The Farm Read online

  In the service station bathroom I examined my reflection in the mirror, accepting that I’d lost a great deal of weight these past few weeks and had been neglecting my looks. Women are treated with suspicion if they neglect their looks, more so than men. Looks are important when trying to convince people of your sanity. I washed my face with a dollop of pungent pink soap from the dispenser, straightening my hair, taming the wild strands, scrubbing my fingernails, fixing my appearance as best I could for my father, a man who insisted on cleanliness. Just because we lived in the country didn’t mean we lived like pigs, that’s what he’d say.

  The last of the daylight was fading and it would’ve been hard to navigate as a stranger in a foreign land with only a map. But this was my home. I wasn’t a foreigner here. No matter that it had been fifty years, the countryside hadn’t changed. I recognised the landmarks as if they were birthmarks, the bridges, the great family farms of the region, the rivers and forests, the quaint local towns that had to my eye as a child been like metropolises, home to exotic shops, a department store spread over three floors, bustling squares, expensive boutiques where sophisticates bought French perfume, and gloomy tobacco stores where men stocked up on cigars and chewing tobacco. Passing through now I saw a town asleep at ten, a single backstreet bar with a shamefaced façade catering to the handful of people who didn’t go to bed when the sun went down.

  I drove down the country road where I’d ditched my bicycle in the fields and where I’d caught the bus all those years ago, retracing my escape route, past my father’s wildflower meadows, turning towards his farm. It was just the same, the small red farmhouse, built by my father’s own hands before I was born, flanked by a customary flagpole, backed by ponds and redcurrant bushes, a single dim light over the door swirling with gnats and mosquitoes, the only light for miles around.

  Stepping out of the van, I waited. There was no need to knock because in these remote parts the sound of a passing car was unusual enough to bring a person outside and my father surely heard the van approach. He would’ve waited by the window, watching the road, to see what direction the van would take, shocked to see it come towards the farm, shocked again when it stopped outside his front door, an unexpected visitor – late at night.

  As the door opened, I felt a desire to run away. Had I made a terrible misjudgment coming here? My father was wearing a suit jacket. He always wore a jacket and waistcoat around the house, formally dressed unless he was working in the fields, never casual. I might even have recognised the suit, brown and coarse. But his suits had always looked the same – heavy, itchy and uncomfortable, pious clothes for a pious soul. Everything was familiar apart from the decay – that was new. The redcurrant bushes were overgrown except for one that had died. The ponds were no longer pristine, dense algae strangling the water lilies. The barn’s paintwork was chipped. Machinery for tending the fields had begun to rust. In contrast to his surroundings, my father looked in excellent condition, still upright and strong, eighty-five years old, an old man but not a frail one, not weak, alive, incredibly alive – vigorous and sharp-witted. His hair was white and neatly cut. He’d been to a local hair salon. He was taking care of himself, wearing essence of limes, the only fragrance he ever used. He said my name:

  ‘Tilde.’

  No hint of wonder, or amazement, my name, the name he’d chosen, spoken as a heavy declaration, a fact that brought him no joy. I tried to mimic the sound, except I couldn’t keep the wonder out of my voice:

  ‘Father!’

  I’d left this farm on a bicycle and fifty years later returned in a van. I explained that I wasn’t here to argue, or fight, I wasn’t here to cause trouble. He said:

  ‘I am old.’

  I laughed and said:

  ‘I’m old too!’

  We had that in common, at least.

