work she did, it is nothing in the fancy woman’s eyes. Hartvig waves her away as though she were a fly, and Linda’s parents sit there offering her coffee and cake. No doubt they feel sorry for her, divorced and living alone in a little flat in the city. While Linda’s mother has been at home looking after her big family all these years, they have allowed themselves that luxury. Now she and her husband live in the same little two-up two-down and, what is more, it is on the east side. They have no business looking down at her, just because she is alone and has nothing, is nothing.

Anyway, the divorce was a long time ago, besides which she is only too happy to be spared Hartvig, ugh. It is just, no, see, she does not know. But, in any case, Finn has never upbraided her for that, for not thinking Linda is good enough. In her own mind she knows, a loud voice within tells her: and neither were you, Cessi, you with your alcoholic father, you came from a rotten background, and they saw that, they saw right through you, Hartvig’s parents, how little you brought, how little there was to build on, no money, no means, no grace, you with your coarse, selfish laughter.

And there were worse things than that, everything is much worse than anyone could guess. But there are no proper words for it.

It is ironic. She still keeps the accounts, even though she has told Hartvig once and for all that she is never going to submit them for his inspection again, never. That had to come to an end, her mind was made up, and maybe that was the reason he gave in so easily, just muttered something about her being dependent on his support after all, so how could she expect to get a loan from him in the future, if she continued living beyond her means.

Living beyond her means, her! She does not know how to respond to something so preposterous. Liking the food you eat, is that living beyond your means? Buying good butter, prawns and smoked salmon at the weekends. Inviting the grandchildren over, dishing up hot chocolate and cream, inviting them to the cinema, was that living beyond your means? Because it was cosy to sit in that dark cinema at Gimle. It was actually a relief to admit to herself that she liked moving pictures a million times more than the theatre. You go to the theatre, Hartvig, together with that boring wife of yours, I am delighted to be spared that.

Perhaps she lived a trifle beyond her means when it came to beer and wine. She had made herself a solemn vow to enter all those kinds of expenses into the household account book, and she nearly managed to keep her promise, she wrote them up: wine, kr. 17 –. For special occasions and entertaining guests she bought a slightly more expensive one. It was only when she was at the Vinmonopolet twice a week that she neglected to write it up, because she did not think she could indulge in more than one bottle a week, preferably no more than two a month. But she comforted herself with the fact that it was so seldom she failed to keep her promise, so it ought to be possible to turn a blind eye to it. Anyway, some weeks she did not buy any at all, so it balanced out, as it were.

After all I have to stay alive, she said to herself, I am all alone here, it is just me, and I have to go on living, there are limits to how resourceful I can be on my own. Not that she was lonely. She had Alice, and all her other friends. The children and the grandchildren. Her correspondence to America. But inside, the gnawing never let up. She scarcely knew what it was, but it hurt so, almost constantly, and she felt such unease within. It was her lot and fate. Was she not then entitled to drink a little wine?