always been an eavesdropper, skilled at sucking in what other people were talking about. Most of the congregation were talking about who was ill and how bad the fishing had been.
When he started walking towards his boat a man in uniform came alongside him. He shook hands and introduced himself as the parish constable, Karl Albert Lund.
'There aren't many people round here wearing uniform,' said the constable. "That's why I thought I'd say hello.'
'Hans Jakobsson, Commander. I just happen to be passing by,' Tobiasson-Svartman said.
'Might I ask what it is that brings you here?'
'I can't tell you that. It has to do with the war.'
'I understand. I won't press you.'
Tobiasson-Svartman clicked his heels and saluted. He went back to the boat and sailed home. Why had he chosen the name Hans Jakobsson? he wondered.
Was it a greeting to the man who had died on the deck of the Blenda? Why had he not said what he had really wanted to say, that he was Sara Fredrika's new husband?
He changed out of his uniform. The wind was enabling him to maintain steady progress. On the way he invented news and rumours about unknown people that he passed on to Sara Fredrika that evening when he got back home.
CHAPTER 179
Sara Fredrika gave birth on Halsskär on 9 September 1915.
He'd had time to fetch Angel from Kråkmarö. The wind had been capricious on the way back, the sail had not been much use, and he had rowed so hard that the palms of his hands were covered in burst blisters. There were three of them in the boat, Angel had taken with her another woman to help, a maid to one of the cargo boat skippers. Once they arrived on the island Angel told Tobiasson-Svartman to keep out of the way, and to find somewhere among the rocks where there was a wind to carry the screams in a different direction if Sara Fredrika got into difficulties.
It was a chilly day. He found a crevice on the south side where he could half lie, well protected. He tried to imagine Sara Fredrika, her struggle to force the baby out. But he saw nothing, only the sea.
My innermost longing is a dream about horizons, he thought, horizons and depths. That's what I am searching for.
It was as if he had some kind of invisible seal that made him inaccessible to everybody apart from himself.
The surface was calm, like a sea when there is no wind blowing, but underneath it lurked all the duplicitous forces he was forced to fight against. Ambition, insecurity, the memory of his furious father and the silent weeping of his mother. He lived through a constant battle between control, calculation and outrageous risk-taking. He did not do what other people do and adapt to different situations, but he changed his personality, became somebody else, often without being aware of the fact.
Without warning, he started crying, forlornly, uncontrollably. Then he stopped, just as suddenly as he had started.
Late in the afternoon he heard them shouting for him. He went back to the cottage, convinced that he had a son. But Angel Wester held out a daughter to him. This time he did not think the baby looked like a shrivelled mushroom, more like heather in the spring before it acquires its full colour.
'She's healthy and strong. She will survive if God wishes her to and you look after her properly. I reckon she weighs three kilos, and a bit more.'
'How is Sara Fredrika?'
'Like all women are after they've given birth. Relief, happiness at the fact that all has gone well, a great desire to sleep. But first she should greet her husband.'
He went inside. Angel and the maid left them alone. Her face was pale and sweaty.
'What shall we call her?'
Without hesitation, he replied 'Laura. That's a pretty name. Laura.'
'She's born now. And now we can leave this hellish island and never return.'
'We shall leave as soon as I've finished my last reports.'
'Are you happy about your child?'
'I'm indescribably happy about my child,' he said.
'You got a new daughter to replace the one that fell over the cliff.'
He did not say anything, just nodded. Then he went outside and invited Angel and the maid to a celebratory drink. As it was already late, they stayed overnight.
He spent the night in a hollow covered by his oilskin coat.
He thought about his two daughters, both called Laura.
Laura Tobiasson-Svartman.
The younger sister of Laura Tobiasson-Svartman.
They'll live their lives in ignorance of each other. Just as