The Farm (7 page)

The clipping is from the front page of
Hallands Nyheter
. The majority of people in the region subscribe. When we refused, because we couldn’t afford the cost, there was malicious chitchat about why we’d snubbed a local institution. There was no option but to subscribe. Chris was furious. I explained to him that you can’t put a price on fitting in. Anyway, I’m showing this to you because you need to understand the power of the man I’m up against.

Håkan’s in the centre.

To his right is the tipped-to-be leader of the Christian Democrats, Marie Eklund. A stern woman, one day she’s going to be a great politician, by ‘great’ I mean successful rather than decent. She failed me. I went to her in person, with my allegations, at the height of the crisis. Her office refused to grant me an audience. She wouldn’t even hear me speak.

On Håkan’s left is the mayor of Falkenberg, the seaside town nearest our farm. Kristofer Dalgaard. His friendliness is so excessive you can’t help but question it. He laughs too loudly at your jokes. He’s too interested in your opinions. Unlike Marie Eklund, he doesn’t have any ambition except to stay exactly where he is, but maintaining the status quo can be as powerful a motivation as wanting to climb upwards.

And finally there’s Håkan. He’s handsome. I don’t deny it. He’s even more impressive when you meet him in person. Tall with broad shoulders, physically he’s immensely powerful. His skin is tough and tanned. There’s nothing soft about his body – nothing weak. He’s rich enough to employ an army of people while he could act like a decadent emperor, issuing orders from his veranda. That’s not his way. He wakes at dawn and doesn’t finish work until the evening. When you’re in his presence it’s hard to imagine him ever being vulnerable. When he grabs you his grip is unbreakable. Though fifty years old, he has the vigour of a young man, with the cunning of an older man – a dangerous combination. I found him intimidating, even on that first day.

As he emerged from the gloom of his underground lair, I hastily launched into my introduction. I said something like – ‘Hello, my name is Tilde, it’s wonderful to meet you, I’ve moved into the farm down the road’ – and yes, I was nervous. I spoke too much, and too quickly. In the middle of my good-natured babble I remembered the flag tied in my hair. I thought: how ridiculous! I blushed like a schoolgirl and tripped over my words. And do you know what he did? Think of the cruellest response.

• • •

M
Y MUM HAD SO FAR ASKED
several rhetorical questions. On this occasion she was waiting for a reply. It was another test. Could I imagine cruelty? Several possibilities occurred to me, but they were so random and groundless that I decided to say:

‘I don’t know.’

Håkan answered in English. I was humiliated. Per haps my Swedish was a little old-fashioned. But we were both Swedes. Why were we talking to each other in a foreign tongue? I attempted to continue the conversation in Swedish but he refused to switch. I was confused, not wishing to seem rude. Remember, at this stage I wanted to be this man’s friend. In the end, I replied in English. As soon as I did he smiled as if he’d won a victory. He started speaking in Swedish and never spoke to me in English again in all the time that I was in Sweden.

As though this insult hadn’t taken place, he showed me inside the shelter. It was a workshop. There were wood shavings on the floor, sharp tools on the walls. On almost every surface there were trolls carved out of wood, hundreds of them. Some were painted. Others were half-finished – a long nose poking out of a log, waiting for a face to be carved. Håkan claimed that he didn’t sell any of them. They were given away as presents. He bragged that every house within twenty miles had at least one of his trolls, with some of his closest friends owning an entire troll family. You can see what he’s doing? He uses those wooden trolls as medals, awarding them to his trusted allies. When you cycle past anyone’s farm, there are trolls in the window, lined up, one, two, three, four – father, mother, daughter, son, a complete set, a complete troll family, the highest honour Håkan could bestow, displayed as a statement of allegiance.

I wasn’t given a troll. Instead, he handed me the knife and welcomed me to Sweden. I didn’t pay much attention to the gift because I thought it inappropriate that I was being welcomed to my own country. I wasn’t a guest. Irritated by his tone, I didn’t notice the engravings on the handle, nor did I consider why he’d given me a knife rather than a troll figure. Now it’s obvious – he didn’t want me to have a troll displayed in our window in case people mistook it for a sign that we were friends.

