A Scandinavian Summer, page 1
A Scandinavian Summer
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
A letter from Helga
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Helga Jensen
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
A Scandinavian Summer
Helga Jensen
Dedikeret til min far
Dedicated to my father
Prologue
I walk out from the kitchen holding Anthony’s mug.
‘Here’s some tea, love,’ I smile.
‘You know I don’t like that mug. I’m sure you only used it to provoke me,’ he says.
His words take me by surprise and wipe the smile from my face. My eyes fill up with tears at his unexpected reaction to a welcoming cup of tea upon his return from work. All I’ve ever wanted is to make my little family happy.
I don’t understand him. Last week the bone china mug was his favourite; now it appears only the hand-painted Portmeirion is good enough.
How can one man be so difficult over a mug?
I should tell him to make his own tea, but he hasn’t been in the best of moods since Anna at work was promoted over him a couple of weeks back, and I need him on side when I tell him how much Rosie’s school holiday is going to set us back. At sixteen, I feel it’s important she gets out and sees the world, unlike me. Hopefully Anthony will agree.
I nervously wrap my long cardigan around me, pulling at it from either side. It cocoons me and acts as a comfort blanket, helping me remain composed.
‘Snappy little crocodile,’ I mutter quietly enough to ensure he won’t hear me.
This flippant remark gives me strength somehow. I could think of much worse words than crocodile, but my mother brought me up to believe that if you don’t have anything nice to say then you shouldn’t say anything at all.
I transfer the tea into Anthony’s other mug and count to ten to calm my nerves. I smile as I re-enter the living room with his drink.
‘Here you go,’ I say, handing it to him. Some may think I should have poured it all down his crotch, but then he’d never agree to the school trip.
His mood appears to improve as he looks at his phone. He then takes hold of his favourite mug. I watch him eagerly as he takes a sip.
‘Lovely,’ he says.
The man from Del Monte says ‘yes’, I think to myself.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the living room door flies open. Rosie bounces in, easing the tension further.
‘Hello Mam, Dad,’ says a cheery Rosie.
Anthony smiles up at her as if nothing was wrong. He probably hoped she would sit beside him, but Rosie walks across to my armchair instead and places herself on the arm. The strawberry smell of her familiar shampoo wafts over me.
‘Gosh, is it six o’clock already? How was your after-school club?’ I ask.
‘Great,’ says Rosie.
She shifts about on the arm of my chair and whispers into my ear, ‘Did you tell Dad, yet?’
‘No, not yet,’ I whisper back, feeling nervous at the thought.
We must tell Anthony about the trip to Kenya this evening. Hopefully he will realise how fortunate Rosie is to have been chosen to visit a conservation area after raising money to help save rhinos from poachers. He knows how much Rosie has always loved animals, ever since he brought home a stray kitten he found on the side of the road when she was a toddler.
I notice Anthony glance at his phone again.
‘Six o’clock,’ he says to himself.
‘Yes, why?’
‘I’m only saying,’ he says.
‘Okay, well, food won’t be long. I’m making your favourite,’ I say.
‘I’m not hungry,’ says Anthony.
‘But can’t you smell the slow cooker? The delicious aroma of coq au vin?’ I smile.
‘Martha, are you trying to get around me for something? What are you after?’ says Anthony.
Rosie and I look at each other uncomfortably. He could at least attempt to be a bit nicer in front of Rosie.
‘Well, I just wanted us all to sit down for dinner so we could tell you about Rosie’s school trip. We need to pay the deposit tomorrow, and the rest in a few weeks,’ I explain.
Anthony explodes at this. I know he is never keen to part with money, but this is extremely out of character, even for him. Rosie has always been his little princess, surely he can’t deny her a trip like this.
‘You know we don’t have any money spare. I should have had that promotion. I’m an excellent accountant, can’t they see that?’ He stares me in the face, as though I have the answer. It’s as though he blames me for him being unsuccessful in his promotion.
For a moment, I wonder how he can be the great accountant he claims to be when we don’t appear to have any money. Surely, he should have managed it a little better. I don’t understand where it all goes. I curse myself. A forty-seven-year-old woman, letting her husband manage the finances! From now on I am going to make sure I know where every penny is going.
‘Look, I’m sorry you didn’t get the promotion, but it’s not our fault…’ I say.
Anthony glares at me and storms out of the room. I try to stop him, but he rushes to put his shoes on and grabs his coat from the hallway.
‘I’m going out. I need some space. We can talk when I get back.’
The door slams shut, leaving me and Rosie bewildered. What on earth is wrong with him? These past few months he has changed so much. Perhaps he needs to look for a new job. It’s obviously too much for him where he is. He and Anna never got along that well. He probably hates the fact that he now works for her.
