This Should Be Written in the Present Tense

28

Per and Ruth and Hans-Jakob invited me with them to Sweden for the Whitsun holiday, three days at a hotel by a lake in Småland. We drove up in the Volvo, Per and me in the back with a pillow each. We held hands across the seat, Per rubbed my palm with his thumb. I took my hand away and propped the pillow up between my cheek and the window and stared out at the vast pine forests. Ruth did the driving, Hans-Jakob sat with the map and a bar of Marabou chocolate. He broke pieces off and handed them back to us. They’d booked us into two rooms. There was a dinner included, in a banqueting room. We were going to have coffee in a summer house in the garden then go down to the freezing cold lake for an evening swim. Per had his checked shorts on, his thighs were long and firm. He took hold of my hand again, then leaned across and put his lips to my ear.

‘Are you tired, darling?’

‘A bit.’

‘You’re not carsick, are you?’

‘No.’

‘How about stopping at the next lay-by?’ he said to Ruth, and she nodded.

‘Good idea. I’ll have a piece of that too, Hans-Jakob.’

We ambled back and forth in the lay-by. Per swung our arms. He shoved me into a little ditch and pulled me up again. Ruth and Hans-Jakob sat on the bench and studied the map. Hans-Jakob waved to us.

‘Look at him, the old fart,’ said Per.

‘Don’t talk about your dad like that,’ I said.

‘He’s eaten nearly all that chocolate himself now.’

‘He’s only forty-five. He can still thrash you at badminton.’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘Ow, that hurts.’

‘I’d like to get old with you someday,’ he said.

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘What do you mean? Yes, I would.’

‘You don’t want to get old.’

‘No, but the other bit.’

‘That’s nice of you to say,’ I said. He put his arms around me from behind and kissed me on the neck, and nudged me on towards his parents. Ruth looked up.

‘Still kissing after four hundred kilometres,’ she said.

In the evening we lay naked in our room after the swim, our bellies full of elk steaks and French red wine. Our bathing costumes were hanging up to dry on the balcony. A piano played downstairs, and on the other side of the wall behind our bed I could hear Ruth’s voice. There was a scraping sound, perhaps from a piece of furniture, followed by chinking glasses and laughter. When I turned to Per he’d fallen asleep. I began to cry, ever so quietly at first, but then I let go. I sniffed and sobbed. Eventually, he woke and sat up.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘Have you had too much wine?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the matter then? Is it something I’ve done?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s just that you’d fallen asleep. I felt so alone all of a sudden.’

‘Come here,’ he said, and drew me towards him. I cried all down his smooth shoulder.

‘I can’t bear the thought that we’re so young, either. We’re much too young.’

‘For what?’

‘For everything. For this. We’re just waiting for it to fall apart.’

‘What kind of a thing’s that to say in the middle of the night, you bloody great arse?’ he said, and then he began to cry as well, the tears streamed down his cheeks. He picked up the pillow and buried his face in it. I didn’t know what to do. He curled up and made some long, hollow sounds. After a bit I leaned forward and took the pillow away. His hair stuck to his forehead.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,’ I said.

‘Is that why you’ve been acting so strange?’ he said.

‘No. I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘What are you trying to tell me then?’

‘That was it. I just thought we were so young all of a sudden.’

‘What am I supposed to say to that? There’s nothing I can say,’ he said. There was an unfamiliar anger in his voice that I liked.

‘I know,’ I said.

‘It’s up to you what you want,’ he said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with being young or not.’

But the next morning his anger had evaporated, he kept touching me fondly as we ate our cinnamon rolls. Ruth was playing around with a box of matches. Her coffee spilled over onto the white tablecloth. Every time I looked out I thought about my suitcase. It was drizzling and the grass was all green. I imagined sitting on a bus with my hands in my lap, then getting off. I thought about the suitcase when the others were busy and when I was on my own, as I stood by the window in the room that looked out on the lake and when I lay there in bed. After we got home it seemed like the only thing to do was pack. I did it on the Tuesday morning before Per woke up, and when he did I told him. I carried the suitcase down the stairs and put it down under the sycamore tree while I got my bike out of the barn. Per stood on the cobbles in his underpants. When I went up to kiss him he turned away. I put the suitcase on the pannier rack and wheeled the bike down the drive. When I got to the road I turned round. He was still standing there. He didn’t move. I thought about raising my hand, and then I did.