The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

A WORLD APART ^{ROSA LIKSOM}

He’s over there in the living room. Let’s keep the noise down. The computer’s still on, and the reading lamp too. I’ll quietly switch them both off, the computer at least. I can watch Emmerdale on the small telly in the kitchen. Wait here. OK, I switched off the computer but left the lamp on so he doesn’t wake up. I’ve put a blanket over him too. He’s lying on his left side. That’s good. He’s always a bit crabby when he wakes up on his right side. Let’s go into the kitchen so he doesn’t wake up. Poor thing hasn’t slept properly in hours. It’s the depression, you see. It started on Monday when he was supposed to be out guiding. Didn’t eat his breakfast, though I put it by his bed. I had to leave for the hospital because my shift was starting, so I left him in the bedroom sleeping with his eyes wide open… How long will it go on for this time? Last month the depression lasted three days. It might pass quicker this time, seeing as he keeps dozing off like that and sometimes even licks his paws.

I decided to have a beautiful summer wedding, the same kind of wedding Jemina had two years ago. She set aside eighteen months for all the wedding preparations. It wasn’t enough. Towards the end she was so short of time that she had a nervous breakdown and ended up being admitted to a psychiatric unit. I said there’s no way I’m going to fall into the same trap, so I started getting everything ready three years before the big day. A midsummer wedding is a must, otherwise what’s the point? And it’s got to be at the cathedral, obviously, because that’s by far the fanciest scenery going.

When I told my girlfriends they’d better start getting ready for a summer wedding, I got six volunteers straight away: Kelly, Ann, Jenna, Melina, Sara and Tiia. I chose Kelly, Sara and Melina to be my bridesmaids because they’re all uglier than me. The show got off to a great start, and I called Daddy in Brussels and he promised to give me ten grand towards the wedding budget, but that’s next to nothing. I called Grandad in Madeira, and he was so excited he agreed to give me twelve thousand, because he always wants to go one better than my dad. The rest of the cash came from my mum (though she moaned that she always has to foot the bill for everything), my godmother who is a make-up artist and loves weddings, and my aunt who gave me another five thousand because she thinks my mum—her sister—is stingy and boring as hell. That’s already forty grand in my wedding budget—woohoo!

I looked around online for a few weeks, checking out thousands of wedding planners, and eventually employed an American company to design and make all the little stuff, the napkins, the origami, the rosettes… Ten thousand went on trinkets for two hundred guests. Then there was the wedding dress. I checked out all of the bridal stores in the city, but everything looked just awful. So me and the girls did three trips to Stockholm before I finally found the right dress in a store in Paris. It was just as cheap as most of the dresses I’d found here, only five thousand. Of course, the shoes, the handbag, gloves, underwear and tights all came separately. We found everything in a store on the Champs Élysées for a total price of six hundred and ninety-nine a head.

Now I had a wedding dress, a ton of knick-knacks and a church. Daddy pulled some strings and helped me book the Halikko manor house for the reception. All this had taken two years. I still had to put together the menu, plan the evening programme and draw up the guest list—then, of course, there were the presents. I sat down with the head chef from the Halikko manor and together we designed the menu. The chef was super-cool right from the word go. We spent five wonderful weekends together getting everything ready.

Two days before Midsummer’s, Daddy flew in from Brussels and I showed him everything me and the girls had got together. Daddy was so proud of me he positively sighed. Later that evening, when he was tasting the wines we’d chosen and complimenting me on my choice of vintage, he asked me who the groom was. I was like, what groom? Well, he said, didn’t Jemina have some hairy brute standing at the altar saying I do? That’s right, I gasped, and looked at the girls and asked them what we should do now. Sara suggested I could ask Jasu to be the groom—he’s bound to agree, he’s an engineer and they’ve got a weird sense of humour. But I was like, I can’t ask Jasu because he’s a foot shorter than me. Then I had an idea. I called the chef at Halikko and asked him if he’d join me at the altar and do everything you’d expect a groom to do at a wedding. Why not, he said straight off, but the problem was he was already married. I was like, don’t worry, that’s just a minor hitch, and so he turned up and from start to finish played the role of the groom with utter professionalism.