‘He’ll cool down. He’s just a bit stressed with work.’ I try to reassure Rosie. ‘Come here, why don’t we plait your hair?’ I say.
Rosie huddles in beside me and I take strands of her beautiful silky hair in my hands.
She always loved having her hair plaited as a little girl. Although she is now a teenager, it seems to offer her comfort when Anthony is volatile. I’m sure she wouldn’t want her friends at school seeing her like this.
‘Ah, this is nice, Mam,’ she says.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ I reply.
In this moment, we feel closer than ever. I think back to my parents, who were so conservative and never showed any emotion. I sometimes wonder if that is why I ended up with a staid husband who shows similar traits.
‘I wonder if Dad will notice my hair when he gets back?’ says Rosie.
‘Yes, I’m sure he will. It looks so pretty in plaits,’ I smile.
‘He’ll be in a better mood when he returns, won’t he? I really want to go on the trip, Mam,’ says Rosie.
‘Oh gosh, yes. The trip will be fine. He just needed some space, that’s all.’ I say.
Four hours later the police arrive to tell us the shocking news.
Chapter One
Two Years Later
My obsession with Scandinavia all started with a pair of colourful Nordic socks. Thick, cosy and ever so warm, they brightened up my life. With nobody to put my cold feet on in bed, they were a life-changing discovery. I even slept slightly better. Amazing what a pair of good quality thick socks courtesy of a Facebook advert can do.
From one pair of socks, I wondered what else the Scandinavians had got right. I already knew they had amazing meatballs; I had visited IKEA in Cardiff enough times to know that.
Then there was all this hygge talk. Goodness knows I could do with a bit of hygge in my life. So, next, I invested in some candles and prayed the house wouldn’t burn down. It hasn’t so far, and for the last year, I have lit a candle every night in front of a lovely photo of Anthony. It is a photo of him on Rosie’s fourteenth birthday, before he started having trouble at work and became the stressed-out person he was.
I hug my big fluffy hygge cushion as I try to stop any further memories flooding through. Since Anthony died in that terrible car accident, I have locked all the bad memories away in a part of my mind that I don’t wish to access. If anything ever creeps through, I quickly distract myself with my favourite Danish television programme, Drabet på får, or The Killing of Sheep, as i
I tuck my Nordic-socked feet underneath me as I settle down alone with my cocoa for the night. The telly jumps to life with subtitles. I wish I spoke Danish so that I didn’t have to depend on the screen to tell me what they are saying. Maybe I should consider lessons as a treat for my looming fiftieth birthday. Although I can’t imagine many people around Llanelli could teach me.
‘Jeg slår dig ihjel!’ screams out the telly.
‘I will kill you!’ the subtitles announce moments later, as the murderer attacks.
Gosh, he’s very handsome for a nasty murderer. A strapping blond with the most piercing blue eyes. He is making me feel a bit hot under the collar. His big, strong, Viking hands feel like they are lurching through the screen at me. Imagine those tracing up and down your body. His firm grip on your thigh.
Oh, Martha, what is wrong with you? Is this the menopause kicking in? Am I having one last hormonal surge?
I open the top button of the anti-allergenic cotton blouse I have been wearing all day. That’s better.
The television suddenly focuses on the actor who plays the victim. The man who acts as an office worker, attending to some late-night work, now pretends to be dead. His computer flashes in red with some strange message in a language I don’t understand.
Du må ikke dræbe fåret. Whatever does that mean?
This is dreadful. So gruesome. I don’t know what has come over me recently. Anthony wouldn’t recognise his ‘nervous nelly’, watching murders on TV. I never liked anything gruesome before. Perhaps it is because when I am immersed in my Scandinavian TV dramas, I am comforted by the fact that the victim’s life is actually worse than mine. Reality slips away. Of course, for other characters on the programme, their lives are far better than mine and much more glamorous too. I could only wish for the policewoman’s exotic life in The Killing Of Sheep. Sometimes I sit and imagine I am the sophisticated Gretchen, my skinny thighs being hugged by a pair of skintight black leather trousers, driving a vintage Aston Martin as she does. I purposely avoid looking at my strong thighs in my trusty elasticated black corduroy trousers when my imagination takes me far away. Unfortunately though, when the programme ends, so does my fantasy. I am once again me. A widow who certainly doesn’t own a pair of fancy leather trousers. I have no vintage Aston either; instead, I am the proud owner of a battered old Renault Duster with more dents than I care to think about. I am not a bad driver really; it’s just that my glasses steam up from time to time when I reverse and I get flustered.
The programme ends with Gretchen driving off. She certainly doesn’t have any dents in her car.
I feel sad as yet another episode draws to a close, but then an advert takes me by surprise. I sit up straight and listen carefully.