  The inside of the farm was 1960s Sweden, imperfectly preserved, like a forgotten jar of jam at the back of a larder, spotty with mould. The accumulation of grime saddened me. My father had been obsessed with hygiene and immaculate presentation. But my mum had been in charge of keeping the farm clean. He’d never lifted a finger in that respect. Since her death he hadn’t adopted her chores. The result was that while he appeared meticulously groomed, around him the farm had sunk into squalor. In the bathroom the showerhead was rusted, the grouting was black, the plughole was clogged with hair, and there was a tiny fragment of shit bobbing in the toilet. And the smell! It was the same, a building in the middle of the countryside with the freshest air in the world, yet the air inside was musty and stale because the windows are triple-glazed with seals to keep out winter’s bitter cold. My father never opened the windows, even in the summer. The house was a closed space, the door never wedged wide to let in a breath of fresh air. You see, my father hated flies. Fifty years later there were still strips of flypaper in every room, some thick with dead or dying flies, some new, and my father couldn’t sit if there was a fly in the house, he’d chase it until it was dead, chase and chase, so no doors were ever opened for longer than need be, and if you wanted fresh air you went outside. This smell, whatever it was – flypaper and old furniture and electric-heated air – this smell, for me, was unhappiness. I began to feel restless as we sat in the living room, breathing this smell, beside a television that must have been bought after I’d run away – a huge black cube with two steel antennae jutting up, like an oversized insect head, with a single curved eye, almost certainly the first and only television he’d ever bought.

  It didn’t feel like we hadn’t seen each other for fifty years. We didn’t need to talk about the years that we’d missed. They weren’t relevant. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t ask about you. He didn’t ask about Chris. I understood. Some wounds can’t be healed. I’d humiliated him by running away. He was a proud man. The faded newspaper articles about his white honey were still on the wall. My behaviour had been a stain on his reputation, or if not a stain, then a question, he’d fathered a disturbed daughter. I hadn’t intended to upset him by running away. It wasn’t his fault about Freja. None of those issues could be discussed. It fell upon me to explain myself.

  Why was I here?

  Not for casual chitchat. Not to pretend that we could fix the past. I needed his help with the present. I began describing the events of this summer, told in nowhere near the detail you’ve heard today. However, I made a much better attempt of it than my effort with Dr Norling. I started at the beginning, not with my conclusions. I tried to give some of the detail and context, but I didn’t take my time, it was late, I’d driven for six hours, my mind wasn’t focused, I skipped around, compressed months into minutes. While making these mistakes I learned vital lessons about how the story needed to be told in order to be believed, lessons that I’ve put into practice today. Summaries were no good. Without evidence my words seemed vague and unsubstantiated. That was when I realised I needed to structure my case around articles of evidence from my satchel, and also to use my journal notes to support my spoken words, to give them substance. I needed a chronology. I needed context. And numbers wherever possible. Everyone trusts a number.

  I spent no more than an hour to reach my allegation that Mia had been murdered to cover up sexual crimes that had infected local government and law enforcement. At the end, my father stood up. He said nothing about the events, or the allegation, not a word in support or in attack. He said I could sleep in my old room – we’d talk tomorrow when I was rested. I accepted that sleep sounded like a good idea. I was exhausted. I needed a fresh start and a clear mind. I’d tell my story better tomorrow. I’d explain there was evidence. I’d have a second chance. And he would too.

  My bedroom had been redecorated, leaving no trace of me. I was fine with the changes, because people move on, even parents, they move on from their children, and my father explained that the room had been used as a guest room after I left, kept ready for the church, which frequently sent visitors to his farm, where they lodged, sometimes for weeks at a time. He w
as never lonely. Good for you, I thought. I wouldn’t wish being lonely on anyone.

  I lay on top of the bed, fully dressed, deciding to make sure my father didn’t call Chris while I was sleeping. He hadn’t believed me, my father – I sensed that much. I was no fool. If there was one reaction I knew very well it was my father’s disbelief. After an hour of lying on the bed I moved to the living room beside the only telephone in the house, waiting to see if my father would sneak out of his bed at night to make the call. In the chair by the phone, in the dark, I must have shut my eyes for a few minutes, because I remember dreaming about Freja.

  At dawn there was no sign of my father. He hadn’t made the phone call. I’d been wrong. He hadn’t betrayed me! He’d been telling the truth when he said we could talk over breakfast, perhaps he intended to tease out details I’d omitted. It was a new day in our relationship.

