‘What bones? What are you talking about? What did Erik say?’ Without being aware of it, Erica was raising her voice. In the silence of the kitchen it sounded almost like a shriek. Britta clasped her hands over her ears and began babbling something incoherent, the way children do when they don’t want to listen to someone scolding them.

‘What’s going on here? Who are you?’ An angry male voice behind Erica made her spin round. A tall man with grey hair encircling a bald pate had appeared in the doorway clutching two Konsum grocery bags. Erica realized he must be Herman. She stood up.

‘I’m sorry, I… My name is Erica Falck. Britta knew my mother when they were young, and I just wanted to ask her a few questions. It seemed harmless enough at first… but then… And she’d turned on the stove.’ Erica could hear that she wasn’t making any sense, but nothing about the situation seemed to make sense. Behind her, Britta’s childish babble continued unabated.

‘My wife has Alzheimer’s,’ said Herman, setting down the bags. Hearing the sorrow in his voice, Erica felt a pang of guilt. Alzheimer’s – she should have guessed, given the rapid shift between perfect clarity and utter confusion. She’d read somewhere that the brains of Alzheimer’s patients forced them into a kind of borderland where, in the end, only fog remained.

Herman went over to his wife and gently removed her hands from her ears. ‘Britta, dear. I just had to go out to do the shopping. I’m back now. Shhh, it’s all right, everything is fine.’ He rocked her in his arms, and gradually the babbling stopped. He looked up at Erica. ‘It’s best if you leave now. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t come back.’

‘But your wife mentioned something about… I need to know…’ Erica stumbled over her words, attempting to find the right thing to say, but Herman merely glared at her and said firmly:

‘Don’t come back.’

Feeling like an intruder, Erica slipped out of the house. Behind her she heard Herman speaking in a soothing tone to his wife. But in her head Britta’s confused words about old bones still echoed. What could she have meant?

The geraniums were unusually splendid this summer. Viola walked around, lovingly plucking the withered petals. Dead-heading was a necessity if she wanted them to stay beautiful. By now her geranium beds were quite impressive. Each year she took cuttings and carefully planted them in small pots. As soon they’d grown big enough she would transfer them to a larger pot. Her favourite was the Mårbacka geranium. Nothing could match its beauty. There was something about the combination of the gossamer pink blossoms and the slightly ungainly and straggly stems that moved her beyond words. But the rose pelargonium was lovely too.

There were lots of geranium afficionados out there. Since her son had initiated her into the splendours of the Internet, she’d become a member of three different geranium forums and subscribed to four newsletters. But she found the most joy in exchanging emails with Lasse Anrell. If there was anyone who loved geraniums more than she did, it was him. They’d been corresponding by email ever since she attended one of his lectures. She’d had many questions to ask him that evening and he’d signed a copy of his book on geraniums for her. They’d taken a liking to each other, and now she looked forward to the emails that regularly appeared in her inbox. Erik used to tease her about that, saying she must be having an affair with Lasse Anrell behind his back, and that all the talk about geraniums was just a code for more amorous activities. Eric had his own theory as to what each term might mean; ‘rose pelargonium’ had a particular fascination for him, and he’d taken to calling her Rose Pelargonium… Viola blushed at the thought, but the crimson quickly disappeared from her face to be replaced by tears. For the thousandth time in the past few days, she was confronted with the realization that Erik was gone.

The soil eagerly soaked up the water as she cautiously poured a little into each saucer. It was important not to over-water geraniums. The soil should dry out properly in between waterings. In many ways, that was an appropriate metaphor for the relationship that she’d had with Erik. They were like two plants whose soil had been parched when they’d met, and they were fearful of over-watering. Thus they continued to live apart, they maintained their separate lives and saw each other only when they both felt like getting together. Early on, they’d made a promise that their relationship would be a mutual exchange of tenderness, love, and good conversation. Whenever the spirit moved them. The trivialities of daily life would never be allowed to weigh it down.

Hearing the knock on the door, Viola set down the watering can and wiped the tears on the sleeve of her blouse. She took a deep breath, cast one last glance at her geraniums to give herself strength, and went to open the door.

‘Britta, calm down. What happened? Is he drunk again?’ Elsy stroked her friend’s back to soothe her as they sat on her bed. Britta nodded. She tried to say something, but it came out as a sob. Elsy pulled her close, still stroking her back.

‘Shhh… Soon you’ll be able to move out. Get a job somewhere. Get away from all the misery at home.’

‘I’m never… I’m never coming back,’ sobbed Britta, leaning against her friend.

Elsy could feel her blouse getting wet from Britta’s tears, but she didn’t care.

‘Was he mean to your mother again?’

Britta nodded. ‘He slapped her face. I didn’t see any more after that. I took off. Oh, if only I were a boy, I would have punched him until he was black and blue.’

‘It would be such a waste of a pretty face if you were a boy,’ said Elsy, hugging Britta and laughing. She knew her friend well enough to realize that a little flattery could always brighten her mood.

‘Very funny,’ said Britta, her sobs subsiding. ‘But I feel sorry for my little brothers and sister.’

‘There’s not much you can do about that,’ said Elsy, picturing Britta’s three younger siblings. Her throat tightened with anger when she thought of how miserable their father had made things for his family. Tord Johansson was notorious in Fjällbacka as an evil-tempered drunk. Several times a week he would beat his wife Ruth, a frightened creature who would hide the bruises on her face behind a kerchief if she was forced to show herself outside the house after a beating. Sometimes the children, too, suffered the brunt of his anger, but so far the beatings had been reserved for Britta’s two younger brothers. He hadn’t yet raised a hand to Britta and her younger sister.

‘If only he’d just die. Fall in the sea and drown when he’s drunk,’ whispered Britta.

Elsy hugged her closer. ‘Shhh. You shouldn’t say things like that, Britta. With God’s providence, I’m sure it will all work out, one way or other. And without you having to commit a sin by wishing him dead.’

‘God?’ said Britta bitterly. ‘He’s never found His way to our house. And yet my mother still sits at home every Sunday, praying. A lot of good that’s done her! It’s easy for you to talk about God. Your parents are so nice, and you don’t have any brothers or sisters to compete with or take care of.’ Britta couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Elsy let go of her friend. In a friendly but slightly sharp tone she said: ‘Things aren’t always that easy for us, either. Mamma worries so much about my father that she’s getting thinner and thinner by the day. Ever since the Öckerö was torpedoed, she thinks that every trip my father makes in his boat will be his last. Sometimes I find her standing at the window staring out at the sea, as if she’s pleading with it to bring my father back home.’