“Yes, something of the sort.”
“What are you crying for then?” Tjorven wondered.
And then it was suddenly as if they all realized that something pleasant had happened.
“Daddy, are we rich now?” asked Pelle.
“Not exactly rich,” said Melker. “But it means . . .”
Then he stopped dead and his children looked anxiously at him. Surely he wasn’t going to start crying again! Suddenly he shouted. “Do you understand what it means? We may be able to buy Carpenter’s Cottage—if it’s not too late!”
He looked at his watch and at the same moment they heard the steamer Seacrow I hooting for departure down by the jetty.
“Run, Melker, run,” said Nisse.
And Melker ran, shouting, “Come on, Johan and Niklas! Come on! Wait!”
This last word he shouted to the boat. The gangplank had already been drawn up as he arrived, but he looked so desperately imploring, with his hands stretched up to the heavens, that the captain relented. The gangplank was put down again and Melker rushed on board.
He shouted again, without turning around, “Come on, Johan and Niklas! Hurry up!”
It was not until the boat was several yards out from the jetty that he discovered that not only Johan and Niklas were with him but Pelle and Tjorven, too.
“Why have you come?” said Melker reproachfully. “This is no game for small children.”
“We wanted to come too,” said Tjorven. “It’s ages and ages since I was in Norrtälje.”
Melker realized that he could do nothing about it. He could not throw the two of them into the sea, and after all he had just been given a State Grant, so it behooved him to be noble and kind. Besides, he was so breathless after his run that he could not utter any more reproaches.
“I can still run pretty fast,” he said breathlessly. “Not like when I first went to school, of course. I could run one hundred yards in 12:4 seconds then.”
Johan and Niklas looked at each other and Johan shook his head. “The strange thing with you, Daddy, is that the older you get, the faster you ran when you were at school.”
It was certainly a good thing for Melker that he could run pretty fast, because he had to do plenty of running that day.
It takes time to get to Norrtälje if one lives on Seacrow Island. First of all one takes a boat to a jetty on the mainland, and on that jetty one sits waiting for a bus for about an hour. And that bus takes one to Norrtälje, stopping at many places on the way. It does not hurry and it keeps to its timetable. At one o’clock it is supposed to arrive in Norrtälje and at one o’clock it gets there.
And by that time one has grown gray hairs, thought Melker, as he got out of the bus. He had sat in that bus, growing more and more nervous and saying to himself again and again, “Now don’t expect anything. You won’t get Carpenter’s Cottage, so don’t expect it!”
But he would have a try, he certainly would! And so with the children in a row behind him he went as quickly as he could to Mattsson’s office.
But Mattsson was not there. There was only a chubby little typist, who looked kind but knew nothing.
“Where is Mr. Mattsson?” asked Melker.
She looked at him primly. “How do I know?”
“Well, when will he be in?”
“How do I know?”
Her eyes were large and innocent and it was quite obvious that she really didn’t know anything. But suddenly she took out a mirror from her bag and began to put on lipstick, and that livened her up so much that she suddenly became quite talkative.
“He’s always out and about. I believe he was going to buy rhubarb at the market. Or perhaps he’s gone home. Sometimes he goes to the Grand Hotel for a drink.”
They got no more out of her and hurried out again as quickly as they had come in.
Melker looked at his watch. It was after two o’clock, and where was Mattsson? Where in this charming little town could they find him? They must get hold of him—and quickly.
Melker was so nervous that he was trembling and he did not like having Pelle and Tjorven hanging on behind him. It was a hindrance being so many in these narrow streets, so he decided to take action.
“Would you like some ice cream cones, children?” he said.
Yes, they would. So Melker bought them each an ice cream cone at a kiosk and maneuvered them to a little green park, where there was a bench.
“You sit here,” said Melker, “and eat your ice cream cones and wait until we come back.”
“What about when we’ve finished our ice cream?” said Tjorven.
“You’ll stay here.”
“For how long?” asked Tjorven.
“Until the moss begins to grow on you,” said Melker unkindly. And then he made off with Johan and Niklas behind him. Pelle and Tjorven stayed where they were, eating their ice cream cones.