  I went to the kitchen – there were coffee cups in the cupboard that hadn’t been cleaned properly, and I boiled a pot of water, intending to wash every cup and plate in the cupboard, to scrub the sink, to give the room a clean, to throw away the flypaper on the windowsill, and change this smell. While doing this I called out to my father, asking him if he wanted his coffee in bed. There was no reply. I knocked on the door. There was no reply. It was late for the country. He was a man who woke up at dawn. I tried the handle to his room, only to find the door was locked.

  Outside the farm I tapped on the glass of my father’s window. The curtains were closed. I didn’t know if he was hurt or sick, and I spent countless minutes going back and forth between the window and the door, calling his name, until I heard the sound of a car. I stood on the porch with a hand over my eyes, sheltering it from the rising sun. Dr Norling was driving towards the farm.

  Chris must have guessed my plan and called before I’d arrived. My father would’ve called him back when he’d heard the van and told them to come in the morning, he’d keep me here, betraying me before he’d even heard a word, believing my husband over me, a man he’d never even met. I could have run, I suppose, or jumped in the van and made a getaway. I didn’t. I sat on the edge of the pond, took off my shoes and socks, and sank my feet into the water, shackles of algae forming around my ankles.

  When they arrived we didn’t say very much. They treated me like a child. I was docile and obedient. They put me in the back of the car, binding my arms in case I should strike them during the journey, or try and jump out as they were driving.

  Norling drove me home. Chris took the van, following behind. He said it would be too upsetting to drive with me as his prisoner. I never saw my father. He didn’t emerge from the locked bedroom. He must have decided that my fears about Mia were no more than reconstituted guilt about my involvement in Freja’s death – that’s what he believed, I’m sure of it, that this was madness of my own creation, the madness of a murderer imagining another murder, unable to come to grips with my own crime, drowning Freja in the lake, holding her head under the water until she could speak no more. He still believed it. Fifty years on, he still believed me to be a murderer.

  • • •

  MY MUM CLOSED HER JOURNAL and placed it on the bed in front of me:

  ‘It’s yours.’

  She was relinquishing possession of her most treasured article of evidence, her notes and clippings, her photographs and maps, entrusting them to me – soulmates sharing a secret diary. I wondered if this thought was in her mind too – had she been searching for an ally, a term that sounded strategic, or, more emotionally, had she been searching for a confidant? I recalled my mum’s description of her time with Freja in the forest, swapping stories, vowing to be friends forever, believing even in the existence of trolls merely because the other said so. I placed one hand flat on top of the journal as though stopping its secrets from bursting out:

  ‘What about the asylum in Sweden?’

  ‘Daniel, I’d end my life rather than go back to a place like that.’

  I opened the journal at a random page, not reading but running my fingertip over the heavily indented notes. I came to the conclusion that the threat was real, my mum would consider suicide should she ultimately fail in her attempts at justice. The idea remained beyond my comprehension. I couldn’t manage a response of any kind. My mum elaborated:

  ‘The building was clean. The doctors were kind. The food they brought was acceptable. But to be a person no one believes, a person no one listens to, a woman considered incapable – I’ve never been that woman. I will never be her. If placed in that situation again, I’ll prove capable of taking my life.’

  ‘Mum, you’d never allow me to talk like that.’

  She shook her head:

  ‘I wouldn’t be your mother in a place like that.’

  ‘Would I still be your son if I was committed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What would you do if our positions were reversed?’

  ‘I’d believe you.’

  I put the journal down and took hold of my mum’s hand, turning it upright, like a palm reader, tracing the lines with my finger:

  ‘Tell me about the hospital.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that place.’

  I ignored this:

  ‘Did they drive you straight there?’