I’m so fucking ashamed. Last night I passed out on the settee in front of the nine o’clock news and only woke up this morning. Jere had put a blanket over me, like he always does. It feels so shameful to get up after the boys have already left for school. Maija was keeping herself occupied on the PlayStation in a corner of the living room. She didn’t even look at me as I dragged myself into the bathroom. I had a loose shit in the loo, went into the kitchen and cracked open a can of lager. Only after I’d stood in front of the fridge and downed the can did I pluck up the courage to call out to Maija. She walked into the kitchen, a sulky scowl on her face, and cast an angry glance at the empty can in my hand. I told her I’d take her to nursery in just a minute. She nodded and went off to get dressed.

I left Maija at the doors of the nursery school around midday. I watched her quickly run inside, went into the corner shop and bought a twelve-pack of lager, a sandwich and a packet of ham reduced to half-price. I walked home and got to work on the twelve-pack, one can at a time. Shame sure fucking stings—a grown woman, a single mother of three, drinking her life away. It’s the kids that suffer most, I know that, and that makes me even more ashamed. When I should be putting food on the table for them, I buy lager instead and drink myself stupid.

Even thinking about how I turned out like this makes me feel ashamed. Was it circumstances, society, my parents, was it bad luck, fate, destiny, other people, or was the problem with me? I can’t remember my mother or father ever doing anything so terribly wrong that I had to start drinking. I just started. I can’t remember how or why. One bottle at a time, I suppose.

I know I’ll fall asleep on the living-room settee again before long. Jere will pick up Maija from nursery, I know that. I can rely on him. Then, when I wake up at about seven, I’ll go to the corner shop, fetch another twelve-pack and pass out again in front of the nine o’clock news. The boys understand me, they never seem angry with me, and that makes me ashamed too, ashamed that they still love me.

I met Jani in the car park when I reversed into the back of him. As we stood there arguing about his no-claims bonus, our auras collided and he invited me to McDonald’s for a bite to eat. We drove off, and that’s when everything started. Back then I was still married to Lari and he was with Susse. I’ve got three boys and a Labrador called Saku, and Jani’s got three girls and Lilli the golden retriever. Jani is six foot three, he was into diving and spoke fluent English.

Our relationship got off to a flying start. Jani filed for a divorce and expected me to do the same. Hold on, I said. We’ll see about that. As a realist, I wanted to be sure of a few things first. I asked Jani for Susse’s phone number. He looked a bit confused and asked why I needed it. I said, I’m not buying a pig in a poke.

I rang Susse and we agreed to meet at the work canteen. As soon as I saw her, I felt like we’d known each other since we were kids. I asked her straight out if she had anything against me. She said she might have had once, but not any more because she can tell I’m a kindred spirit. We agreed to work together. I asked her to list all Jani’s good and bad points. There were thirteen good points and only one bad one. He’s a total junkie—an endorphin junkie. He can’t survive a day without a twenty-mile run. If he can’t get out for a run, he turns into a right pain in the backside, Susse explained. Fine, I said, I can deal with that.

After that we talked about the practical side of things. We started with the kids, because divorces have a habit of affecting them the most. We agreed to look after the children together because we had virtually identical ideas about child-rearing. Three boys and three girls make for a perfect match. We shared all Christmas, Easter and half-term holidays. Then it was time to talk about the dogs. Diet, training regimes and agility competitions. We had things wrapped up soon enough. Susse asked if she could keep the house she’d shared with Jani. Sure, I said, Jani can move in with me and Lari can rent himself something cheap out in the suburbs.