In a dream you sometimes run and run after something that you feel you must find, and you are in a great hurry. It is a matter of life and death. You run and hunt and become more and more anxious, but you never find what you are looking for. It is all in vain. This is exactly what happened to Melker and his boys as they hunted for Mattsson.
He wasn’t at the market. Yes, he had been there, one of the market women said, but a long time ago.
“What about his home then? Where is that?”
“On the other side of town.”
No Mattsson there either! Could he really be having a drink at the Grand Hotel?
No, that must have been a lie. There was no sign of Mattsson there and suddenly Melker realized what a fool he was. He clapped his forehead. “I’m a fool,” he shouted. “Why aren’t we sitting in Mattsson’s office waiting for him, instead of walking around and around and getting sore feet?”
At that moment, exactly that moment, he made a dreadful discovery. His watch had stopped. Suddenly he saw that the clock on the Grand Hotel showed five minutes past four. Not three-thirty as his own wrist watch said. It was a grim moment.
I warned you, Melker. You shouldn’t expect anything. How can you think you can possibly buy Carpenter’s Cottage when you can’t even keep an eye on the time? It’s too late now, Melker! At this very moment Mr. Karlberg is sitting in Mattsson’s office with a cigar in his mouth, chuckling with satisfaction.
Melker saw everything so clearly before him that he groaned. Johan and Niklas were sorry for him, but at the same time they were furious. Why did everything have to be so wrong and impossible and so altogether miserable? Johan gritted his teeth. “He may have come late, Daddy. Let’s take a taxi.”
So they took a taxi. They were in Mattsson’s office at ten minutes past four, but Mr. Karlberg was not a person to be late for appointments. His watch was right. Everything was as Melker had imagined it. There he sat with his cigar in his mouth, looking thoroughly satisfied.
Melker grew desperate. “Stop!” he shouted. “I’m interested in buying the cottage too!”
Mr. Karlberg smiled in a friendly way. “You’ve thought of that a little too late, I’m afraid.”
Melker turned in despair to Mattsson. “But, Mr. Mattsson, surely you have a heart? My children and I love Carpenter’s Cottage. You can’t be so heartless!”
Mattsson was not heartless, only absolutely indifferent and businesslike. “Why didn’t you come before, then? In matters like this it’s important to decide quickly. People don’t stand around waiting. First come, first served. You’re too late, Mr. Melkerson.”
You’re too late, Mr. Melkerson! Those words will ring in my ears as long as I live, thought Melker, and in his despair he turned to Mr. Karlberg. “For my children’s sake, can’t you give it up?”
Mr. Karlberg was offended. “I have a child too, Mr. Melkerson. I have a child too.” Then he turned to Mattsson. “Come now. Let’s find Mrs. Sjöblom and sign the contract.”
Mrs. Sjöblom! The happy carpenter’s widow. If that’s who she was perhaps he could influence her with his prayers. Perhaps Mattsson
did not have the last word. Melker gritted his teeth. He must try Mrs. Sjöblom. Not that he thought it would be any good, but he could not leave a stone unturned. Later, when his last hope had gone, would be time enough to think of those words, “You’re too late, Mr. Melkerson!”
He whispered to the boys, “We’ll go to see Mrs. Sjöblom, too, then.”
“Until the moss begins to grow on you.” Uncle Melker had said they were to sit on the bench until then. Tjorven did not agree to this. Nor did Pelle. An ice cream cone gets eaten so quickly and moss grows so slowly. By now they had been sitting for a long time and were very hungry and Pelle was so nervous that he could scarcely sit still. Why didn’t Daddy come? He felt all on edge and he had a stomach-ache too.
Tjorven was upset. Norrtälje was fun. She had been here several times with Mummy and Daddy and she knew how many interesting things there were to look at. And they had to sit here, stuck to a park bench and feeling hungry at the same time!
“Have we got to sit here till we die of starvation?” she said miserably.
Then Pelle remembered something which cheered him up. He had three crowns in his trousers pocket. “I think I’ll go and buy us another ice cream cone,” he said.