  No, they drove me back to the farm. Chris had convinced Dr Norling to attempt treatment at home. Don’t believe this was an act of kindness. They needed to make it seem like the hospital was the last option and that they’d tried everything. It would’ve looked suspicious otherwise. The farm was transformed into a prison. Only Chris had the keys. The computer was disconnected so I couldn’t email you. I had no access to the telephone. They laced my food with toxins, not to kill, but psychedelic fungi from the forests to send me mad. They wanted me to cry out that I could hear voices in my head, to be wild with outlandish visions, to claim that the soil of our farm was speckled white with the ground-up bones of children, or to point towards distant dark trees with a trembling hand and declare that dangerous trolls were watching us. I refused to eat anything that wasn’t sealed. Even so, there are ways round this, syringe needles pierced through packaging. My tongue turned black. My gums turned black. My breath turned rotten. My lips turned blue.

  One day, when Chris was out shopping, I was studying the evidence I’d collected and he returned, taking me by surprise. He lost his temper, attacked me, and threw the stitched quote into the fire. I snatched it out, saving it just in time, holding it by the tongs, still burning. That was when he decided to have me committed. There was a risk I might burn the farm down, so he said.

  Together with Dr Norling they took me to the asylum. It was a clever plan. Once you’ve been checked into an asylum your credibility is destroyed. It doesn’t matter if you’re released the next day. It doesn’t matter if the doctors declare your mind okay. A lawyer could always ask, in front of a judge and jury, whether you’d ever been in an asylum. That said, the stay at the hospital turned out to be a blessing. Before I was admitted, I was beaten. My father’s second betrayal had emptied me. My fight was gone. I didn’t believe I’d ever have the strength to try and convince another person again. That night the doctor told me Chris’s account of my childhood, with the implication I’d been involved in Freja’s death. I was so outraged I spent every waking hour writing a truthful account, the testimony you’ve read. It was enough for the doctors to let me go. Their professional confidence restored me. I’d been a sentimental fool to turn to my father, chasing after second chances. It was you I needed to speak to – my son, my precious son! You’d listen. You’d be fair. You were the one I needed. As soon as I realised that, I was as happy as I’d been for many months.

  I caught a taxi from the hospital. Everything I needed was in my satchel, passport and debit card. I didn’t care how much it cost. I bought a ticket on the first flight out of Sweden. This time I’d tell the story properly, supported with evidence. This time I’d tell it to someone who has always loved me.

  �
� • •

  I LET GO OF MY MUM’S HAND.

  ‘Mum, do you trust me?’

  ‘I love you very much.’

  ‘But do you trust me?’

  She thought upon the question for a while, and then she smiled.

  • • •

  A SNOWSTORM HAD SWEPT ACROSS the south of Sweden, delaying flights, and by the time my plane touched down at Gothenburg’s Landvetter airport it was nearly midnight. To cramped and irritable passengers the pilot announced that it was exceptionally cold for mid-December, even by Swedish standards. The temperature was minus fifteen degrees. A few unhurried snowflakes were still falling. The sight soothed many of the frayed tempers on board. Even the overworked stewardess took a moment to enjoy the view. We were the last flight in. The airport was nearly empty except for a lone figure at passport control. By the time I was waved through, my bags were on the carousel. I exited customs, passing families and couples reunited. The sight of them reminded me of my last occasion at airport arrivals and the sadness I felt caught me off guard.

  Four months had passed since my mum had been committed. She was being held in a secure hospital in north London. It couldn’t, on any level, be claimed that she was being treated. My mum was refusing medication. As soon as she realised the doctors weren’t going to release her she stopped speaking to them. As a consequence she was undergoing no meaningful therapy. Recently she’d begun to skip meals, believing that the portions were spiked with antipsychotics. She mistrusted water from the taps. Intermittently she’d sip from bottled juice only if the seal was unbroken. She was frequently dehydrated. Her physical symptoms, so upsetting when I’d picked her up at the airport in the summer, were worsening. Week by week her skin stretched tighter around her skull as if her body was retreating from the world. My mum was dying.