As soon as the divorces came through, Jani and I got married. Lari didn’t want to move out because he’d become best mates with Jani and they’d started going running together. They were always off somewhere, training for marathons in New York, Berlin, you name it. I began to feel quite lonely because the guys were always away together, so eventually Susse and the kids moved into our place. First, she and I started dating each other, then a few months later Lari and Jani came out of the closet. Now we all live together in one big, wonderful blended family of four adults, six children and two dogs, and everything’s going just brilliantly. And we’ll soon have a new addition to the family too: Saku and Lilli are expecting sextuplets!

First I got the sack, because they were streamlining at work, downsizing, consolidating, cutting back or whatever they called it. I looked for a new job for a couple of years; I even went to three interviews, but it didn’t work out. That was my first strike. I was on unemployment benefit, so I wasn’t in any trouble at first. The missus worked on a construction site; I sat in the pub all day. I liked the booze, and that was my second strike. Before long the unemployment benefit ran out too and I had to sign on. The missus told me to take a hike, said she wasn’t going to work all day just to keep me in drink. I didn’t want a fight, so I left. That was my third strike. Once I was homeless, I started drinking even more, living on people’s couches. Thank God, I had a car. I parked at the petrol station near Sörnäinen harbour and slept there all summer. Things were fine for a few months, but when autumn came round, it started to rain, and one day when I came back from the pub, the car was gone. I went over to the gypsy camp near the petrol station and asked if they knew anything about it. One of them said a pickup truck had turned up and towed me motor to buggery. I didn’t have the cash to reclaim it, and things quickly went from bad to worse. With the help of some hard Russian liquor, I hospitalized myself in the space of eight months. The quack said me pancreas had given up the ghost and I had two options: it’s either a coffin or an AA group. Three strikes and you’re out, mate. I chose the latter because I figured the AA might buy me some time. I’ve been clean for two years, three months, nine days and fifty-four minutes now, but right now I’m going to open a bottle of cut brandy and empty it down me gullet.

Sometimes you wake up in the morning, you feel like shit, and you just know it’s going to be a bad day, so normally I don’t bother getting out of bed at all, I just sleep all day. On days like that, Lauri takes care of Otto. He knows how to open the fridge so that Otto can reach his feeding bottle. When Otto starts whining, Lauri opens the balcony door so that he can crawl outside. I’ve put a box out there with all the plastic toys that won’t go mouldy. He plays with them by himself or with Lauri. Otto already knows to throw the ball where I’ve hidden pieces of cheese, and Lauri fetches it for him. On bad days I feel like I can’t do anything because I’ve got Otto. I can’t concentrate on making the tea, cleaning, listening to music, can’t be bothered going on the PlayStation or fiddling with my phone or even watching reality TV. On bad days I just think the flat’s a tip, the neighbourhood’s a dump, and I’ll probably die soon of all the rush and the stress of keeping our little family together, I’m just another fucking loser who can’t even be bothered to queue up for my benefits. On bad days I feel like my quality of life is so rough in this shitty world that I might as well stick two fingers up to the lot of it.

When I feel good from the word go, I know it’s going to be a good day. I get up, have a shower, wipe Otto’s bum and change his nappy, put some food in Lauri’s bowl and head out for the queues. First, I walk past the wellness centre, get the bus to Kallio and head for the job centre. While I’m waiting in the queue there, I chat to the other mums about the kids’ ear infections and the rotavirus. From there I move on to the social. I tend to keep my head down there, mostly because there are so many junkies around. I don’t want anyone to attack me or Otto. The final stop of the day is the food bank. Otto enjoys it there because he gets to see his friends. On good days the volunteers might give me an extra packet of coffee or some washing powder so I can do the laundry. On bad days there’s a busload of Russian tourists there too, turning their noses up at the packets of oat flakes because they don’t realize how healthy porridge is. Days like that are pretty rare though, thank God. On good days I make a healthy meal, use vegetable oil instead of butter, take Otto to the playground and stand there watching him instead of sitting on the bench. On good days I think I’ve got nothing to worry about. Everything’s going to be fine.

