Encircling (6 page)

“I don’t know where you get it all from,” Mum says to Eskil, she never tires of saying this, it seems. I look at her, she shakes her head as she leans forward and stubs out her cigarette, ventures another little laugh. She acts like it’s no big deal, me coming back like this, but it doesn’t quite work, she’s uncomfortable, I can tell by her face.

One beat, then everyone turns to look at me, all casual like.

“Ah, you’re back,” Eskil says.

“Yes,” I say. “And just when you were having such a nice time,” I add. I feel a pang of remorse as soon as I’ve said it – I was only saying what they were all thinking – but still,
I shouldn’t have said it, it just came out. There’s silence. I keep my eyes on the floor as I walk over, aching more and more inside, bleeding. I try to smile, to look as if I don’t care, but don’t quite manage it, smile this agonized smile, a grim smile. Raise my eyes as I pull up the empty patio chair, see Mum give her wan smile, trying to appear plucky and long-suffering again. A moment, then she gets up.

“Oh, well,” she says, groaning softly and putting a hand to her back as she straightens up. “I’d better see if dinner’s ready,” she says, then she slips past me, not even looking at me.

Silence again.

“Well,” Eskil says, blowing cigarette smoke down his nose, then pausing for a moment. “So, how was the water?”

“Not bad,” I say, trying to hold his gaze, trying to look confident, but not quite managing it.

“Where did you swim?”

“Off the beach.”

He nods, says nothing for a moment. Then: “That’s where you pulled the shorts off me,” he says.

I look at him, puzzled. What the hell’s he on about, it was him that pulled the shorts off me, not the other way round.

“Did I ever tell you about that?” he asks, turning to Hilde and nodding at me. “Packed beach, and this little bugger goes and pulls the shorts off me. Some of the girls from my class were there and all, Christ, I was mortified,” he says, turns and looks at me again. One beat. Then suddenly it dawns on me what he’s up to, he’s trying to lend me some of his own traits now, giving me the starring role in one of his countless stories about himself, hoping to make me feel better. This is his way of boasting about me, his way of saving the situation.

“Do you remember?” he asks.

“No, I don’t remember,” I say, looking at him, holding his gaze for a second, trying to show him that I know what he’s up to, but he doesn’t get it, just goes on talking.

“You don’t?” he asks, acting amazed. He takes a last puff, stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, you may have forgotten it, but I haven’t, I can tell you. An experience like that leaves its mark,” he says and laughs as he turns to Hilde, nods at me: “He was a bit of a joker that one, you know!”

“Were you, Jon?” Hilde asks, leaning forward and stubbing out her cigarette as well. Sits back in her chair again, regards me, looking slightly surprised, impressed almost.

I don’t answer straight away.

“Hmm?” she asks.

And then I feel it starting to work on me. It’s so stupid, but I’m flattered in spite of myself. I glance down at my feet, then up again, can’t help smiling a little, as good as admitting that I was a bit of a joker, not just withdrawn and shy, and that I could be wild and unruly, too. It’s not true, but it feels good to be seen that way.

“I wouldn’t have thought that of you,” Hilde says.

I look at her. And she looks at me, looks at me with soft, kind eyes, eyes that are a little too soft and kind actually. Her smile is a little too kind, too. And suddenly I realize that she knows this is all just a pack of lies, that she’s pretending to believe Eskil’s story because she feels sorry for me, that she pities me. A moment, then the hint of pleasure I had felt at the flattery drains away and shame comes flooding back. I mean, how small can you be, how much of a little brother can you be. Eskil lends me his own
traits and I sit here like a fool, accepting them. Sit here, giving the impression that I long to be like him. As if I look up to him, a smug, swaggering right-winger, the last thing in the world I’d want to be, for Christ’s sake. What the hell’s the matter with me? Hilde doesn’t take her eyes off me, she knows I’m wise to the whole charade and that I’m ashamed, I can tell by her face that she knows.

“Well, well,” Hilde says, trying to change the subject somehow, get me out of this before it becomes too embarrassing. She opens her mouth, about to say something, but before she can do so Mum appears, I hear the floor creak as she steps out onto the veranda, and both Eskil and Hilde turn, look at her.

“Not quite done yet,” Mum says. “But it won’t be long now.”

“Mmm,” Eskil says, leans back in his chair, laces his fingers together and makes a horrible cracking sound with his knuckles, as if to show how much he’s looking forward to dinner.