As he showed me out, I caught sight of a second door, at the back of the shelter. A heavy-duty padlock hung from the lock. It might seem an irrelevant observation, but that second room will become important later. Hold it in your mind and ask yourself why it needed a second lock when there was already a lock on the front door.

Håkan proceeded to walk me back to the drive. He didn’t invite me inside his house. He didn’t offer coffee. He was escorting me off the premises. I was forced to raise the issue of renting our fields while we were walking, mentioning my idea about how we’d accept meat in exchange for the land. He had a different idea.

‘How about I buy your whole farm, Tilde?’

I didn’t laugh because he didn’t seem to be making a joke. He was serious. Except it didn’t make any sense. Why hadn’t he simply bought the farm from Cecilia? I put this to him directly. He explained that he’d tried, claiming he’d offered twice as much as we’d paid and he would’ve offered three times as much, but Cecilia flatly turned him down. I asked why. He said none of their disagreements would interest me. However, he was happy to make me the same offer, the entire farm for three times the price we paid for it. We’d have trebled our money in the space of a few months. Before I could reply he added that life can be hard on a farm, instructing me to discuss it with my husband as though I were merely an envoy.

Let me be clear.

Before that conversation there’d been hardship and difficulties but no mystery. Now a question had been forced upon me, a question that kept me awake at night. Why had Cecilia sold the farm to a couple of outsiders with no personal connection to this region when the largest landowner in the region, a stalwart of the community and her neighbour for many years, coveted the property and was willing to pay much more?

• • •

I
SAW NO OBSTACLE STANDING
between my mum and the truth:

‘Why not ring Cecilia and ask her?’

That’s exactly what I did. I hurried back to the farm and rang the nursing home – Cecilia had left a contact address and telephone number for a care home in Gothenburg. But if you thought a simple question would resolve the mystery, you’re wrong. Cecilia was expecting the call. She asked me outright about Håkan. I explained that he’d offered to buy the farm. She became upset. She claimed to have sold us the farm because she wanted it to become our home. If I sold it for a quick profit it would be a betrayal of her trust. Now it became clear! That’s why she instructed her agents to find buyers from further afield. That’s why she used agents from Gothenburg, over an hour’s drive away – she didn’t trust any of the local agencies. She’d insisted on an interview as a vetting process to make sure we were unlikely to sell, trapped by our circumstances. I asked her why she didn’t want Håkan to own the farm. I remember the following exchange exactly. She begged me:

‘Tilde, please, that man must never own my farm.’

‘But why?’ I said.

She wouldn’t elaborate. At the end of the conversation, I rang Håkan on the number he’d given me. While the phone was ringing I planned to speak to him calmly and politely. But as soon as I heard his voice I categorically declared:

‘Our farm is not for sale!’

I hadn’t even discussed the matter with Chris.

When Chris entered the kitchen he picked up Håkan’s disgusting wooden knife. He looked at the naked woman. He looked at the sex-hungry troll. And he chuckled. I was glad I hadn’t told him about the offer. I didn’t trust his state of mind. Chris would’ve sold the farm.

Three days later the water in our taps turned brown, spotted with sediment, like dirty puddle water. These farms are so remote they’re not on a mains system. They draw their water from individual wells. There was no option but to hire a specialist firm to dig a new well, wiping out half of our nine-thousand-pound reserve fund. While Chris despaired at our bad luck I didn’t believe it was luck, the timing was too neat, the sequence too suspicious. I said nothing at the time. I didn’t want to panic him. I didn’t have any proof. There was no getting around the fact that our money might not last until the winter. We needed to accelerate our plans to make the farm pay if we were going to survive.

• • •

U
SING BOTH HANDS MY MUM
pulled a rusted steel box from the satchel. The box was the size of a biscuit tin and very old. It was by far the largest item in the satchel.