I feel in love with Jore the minute he said he’d give me a lift to the Metro station after work. I’d never met a guy as down-to-earth as that. It wasn’t long before I was expecting Jani, and once he was born I was over the moon. Jore wasn’t much interested in family life, he preferred to spend all his spare time down the pub, so we split up. I met Fiude when I was on the Metro, coming home shit-faced after a night on the town. When he heard I had a kid with another bloke, he said straight up, it’s me or the boy. I thought about it for a couple of minutes and said I could always hand Jani over to the social services. And so Jani was sent off to a foster family in Lempäälä, and me and Fiude had a bundle of fun. We travelled a lot, went to Hamina, Tampere, and once we even got as far as the Canaries. I was as free as a bird and Fiude was really sweet, and before long I was expecting Tina. By the time Tina was born, Fiude had already found himself another bit of skirt on the beach at Hietaniemi and taken a hike. I was pissed off, but thank God, I met Tike. He comforted me, helped me with the transition into my new life, but he got bored before long. We never get a chance to do anything, he said, because everywhere we go the kid’s always hanging round. I’d had enough of him moaning all the time, so I handed Tina over to the social services. After that, me and Tike were happy for about two years. After a while, though, I started to feel like I’d had enough of freedom, and I wanted the kids to come back home. I told Tike to sling his hook, and he didn’t put up a fight. I went back to the social services and screamed that I wanted my kids back, said I’d top myself if I couldn’t have them back home with me. That was the beginning of a crazy legal battle. I fought with the authorities for a full nine months before they agreed to return the kids. When I picked them up, Jani and Tina didn’t recognize me. They’d forgotten me, but I hadn’t forgotten them. They cried all day long, saying they wanted to go home. Enough of that whingeing, I said, I’m your real mum and this is your home! Eventually the kids got used to me, and sometimes we even had quite a nice time. Then one day, down at the corner shop, Veke looked my way and that was it. Veke liked kids, but he didn’t get on with Jani and Tina. I spent a whole week thinking about what to do: do I choose him or the kids? I chose Veke and took the kids back to social services. These two are so damaged I doubt anyone could put up with them, I said, those foster families have turned my lovely, sweet children into right little monsters. I left the children at the social, and me and Veke moved into a flat in the suburbs. We’ve got loads in common—we’ve got the same sense of humour and we both like blancmange and double cheeseburgers. Sometimes he threatens to leave me because I’m so fat. I don’t believe him. I’ve got a feeling our love is going to last forever. There’s nothing can get in the way of my happiness now.

For eighteen years, four months and eleven days, I was on a temporary disability living allowance, and it was a really stressful time for me. All you can do is sit at the kitchen table one year at a time, waiting nervously, petrified they’ll take your allowance away and you’ll have to go back to work. A woman as poorly as me can’t go out to work. If I can’t even take a tinkle without Jappe helping me into the loo, how the blazes can I go to work? I’m constantly having panic attacks and I’ve been on mandatory medication for twenty years. And still they only give me disability allowance for a year at a time. Nothing seemed to do the trick—not even when I jumped off the third-floor balcony and landed in a snowdrift. An ambulance picked me up and took me to the hospital, but they wouldn’t admit me, though they normally take in all the lunatics. They sent me home and said next time I should try the sixth floor instead.

Last spring I turned sixty-one. As a birthday present, the post brought me a little surprise, and boy, what a real red-letter day it was. The social awarded me a permanent disability pension! It felt like I’d won the lottery. I walked to the toilet by myself, the letter in my hand, and Jappe just sat at the kitchen table staring at me, his jaw almost touching the floor. I pulled on my best clothes and even took the lift downstairs—the last time I used the lift must have been back in the nineties when Nipa was still alive. I strode into the supermarket and filled my shopping bag with food because it felt like the whole world had opened up to me, then I skipped across to the bus stop like some young whippersnapper and took a ride into town. I accidentally left the bag of food on the bus, but at least I still had a bank card in my pocket. The railway station looked so nice that I bought a ticket all the way to Pori. I spent three months dashing from one place to the next, and I can’t remember a thing about it. I would probably have carried on like that indefinitely, but one day Jappe turned up and took me home.