So he did. He ran to the kiosk and bought ice cream cones, and then there were only two crowns left in his pocket. But an ice cream cone comes to an end so quickly and the time passed and still no one came. Pelle felt prickly all over. “I think I’ll buy us another ice cream cone each,” he said.
So he did. He ran to the kiosk again and then there was only one crown left in his pocket. And the time passed and no one came and the cones had been finished a long time ago.
“What about buying us another ice cream cone?” suggested Tjorven.
But Pelle shook his head. “No, you shouldn’t spend everything you have. You have to keep a little for unforeseen expenses.”
He had heard Malin say this to Daddy so often, but what “unforeseen expenses” really meant he did not know. All he knew was that you shouldn’t spend all you had.
Tjorven sighed. She became more and more restless with every minute that passed and Pelle became more and more nervous. What if Daddy could not find that horrible Mattsson? Who knew, perhaps everything had changed! Perhaps Mattsson had gone home with Mr. Karlberg and sold Carpenter’s Cottage right away, instead of going to the market and buying rhubarb, instead of hurrying back to his office and selling it to Daddy. And here they had to sit. Just waiting and feeling what a stomach-ache he had. How he hated that Mr. Karlberg, and Mattsson too. What a pity that Mrs. Sjöblom had someone like that to look after her business. Why didn’t she do it herself?
Mrs. Sjöblom . . . she lived here in Norrtälje. Yes, she did. Imagine wanting to sell Carpenter’s Cottage! She must be crazy! He’d like to ask her about it.
“Do you know Mrs. Sjöblom?” he asked Tjorven.
“Of course I do. I know everyone.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Yes!” said Tjorven. “She lives in a yellow house, close to a candy shop and a toy shop which are exactly next door to each other.”
Pelle stood there silent and thinking. His stomach-ache was growing worse and worse. At last he jumped to his feet.
“Come on, Tjorven. Let’s go and find Mrs. Sjöblom. There’s something I want to talk to her about.”
Tjorven jumped up too, happily surprised. “But what will Uncle Melker say?”
Pelle wondered that too. He did not want to think about it just then. He wanted to get in touch with Mrs. Sjöblom. Old ladies usually liked him. Surely there would be no harm in asking her—though he did not know exactly what he was going to ask her. He only knew that he could not possibly sit still any longer, doing nothing.
Tjorven had visited Mrs. Sjöblom several times with Mummy and Daddy. And yet she could not find the yellow house now. But she found a policeman and she asked him, “Where is there a candy shop exactly next door to a toy shop?”
“Must you have everything all in one place?” said the police-man, laughing. But then he thought and suddenly realized where she meant and told them how to get there.
And they went on through narrow little streets and past rows of little houses and came at last to a toy shop next door to a candy shop. Tjorven looked around and then she pointed.
“There. Mrs. Sjöblom lives in that yellow house!” It was a two-story house with a little garden behind it and a door onto the street.
“You ring,” said Pelle. He did not dare.
Tjorven put her finger on the bell and left it there for a long time. And then they waited. For a long, long time they waited, but no one came to open the door.
“She’s not at home,” said Pelle, and he did not know whether he was disappointed or not. In fact, perhaps it was just as well to be able to get out of it, because it was difficult to talk to strange people. But still . . .
“Why has she got the radio on then?” said Tjorven and put her ear to the door. “I can hear it playing.”
She rang once more and then she banged loudly on the door. But still no one came.
“She must be home. Come on, we’ll look around the other side of the house.”
They walked around the house. There was a ladder leaning up against a window on the second floor. The window was open and the radio was on full blast inside. They could hear it very clearly now.
“Let’s climb up and look in,” said Tjorven.
Pelle was frightened. You couldn’t do things like that, just climb up and look in, it was crazy! But Tjorven was set on it. She pushed him toward the ladder from behind and, trembling, he began to climb. He regretted it before he had got halfway and wanted to turn back, but Tjorven was behind him on the ladder and she would not allow him past her.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” she said, and pushed him relentlessly upward. Terrified, he went on climbing. What in the world would he say if there was someone inside?
