Britt-Marie Was Here Read Online Free

read in the newspaper about a woman who lay dead in her flat for several weeks, you see. They said the cause of death was ‘natural.’ Her dinner was still on the table. It’s actually not very natural at all. No one knew she was dead until her neighbors reacted to the smell.”
    The girl fiddles with her hair.
    “So . . . you . . . sort of want a job, so that . . .” she says, fumbling.
    Britt-Marie exhales with great patience.
    “She had no children and no husband and no job. No one knew she was there. If one has a job, people notice if one doesn’t show up.”
    The girl, still at work long after her day should be over, sits looking for a long, long time at the woman who’s kept her here. Britt-Marie sits with a straight back, like she sits on the chair on the balcony when she’s waiting for Kent. She never wanted to go to bed when Kent wasn’t home, because she didn’t want to go to sleep unless someone knew she was there.
    She sucks in her cheeks. Rubs the white mark.
    “Ha. You believe it’s preposterous, of course. I’m certainly aware that conversation isn’t one of my strengths. My husband says I’m socially incompetent.”
    The last words come out more quietly than the rest. The girl swallows and nods at the ring that is no longer on Britt-Marie’s finger.
    “What happened to your husband?”
    “He had a heart attack.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d died.”
    “He didn’t die,” whispers Britt-Marie.
    “Oh, I th—”
    Britt-Marie interrupts her by getting up and starting to sort the cutlery as if it has committed some kind of crime.
    “I don’t use perfume, so I asked him to always put his shirt directly in the washing machine when he came home. He never did. Then he used to yell at me because the washing machine was so loud at night.”
    She stops abruptly, and gives the oven a quick lecture about its buttons being the wrong way around. It looks ashamed of itself. Britt-Marie nods again and says:
    “The other woman called me after he’d had his heart attack.”
    The girl stands up to help, then sits down watchfully when Britt-Marie takes the filleting knife from the drawer.
    “When Kent’s children were small and stayed with us every other week, I made a habit of reading to them. My favorite was The Master Tailor. It’s a fairy tale, you understand. The children wanted me to make up my own stories, but I can’t see the point of it when there are perfectly good ones already written by professionals. Kent said it was because I don’t have any imagination, but actually my imagination is excellent.”
    The girl doesn’t answer. Britt-Marie sets the oven temperature. She puts the salmon in an oven dish. Then just stands there.
    “It takes an excellent imagination to pretend one doesn’t understand anything year in, year out, even though one washes all his shirts and one doesn’t use perfume,” she whispers.
    The girl stands up again. Puts her hand fumblingly on Britt-Marie’s shoulder.
    “I . . . sorry, I . . .” she starts to say.
    She stops although she hasn’t been interrupted. Britt-Marie clasps her hands together over her stomach and looks into the oven.
    “I want a job because I actually don’t think it’s very edifying to disturb the neighbors with bad smells. I want someone to know I’m here.”
    There’s nothing to say to that.
    When the salmon is ready they sit at the table and eat it without looking at each other.
    “She’s very beautiful. Young. I don’t blame him, I actually don’t,” says Britt-Marie at long last.
    “She’s probably a slag,” the girl offers.
    “What does that mean?” asks Britt-Marie, uncomfortable.
    “It’s . . . I mean . . . it’s something bad.”
    Britt-Marie looks down at her plate again.
    “Ha. That was nice of you.”
    She feels as though she should say something nice back, so, with a certain amount of strain, she manages to say, “You . . . I mean . . . your hair looks nice