Fredrik Backman - Britt-Marie Was Here [Britt-Marie var här]

Borg is an imaginary place, and any apparent resemblance to real places is coincidental.

Forks. Knives. Spoons.

In that order.

Britt-Marie is certainly not the kind of person who judges other people. Far from it.

But surely no civilized person would even think of arranging a cutlery drawer in a different way from how cutlery drawers are supposed to be arranged?

Were not animals, are we?

Its a Monday in January. Shes sitting at a desk in the unemployment office. Admittedly theres no cutlery in sight, but its on her mind because it sums up everything thats gone wrong recently. Cutlery should be arranged as it always has been, because life should go on unchanged. Normal life is presentable. In normal life you clean up the kitchen and keep your balcony tidy and take care of your children. Its hard work harder than one might think. In normal life you certainly dont find yourself sitting in the unemployment office.

The girl who works here has staggeringly short hair, Britt-Marie thinks, like a mans. Not that theres anything wrong with that, of course its modern, no doubt. The girl points at a piece of paper and smiles, evidently in a hurry.

Just fill in your name, social security number, and address here, please.

Britt-Marie has to be registered. As if she were a criminal. As if she has come to steal a job rather than find one.

Milk and sugar? the girl asks, pouring some coffee into a plastic mug.

Britt-Marie doesnt judge anyone. Far from it. But who would behave like that? A plastic mug! Are we at war? Shed like to say just that to the girl, but because Kent is always urging Britt-Marie to be more socially aware she just smiles as diplomatically as she can and waits to be offered a coaster.

Kent is Britt-Maries husband. Hes an entrepreneur. Incredibly, incredibly successful. Has business dealings with Germany and is extremely, extremely socially aware.

The girl offers her two tiny disposable cartons of the sort of milk that doesnt have to be kept in the fridge. Then she holds out a plastic mug with plastic teaspoons protruding from it. Britt-Marie could not have looked more startled if shed been offered roadkill.

She shakes her head and brushes her hand over the table as if it was covered in invisible crumbs. There are papers everywhere, in any old order. The girl clearly doesnt have time to tidy them up, Britt-Marie realizes shes probably far too busy with her career.

Okay, says the girl pleasantly, turning back to the form, just write your address here.

Britt-Marie fixes her gaze on her lap. She misses being at home with her cutlery drawer. She misses Kent, because Kent is the one who fills in all the forms.

When the girl looks like shes about to open her mouth again, Britt-Marie interrupts her.

You forgot to give me a coaster, says Britt-Marie, smiling, with all the social awareness she can muster. I dont want to make marks on your table. Could I trouble you to give me something to put my coffee cup on?

She uses that distinctive tone, which Britt-Marie relies on whenever she has to summon all her inner goodness, to refer to it as a cup even though it is a plastic mug.

Oh, dont worry, just put it anywhere.

As if life was as simple as that. As if using a coaster or organizing the cutlery drawer in the right order didnt matter. The girl who clearly doesnt appreciate the value of coasters, or proper cups, or even mirrors, judging by her hairstyle taps her pen against the paper, by the address box.

But surely we cant just put our cups on the table? That leaves marks on a table, surely you see that.

The girl glances at the surface of the desk, which looks as if toddlers have been trying to eat potatoes off it. With pitchforks. In the dark.

It really doesnt matter; its so old and scratched up already! she says with a smile.

Britt-Marie is screaming inside.

I dont suppose youve considered that its because you dont use coasters, she mutters, not at all in a passive-aggressive way, which is how Kents children once described her when they thought she wasnt listening. Britt-Marie is not actually passive-aggressive. Shes considerate. After she heard Kents children saying she was passive-aggressive she was extra considerate for several weeks.

The unemployment office girl looks a little strained. Okay what did you say your name was? Britt, right?

Britt-Marie. Only my sister calls me Britt.

Okay, Britt-Marie, if you could just fill in the form. Please.

Britt-Marie peers at the paper, which requires her to give assurances about where she lives and who she is. An unreasonable amount of paperwork is required these days just to be a human being. A preposterous amount of administration for society to let one take part. In the end she reluctantly fills in her name, social security number, and her cell phone number. The address box is left empty.

Whats your educational background, Britt-Marie?

Britt-Marie squeezes her handbag.

Ill have you know that my education is excellent.

But no formal education?

For your information, I solve an enormous number of crosswords. Which is not the sort of thing one can do without an education.

She takes a very small gulp of the coffee. It doesnt taste like Kents coffee at all. Kent makes very good coffee. Everyone says so. Britt-Marie takes care of the coasters and Kent takes care of the coffee.

Okay what sort of life experience do you have?

My latest employment was as a waitress. I had outstanding references.

The girl looks hopeful. And when was that?

Nineteen seventy-eight.

Ah and you havent worked since then?

I have worked every day since then. Ive helped my husband with his company.

Again the girl looks hopeful. And what sorts of tasks did you perform in the company?

I took care of the children and saw to it that our home was presentable.

The girl smiles to hide her disappointment, as people do when they dont have the ability to distinguish between a place to live and a home. Its actually thoughtfulness that makes the difference. Because of thoughtfulness there are coasters and proper coffee cups and beds that are made so tightly in the mornings that Kent jokes with his acquaintances about how, if you stumble on the threshold on your way into the bedroom, theres a smaller risk of breaking your leg if you land on the floor than the bedspread. Britt-Marie loathes it when he talks that way. Surely civilized people lift their feet when they walk across bedroom thresholds?

Whenever Britt-Marie and Kent go away, Britt-Marie sprinkles the mattress with baking soda for twenty minutes before she makes the bed. The baking soda absorbs dirt and humidity, leaving the mattress much fresher. Baking soda helps almost everything, in Britt-Maries experience. Kent usually complains about being late; Britt-Marie clasps her hands together over her stomach and says: I absolutely must be allowed to make the bed before we leave, Kent. Just imagine if we die!

This is the actual reason why Britt-Marie hates traveling. Death. Not even baking soda has any effect on death. Kent says she exaggerates, but people do actually drop dead all the time when theyre away, and what would the landlord think if they had to break down the door only to find an unclean mattress? Surely theyd conclude that Kent and Britt-Marie lived in their own dirt?

The girl checks her watch.

Okay, she says.

Britt-Marie feels her tone has a note of criticism in it.