Read Online Britt-Marie Was Here by Fredrik Backman - Free Book Online
Authors: Fredrik Backman
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down, then empties the tin of peanuts onto a plate. She has to force herself not to try to eat them with a knife and fork. Then she washes up and cleans the whole recreation center again so carefully that she almost uses up her whole supply of baking soda.
There’s a little laundry room with a washing machine and a tumble dryer. Britt-Marie cleans the machines with her last bit of baking soda, like a starving person putting out her last bait on her fishing line.
Not that she was thinking of doing any washing, but she can’t bear the thought of them all dirty. In a corner behind the tumble dryer she finds a whole sack of white shirts with numbers on them. Soccer jerseys, she understands. The entire recreation center is hung with pictures of various people wearing those shirts. Very likely they’re covered in grass stains, of course. Britt-Marie can’t for the life of her understand why anyone would choose to practice an outdoor sport while wearing white jerseys. It’s barbaric. She wonders whether the corner shop/pizzeria/car workshop/post office would even be likely to sell baking soda.
She fetches her coat. Just inside the front door, next to several photos of soccer balls and people who don’t know any better than to kick them, hangs a yellow jersey with the word “Bank” printed above the number “10.” Just beneath is a photo of an old man holding up the same jersey with a proud smile.
Britt-Marie puts on her coat. Outside the front door is a person who was clearly just about to knock on it. The person has a face and the face is full of snuff. This, in every possible way, is an awful way of establishing the very short-lived acquaintance between Britt-Marie and the face, because Britt-Marie loathes snuff. The whole thing is over in twenty seconds, when the snuff-face moves off while mumbling something that sounds distinctly like “nag-bag.”
At this point Britt-Marie picks up her telephone and dials the number of the only person her telephone has ever called. The girl at the unemployment office doesn’t answer. Britt-Marie calls again, because actually a telephone is not a thing you decide whether or not to answer.
“Yes?” says the girl at long last, with food in her mouth. “Sorry. I’m having my lunch.”
“Now?” Britt-Marie exclaims, as if the girl was joking. “My dear girl, we’re not at war. Surely it’s not necessary to be having your lunch at half past one?”
The girl chews her lunch quite hard. Bravely tries to change the topic of conversation:
“Did the pest control man come? I had to spend hours calling around but in the end I found someone who promised to make an emergency visit, and—”
“She was a pest control woman. Who took snuff,” Britt-Marie goes on, as if this explains everything.
“Right,” says the girl again. “So did she deal with the rat?”
“No, she most certainly did not,” Britt-Marie affirms. “She came in here wearing dirty shoes and I’d just mopped the floor. Taking snuff as well, she was. Said she was putting out poison, that’s how she put it, and you can’t just do that. Do you really think one can just do that? Put out poison just like that?”
“ No . . . ?” guesses the girl.
“No, you actually can’t. Someone could die! And that’s what I said. And then she stood there rolling her eyes with her dirty shoes and her snuff, and she said she’d put out a trap instead, and bait it with Snickers! Chocolate! On my newly mopped floor!” Britt-Marie says all this in the voice of someone screaming inside.
“Okay,” says the girl, and immediately wishes she hadn’t, because she realizes it is not okay at all.
“So I said it will have to be poison, then, and do you know what she told me? Listen to this! She said if the rat eats the poison you can’t know for certain where it will go to die. It could die in a cavity in the wall and lie there stinking! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Do you know that you called in a woman
There’s a little laundry room with a washing machine and a tumble dryer. Britt-Marie cleans the machines with her last bit of baking soda, like a starving person putting out her last bait on her fishing line.
Not that she was thinking of doing any washing, but she can’t bear the thought of them all dirty. In a corner behind the tumble dryer she finds a whole sack of white shirts with numbers on them. Soccer jerseys, she understands. The entire recreation center is hung with pictures of various people wearing those shirts. Very likely they’re covered in grass stains, of course. Britt-Marie can’t for the life of her understand why anyone would choose to practice an outdoor sport while wearing white jerseys. It’s barbaric. She wonders whether the corner shop/pizzeria/car workshop/post office would even be likely to sell baking soda.
She fetches her coat. Just inside the front door, next to several photos of soccer balls and people who don’t know any better than to kick them, hangs a yellow jersey with the word “Bank” printed above the number “10.” Just beneath is a photo of an old man holding up the same jersey with a proud smile.
Britt-Marie puts on her coat. Outside the front door is a person who was clearly just about to knock on it. The person has a face and the face is full of snuff. This, in every possible way, is an awful way of establishing the very short-lived acquaintance between Britt-Marie and the face, because Britt-Marie loathes snuff. The whole thing is over in twenty seconds, when the snuff-face moves off while mumbling something that sounds distinctly like “nag-bag.”
At this point Britt-Marie picks up her telephone and dials the number of the only person her telephone has ever called. The girl at the unemployment office doesn’t answer. Britt-Marie calls again, because actually a telephone is not a thing you decide whether or not to answer.
“Yes?” says the girl at long last, with food in her mouth. “Sorry. I’m having my lunch.”
“Now?” Britt-Marie exclaims, as if the girl was joking. “My dear girl, we’re not at war. Surely it’s not necessary to be having your lunch at half past one?”
The girl chews her lunch quite hard. Bravely tries to change the topic of conversation:
“Did the pest control man come? I had to spend hours calling around but in the end I found someone who promised to make an emergency visit, and—”
“She was a pest control woman. Who took snuff,” Britt-Marie goes on, as if this explains everything.
“Right,” says the girl again. “So did she deal with the rat?”
“No, she most certainly did not,” Britt-Marie affirms. “She came in here wearing dirty shoes and I’d just mopped the floor. Taking snuff as well, she was. Said she was putting out poison, that’s how she put it, and you can’t just do that. Do you really think one can just do that? Put out poison just like that?”
“ No . . . ?” guesses the girl.
“No, you actually can’t. Someone could die! And that’s what I said. And then she stood there rolling her eyes with her dirty shoes and her snuff, and she said she’d put out a trap instead, and bait it with Snickers! Chocolate! On my newly mopped floor!” Britt-Marie says all this in the voice of someone screaming inside.
“Okay,” says the girl, and immediately wishes she hadn’t, because she realizes it is not okay at all.
“So I said it will have to be poison, then, and do you know what she told me? Listen to this! She said if the rat eats the poison you can’t know for certain where it will go to die. It could die in a cavity in the wall and lie there stinking! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Do you know that you called in a woman
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