When the contractors arrived to dig the well I found this buried in the soil, several metres below the surface. Chris and I were observing the work as though we were at a funeral, solemnly standing at the edge of the hole, saying farewell to half our money. As they dug deeper I caught a glimmer of light. I shouted for them to stop work, waving my arms. The contractors saw the commotion, shut down the drill, and before Chris could grab me I clambered down the hole. It was stupid. I could’ve been killed. I just had to save whatever was down there. When I emerged from the hole, clasping this box, everyone was yelling at me. No one cared about the box. All I could do was apologise and withdraw to the house, where I examined my discovery in private.

Lift the lid—

Take a look through them—

That’s not what I discovered that day. Let me explain. The box did contain papers. It contained those same papers, but that writing wasn’t on them. As you can see, the metal’s cracked with rust in several places. The box had failed to keep out the moisture so the original ink on the pages had long since disappeared. You couldn’t make out more than a few words. They were probably legal documents. I should’ve thrown them on the fire. In my mind they were part of the farm’s history. It felt wrong to destroy them, so I put them back in this box and left them under the sink. My next comment is very important: I thought no more about them.

I want to say that again because I can’t tell whether you registered the point—

• • •

I
N THE SPIRIT OF COLLABORATION
, I interjected:

‘You thought no more about them.’

She nodded appreciatively.

‘When I returned outside, Håkan was standing where I’d been standing. It was his first time on our farm since we’d arrived—’

‘Except for when he sabotaged the well, you mean?’

My mum acknowledged the seriousness with which I was treating her account rather than interpreting my question as pernickety scepticism.

I didn’t witness that. So it was the first time I’d seen him on our land with my own eyes. But yes, you’re right, he might have carried out the sabotage himself, or hired someone to do it for him. Anyway, that day his posture communicated a powerful sense of ownership as if this was already his property. Chris was by his side. The two men had never met. As I approached, hoping to witness caution and mistrust, I saw neither. I’d told Chris how much this man had upset me. But he was too excited by the prospect of an English-speaking friend to comprehend the truth – this man wanted us to fail. I heard Chris happily answering questions about our plans. Håkan was spying! They didn’t even notice I was standing beside them. No, that’s not true, Håkan noticed me.

Eventually Håkan turned around, pretending to see me for the first time. Making a show of being friendly, he invited us to the first of his summer barbecues, taking place by his stretch of the river. This year he wanted to throw the party to celebrate our arrival. It was absurd! After his having shunned us for weeks and sabotaged our well, we’d now be the guests of honour. Chris accepted the invitation at face value. He took Håkan’s hand and shook it, stating how much he was looking forward to the party.

As Håkan left our farm, he asked me to walk with him in order that we might go over the specifics of the invitation. He explained that it was traditional for each guest to bring a dish of food. I knew the tradition very well and said so, asking what he wanted me to bring. He made a play of toying with possibilities before suggesting a freshly made potato salad, explaining that it was always very popular. I agreed, asking what time he wanted us there, and he said the food would be served from three. I thanked him again for the kind offer and he set off up the road. After a few steps he glanced back and did this—

• • •

M
Y MUM HELD A
finger to her lips as though she were a librarian silencing a noisy reader. It was the gesture she’d made earlier. Now she was claiming Håkan had done the same. Curious at the coincidence, I asked:

‘He was teasing you?’

Mocking me! The conversation had been a charade. The invitation wasn’t an act of kindness. It was a trap. And on the day of the party the trap was sprung. We set off just before three, following the river upstream, a prettier route than walking along the road, and I was sure we’d be among the first guests since we were exactly on time. Except we weren’t the first, the party was in full swing. There were at least fifty people and they hadn’t just arrived. The barbecue was lit. The food was cooking. Standing on the threshold of the festivities, holding a tub of home-made potato salad – we looked idiotic. No one greeted us for a few minutes until Håkan escorted us through the assembled crowd to the table, where we deposited our food. Late and lumbering around with a potato salad was hardly the first impression I’d wanted to make, so I asked Håkan if I’d made a mistake with the time, a polite way of saying that he must have made a mistake. He said the mistake was mine, the party started at one. He then added that there was no need to worry, he wasn’t insulted – I must have remembered him saying the food would be cooked from three.