Rites of Spring

1

The drone begins by taking a close-up of the main entrance and the impressive stone steps, then it slowly pulls out until the whole castle can be seen: a large central section with two wings, which from above makes the building look like an elongated H.

The white, freshly cleaned façade, the green copper roof, the coach house and the stables a short distance away to the right, beyond the east wing. The moat beyond the west wing. Then the voiceover.

‘Bokelund Castle is situated approximately four kilometres from the small community of Tornaby in the district of Ljungslöv in north-western Skåne, not far from the southern point of Söderåsen National Park. The castle is one of the oldest in Skåne, dating all the way back to the fourteenth century. The current main building, in the style of the French Renaissance, was constructed around 1880, but remains of the original castle can still be found down in the cellar, where one of the dungeons still exists.’

A slight exaggeration. No one actually knows what the little vaulted room down in the cellar was used for, but Thea has to admit that David was right when he said that a dungeon sounded better than a larder.

The camera zooms a little further out, revealing the mossy green moat. The avenue linking the castle to the main road in the south. The narrow stone bridge leading across to the forest in the north. The marsh, just visible to the east.

‘Bokelund Castle lies on an island surrounded by a moat, created in the seventeenth century by diverting water from the nearby Tornaby marsh, which is one of Skåne’s largest wetlands. It is also a Natura-2000 area, supporting a wide range of flora and fauna.’

Switch to a shot of deer with the light behind them, ferns, moss, a dragonfly dancing over a tranquil pool, a skein of geese crossing a blue sky.

Back to the drone. A new angle, this time a variation on the opening image, finishing at the top of the stone steps where she and David are now standing.

‘Since 1996 the castle has been owned and run by the Bokelund Foundation, which was started by Count Rudolf Gordon, the last private owner. The foundation is unique; its aim is to benefit the Tornaby area and its residents. Among other things, it funds a bus service and a local medical practice, and also awards grants. The castle has recently been restored to its former glory.’

End.

‘What do you think?’ David looks both eager and nervous at the same time. ‘They’ll add the interview we’re about to do.’

‘Great,’ Thea says, and immediately regrets her choice of word when she sees his expression. ‘Professional,’ she adds. ‘Extremely professional.’

David looks happier. He closes his laptop and places it on the stone balustrade.

‘The producer just sent it to me.’ He points to the short man in the baseball cap who’s standing a short distance away, talking to the cameraman and the sound guy. ‘There’s a bit of tweaking to do, plus the music track, but they’ll put that on after the interview. I think it’s going to be fantastic – as long as the weather holds out.’

He glances anxiously at the sky. It’s warm for the second half of April, and the spring sun is shining, but a band of grey has begun to grow on the horizon.

‘This has to be perfect,’ he mutters, probably as much to himself as to Thea.

She places a hand on his arm. ‘It will be. Don’t worry.’

David nods, forces a wry smile. He’s wearing spotless chef’s whites. His beard, peppered with grey, has been neatly trimmed along his jaw line, and his blond hair is neatly slicked back.

A woman with a make-up kit attached to her belt comes up to them.

‘Hi – can I just powder your forehead?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

The make-up artist is around thirty, a good fifteen years younger than both Thea and David. She’s also very attractive. Not so long ago David would already have switched on the charm, given her the confident, wolfish grin that’s so difficult to resist. But David is not his usual self. From time to time he nibbles, apparently unconsciously, at one thumbnail; the flesh around it is red, and the make-up artist has to work hard to disguise the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

She turns to Thea.

‘Are you appearing on screen?’

‘No,’ David answers for her. ‘My wife is a little shy.’ He winks at Thea as if to reassure her that everything is OK, that there will be no more arguments; he respects the fact that she doesn’t want to appear on TV. Thea knows it isn’t true.

‘David, can I have a word?’ the producer calls out.

Thea moves over to the wall. She would really like to slink down the stairs, sneak off home to the coach house, stay as far away from the camera as possible, but the TV feature is a big deal for the castle. At the very least she has to stay around and look interested.

