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Susanne OLeary
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« Reply #8 on: March 06, 2011, 04:14:55 AM » |
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Thanks, Donna. It's a photo taken in the Stockholm archipelago, where part of the story is set.
Tp answer Helen's question: I would classify Swedish for Beginners as contemporary fiction, Helen. It's the story about a woman who finds out about her past, a little like losing your memory in a way. She had no idea her late mother was Swedish and when she finds out, it sends shock waves through her entire life. Here's an excerpt from chapter two, where Maud goes through her mother's belongings:
Maud looked at what appeared to be a family photograph. It was in black and white and a man and a woman were sitting on a bench in a garden with two children, a boy and a girl, perched on their laps. The woman was very beautiful with curly dark hair and lovely eyes. Her arms were wrapped around a little girl with light hair, in a cotton dress with a white collar. The boy was older and taller than the girl. His hair was darker and he was dressed in trousers and a white shirt. He was sitting on his father’s knee, but looked as if he thought he was much too old to sit on someone’s lap. The man, whose hair was light, like that of the little girl’s, didn’t look into the camera but at the woman, with an expression of pure love and delight. Maud studied the picture, wondering who the people were.
She had opened the box on an impulse, curiosity getting the better of her but now felt frustration mixed with confusion as she turned the pages in the album. She looked at the text under the photo. Mamma, Pappa, Olof och jag, sommaren 1954, it said in neat handwriting. What language is it? Who are these people? The little girl looks vaguely like me when I was small. Could it be… She looked at the inside of the cover, where a name written in pencil was barely visible. She could make out a capital E then a blur, then ‘nore’ and then a family name ‘Carlholm’ it said. Eleonore Carlholm. OK, that must be my mother, Maud thought, her heart beginning to beat faster. And that name… Not Irish, that’s for sure. Sounds Scandinavian or something…
As she slowly turned the pages of the old album, she studied family scenes; people swimming and sailing in the summer, having picnics and lunches under big trees in the beautiful garden of a big white house on the shores of a lake; winter scenes with people skiing and skating, parties and celebrations.
She tried to read the comments in the foreign language, written in what she guessed was her mother’s handwriting, but only managed the names and dates. One young boy was in nearly every photo and he had the most beautiful face Maud had ever seen. She wondered if he was a brother or a cousin, a very close relative in any case, as he was present at nearly every family event.
She looked for more photos of her mother, but there were none, as she was probably, Maud realised, the photographer. She turned the pages, studying every face, wondering who they were, until she came to the final page. There was only one big photo. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognised the person in it; her father as a young man, standing on the deck of a sailing boat, dressed in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, grinning mischievously into the camera. The caption under the photo was a dedication: To Eleonore, my beautiful Swedish girl. Maud stared at the picture, tears welling up in her eyes until she could bear to look no longer, and closed the album.
She sat in a daze for a moment. My beautiful Swedish girl, echoed through her mind. Then, still holding the album, she got up and walked into the living room and stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace. Swedish, she thought, staring at her own image. ‘I’m half Swedish,’ she said to herself over and over again.
She turned away from the mirror, walked back into the hall, picked up the album again and noticed a small snapshot that had come loose. Holding her breath, she stared at the picture. A mother and child were sitting under a huge tree and the woman was very young, younger than Maud was now. Her fair shoulder length hair was held back by a headband and she smiled down at the little blonde girl as she brushed her hair, the child gazing solemnly into the camera. Mamma, Maud said to herself, a vague memory suddenly taking form in her mind, yes, that’s what I called her, Mamma. She turned the photo. Eleonore and Maud, Canberra 1977, it said in her father’s writing, which caused Maud to breathe in sharply. No mistake then, it was all true. She looked at the face of the woman again, and it was a little like looking at herself, both different and the same.
Her head spinning, Maud sank down on the sofa. She felt as if she was floating, like a piece of fluff blown away from a dandelion, or a plant that had suddenly been pulled out of the ground, all the roots exposed and dangling in the air.
‘Sweden,’ she kept saying, ‘ I m half Swedish.’ She wanted to go and get the box, look at everything else, but her legs felt so weak, she couldn’t get up. Sweden, what do I know about it? she thought. ‘Abba,’ she said out loud. ‘Volvo. IKEA. Smorgasbord. Absolut Vodka. Greta Garbo. Bergman films. Sauna and snow and ice and reindeers. Santa Claus, big forests and lakes and meatballs...’ The words came tumbling out as she tried to make up an image of a country she half belonged to but knew nothing about, had never thought of at all until now. Tall blond people with big white teeth. Pretty girls, she had heard about those. Pippi Longstocking suddenly popped into Maud’s mind. Pippi had been her hero when she was a child and she had spent a whole summer dressed like Pippi, the only time in her life she had made an effort with clothes.
‘I am a Swedish woman,’ she said in a fake Scandinavian accent. ‘But I’m only half Swedish,’ she corrected herself. ‘A half I never knew about until now. Oh Jack, why did you never tell me?’ Then she remembered the album and hugged it to her chest, as if trying to embrace the people in it. My family, she thought, I have a family. For the first time since her father died, she felt the beginnings of hope swell in her chest.
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