How I came to be in England - Part 34

My Father was due home from his travels on the evening of the same day, 3rd of January 1984, I'd said goodbye to the Englishman at Helsinki airport.

I planned to cook his favourite meal: meatballs in a creamy sauce and peeled potatoes. I made a salad too, but knew he wouldn't want any. He called it 'rabbit food'.

'Did you have a nice Christmas?' I asked.

We were sitting opposite each other on the small kitchen table. I wondered if he'd spotted the ring on my left finger.

My Father lifted his head up from the food and looked at me from under his light-coloured, unruly eyebrows, 'In Oulu?'

'Yes.'

He put his knife and fork down, 'In Lapland they don't even know how to bake a ham properly. They're not really Finns, too close to the North Pole.' He paused, then a smile flitted across his untidy face. He looked tired. 'But the Christmas tree didn't cost anything. We felled it from one of the forests her family have. They're big landowners up there.'

'Oh,' I said and rested my chin on my left hand. But my Father went back to eating, ladling the food into his mouth as if he'd never been fed. I sighed. 'I got this,' I said, stretching my arm across, shoving the hand with the sparking diamond ring under his nose.

It took him a little while to comment. He looked at the ring as if it was on fire. Or infectious. His eyes moved slowly from my hand up to my face. I smiled. He went back to the food and cleared his plate in silence.

I sat and waited. I couldn't eat.

'You're getting married and moving to England then?' he said finally.

'Yes.'

'Getting married in England?'

'I...I don't know. We haven't decided yet. It all depends...'

'I'll pay for it if you get married in Finland,' my Father interrupted me.

'Oh.'

My Father's eyes were squarely on me. He coughed and said, 'Anyway...are you happy?'

I was so surprised by his words, I didn't reply for a while. He'd never asked me such a thing. I didn't think 'being happy' entered his consciousness. He scoffed at the modern disease of stress, thought any psychiatrist was a conman, worse if they happened to be female. He called anyone who belonged to a cult, religion, or had any beliefs, 'One of the Happy People'. In short, he didn't seem to possess a soul, or at least didn't admit to having one.

My eyes filled with tears. 'Yes, very.'

'And has your mother met the young man?'

'Yes.' I realised my mouth was still open. I closed it and tried to remember the last time my Father had called my Mother anything other than 'That Woman', or worse, 'That Bitch'. Had he undergone some kind of personality change?

'Good, good,' he said, nodding vigorously.

There was a long silence. I looked out of the window. It had started snowing at last. Large flakes hung in the air, slowly falling onto the ground. The single lamppost gave an orange glow to the small patch of dead grass outside the house.

'I think this calls for a celebration!' My Father got up and took a bottle of Koskenkorva out of the fridge. He poured two tumblers full and lifted his glass.

'Kippis!'

I nodded and lifted my glass. I couldn't speak. We sat in silence drinking the neat vodka. It burned my throat as it always did. I took small sips and tried not to grimace.

'There's a lovely church in Espoo, you know,' my Father said.

I didn't know what to say. 'Yes?'

'Have a look and tell me how much it's all going to cost. I've got the funds, so don't worry about that.' My Father downed the rest of his drink and walked into the living room. I heard him put on the TV, sit down in one of the velour covered comfy chairs and fart loudly.

How I came to be in England - Part 19

The Englishman never told me if he went to war. During the Falklands conflict we spoke very rarely. I felt I was an undesirable, living as I was close to the Soviet Union. Even his letters dried up.

I tried to concentrate on my studies and spent most of my time in the University Library. It was still used as the pick-up spot, and was ever busy. I kept bumping into the 4th year boy in the lift, or on the landing where he'd stand leaning against the steel banister, taking long drags on his cigarette. Once when I went for a smoke with my friend, he came out alone from the library and was so startled to see us he stopped dead. His worn-out leather jacket was undone, and his dark brown hair flopped over his eyes.

When he finally moved away from the door and pressed for the lift, the devil in me said, ‘Can I have a light?’ I dangled the cigarette between my fingers. He stared at me for a moment then lit a match and held it in his cupped hands. They were shaking.

My friend and I couldn't look at each other until we heard the lift stop at the ground floor and the outside door open. We both burst out laughing at the same time.

‘He’s still got the hots for you, you know,’ my friend said, growing serious. 'I can’t believe what I just saw!’

In the bus on the way home I thought about the boy, or rather, man. We'd worked out he must be at least 26. According to the School of Economics myth, that group of students had been at the University since the mid seventies. This year would be their 7th. I couldn't believe it, besides, stories grow in the telling. But the guy intrigued me. I couldn't help it. I had so little contact with the Englishman, I was beginning to forget how his lips tasted when he kissed me. We hadn't seen each other for 3 months. As the Falkland’s war progressed, his image grew more and more distant.

No-one in Finland understood what it meant to me to have the Englishman at sea, not knowing whether he was involved in the war or not. If a British submarine was lost to the Argentine Navy, would Thatcher let the world know about it? I doubted it. Eventually his parents would be told if anything happened to him but would they think about letting me know? They’d be too grief stricken to even think of anyone else. Had the Englishman told his mother about the proposal? How I wished I’d said ‘yes’ on that magical night at the ball. I’d now have an official role in relation to my love, and a right to know if the Englishman had been sunk.

My Father was the least sympathetic of all. ‘You should find yourself a good Finnish man.’ He seemed to have forgotten the night at the Russian restaurant. I wondered what had caused this change of heart, but wasn't surprised. He’d always been like it: One day he’d say one thing, the next the complete opposite. For the past few weeks he'd spent all his evenings and weekends at home. Mostly in a bad mood. I wondered if he’d had a row with his girlfriend, but didn't dare to ask.

I was in limbo. I was confused. I was lonely.




The night the news of the sinking of the Belgrano was shown on TV, my Father had been drinking vodka all evening. The bottle of Koskenkorva stood on the floor next to his chair. The Finnish newscaster didn't say if there were any British casualties, but who’d know if several British submarines were involved? I'd seen enough war movies to know submarines hunted ships in packs. I sat on the plush sofa and watched the pictures move in silence. Involuntarily I put my hand against my mouth. My Father narrowed his eyes and glanced sideways at me. ‘You know the Englishman is not there!’

I ran out of the living room. I cried into my pillow, trying to keep quiet. And then the phone rang. I heard my Father answer. He said, ‘Just a moment,’ in English. I ran out into the hall and took the receiver from him.

‘Hello?’

To hear the Englishman’s voice! It sounded as if he was far, far away, but I knew better than ask where he was calling from. I sobbed into the telephone, I couldn't help myself.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, I was just watching the news, and I didn't know…’

‘I’m fine, except, I’m missing you.’

I sighed and sat on the floor in the hall. We spoke for over twenty minutes. I cried, laughed and whispered into the receiver, not caring how much of it my Father heard. When the Englishman said he had to go, I told him I loved him once more, put the receiver down and walked quickly to my room. I fell asleep dreaming of my handsome Englishman.