‘How’s it going?’ says a voice behind her.

‘Fine.’ Thea tries to hide her surprise. In spite of her height, David’s mother has an unfailing ability to materialise unexpectedly. Ingrid is tall – taller than Thea. Straight back, broad shoulders, no hint of the stooping posture that often creeps in after retirement. Her steel-grey hair is cut short, her eyes sharp behind her glasses.

‘The weather looks promising – that’s good.’

Thea nods in agreement.

‘What time is Dr Andersson arriving tomorrow?’ A quick change of subject. That’s how Ingrid operates.

‘Nine o’clock,’ Thea replies, even though she’s absolutely certain that Ingrid knows exactly what her timetable is.

‘And she’s going to take you around the area. Show you the surgery, explain how everything works.’

Statements, not question.

‘Mm.’

‘Sigbritt Andersson is an excellent GP,’ her mother-in-law continues. ‘She’s meant a lot to Tornaby.’

Thea waits for the reservation that is hanging in the air. And here it is, right on cue.

‘But Sigbritt has always been nosy, ever since she was a child. You have to think about what you say in her company, if you know what I mean. Particularly when it comes to personal matters.’

Ingrid pauses for a couple of seconds – just long enough for another abrupt change of subject.

‘I hear you’re off the medication. Glad you’re getting better.’

Thea says nothing. Silently thanks David for overstepping the mark.

‘You and David need each other.’ Ingrid nods in the direction of her son, who is talking to the producer and the interviewer. ‘You need a chance to recover. Get away from everything that’s happened.’ She continues to nod, emphasising her words. ‘By the way, I’m working on the guest list for the preview dinner. So sad that your parents are no longer with us.’

The new topic of conversation seems innocent enough, but it’s always hard to tell with Ingrid.

‘Yes,’ Thea replies. The lie is so well-practised that it doesn’t even feel untrue.

Ingrid touches her arm. ‘You should know that Bertil and I regard you as our own daughter.’

The gesture surprises Thea, and she doesn’t really know what she’s expected to say. She and David have been together for a number of years, on and off, but they’ve only been married since last November. She can probably count the number of times she’s met her in-laws on the fingers of one hand, and Ingrid Nordin is not the kind of person who’s in the habit of showing her emotions or her appreciation.

‘How is Bertil today?’ Thea manages to ask.

‘Good. He wanted to come, but he was a little tired.’ Ingrid points to the TV team. ‘I think they’re starting.’

David has taken up his position on the steps, exactly where the drone footage ended. The interviewer is a young man with dazzling white teeth and a close-fitting suit. He looks a little too ambitious to be doing this kind of lightweight reporting. Judging by his body language and the irritated glances he keeps giving the producer, he is of the same opinion.

The first question sounds as if it belongs in a sports programme.

‘David Nordin – how does it feel to return home after more than twenty successful years as a chef and restaurant owner in Stockholm?’

Thea already knows the answer. She and David have been rehearsing this interview for almost a week, but she is still a little nervous, for some reason.

‘Fantastic, of course. Bokelund Castle is a wonderful environment for a restaurant. I’m so happy to be able to promote my local area and the traditional cuisine of Skåne. It’s a natural step for me, and one I’ve longed to take for many years.’

David ends with a smile that radiates self-confidence. Apparently. This part of the narrative is vitally important. He is the local boy made good, triumphantly returning home to attract tourists and summer visitors. Not a disgraced restaurateur who has been forced to quietly close his businesses and scuttle south with his tail between his legs.

‘So you and two of your childhood friends are behind this project?’

Thea breathes out. The interviewer is sticking to the agreed questions. David also seems relieved.

‘That’s correct – Jeanette Hellman and Sebastian Malinowski. Sebastian is one of the founders of the IT company Conexus, and Jeanette has had a long and successful career in finance. We all grew up in Tornaby, and we see the restaurant as an opportunity to give something back to our beloved local area.’

Goodness me. Who wrote that reply for him? It wasn’t you, was it, ma chère?

