The Runaways Page 4

  “We’re ready to go then,” said Adam, when Grandpa was in the chair.

  “Wait,” said Grandpa. “Just till the medicine starts to work.”

  We waited till a nurse came out and asked what we were doing. It was the same nurse who’d wheeled him out when we left.

  “So you’ve come back?” she said.

  “Yes, I understand you’ve missed me,” said Grandpa.

  She wheeled him into his room. She sat him in the visitor’s chair because he had to change back into hospital clothes before he could go to bed. She noticed his dirty working trousers.

  “What have you been doing this weekend?”

  “Climbing Rocky Mountain,” said Grandpa.

  “Yes, I can see that,” she said. “And how did it go with your son?”

  “He wasn’t there,” Adam said quickly.

  My stomach went into a knot. As it always did when I was afraid. My mother was the same.

  “What do you mean?” she said. “Where were you?”

  “At home,” said Grandpa. “That’s where.”

  “Yes, at my mother’s,” said Adam. “He changed his mind on the way to my uncle’s. He wanted to see her instead, because it was so long since he’d seen his daughter. He was so happy there, he stayed overnight. And it was the same for her. He didn’t argue at all. And he almost didn’t swear. He was completely abnormal.”

  The nurse looked very moved. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.

  “Mm, don’t say anything to my uncle when he comes in,” said Adam. “Promise? He gets so cross when Grandpa would rather be with my mother.”

  “He’s always been a mushy, jealous sort,” said Grandpa.

  “Promise, I won’t say a word,” she said.

  She went to get a clean shirt for Grandpa. Grandpa and I agreed that Adam was a genius.

  “My dear grandson, you’re too good to be true,” said Grandpa.

  Before we left him, Grandpa put the photo of Grandma on the bedside table.

  “Who is she?” asked Adam.

  “My wife,” said Grandpa. “Isn’t she just so…” he paused “…beautiful.”

  I thought Grandma in the photo blinked a little in surprise at the missing swearword.

  And Adam nodded. Because she was very pretty.

  “There’s just one more thing, Gottfried Junior,” said Grandpa.

  “What’s that?”

  He put on the face of the chief engineer of all the world’s ships and said: “It’s your job to make me learn to speak nicely before it’s too late.”

  12.

  ADAM TOOK OFF the chauffeur’s hat and put on the football cap before he even started the van. Because my parents might come out to meet us when we arrived. My mother usually kept an eye on the street from behind the curtains. And, as Adam said, you have to think of everything.

  I myself had several thoughts in my head at the same time. Firstly: how would Grandpa learn to speak nicely so he wouldn’t forget when he got up there and met Grandma? And secondly: Did Paradise exist? And thirdly: What should I say about the non-existent football camp? This last one was the most urgent.

  The lying never stopped.

  You’d think of something clever. But immediately you’d have to make a new lie so the first one wouldn’t be found out. And on it went till there was a whole world full of lies.

  Lucky my mother had read to me so much when I was little that I’d become a master of making things up. Dad would be harder to convince. He was so particular about the Truth. I had to be prepared.

  “Have you ever slept in a school gym?” I asked Adam.

  He had, when he’d been on a table tennis tour a long time ago. I wanted to hear all about it. About the ghost stories they’d told in the evenings. About the smell of old sweat. How it felt to sleep on the gym mats on the floor. How they’d hidden each other’s underwear when they were in the shower. And how one person got a fever and was sick in his sleeping bag.

  Exactly what I needed. That last one. Dad would immediately tell me to open my mouth, look at my tongue, take out the thermometer and ask me how I was feeling.

  “How did the competition go? I asked. “Did you win?”

  “No,” he said. “I got beaten almost immediately.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “It was,” he said. “Because then I could go to the bakery instead. That was where I found out I could be a baker.”

  “I didn’t mean good in that way,” I said. “I meant it’s a good thing to say. If you say you’re one of the worst, then people believe you. They believe that more than if you say that everything went well. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And d’you know one more thing that’s good?”

  “No.”

  “They feel sorry for you,” I said. “And that makes them nicer than normal. They tell you not to worry. And that it will almost certainly go better next time. And sometimes they give you something nice to eat to comfort you.”

  “You really can think things through,” said Adam, impressed.

  “Yeah, books are good,” I said.

  We were almost there.

  The van swung in to my street and drove past the old people’s chapel with the green roof. There was a hearse parked outside. I didn’t look at it. I was thinking about what I’d say when I went inside.

  I felt prepared. I just didn’t know for what.

  My parents came out the door as soon as we stopped.

  “I’ll be on my way,” said Adam. “Good luck!”

  He waved his football cap as he drove off.

  My mother hugged me and my father took the suitcase that Adam had placed on the pavement, even though I said I could carry it myself.

  “So, my boy, how’s it been?” said Dad.

  He was wearing the white patterned cardigan my mother had knitted for him, with his red Sunday tie. He seemed happy. He’d probably finished the crossword.

  “I’m tired,” I said. “I think I’ll go and have a rest.”

