Marie Wall leaned back in her deckchair and reached for her drink. A Bellini. Champagne and peach juice. Well, not like at Harry’s in Venice, unfortunately. No fresh peaches here. She had to make do with the cheap champagne the skinflints at the film company had put in her fridge, mixed with ProViva peach juice. She had demanded that the ingredients for Bellinis should be here when she arrived and it seemed this was the best they could come up with.
It was such a strange feeling to be back. Not back in the house, of course. It had been demolished long ago. She couldn’t help wondering whether the people who owned the new house built on that plot were haunted by evil spirits after everything that had gone on there. Probably not. No doubt the evil had gone to the grave with her parents.
Marie took another sip of her Bellini. She looked around and wondered where the owners of this house had gone. A week in August with fantastic summer weather should have been the time when they got the most enjoyment out of a house that must have cost them millions, both to buy and to renovate, even if they didn’t spend much time in Sweden. Presumably they were at their chateau-like property in Provence, which Marie had found when she googled their name. Rich people seldom settled for anything less than the best. Including summer houses.
Yet she was grateful to them for renting out their house. This was where she retreated each day the moment filming was finished. She knew it couldn’t last. Some day she was bound to run into Helen, and she’d no doubt be struck by how much they had once meant to each other, and how much had changed since. But she wasn’t yet ready for that.
‘Mamma!’
Marie closed her eyes. Ever since Jessie was born, she’d tried in vain to get her to use her first name instead of that dreadful label. But the child had insisted on calling her ‘Mamma’, as if by doing so she might change Marie into one of those dowdy earth-mother types.
‘Mamma?’
The voice was right behind her, and Marie realized she couldn’t hide.
‘Yes?’ she said, reaching for her glass.
The bubbles prickled her throat. Her body grew softer and more pliant with every sip.
‘Sam and I were thinking of going out in his boat for a while. Is that okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Marie, taking another sip.
She peered at her daughter from under the brim of her sun hat. ‘What do you want?’
‘Mamma, I’m fifteen,’ said Jessie with a sigh.
Good God, Jessie was so pudgy it was hard to believe she was her daughter. Thank goodness she’d at least managed to meet a boy since they’d arrived in Fjällbacka.
Marie sank back and closed her eyes, but only for a second.
‘Why are you still here?’ she asked. ‘You’re blocking the sun, and I’m trying to get a tan. I need to go back to filming after lunch, and they want me to have a natural tan. Ingrid Bergman looked as brown as a gingerbread biscuit when she spent her summers on the island of Dannholmen.’
‘I just …’ Jessie began, but then she turned on her heel and left.
Marie heard the front door slam. She smiled to herself. Alone at last.
Bill Andersson opened the lid of the basket and took out one of the sandwiches Gun had made. He glanced up before swiftly shutting the lid. The seagulls were quick, and if he didn’t watch out they would steal his lunch. Here on the pier, he was particularly vulnerable.
Gun poked him in the side.
‘I think it’s a good idea, after all,’ she said. ‘Crazy, but good.’
Bill closed his eyes for a moment as he took a bite of his sandwich.
‘Do you mean that, or are you only saying it to make your husband happy?’
‘Since when do I say things to make you happy?’ Gun replied, and Bill had to admit she was right.
During the forty years they’d been together, he could recall only a few times when she had not been brutally honest.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about this ever since we saw that documentary, Nice People, about the Somali bandy team that lives and trains here in Sweden. In my opinion, something similar ought to work here too. I talked with Rolf at the refugee centre, and they’re not having much fun up there. People are such cowards, they don’t dare approach the refugees.’
‘I get treated like an outsider in Fjällbacka because I’m from Strömstad,’ said Gun, reaching for another fresh roll, bought at Zetterlinds, and slathering it with butter. ‘If locals treat people from the next county as foreigners, it’s no surprise they’re not exactly welcoming the Syrians with open arms.’
‘It’s about time everybody changed their attitude,’ said Bill, throwing out his hand. ‘These people have come with their children, fleeing from war and misery, and they’ve had a terrible journey getting here. So the locals need to start talking to them. If Swedes can teach people from Somalia to ice-skate and play bandy, surely we should be able to teach Syrians to sail. Isn’t Syria on the coast? Maybe they already know how to sail.’
Gun shook her head. ‘I have no idea, sweetheart. You’ll have to google it.’
Bill reached for his iPad, which he’d put down after completing their morning Sudoku puzzle.
‘I’m right, Syria does have a coastline, but it’s hard to know how many of these people lived near the sea. I’ve always said, anybody can learn to sail. This will be a good chance to prove I’m right.’
‘But wouldn’t it be enough for them to sail for fun? Why do they need to compete?’
‘According to the documentary, those Somalis were motivated by accepting a real challenge. It became a kind of statement for them.’
Bill smiled. It felt good to express himself in a way that sounded both knowledgeable and reasonable.
‘Okay, but why does it have to be a – what was it you said? A “statement”?’
‘Because it won’t have any impact otherwise. The more people who get inspired, like I was, the more it will have a ripple effect, until it becomes easier for refugees to be accepted by society.’
In his mind, Bill pictured himself instigating a national movement. This was the way all big changes started. Something that began with the Somalis entering the world bandy championships and continued with the Syrians competing in sailing contests could lead to anything at all!
Gun placed her hand on his and smiled at him.
‘I’ll go and talk to Rolf today and set up a meeting at the centre,’ said Bill, reaching for another roll.
After a moment’s hesitation he picked up a second roll and tossed it to the seagulls. After all, they too were entitled to food.
Eva Berg pulled up the stalks and placed them in the basket next to her. As usual, her heart skipped a beat when she looked out across the fields. All this was theirs. The history of the place had never troubled them. Neither she nor Peter was especially superstitious. Yet when they bought this farm ten years ago there had been a lot of talk about all the misfortunes that had struck the Strand family, the former owners. But from what Eva understood, a single tragic event had caused all the other troubles. The death of little Stella had brought about the sad chain of events that had befallen the Strand family, and that had nothing to do with this farm.
Eva leaned forward to look for more weeds, ignoring the ache in her knees. For her and for Peter, their new home was paradise. They were from the city, if Uddevalla could be called a city,