There was someone inside. She was sitting in a chair with her back to him and he was terrified. He stared at her neck for a long time. He coughed, first quietly and then quite loudly. Then the woman in the chair gave a shriek and she turned around and he saw that it was Mrs. Sjöblom. She was exactly as he had imagined her. She was very old and wrinkled and had gray hair, kind eyes and a funny little nose, but she stared at him as if she had seen a ghost.
“I’m not as dangerous as I look,” Pelle assured her in a trembling voice.
Mrs. Sjöblom laughed. “Oh, really? You really aren’t as dangerous as you look?”
“No,” said Tjorven, and popped her head over the window sill. “Good morning, Aunt Sjöblom.”
Aunt Sjöblom clapped her hands together. “Well, I never, if it isn’t Tjorven!”
“Yes, of course it is,” said Tjorven. “And this is Pelle, who wants to buy Carpenter’s Cottage. I suppose that’s all right?”
Mrs. Sjöblom laughed merrily, something which came quite naturally to her, and then she said, “I don’t usually do business with people hanging outside my window. You had better come in!”
It was not at all as difficult as Pelle had thought it would be to talk to Mrs. Sjöblom.
“Are you hungry?” was the first thing she said, and that was a fine beginning! Then she took them down to the kitchen and gave them sandwiches and milk. Ham sandwiches and cheese sandwiches and veal sandwiches too. It was a regular party. And while the party was going on she heard everything. About Mattsson and Karlberg and Lotte, and about Westerman and Yoka and Tottie and Yum-yum and Moses and Bosun. About everything that had happened on Seacrow Island. Tjorven talked a great deal about Lotte Karlberg.
“Bongalo!” she said. “Don’t you think that’s absolutely crazy, Aunt Sjöblom?”
Yes, Aunt Sjöblom thought it was absurd, at any rate, on Seacrow Island. And, as for tearing down Carpenter’s Cottage, she had never heard of anything so stupid!
A State Grant, sore feet, and I don’t know what else, all in a single day! It was too m
uch, thought Melker, but he strode on resolutely with Johan and Niklas at his heels, for they must not let Mattsson out of their sight. His ugly suit went on in front of them through the streets like a beacon and it led them to a little yellow house smothered in forsythia and jasmine.
As Mattsson rang the bell a pale-faced Melker came forward. No one was going to stop him from having a word in the discussion. Mr. Karlberg grew angry. “Come, come, Mr. Melkerson. You really must give up. What in the world do you think you are doing here?”
“I suppose I have a right to speak to Mrs. Sjöblom if I wish!” said Melker bitterly.
Mattsson gave him a cold look. “I thought, Mr. Melkerson, that I had made it clear to you that I am Mrs. Sjöblom’s agent. What good do you think it will do if you speak to her?”
Melker knew only too well that it would do no good, but he had to make one last attempt and he was not going to allow anyone to stop him.
Then the door opened and there stood Mrs. Sjöblom.
Mattsson made his introduction. “This is Mr. Karlberg, who is about to buy Carpenter’s Cottage.”
He paid no attention to Melker and Mrs. Sjöblom nodded to Mr. Karlberg and looked him up and down. Melker gave a little cough. If only she would look at him, perhaps he could catch her eye so that she might understand that it was a question of life and death for him.
But Mrs. Sjöblom did not look at Melker. She looked at Karlberg and then she said quietly, “Carpenter’s Cottage is already sold.”
It was as if she had let a bomb drop. Mattsson stared sheepishly at her. “Sold!”
“Sold?” said Mr. Karlberg. “What do you mean by that?”
Melker felt himself turn pale, for now all hope was gone. It did not matter to him who had bought Carpenter’s Cottage because it was lost forever to him and his children. And he had known it all the time. But it was strange that it should hurt so much when he finally heard it confirmed.
Johan and Niklas began to cry. Silent, bitter crying, which they tried in vain to control. The excitement was over and they were so tired. Who could help crying?
“What do you mean, Mrs. Sjöblom?” said Mattsson, when his powers of speech returned to him. “Who have you sold it to?”