‘Win a visit to our studios in Copenhagen!’ blasts out from the TV.
‘Text this number now to win an all-expenses-paid trip to our studios and meet the cast. You just have to answer this simple question,’ says Gretchen.
I clamber for a pen and paper and note down the phone number. Not that I’d ever be brave enough to go if I did win.
‘Where is Drabet på får filmed?’
‘That’s so easy!’ I scream at the TV.
‘Is the answer A) Copenhagen, B) Oslo or C) Stockholm,’
‘It’s obvious it’s Copenhagen,’ I shout at Gretchen.
I write down ‘A’ on the paper. Of course, I would never enter in case I won. Rosie might need me, not to mention the panic attacks I’ve been having since Anthony died. I would be texting the number non-stop if circumstances were different.
I pick up my latest Scandi noir book to take my mind off the fact that there is an opportunity to go to Denmark and meet the handsome murderer along with the rest of the cast. However, I am only on page two when I am startled by the sound of ‘Dancing Queen’. It is Rosie’s special ringtone. It is 10:30 pm. What on earth does Rosie want at this time? It must be an emergency. This is the reason I never switch my phone off at night. You never know what can happen in the dreadful hours of darkness.
‘Mam, Mam! Guess what!’ she screams.
‘Are you okay?’ The adrenaline pumps around my body as I await her response.
‘Yes, I’m better than okay, Mam. I just got an email from Borneo.’
‘An email from Borneo, at this time? It must be very late there now. Who on earth would email you in Borneo? You don’t know anyone in Borneo. It must be a scam.’
‘No, Mam, only now I’m checking my emails. Typical. They messaged this morning. I had to call you straight away… I’m going to help orangutans.’
‘Orangutans? There’s no orangutans in Wales, are there?’
‘Noooo, I’m off to Borneo. I’m leaving next week for six months. I’m going with this fabulous organisation and…’
I sit up straight. Is Rosie actually telling me this, or has the thought of a prize to visit the studios in Copenhagen sent me doolally?
‘Borneo? Next week? Surely you’re not serious? You couldn’t arrange something like that at such short notice.’
‘Oh, Mam. Look, I didn’t want to tell you before, okay? I applied ages ago but didn’t think it would get approved. The paperwork just arrived with the email, and they want me to fly next week. I told them I was available at short notice… I didn’t expect it to be this short. Lucky I had my jabs, just in case.’
‘You had your jabs without telling me?’
‘Yes, Mammy. I had my jabs alone. I’m a big girl now. I don’t need you to take me for my injections any more.’
‘No, of course not.’ I forget Rosie is eighteen. An adult in the eyes of the law, but just a baby to me.
‘But I thought you wanted to do a hairdressing course at college? What happened to that? And what about your girlie movie nights with Amy. Isn’t that why you wanted to move in with her?’
‘Amy said she doesn’t mind. She’s met someone and he’s always hanging around now, to be honest. Besides, the careers advisor told me that volunteer work always helps your CV, so it’s an investment in my future.’
‘An investment? I thought you said this was charity work?’
‘It’s only three grand.’
‘Three grand! This is getting worse, Rosie. What on earth, love?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve still got more of Dad’s life insurance left. It’s what he would have wanted.’
I don’t mention it, but I think how he reacted to the school trip to the conservation area. I don’t know what he would have wanted, quite honestly.
‘Do you not think he’d have preferred you go to college?’ I say.
‘Of course, he’d want this, Mam. Remember when Dad got me that fluffy monkey thing? After that, we sponsored Oliver the Orangutan. That was Dad’s idea. Oliver even sent me a birthday card one year. Bless him.’
‘Oh my goodness, Rosie. Yes, I remember. Although, it’s one thing to get a fluffy toy and a card. What if they’re vicious and you get attacked?’
Since Anthony’s death I seem to worry about the most random things happening. Perhaps the grief and shock changed me. Although it isn’t only me who changed through the years. I think how Anthony was a different person just before he died. He and Rosie had always been so close, but he was becoming so much more distant to both of us. Still, his death affected us terribly; I should be grateful that Rosie is finally excited about something. When someone has an accident just like that, you’re so unprepared and you not only have to deal with the grief, but the shock too. I don’t know how we would have managed back then if it wasn’t for good friends. Although I won’t forget how Mrs Roberts from next door didn’t even bother to express any condolences to me. Even though there isn’t much neighbourly love between us, I would never have done that to her. However, no matter who it is, it doesn’t take long for everyone to stop rallying around and you’re once again left to your own devices. Suddenly people stop calling and bringing around casseroles and cakes and that is when it hits you the hardest. Now it’s just the two of us left and one of us is heading to the other side of the world. How on earth am I expected to cope?