  “Good idea,” said Dad. “You can tell us all about it when we eat.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I didn’t even unpack.

  I went straight upstairs to my room. I wanted to be alone. I lay on the bed. My room was blue. Almost the same blue as Grandpa’s bedroom. Dark afternoon clouds were passing outside the window. They reminded me of the thick smoke from Grandpa’s burned-up best suit.

  I was really tired. And angry. I didn’t know why. Maybe I’d caught it from Grandpa.

  I dozed off and dreamed about a crow that turned into an eagle.

  I slept until my mother woke me.

  “Up and wash your hands,” she said. “It’s dinner time.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Rolled veal and potatoes.”

  I went to the bathroom, washed my hands, rinsed my mouth out and thought about what I would say.

  I loved rolled veal with cream sauce. I poured sauce and mashed it into the potatoes. In the middle of the table was a jar of home-made lingonberry jam.

  “Do you know that a little bit of your soul is in the lingonberry jam,” I told her.

  “What lunacy are you talking about?” said Dad.

  “It’s not lunacy,” I said. “It’s just how it is.”

  I wasn’t completely convinced myself. But I wanted them to think about something other than where I’d been.

  “I don’t know where you get your stories from.” Dad smiled because he was still happy. “Who told you something so outrageously idiotic?”

  “Grandpa,” I said.

  Dad frowned. The corners of his mouth said he wasn’t so happy now. He didn’t want to talk about Grandpa.

  “Enough of your imaginings. Tell us about the camp instead,” he said. “Was it fun? What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You must have done something.”

  “No,” I said.

  “What are you saying?” said Dad.


  “That I wasn’t there. There was no camp.”

  “Really. Of course. So what have you been doing?”

  “I ran away with Grandpa.”

  It was quiet for a moment. My father put in a half roll of veal and chewed so hard there were two round balls in his cheeks. My mother took some lingonberry jam on a fork and tasted it.

  “We took the ferry from Sollenkroka and slept over in the house,” I continued. “Grandma was there, waving from the balcony. You should have taken him there a long time ago. Didn’t you understand how badly he wanted to go? You don’t care about him. You won’t even go and visit him in hospital.”

  The words streamed out of me. I didn’t think about what I was saying. Or how I said it. It was Grandpa’s anger that came out, and to be honest some of Grandpa’s swear words too. I didn’t want to lie. I wanted Dad to hear the truth. Then he could say what he liked.

  My mother said, “Please.”

  I wasn’t sure who she was speaking to.

  Dad swallowed. The vein on his forehead throbbed. He frowned. I could hear him breathing in and out.

  “You know what I think about lies,” he said. “And you know what I think about swearing. We’ll have to sit down and talk about this after dinner. Let us now eat in peace and quiet.”

  “I know how much you like rolled veal,” said my mother.

  It was the interrogation chair. Dad sat down opposite me so I could look him in the eyes.

  I didn’t. I looked at his eyebrows.

  He didn’t notice the difference.

  “So then,” he said. “This is a sad story. Did the dinner taste good?”

  “No.”

  “No, it often doesn’t when accompanied by lies. So you went with Grandpa out to the island?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you get to the house from the jetty?”

  “We walked up the hill. He didn’t want to take the motorbike.”

  “How gullible do you think I am? Do you really think I’ll believe any old thing you tell me?”

  “No. But this is true.”

  “And Grandma was waving from the balcony?”

  “Both of us saw her. It was her spirit waving.”

  Dad’s ears turned red.

  “That’s enough!” he hissed. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve by telling me you ran away with Grandpa!”

  I didn’t understand anything.

  He thought that what I’d made up was true. And that I was lying when I told him the truth.

  He had my suitcase with the football clothes in it. He emptied it out on the floor.

  “These were clean when you left. Where would all this mud have come from if you didn’t play football? And one more thing. I wasn’t planning to tell you this, but Grandpa isn’t going to last very much longer. His heart wouldn’t cope with going up any kind of hill. He can’t even go to the bathroom on his own.”

  “He can!”

  “No. I spoke with the doctor last time we were at the hospital. He said that Grandpa’s heart has worked all it can. It could stop at any time. So you can see yourself how unbelievable your story is.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes.

  “I can see that you regret it,” said Dad. “I hope you can stick to the truth in future. Can we agree on that?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  But I had my fingers crossed.

  “Good. Then let’s leave it at that. Now can you tell me how it was at the camp?”

  “One guy vomited in his sleeping bag,” I said.

  13.

  I WAS WORRIED about Grandpa’s heart. That it was too old, too big and too worn out. That it wouldn’t cope with much more. That it could stop at any moment.

  I was the one who’d suggested we run away. It was my fault that Grandpa had struggled up the never-ending hill. When he could hardly get out of bed.

  And how could I teach him to speak nicely? So Grandma wouldn’t be disappointed when they met in heaven, but instead her eyes would go wide and she’d say, “Goodness gracious, Gottfried, how beautifully you speak.”

  I spent the whole week worrying about all this.

  The last hour on Friday I cried in school.