Now I’m back sitting at the kitchen table and Jappe has to help me to the loo again. But it doesn’t matter. The good thing about this permanent disability pension is that if I get well again, I can jump right back into the jobs market any time I want.

We’ve been swimming so long I bet you’re really hungry. Mummy’s brought some grapes. Have some of those. You must be very thirsty. I’ve got some carrots too. See? The little baby carrots that you like so much. Munch a few carrots first, then have some grapes. Right, T-shirt on, pants on. Mummy’s almost dressed already. Let’s see which one of us can get our socks on first. Look, here’s a banana. Eat that and you’ll be able to walk all the way out to the car park. It’s such a long way, you can’t even see it out of the window. It must be at least fifty metres away. Come on, socks on, please, Mummy’s already combed her hair. Have a digestive biscuit—that’ll make you grow. Tie your hair back now, Mummy’s already got her trousers on. Don’t just stand there. Eat your biscuit, trousers on, jumper on, and we’ll be just fine. Look, I’ve brought you a doughnut too, your blood-sugar levels must be low after all that splashing around. Wasn’t that fun? Take a bite of your doughnut. Look, give me the biscuit if you’re not going to eat it. Sweater on. Chop, chop, Mummy’s ready to go. You haven’t touched your banana either. Did you eat any of those grapes? Carrots? Goodness me, you hardly eat a thing, you’ll waste away. Just think, you’re almost three years old and you’re still that small. You’ll never turn into a big girl if you carry on like that. Do you want to be like Mummy one day? If you do, then you’d better start eating properly. Don’t you worry, us girls will be just fine, even though Daddy left us and went off with that bitch. God, I hate her, but we’ll be all right though, won’t we? If you walk back to the car nicely, there’s Coke and popcorn, OK?

A stinking salmon carcass had been left lying on the kitchen counter. I chucked it in the bin. I sat down at the kitchen table, but I hadn’t quite finished my green tea when the doorbell rang. It was Tuukka, said he fancied a quick shag. I was like, just let me finish my tea, will you? He’s like, he hasn’t got time to wait around. I took care of him in the hallway. I nipped into the bathroom, then back into the kitchen; the smell coming from the bin slapped me in the face as I made a fresh pot of tea. I’d just lit a cigarette when my phone rang. It was Tuure. He was sitting in his car outside and needed a blow-job. I was like, come up to the flat, I’m still in my nightie. He’s like, no, you come down here. I pulled a dressing gown round my shoulders and took the lift down two floors. Only once the lift had jolted into motion did I remember I’d forgotten the rubbish bag. At least it was warm in the car. Once we were done, I walked up the stairs and popped into the bathroom on my way back to the kitchen. The tea was brewed to perfection and tasted really good, the stink from the rubbish bin notwithstanding. I smoked a Camel and went through to the bedroom. I’d just pulled on a T-shirt when the doorbell rang. There were two blokes standing outside. I was like, what? Can we come in, one of them mumbled. Fuck off, I said and slammed the door in their face. I went back into the bedroom, pulled on my jeans and heard the blokes pushing something through the letterbox. I dashed to the door to look, and there was a piece of paper lying on the mat. I snatched it up and read it: My name’s Mage and that’s my mate Samppa. He’s a bit of a retard. Can you help him out? He’s still a virgin. I crumpled the piece of paper, threw it in the smelly bin bag. I wiped the counter, and just as I was about to take the whole stinking thing out, my phone rang again. It was Jarkko, said that he was delivering an order to Tikkurila, that he was in the mood, and he’d be at my place in two minutes. I threw the rubbish bag into a corner of the hallway, took care of Jarkko and finally took the whole fucking thing out to the rubbish bin. When I got back to the flat, someone gave the door a sleek knock three times. I couldn’t help smiling because there’s only one person in the world who knocks like that.

