Rites of Spring

8

Dr Andersson is nearing retirement age, a well-built woman with several double chins and small, square glasses. She’s wearing an oilskin coat and cargo pants, and groans loudly with the effort of clambering out of her little white Toyota to shake hands.

‘Thea – lovely to meet you in person.’ Her handshake is firm, her palm slightly sticky. ‘That was a hell of a storm we had last night. Thunder and lightning – in April! Did you survive?’

‘More or less – we still don’t have any power. David’s trying to get hold of a generator for the fridges and freezers.’

‘Oh dear – let’s hope it’s back on soon, Thea.’

The doctor clearly likes to repeat names – not an unusual trait among those who work with people. The Toyota is new, and the name of the local car dealer is displayed on the doors in big letters. This seems strange for a local GP, but Thea already knows that this whole set-up is kind of strange.

‘Have you settled into the coach house?’ Dr Andersson cranes her neck as if she’s trying to see in through the windows.

‘Absolutely – we’re getting there!’ A white lie. The boxes of their possessions remain largely untouched.

‘Excellent! The sooner the better, that’s what I always say.’ The doctor remains where she is for a few seconds, as if she’s hoping to be invited in, then she gives up and gestures towards the car. ‘OK – jump in!’

Thea locks the door of the coach house. She’s put the old paint tin in her room, and tucked the Polaroid photograph in her inside pocket. Has the tin really been inside the Gallows Oak since the spring of 1986? It’s like a mysterious greeting from the past. Who was the beautiful young woman? Who were her four masked attendants? Why were they dressed like that?

Come to the stone circle at midnight. The spring sacrifice.

She thinks back to the question the TV interviewer asked, the topic David was so keen to avoid. The girl who died in the forest in the Eighties. Hadn’t the interviewer referred to her as the spring sacrifice?

Dr Andersson drives past the old stables and heads for the castle. David’s car is still parked by the east wing, along with several other vehicles belonging to various trades.

‘How’s it going? Will the restaurant be ready in time?’ the doctor asks as they pass by.

‘I think so. David’s working around the clock.’

‘Ingrid’s told me a little bit about what’s going on. The foundation has put a lot of money into the renovation.’

Thea suspects this statement is in fact a question, but she refrains from commenting. Dr Andersson continues along the avenue, then turns right onto the main road. The name is misleading; it’s actually a strip of bumpy tarmac with no line down the centre, meandering between oilseed rape fields and clumps of trees.

‘So, Thea, as you already know this job is something of a special arrangement. It’s funded by the Bokelund Foundation and a number of private sponsors, such as our local car dealer.’ The doctor pats the steering wheel with something that could be affection. ‘It’s just a part-time post, and we’ll make home visits as well as holding a surgery in the community centre. It’s all pretty straightforward – cleaning wounds, giving flu jabs, peering into people’s ears and throats, pulling splinters out of fingers and so on.’

She slows down to let an approaching tractor pass by. Sounds her horn and waves cheerily at the driver. ‘Little Stefan. He’s worked at the castle for many years. Needless to say, the life of a GP is nowhere near as eventful as life with Doctors Without Borders. The idea behind this arrangement is for the residents of Tornaby to have access to their own doctor, someone who’s part of the community. A bit like the way things used to be, if you know what I mean. The surgery must be open on Monday and Tuesday mornings. People are used to that. Otherwise you can plan your schedule to suit you, and make sure you post it on the homepage on the Friday of the previous week at the latest. Freedom with responsibility, so to speak.’

Thea nods. Her mother-in-law has already explained all this, but as long as the doctor is talking, she’s not asking intrusive questions.

‘As I’m sure Ingrid’s told you, the Bokelund Foundation exists to promote the good of the community. And this is a wonderful job – the best I’ve ever had, in fact.’

There is a faint hint of sorrow in Dr Andersson’s words, a suggestion that there may be more to this story. But not right now.

The road straightens out, a central line appears along with speed bumps and road signs, plus an electronic board wishing drivers a pleasant day as long as they stay below forty kilometres an hour.

‘I’m sure you know the village well by now – you must have been here lots of times.’

Thea nods, even though it isn’t true. Prior to the past week, she had only visited Tornaby once before, and now they usually drive straight through the village. David has never wanted to come here. Thea hasn’t asked why, because she didn’t want any reciprocal questions about the area where she grew up. However, following the interview and his weird behaviour this morning, she can’t help wondering if there’s a particular reason why they’ve stayed away. Something to do with a dead girl.

She thinks about the Polaroid in her pocket. Maybe the talkative doctor can tell her what it’s about? But first they have to get to know each other better.

In the eastern part of the village the houses date from the 1950s. Gradually the landscape changes – leafy gardens, tall flagpoles, white picket fences. The year of construction is painted on several façades, always from the early twentieth century. One of the largest houses belongs to Thea’s in-laws.