“It smells great,” Hilde says.

“Delicious,” Eskil says.

“Ah, well, I’m not sure it’ll taste as good as it smells,” Mum says.

“Oh, I’m sure it will!” Eskil says.

“I’m not all that used to baking fish in the oven,” Mum says. She’s not about to give in, she’s bringing herself down so that Eskil and Hilde will feel moved to protest and contradict her, so bloody typical, sitting there craving compliments.

“You made it once before when we were here and it was delicious,” Eskil says.

“Was it?”

“Oh, yes. We were still talking about that meal weeks later,” he says, looking at Mum and nodding, and Mum smiles gratefully back at him. Un-fucking-believable, he’s lying in his teeth and we all know it, we all know he’s exaggerating, but it doesn’t seem to matter. It’s so fucking ridiculous.

“Oh, by the way, let me know if you run out,” Eskil goes on. “I’ll get someone to nip over with a fresh batch for you.”

“Oh, yes, please!” Mum exclaims happily. “But can you do that?”

“Ah, what wouldn’t I do for my old Mum,” Eskil says.

I look at him, he’s got some fucking nerve, he’s never there for Mum, he hardly ever comes to see her, and yet he has the gall to talk like this. He looks at Mum and laughs. And Mum laughs too. He’s never been there for her, not even when she was at her lowest, and yet she laughs when he talks about doing things for her, as if she’s forgotten everything, as if it doesn’t matter.

“I’ll have a word with one of the lads and get him to run over with a box of fillets and a box of whole fish at the weekend,” Eskil says. “That should keep you going for a while.”

“Oh, what would I do without you,” Mum says.

“Starve to death!” Eskil declares bluntly and laughs that big, booming laugh of his again, opening his mouth wide and glancing around as he laughs. And Mum hoots with laughter.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head.

Two seconds.

Then Eskil turns to me.

“Oh, by the way, we’re looking for another driver,” he says, lifting his sunglasses off his brow and pausing for
a moment, nodding at me. “You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”

I look at him, don’t answer straight away. You wouldn’t be interested, would you? he asks, asks as if I were looking for work. I’ve told him again and again that my plan is to concentrate on my music, but it seems to have gone in one ear and out the other, either that or he simply can’t imagine that such a thing would ever be possible, it’s so arrogant, so fucking patronizing. And I feel my annoyance growing, I turn and look at Mum, and Mum sits there eyeing me expectantly. And then it strikes me: they’ve been discussing this while I was down at the beach; I picture Mum playing the long-suffering mother, acting all weary and dejected because I’m never going to amount to anything, and Eskil assuming the role of father figure, the big brother who has to sort out the family problems. As if – him, the least responsible of us all, drunk or stoned all through his teens and early twenties and then he does a complete about-turn and suddenly he’s oh-so-fucking-responsible, even goes into politics, and starts ranting on about stiffer sentences and law and order, him, after all those years of stealing from Mum to finance his drug habit, and now he sits there, expecting to be regarded as the responsible, trustworthy member of the family, it’s un-fucking-believable, the man has no fucking shame.

“The pay’s not bad, either,” Eskil says.

“How much are we talking about?” Mum asks.

“About two hundred and ninety thou, I think.”

“That much?” Mum says.

“Yes, or it might have been more,” Eskil says.

I just sit here looking at them. They know I don’t want to be a driver, but they pretend not to know. Talk in a way
that makes it hard for me to say no, trying to press me to say yes, do they think I don’t see that. They turn to me, look at me. One beat, then I force a wry grin, give a faint shake of my head. Another beat, then Mum twists her lips into a rueful smile. She looks at Eskil and sighs, playing the despairing mother again, like she’s at her wits’ end.

“Ah,” Eskil says, smiling at me, “but you may have plans with the band,” he says, saying it without a trace of irony, acting all sincere suddenly, wanting to look as if he, at least, respects me, knowing that it makes him stand even taller in Mum’s eyes.

“Oh, that … band!” Mum snorts, making it sound as if she’s talking about a venereal disease.

“Well, you can think about it,” Eskil says, looking at me – he’s acting all innocent, but I know he’s enjoying this, he’s making me look like an ungrateful sod and himself like the magnanimous, considerate big brother, and he’s enjoying every minute of it. I look at him, feel a wave of loathing wash over me.

“There’s nothing to think about,” I say. “I’m not interested.”

Mum gives a little sniff as I say this.