  We were supposed to paint an autumn leaf. I made mine golden yellow and red. It looked like a big heart. And suddenly I started crying, so the teacher noticed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Are you hurting anywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where, then?”

  “In my stomach.” I made a face.

  What should I say? In my soul? Anyway, it was true: I did have pain in my stomach. My soul was like my mother’s; it was in my stomach.

  “Is something worrying you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “How do you learn to speak nicely?”

  My classmates laughed. They thought I was joking.

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” said the teacher. “Just try to find the right words. You learn with time. You have your whole life to do it.”

  That was just what I didn’t have.

  One of the pains made me groan.

  “I think you’d better take yourself home and rest,” said the teacher. “Drink a cup of warm milk. That often helps.”

  “Okay,” I said, and I took my school bag and left.

  I didn’t go home, though. I went to the bakery. It was warm there and half dark, and it smelled so lovely it made you shiver.

  Ronny-Adam had just taken a tray of cinnamon buns out of the oven.

  “Howdy, my best cousin,” he said. “Would you like a bun? And I could do with a coffee break.”

  We ate the freshly baked buns. Adam drank coffee that he poured from a thermos. I had a glass of milk. We sat on the warm tiled floor with our backs to the wall. It felt good to sit in the heat of the oven with your pretend cousin beside you to talk to.

  “It was stupid, running away,” I said.

  “No, it wasn’t,” he said.

  “It was. Grandpa’s heart can’t cope with things like that. Imagine if I’d made him die.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Gottfried Junior. He wanted to do it.”

  “Yeah. But I shouldn’t have helped him.”

  “Rubbish. If his heart is on the way out then he knows that himself. He knows everything about engines. And the heart is a pump. If it was dangerous for him then he thought it was worth it. It doesn’t suit a guy like him to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Am I right?”

  He was.

  Grandpa has always done things. He could never sit still.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And he got to collect the lingonberry jam and the photo of Grandma.”

  “And he went to sea again.”

  It felt good to talk to Ronny-Adam. And warm buns were just as good for the stomach as warm milk. I was still sad. But I didn’t feel so guilty.

  One last thing was worrying me though.

  “Dad and I are going to the hospital tomorrow,” I said. “And I still don’t know how Grandpa can learn to speak nicely before he gets to heaven.”

  “Words aren’t my thing. Can’t you ask your father?”

  “No. But thanks anyway.”

  He gave me a bag of buns to take with me.

  “For the dog,” he said. “Say hello to Grandpa when you see him. Do you want to know the best word I know by the way?”

  “Okay.”

  “Syzygy.”

  Syzygy. I hissed the word all the way home. It felt good in the mouth. Like scissors and gee! Sizzle and jeepers.

  But was it a word for Grandpa? I had no idea what it meant. So I asked Dad.

  “Syzygy, syzygy,” he said. “It’s great that you’re interested in such an unusual word. D’you know what, let’s look it up in the dictionary.”

  He went and got it, a blue book with gold letters on it. The dictionary he mostly used when he was solving the crossword.

  “They’
re all in here!” he said with satisfaction, flipping through the pages. “Page after page of words in orderly columns. From A to Z. With explanations. Now let’s see…”

  He kept turning and then he pointed.

  “Here,” he said, reading aloud: syzygy, a pair of connected or corresponding things.

  “Thanks, now I know,” I said.

  I didn’t know what corresponding meant. But it didn’t matter. I remembered the most important thing: where to find all the best words and what they meant.

  “Is there anything else you wonder about?” asked Dad.

  “No, that’s it,” I said.

  I watched Dad put the book in the bookshelf. Then I took it and put it in my bag ready for going to Grandpa the next day. The dictionary, the buns from Adam, a notebook, a pen and the newspaper with Dad’s crossword.

  Grandpa was pleased when we arrived. He put in his false teeth and smiled.

  “Look at this, here come the strangers,” he said.

  “How’s Father feeling today?” said Dad.

  “He’s like a new person,” said the nurse who’d followed us in. “He hasn’t shouted at us, not even once. He only swears when he forgets himself. And he’s even eating his dinner. I don’t know what’s got into him.”

  “I’m turning into an angel, sweetheart,” said Grandpa.

  “See?” said the nurse.

  When she’d gone Dad asked Grandpa three more times how he was feeling. Because he didn’t know what else to say. And each time Grandpa answered nicely that he felt better than in ages and that soon he would die. After a while Dad noticed the picture of Grandma on the bedside table.

  “Where did the picture of Mother come from?” he asked.

  “She came down Rocky Mountain to me.” Grandpa smiled. “So now I have company.”

  Then Dad shook his head and asked one more time how he was feeling. And Grandpa said again that he was feeling good.

  “Perhaps you’d like to go to the cafeteria and have a cup of coffee,” said Grandpa. “You can buy me a treat from the kiosk on the way back. That’ll give me time to talk to my dear grandson in peace and quiet.”

  “You don’t eat that kind of thing,” said Dad.

  “You heard: I’ve become a new person.”

  “And I brought the crossword with me,” I said. I took out the newspaper and gave it to Dad.