I quickly pull on my clothes, give my teeth a cursory brush and run out to the car. I’ve got to be at the hospital before nine. I drive through two sets of red lights. I leave the car in the hospital car park, located far away from the main door, and run to the lift. I’m three minutes late. I press the button for the fifth floor; the lift seems to rise so bloody slowly, then finally the doors slide open. He’s standing there in a green coat, and he’s so livid that there’s spittle bubbling at the corner of his mouth, he won’t look me in the eye, but keeps his lips tightly shut. We rush into the bathroom the way we always do. I give him the bag and he slaps a five-hundred-euro bill in my hand. He doesn’t say anything, but from his trembling hands I can tell that waiting in the operating theatre there’s a patient whose skull he’s about to bore open. He disappears into the cubicle and locks the door. I step out of the bathroom, head back to the lift and catch my breath. His hands aren’t trembling any longer.

So you decided to order a cab in the middle of the night? You’re a brave woman; there are all kinds of junkie drivers out at this time of night, and not all of them are nice guys like me. The night shift always brings out the freaks and perverts. Anything could happen. Imagine a situation where I tell you to undress and spread your old muff on the back seat, so I can get an eyeful of it in this little mirror here. I wouldn’t do anything else, I wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t say anything, I’d just look. You haven’t got the number of my cab because you didn’t know how to order by text message, but called the switchboard instead the way people did in, you know, prehistoric times, and besides, by the time we got to the airport, you’d be in such a state of shock that you’d forget to write down my reg number. Just imagine I was some kind of serial-killer cabbie, a real psycho that pulled a gun on you, released the safety catch and pointed the thing at you while I was driving. I wouldn’t say anything, I’d just point the gun at you, and once we’d arrived at the airport, I’d slip it back into my pocket. If you went crying to the police, they’d just think you were crazy—which you probably are anyway. All kinds of things can happen when you race around in a taxi to catch a budget flight at this time of night. You’re better off flying with a proper airline so you can travel at a decent hour of the day. The predators come out at night, you know that, right? Just think about what happened in Pori. Did you read about that? There was this young cab driver, small and skinny, a guy just like me, spends all night driving around the town centre. Then outside a pub some bitch waves her hand at him, the kind of slag that’s slept with at least half the town. Taxiii, she squeals. And it really fucks this driver off. He picks her up, turns on to a small lane into the woods and stabs her six hundred and two times with a hunting knife, then drives back to the motorway, washes his hands in a toilet at the petrol station and carries on with his shift until morning. Sure, there was a bit of blood on the steering wheel, but not a single customer noticed it. Was it Terminal 1 or 2?

There’s a really nice clubroom in our house. A while ago, when there were lots of children living in the building, the clubroom was in constant use. Now that the children have moved away, we rent the room to outside groups. Our first tenant was an art club called Picasso. The first week went well enough, but once they started painting, the stench of turpentine came up through the ventilation shaft and it caused a right row. Manninen, who lived on the third floor, made a complaint about the group, as did the old widow on the sixth floor, and I was the one that had to go and tell the art teacher that it was no use, they’d have to go. And so the clubroom was empty for another few years, but when the housing association found itself a bit short of cash, Manninen suggested we rent the room to a group that doesn’t make such a stink. I flicked through the classifieds and found a group called Silver Lining. They were funded by the Red Cross, which promised to pay their rent on time. I suggested this to Manninen, who seemed pretty enthusiastic. At first the group was no trouble at all. They were mostly octogenarians who liked to play bingo and talk about CT scans and homoeopathy. But when autumn turned to winter, that’s when things started to go south. One day a member of the group had a stroke and we had to call an ambulance. Soon after this little incident the group’s volunteer leader died during a meeting of the book club and the body had to be driven away in a hearse. Manninen had had it with all the nonsense and asked me to ring the Red Cross and tell them enough was enough. I made the call, and the clubroom was empty once again. Our building was about to undergo a substantial balcony renovation and the housing association desperately needed some extra funds. I found an advertisement in the newspaper: the Band of Brothers was looking for a clubroom. I showed Manninen the ad, and Manninen said it seemed promising as the group’s name made a nice reference to lost Karelia and the Finnish kindred peoples still living there. I called the number in the ad and arranged a meeting with the group’s chairman. He was a patriotic young man—he’d even sewn a Finnish flag on his jacket. We drew up some ground rules, signed a rental agreement, and the man paid six months’ rent upfront in cash. All summer Manninen opined about how pleasant it was to discover that there were still some people in Finland with good, upstanding values. And this continued until Christmas. The first setback came on Boxing Day. A young woman had allegedly been raped in the clubroom. Probably her own fault, said Manninen. Then on New Year’s Eve a man claimed to be the victim of a grievous assault. An American basketball player had allegedly been knocked unconscious with a taser, dragged into the clubroom and beaten to a pulp. Well, Manninen sighed, relieved—at least he was black, not white. But it was at the beginning of February that things finally came to a head. The case ended up in the headlines: a killer was on the loose and he’d dismembered at least two victims. One of them was Manninen.