“It’s not good enough for you, is that it?” she asks peevishly.

I look at her and a loud bark of laughter escapes me: that she can bring herself to say something so stupid, that she can spout such an unadulterated cliché, in all seriousness. Jesus Christ, it’s fucking unbelievable, she’s like something out of a bloody film by Ken Loach or Mike Leigh, it’s a fucking farce.

“No, driving a fishmonger’s van isn’t good enough for me,” I say. “I believe I’m better than that, you see,” I add,
sneering at her and seeing how hard my sarcasm hits her, seeing how angry it makes her.

“Now, now,” Eskil says quietly, speaking now as if he thinks we should just forget all about it. He’s still playing the big man, taking the lead as it were, urging us to rise above this, relishing the fact that Mum and I are arguing, but acting as if he wants us to be friends. He knows it raises him even higher in Mum’s eyes.

“Jon only has himself to think about, you know, he’s not as dependent on a regular income as so many of us are,” he says, as though he’s defending me now. He’s so bloody calculating, belittling my rejection of his offer, so Mum will disagree with him and say again how stupid she thinks I’m being.

“Yes, but he still needs a roof over his head,” Mum sighs, doing exactly what Eskil wants her to do, continuing to criticize me. “He still has to eat,” she says, “and there are bills to be paid,” she says, “electricity, phone and I don’t know what else,” she goes on. She eyes Eskil helplessly. It’s me she’s talking about, but she’s acting as if I’m not even there, ignoring me, treating me like a child, that’s just what she’s damn well doing, it’s so fucking patronizing, so fucking arrogant. “He still needs to have an income, even if he doesn’t have a family to support,” she says. “I mean, you and Hilde, you only have yourselves to think about, too, but you both still have good steady jobs.”

“Well, till now we have,” Eskil says, looks down, fiddles with his sunglasses, then smiles slyly.

Silence.

Hilde turns to him, flashes him a look that says he has brought up a subject she’d rather he didn’t mention. But Eskil doesn’t look at her, he looks up at Mum and smiles.

“What do you mean: ‘till now?’”

“Hilde and I, only having ourselves to think about,” Eskil says and then he turns to Hilde, smiles at her, too. “Oh, come on, Hilde,” he says, almost imploringly. “That’s why we’re here,” he adds.

“What are you talking about?” Mum asks.

“We’re going to adopt,” Eskil says. “We didn’t want to say anything until it was all arranged, but now it is. A month and a half from now we’ll be going to collect our little boy.”

Silence.

Then Mum puts her hands to her face, claps them to her cheeks and opens her mouth, but no words come out, she just sits there gaping. And Eskil starts to laugh, he sees how happy Mum is and he can’t help but laugh, only moments ago she was feeling bitter and depressed and now he has sent her into raptures.

“Oh, my God, Eskil!” Mum cries, and she stands up and reaches across the table to hug him. And Eskil laughs and stands up as well and puts his arms around her. They rock from side to side. And then Mum starts to cry, stands there with her eyes shut, weeping. I watch as the tears stream down her cheeks, tears of joy, I ought to be happy too, I suppose, but I’m not, I can’t find it in me to feel happy for them, not right now at any rate, not after all that’s been said. I try to force a little smile, but it’s no use, all I can manage is a grim, tortured grin. And there’s Hilde, looking at me with pity in her eyes, as if she can see right through me, I feel a wave of embarrassment wash over me and promptly look away, the smile fixed on my face.

“Oh, my,” Mum says, sniffing and wiping away her tears. She turns to Hilde. “Oh, Hilde,” she says, reaching
out her arms and hugging Hilde, too, resting her chin on her shoulder and squeezing her tight. And Eskil just sits there beaming, observing them, touched by this scene, and suddenly he turns to me, smiles as he places his hands on the arms of his chair. Looks as if he’s about to get up and shake my hand or something, probably assumes I’ll want to shake his hand and congratulate him. But I don’t. I ought to, and I’d like to, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I remain seated. And then Eskil realizes that I’m not about to get up. He raises his backside slightly, adjusts the cushion underneath him, tries to make out that he’s just getting more comfortable, and I feel a stab of conscience.

“Well, congratulations!” I say, manage to squeeze out the word, but it sounds half-hearted, my tone indifferent, cold almost. It just comes out that way. And the guilt grows inside me, I shouldn’t be behaving like this, it’s awful, but I can’t help it.