were flourishing in the basket every summer, but the key had remained in its old hiding place. It had been the obvious place to check when she turned up at the little cottage for the first time, almost five years ago.
Kurt and Birgit Johansson, the actual owners, had no idea they were sharing their cottage with Sibylla. She was always careful to leave it as she found it and never damage any of their things. She had picked their cottage partly because of finding the key so easily, but also because the cushions on their garden seats were unusually thick. Pushed together on the floor, they made a decent mattress. Besides, the Johanssons had the excellent sense to equip their small leisure hide-away with a paraffin heater and hotplate. With any luck, she would be left alone for a good while since they restricted their visiting to the summer months.
The cottage, really little more than a shed, was damp and cold. Still, the single room with a floor area of about ten square metres made it one of the biggest allotment buildings around. Along one of the walls stood a couple of kitchen cupboards, next to a small sink. She checked the cupboard under the sink for the bucket that should be in place under the cut-off drainpipe.
There was a small table with flaking paint near the window, which was partly covered by flyblown flowered curtains. Two odd wooden chairs were placed on either side of the table. She drew the curtains, took a wrought-iron candlestick down from a shelf and lit the candle. By now she was shivering.
She pulled up the zip on her anorak. The paraffin can was almost empty, so she’d have to walk to the garage and fill it up later in the afternoon. Once the heater was lit, she took a china bowl from a cupboard, placed her apples and tomato in it and put it on the table. She had learned to appreciate the small, good things in life, like making your surroundings look as nice as possible. She pulled her sleeping bag from the rucksack and lined up the seat-cushions on the floor. They were damp, so she put her mat down first. Then she crawled into the bag.
Resting her head on her arms, she studied the ceiling panels and decided to forget all about the Grand Hotel. Nobody knew about her and even if someone had noticed her, they’d never be able to work out who she was. Feeling better now that she’d convinced herself she was safe, she began to descend deeply into sleep, untroubled by any dark premonitions.
As soon as she heard the brisk knock on the door, she knew who was on the other side.
She was in third form at the time. They were having a lesson in Geography. Everyone was staring at the classroom door.
‘Come in.’
Miss put down her book and sighed when Beatrice Forsenström stepped in.
Sibylla shut her eyes.
She knew that Miss disliked these unannounced visits by Mrs Forsenström as much as Sibylla did herself. They were short but always broke the flow of the lesson and always involved some new demand for special treatment of Sibylla.
The issue this time was a plan to raise money by selling Christmas decorations. A group of parents had been making decorative wreaths and bouquets and the pupils in Sibylla’s class were asked to be door-to-door sellers. The proceeds would help to pay for a school-trip in the spring.
Beatrice Forsenström had not joined the parent group. She had no patience with that kind of collective effort and the prospect of spending several evenings fiddling with folksy handicrafts was simply out of the question. Quite unsuitable for someone of her standing. Indeed, her reservations applied to her daughter, too. The child must not be expected to rush around knocking on doors asking for hand-outs like some little beggar. When Sibylla brought the note from school, Beatrice had crumpled it and thrown it into the wastepaper-basket.
Now, no one could miss the irritation in Mrs Forsenström’s voice.
‘So how much is each child expected to get from selling these things?’
Miss had gone to stand behind her desk.
‘It depends. I’m not at all sure what the final sum will be.’
‘Please let me know as soon as you have an idea. My daughter will not join in the selling, but naturally I’ll make a financial contribution.’
Miss looked at Sibylla. She was focusing on the geography book in front of her. There are four rivers in Halland County. Then she heard how Miss tried her best.
‘But the children are so looking forward to the selling part. They think it’s really exciting.’
‘Quite so, but you mustn’t include Sibylla. Just tell me what would be appropriate and I’ll give you the money there and then. Don’t worry about that.’
‘You must realise that we took this initiative precisely so that parents shouldn’t have to pay extra for the school-trip.’
Suddenly Beatrice Forsenström looked pleased. Sibylla understood that her mother had manipulated Miss into saying exactly what she had hoped to hear. Now Mrs Forsenström took the chance to express her precise views on the whole matter.
Sibylla shut her eyes.
‘Nothing personal, but I must say it seems extraordinary that the school should make decisions of this nature without consulting all the parents. I don’t doubt that some of them thought this arrangement might be the best way to deal with their problems, but personally I prefer paying what’s due as and when. Just do remember in future that my husband and I wish to be informed of anything involving our daughter. And of course, we expect to be listened to before any venture is agreed.’
Miss didn’t say any more after that.
She had wanted to go selling with Erika. Miss had paired everybody off so that no one would go alone. Sibylla had been looking forward to it for a whole week. She heard her mother turn round and leave.
The first protests came the moment the door slammed shut.
‘Miss. It isn’t fair if Sibbie is excused from selling.’
‘Miss. Can I go round with Susanne and Eva instead now?’
Erika had sounded hopeful.
Torbjörn who was sitting just in front of Sibylla turned round to her and said: ‘If you’ve got such a lot of money your mum could pay for the whole class to go on the trip.’
She felt the tears burn behind her eyelids. There was nothing more hateful than suddenly being the target of everyone’s eyes.
‘Listen class, it’s time to take a break now.’
The banging of chairs being pulled back. When Sibylla looked up again she was alone in the classroom. Only Miss was still there, standing behind her desk. She smiled wanly at Sibylla and sighed.
Sibylla felt something running out of her nose. She had to sniff to stop it from dripping on the desk.
‘I’m really sorry, Sibylla. There’s nothing I can do.’
Sibylla nodded and looked down again. The picture of the harbour fortress in Varberg became bubbly in two places when her eyes overflowed. Miss went over to her, putting her hand on Sibylla’s shoulder.
‘You can stay in this break, if you like.’
She felt quite dopey when she woke up. Must have been a bad dream. Her throat was swollen and it hurt to swallow. The heater had gone out and there was no more paraffin. She reached for her boots. They were freezing. A raw chill was spreading from the boots up through her legs. She was already wearing her anorak.
Lifting the hem of the curtain, she peered outside. The other allotments looked quiet and empty. She grabbed an apple on her way out and then opened the front door. It wasn’t raining any more but the sky was such a dark grey it seemed strange that light could penetrate it at all.
The small garden had been neatly prepared for the winter months. The Johanssons had been very careful to follow recommendations in their gardening books. All dead plants had been cut back and put on the compost heap just inside the wooden fence. They had put fir branches over the borders, presumably where