This morning Nazi Mum swallowed the last of Kalle’s ADHD tablets and headed off to work, her handbag swinging over her shoulder. By the time he went to school, Kalle was so hyper he punched a hole in the hallway mirror.

I went straight to my aerobics class, and as I was getting changed, I noticed my tub of caffeine pills was missing. Fucking Nazi Mum, I shouted. The instructor ran up and handed me an energy drink to try and calm me down. I thanked her. Over and out.

After school I went to a café with my mates. Gran called and said she’d run out of dementia tablets. Gran, listen, I explained to her at least five times, you haven’t run out, Nazi Mum’s been nicking them. She’s been taking Gran’s meds too because they stimulate her brain function. Without all the doping, she’d probably get the sack.

When I got home from basketball training that evening, Nazi Mum was snoring in the armchair in the living room. She’d probably taken a handful of sleeping pills before the news, so she could get a good night’s sleep before another tough day at work. I dragged her into the bedroom, covered her with a blanket and opened the ventilation window to give her some fresh air.

I don’t need to look him in his eyes or stare at the muscles in his face to see the deep sense of disgust he feels towards my saggy old arse, my alcohol-bloated body, my rotten stinking breath, my stumpy white legs, my puffy ruddy face, my veiny hands, my eyes that have long since lost any lustre. That being said, I’ve saved him from a Bangkok whorehouse, paid for his flights out here, bought him a pair of fancy white Adidas trainers and an electric shaver. On top of that, I pay for his rent, food and bus tickets; I’ve sorted him out with gym membership and an English course, lube and insurance and I even wire a few quid a month to his family by the side of a paddy field in the middle of nowhere, so I think it’s only reasonable to expect him to do his job properly, though it sometimes makes him retch.

After a meeting of the housing association, my husband said that he and the other motorists had agreed to cut down one of the trees in the garden. Come September the old rowan will be history because sap drips on to the car bonnets and the little birds feed off its berries and shit all over the paintwork. We’ve put up with it for thirty years, he said, and enough is enough; the city gardeners can take care of it and it won’t cost the housing association a penny.

Without the least hesitation I told my husband I’d file for divorce if anyone touched the rowan. It’s only a tree, he scoffed. In the city we live like city people.

September arrived, and one day when I got back from work, the rowan was lying in the back garden, its crimson berries weeping on the grass.

The next morning I marched up to the magistrates and submitted the paperwork for a unilateral divorce. My husband was in the transit lounge at Heathrow Airport waiting for a connecting flight to Singapore when my lawyer contacted him to inform him of the development. Ten minutes after take-off he had a heart attack and died despite attempts at resuscitation.

If they mutilate my genitals, the Finns will give me those slow, awkward looks. But if they don’t, my own people will think I’m weird.