Tornaby boasts the almost obligatory pizzeria, a combined ice-cream and fast-food kiosk, plus an ironmonger’s that is fighting for survival against the big DIY chains. The fire station resembles a Lego model with its red door and little turrets. The post office is long gone, but there is still a small Konsum supermarket, plus a branch of Sparbanken, where her father-in-law was once the manager.

The church is located on a patch of higher ground, surrounded by tall poplars. It is built of depressing grey sandstone blocks, and has several side naves plus an enormous tower, which makes it look far too large in comparison to the rest of the village.

‘The oldest stone church in Skåne,’ Dr Andersson informs Thea as they pass by. ‘The crypt and one wall were built back in the 1000s, but this area was an important religious hub long before Christianity made its mark. Tornaby is named after the hawthorn – hagtorn – which was a sacred tree in pre-Christian religions.’

Thea murmurs something in an effort to sound interested.

The red-brick community centre is diagonally opposite the church. David was educated here until the age of twelve, when the school moved to the uninspiring concrete box down by the sports ground. That’s more or less all Thea knows about his childhood, apart from the fact that he used to hang out with Nettan and Sebastian, who are now his business partners.

She thinks of the photograph again, the children in the masks, the young woman. Walpurgis Night 1986, that’s thirty-three years ago. David was twelve, Thea was fifteen. A completely different person from the one she is now.

TORNABY COMMUNITY CENTRE, announces an unnecessarily large sign at the end of the drive. And in smaller letters: DOCTOR’S SURGERY, FOLK MUSEUM, MEETING ROOM, CAFÉ, CHARITY SHOP. Two women, each with a pushchair, are chatting beneath a cherry tree. They wave as the doctor pulls into the car park.

‘A lot of families with young children move here,’ she says. ‘The new road has helped, and in two years we’ll be linked to the local train service.’ She parks the car, still talking as she extricates herself from the driving seat with some difficulty. ‘This place is perfect for families. There’s a strong community spirit – everyone knows everyone else. This centre is key – a meeting point, thanks to the Bokelund Foundation and the parish council. They’ve also put pressure on the politicians to make sure we keep the school – much better than bussing all the children to Ljungslöv, as so many of the other small villages have to do. We also have a Facebook group you ought to join, Thea. That’s where you’ll find out most of what goes on in the village.’

‘I’m not on Facebook.’

‘Oh?’ Dr Andersson raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t push it. She leads Thea to a side door. ‘You and David don’t have children?’

Thea shakes her head. ‘No. We’re childless.’

Dr Andersson looks embarrassed, as if the word makes her uncomfortable. A simple, if not very nice, trick that Thea learned from Margaux. The truth is that she and David have always avoided the subject, maybe because neither wants to hear the other’s excuses. And now they’re too old anyway.

The surgery is bigger than Thea had expected – twenty-five square metres, with space for an examination couch, several lockable cupboards and a washbasin. The walls are adorned with old school posters showing various parts of the human anatomy. The room smells of soap, the curtains look new and there is a large bouquet of flowers in a vase on the desk.

Dr Lind – a warm welcome from Tornaby parish council, says the card, in David’s mother’s slightly old-fashioned handwriting.

‘As you can see, they’re very pleased to have you here. I expect they’re fed up of me after all these years.’

The comment is meant as a joke, but once again there is that hint of sorrow in the doctor’s voice, suggesting that she doesn’t find it funny at all. The big woman looks at her tiny watch, then rubs her hands together.

‘Twenty minutes before we open. How about a cup of coffee and a slice of homemade cake, Thea? The girls in the café look after us very well. It’s sponge cake on Tuesdays.’

When they return to the surgery, Dr Andersson shows Thea how to log into the database on her laptop, how to upload her timetable, and how to update medical notes. The patients, who are obediently waiting on the chairs in the corridor outside, present the expected challenges.

Thea vaccinates two small children, dresses a wound and diagnoses one case of inflammation of the ear. Dr Andersson lets her do her job, looking perfectly relaxed as she sits in the corner with her coffee.

Most of the patients are young mothers or pensioners. They all welcome her in a way that suggests she’s already been a topic of conversation in the village for some time. The mothers want to know more about David, the restaurant and the opening night. The pensioners prefer to discuss their aches and pains, but almost all of them ask how her father-in-law is, and send their best wishes to both Bertil and Ingrid.

They all open up to her, which seems to impress Dr Andersson. Thea herself isn’t at all surprised. People have always confided in her, ever since she was a child. Her older brother, her father, eventually her fellow students, her colleagues, her patients. All she needs to do is start things off with a little small talk, then sit quietly and listen.

‘Everyone is searching for someone who will listen to them,’ Margaux used to say. ‘Someone who understands and doesn’t judge. And you’re good at it, ma chère. So good that even mussels open up to you. That’s why you need to devote yourself to the living, not the dead. But be careful. With great talent comes great responsibility.’

Thea thinks about the mysterious photograph yet again. What is the story hiding behind it? And who can tell her that story?