Margaux’s voice comes from nowhere. Thea gives a start, quells the impulse to look around. She knows that Margaux can’t possibly be here. Although she’s right, of course. ‘Beloved local area’ is way too much.

‘An amazing opportunity,’ David continues, answering a question that Thea has missed. ‘We’re so grateful to the Bokelund Foundation for modernising the castle and investing in the restaurant. Paving the way, so to speak . . .’ He laughs.

Thea glances at her mother-in-law, who is entirely focused on the interview. No mention of the fact that she is the chair of the foundation, or that Ingrid is behind most things that happen around here, including this interview.

David is comfortable now. His voice is less tense, his smiles more spontaneous. Thea relaxes a fraction.

Next question.

‘Is the castle haunted?’

Margaux comes into her head again – her image this time. That chopped-off fringe, those brown eyes, that slightly crooked front tooth she always presses her tongue against just before she smiles.

‘Absolutely. We have two ghosts, in fact. In the middle of the eighteenth century a young woman drowned when she fell through the ice into the moat. According to the legend, she was on her way from the castle to a secret tryst with the huntsman’s son. In the late nineteenth century another young woman came off her horse during a fox hunt in the forest and broke her neck. It’s said that sometimes you can hear the two of them galloping through the trees at night. If you believe in ghost stories, that is.’

The interviewer nods with interest.

‘But there’s a real-life story too, isn’t there? A third girl who died. I’m thinking of the spring sacrifice.’

David’s smile stiffens. Thea sees Ingrid straighten her shoulders.

‘Yes, it was a tragedy. Maybe we shouldn’t . . .’ David looks at Thea, then at the producer.

‘Cut!’ The producer takes the interviewer to one side, and a fractious discussion ensues.

David chews on his thumbnail, his brow once again shining with perspiration. Thea goes over to him, takes his other hand. It is hot and sweaty.

‘What was that all about?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I just lost the thread.’

The make-up artist reappears and powders his forehead. The producer and the interviewer are still arguing.

‘But why? The true-crime angle is much more interesting. The viewers love that kind of thing, I don’t get why we . . .’

The producer interrupts, says something that makes the interviewer turn on his heel and stomp down the steps.

David squeezes Thea’s hand. Ingrid goes over to have a quiet word with the producer, who beckons the cameraman and says: ‘We’ll take it from the top. I’ll ask the questions this time, stick to what we agreed. OK?’

David nods stiffly. Thea lets go of his hand and quickly moves out of shot.

‘Let’s go.’

The producer asks the same introductory question as before, and David immediately trips over his words. They try again and again, but his concentration is gone. His responses sound mechanical and automatic, and there is no trace of his warmth and charm.

Thea sees the producer glance at his watch, then at the sky, where the band of grey is getting closer and closer.

‘We’ll take a short break. Have a drink of water, David.’

The producer and Ingrid confer once more. David sips at a bottle of water. The make-up artist continues to fight a losing battle with his shiny forehead.

‘It’s all going wrong,’ he mutters. ‘Before we’ve even started.’

Thea takes his hand again. ‘You can do this. Just try to relax.’

‘It’s no good, we’ll have to rethink. Come up with something else.’ He squeezes her hand, looks pleadingly at her, raising his eyebrows to make sure she understands what he means. ‘I can’t do this without you, Thea. Please . . .’

She swallows, tries to assess the risks.

Ingrid interrupts her train of thought.

‘So, Thea – Peter, the producer, and I have decided it would be good if you were involved in the interview. The supportive wife, the area’s new GP and so on.’

Thea can feel everyone’s eyes on her. There is a lump of ice in her stomach, her mouth feels as dry as dust. David squeezes her hand again, harder and harder until she almost can’t bear it.

She takes a deep breath.

‘OK,’ she says, and regrets it almost immediately. But it’s too late now.

She hears Margaux’s throaty voice inside her head.

We all have our ghosts, Thea. Some more than others.

Far away, beyond the darkening grey band on the horizon, the thunder rumbles threateningly.