three times the price we paid for it. We’d have trebled our money in the space of a few months. Before I could reply he added that life can be hard on a farm, instructing me to discuss it with my husband as though I were merely an envoy.
Let me be clear.
Before that conversation there’d been hardship and difficulties but no mystery. Now a question had been forced upon me, a question that kept me awake at night. Why had Cecilia sold the farm to a couple of outsiders with no personal connection to this region when the largest landowner in the region, a stalwart of the community and her neighbour for many years, coveted the property and was willing to pay much more?
• • •
I SAW NO OBSTACLE STANDING between my mum and the truth:
‘Why not ring Cecilia and ask her?’
That’s exactly what I did. I hurried back to the farm and rang the nursing home – Cecilia had left a contact address and telephone number for a care home in Gothenburg. But if you thought a simple question would resolve the mystery, you’re wrong. Cecilia was expecting the call. She asked me outright about Håkan. I explained that he’d offered to buy the farm. She became upset. She claimed to have sold us the farm because she wanted it to become our home. If I sold it for a quick profit it would be a betrayal of her trust. Now it became clear! That’s why she instructed her agents to find buyers from further afield. That’s why she used agents from Gothenburg, over an hour’s drive away – she didn’t trust any of the local agencies. She’d insisted on an interview as a vetting process to make sure we were unlikely to sell, trapped by our circumstances. I asked her why she didn’t want Håkan to own the farm. I remember the following exchange exactly. She begged me:
‘Tilde, please, that man must never own my farm.’
‘But why?’ I said.
She wouldn’t elaborate. At the end of the conversation, I rang Håkan on the number he’d given me. While the phone was ringing I planned to speak to him calmly and politely. But as soon as I heard his voice I categorically declared:
‘Our farm is not for sale!’
I hadn’t even discussed the matter with Chris.
When Chris entered the kitchen he picked up Håkan’s disgusting wooden knife. He looked at the naked woman. He looked at the sex-hungry troll. And he chuckled. I was glad I hadn’t told him about the offer. I didn’t trust his state of mind. Chris would’ve sold the farm.
Three days later the water in our taps turned brown, spotted with sediment, like dirty puddle water. These farms are so remote they’re not on a mains system. They draw their water from individual wells. There was no option but to hire a specialist firm to dig a new well, wiping out half of our nine-thousand-pound reserve fund. While Chris despaired at our bad luck I didn’t believe it was luck, the timing was too neat, the sequence too suspicious. I said nothing at the time. I didn’t want to panic him. I didn’t have any proof. There was no getting around the fact that our money might not last until the winter. We needed to accelerate our plans to make the farm pay if we were going to survive.
• • •
U SING BOTH HANDS MY MUM pulled a rusted steel box from the satchel. The box was the size of a biscuit tin and very old. It was by far the largest item in the satchel.
When the contractors arrived to dig the well I found this buried in the soil, several metres below the surface. Chris and I were observing the work as though we were at a funeral, solemnly standing at the edge of the hole, saying farewell to half our money. As they dug deeper I caught a glimmer of light. I shouted for them to stop work, waving my arms. The contractors saw the commotion, shut down the drill, and before Chris could grab me I clambered down the hole. It was stupid. I could’ve been killed. I just had to save whatever was down there. When I emerged from the hole, clasping this box, everyone was
Let me be clear.
Before that conversation there’d been hardship and difficulties but no mystery. Now a question had been forced upon me, a question that kept me awake at night. Why had Cecilia sold the farm to a couple of outsiders with no personal connection to this region when the largest landowner in the region, a stalwart of the community and her neighbour for many years, coveted the property and was willing to pay much more?
• • •
I SAW NO OBSTACLE STANDING between my mum and the truth:
‘Why not ring Cecilia and ask her?’
That’s exactly what I did. I hurried back to the farm and rang the nursing home – Cecilia had left a contact address and telephone number for a care home in Gothenburg. But if you thought a simple question would resolve the mystery, you’re wrong. Cecilia was expecting the call. She asked me outright about Håkan. I explained that he’d offered to buy the farm. She became upset. She claimed to have sold us the farm because she wanted it to become our home. If I sold it for a quick profit it would be a betrayal of her trust. Now it became clear! That’s why she instructed her agents to find buyers from further afield. That’s why she used agents from Gothenburg, over an hour’s drive away – she didn’t trust any of the local agencies. She’d insisted on an interview as a vetting process to make sure we were unlikely to sell, trapped by our circumstances. I asked her why she didn’t want Håkan to own the farm. I remember the following exchange exactly. She begged me:
‘Tilde, please, that man must never own my farm.’
‘But why?’ I said.
She wouldn’t elaborate. At the end of the conversation, I rang Håkan on the number he’d given me. While the phone was ringing I planned to speak to him calmly and politely. But as soon as I heard his voice I categorically declared:
‘Our farm is not for sale!’
I hadn’t even discussed the matter with Chris.
When Chris entered the kitchen he picked up Håkan’s disgusting wooden knife. He looked at the naked woman. He looked at the sex-hungry troll. And he chuckled. I was glad I hadn’t told him about the offer. I didn’t trust his state of mind. Chris would’ve sold the farm.
Three days later the water in our taps turned brown, spotted with sediment, like dirty puddle water. These farms are so remote they’re not on a mains system. They draw their water from individual wells. There was no option but to hire a specialist firm to dig a new well, wiping out half of our nine-thousand-pound reserve fund. While Chris despaired at our bad luck I didn’t believe it was luck, the timing was too neat, the sequence too suspicious. I said nothing at the time. I didn’t want to panic him. I didn’t have any proof. There was no getting around the fact that our money might not last until the winter. We needed to accelerate our plans to make the farm pay if we were going to survive.
• • •
U SING BOTH HANDS MY MUM pulled a rusted steel box from the satchel. The box was the size of a biscuit tin and very old. It was by far the largest item in the satchel.
When the contractors arrived to dig the well I found this buried in the soil, several metres below the surface. Chris and I were observing the work as though we were at a funeral, solemnly standing at the edge of the hole, saying farewell to half our money. As they dug deeper I caught a glimmer of light. I shouted for them to stop work, waving my arms. The contractors saw the commotion, shut down the drill, and before Chris could grab me I clambered down the hole. It was stupid. I could’ve been killed. I just had to save whatever was down there. When I emerged from the hole, clasping this box, everyone was
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