The Quarry

12

Gerlof received two visits every day. They were both from the home-care service, and although a temporary helper sometimes turned up, it was usually Agnes who brought him a meal at half past eleven, and her colleague Madeleine who came at around eight in the evening to assess his chances of surviving the night. At least, that’s what Gerlof assumed she was there for.

He quite enjoyed their visits, even though both women were stressed and sometimes called him by the wrong name. But it must be difficult for them to remember all the old men they called on out in the villages during the course of a day. The visits were usually short. Now and again they had time to stay and chat for a while, but on other occasions they were so rushed they hardly had time to say hello. They just put the food down in the kitchen and disappeared.

A third visitor who came less regularly was Dr Carina Wahlberg. She swept into the garden with her long black coat over her white doctor’s coat. If Gerlof was indoors, her knock was firm and demanding.

Sometimes she came on Thursdays, sometimes on Tuesdays, sometimes even on Sundays. Gerlof never got to grips with Dr Wahlberg’s schedule, but he was always pleased to see her. She checked that he had enough medication, took his blood pressure, and from time to time she did a urine test.

‘So what’s it like being over eighty, Gerlof?’

‘What’s it like? It doesn’t involve a lot of movement, I just sit here. I should have gone to church today... but I couldn’t get there.’

‘But how does it feel, in purely physical terms?’

‘You can try it for yourself.’ Gerlof raised a hand to his head. ‘Stick some cotton wool in your ears, pull on a pair of badly soled shoes and a pair of thick rubber gloves... and smear your glasses with Vaseline. That’s what it’s like to be eighty-three.’

‘Well, now I know,’ said the doctor. ‘By the way, do you remember Wilhelm Pettersson? When I said I was coming to see you today, he sent his best wishes.’

‘The fisherman?’ Gerlof nodded, he remembered Wille from the village of Tallerum. ‘Wilhelm got blown up by a mine during the war. He was standing in the stern of a fishing boat when the prow hit the mine, and the boat flew thirty metres in the air. Wille was the only one who survived... How is he these days?’

‘Fine, but he’s getting a bit deaf.’

‘I expect that’s because of his unexpected flight through the air.’

Gerlof didn’t want to think about all the minefields that had lain off Öland during the war, but they were on his mind anyway. They had sunk many ships. He had worked as a pilot guiding cargo ships past the mines during the war years, and he still had nightmares about running into one of them. Some were still down there in the depths of the sea, rusty and covered with algae...

The doctor had asked him a question.

‘Sorry?’ said Gerlof.

‘I said, How’s your hearing these days?’

‘Not bad at all,’ said Gerlof quickly. ‘I can hear most things. Sometimes I get a rushing noise in my ears, but that’s probably the wind.’

‘We can check it some time,’ said Dr Walhberg. ‘You said you’d got cotton wool in your ears... perhaps you need a hearing aid?

‘I’d rather not,’ said Gerlof. He didn’t want yet another little gadget to worry about.

‘So how are you feeling otherwise?’

‘Fine.’

That was the only reply Gerlof was willing to give — if he told the doctor he didn’t think he had all that long to live, she might send him back to the home. Instead he said, ‘Of course, it’s a bit strange to have no future.’

‘No future?’

Gerlof nodded. ‘If I was younger I’d probably buy a boat, but at my age you don’t want to go making too many plans.’

He thought Dr Wahlberg looked a little concerned, and when she opened her mouth he went on quickly, ‘But it doesn’t matter. Quite the reverse, I feel free.’

‘Well, you have a lot of memories,’ said the doctor with a smile.

‘Exactly,’ said Gerlof, but he didn’t smile back. ‘I spend a lot of time with my memories.’

When the doctor had gone, Gerlof remained in his chair for a few minutes. Then he got up and went to the cupboard in the kitchen to fetch one of Ella’s books.

I spend a lot of time with my memories, he had said to Dr Wahlberg — but that was just a way of dressing up the fact that he was reading the diaries when he shouldn’t be. He felt ashamed of himself while he was doing it, and yet it was difficult to stop. If Ella really did have something to hide, shouldn’t she have burnt the books herself before the cancer took her? She had left them to Gerlof, in a way.

He opened a new page and began to read: