Higher Ground, Anke Stelling [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

I said: ‘Shouldn’t Friday evening shows be light so that people can look forward to the weekend?’

‘Of course,’ she said, adding: ‘Nothing heavy. The premise of the story is a series of funny cover-ups on the mother’s part.’

‘The mother being poor is supposed to be funny?’

‘No, of course not. She shouldn’t be so poor that viewers are moved to tears at the sight of her.’

‘So, more like: poor but proud, extremely capable and smart?’

‘Exactly! I knew you’d get it.’

Sven said: ‘I thought you didn’t want to write for TV anymore.’ And I replied: ‘And the kids want presents for Christmas.’

Sorry for always using you kids as an excuse when it comes to jobs, Bea. Parents can’t possibly know what kids want. They only know what they want — to satisfy their kids’ wishes, which is why Christmas exists.

In any case, I sat there and thought about this mother hiding her poverty from her daughter, and I realised it was me. So I wrote a treatment about a woman who goes DIY-crazy so that her daughter can have everything she wants — and it’s all very cool, because everything is a one-off as opposed to the lame stuff all the other kids have. But when it comes to making a tablet, the mother hits a wall when she tells her daughter that a sugar-paper lantern is almost the same thing, and the daughter says: ‘Well …’

The producer also said ‘Well …’; the treatment wasn’t quite what she had in mind. She’d prefer the mother to bake cupcakes to raise the cash for the daughter to buy a real tablet. But I didn’t think that was realistic because the mother would need a shop to sell the cupcakes and how was she supposed to afford that? And the producer said it didn’t matter, people wouldn’t care that much about the details on a Friday evening.

That’s when I realised how much I cared about the fucking details, and that put an end to my collaboration with the producer and the commission, and I started working on my spiteful book.

The ideas have to go somewhere.

No, Bea, that’s rubbish. I won’t hide behind that. Do you hear me, Ulf? I didn’t do it because of the commission: I didn’t have to write what I did. Or if I did, I could have just stuck to the fucking cupcakes.

I prepare myself a working-class lunch — tinned ravioli — and eat it in posh style, with freshly grated Parmesan on an Iittala plate.

I’m a wanderer between two worlds, a mother who hides her poverty. Who buries it at the bottom of the bin and has a few tricks to make her seem solidly middle-class. As a child, I learned from my aspiring parents that you can’t call ready-grated Parmesan ‘cheese’, and that Scandinavian design proves you have taste; what I didn’t learn was how not to spill tomato sauce. So I prefer not to wear expensive blouses — and off comes my mask. Because real middle-class daughters know how to use serviettes or they have enough money to have stains on their clothes removed.

Not worrying about things, an upright posture from childhood, and the skilful handling of serviettes: these are the kinds of details that indicate the difference.

Take a look at Carolina. True, she has a large open-plan flat with silky-smooth, dark-stained floors and a walk-in wardrobe with motion sensor lights; but I could have had all that too if I’d made an effort and studied the right subjects. If I’d accepted Ingmar’s money. Or married Ulf.

What I never could have learned — and never will and therefore can’t pass on to you, Bea — is the way Carolina walks into her wardrobe, so naturally and casually, or the way her clothes fall so effortlessly down her upright back, or the way she holds her hair together with just two hairpins. How does she do that? Caro knows how to dress, do her hair and make-up. She knows how to show off her understated femininity to full advantage, order waiters about, delegate to cleaners, and be a role model to interns instead of just giving them tasks.

Ulf doesn’t think these qualities are remarkable. His mother and grandmother, sister and cousins all had them too.

Perhaps he just doesn’t care.

Perhaps he never noticed I didn’t have them when we were together. Or he noticed and was attracted to a vulgar playmate like me — a wild girl who’s fun to be with for a while, but whom you eventually have to groom, polish, or dump because she wouldn’t be a suitable mother to the children she’d have to teach to walk and behave in the proper way—

Ulf’s mother noticed my shortcomings, of that I’m sure. Kept quiet about them, because not saying anything was part of the social project. Ulf’s mother wanted to stoop to the level of the ‘common people’ and come into contact with them rather than seal herself off. Ulf’s mother opened her door to her children’s friends, no matter who they were, where they came from, or what they could do. ‘Come in and look! I’ll not say anything.’ Unlike her mother-in-law, who said something straight away.

December 1987; Stuttgart.

In Ulf’s family, Christmas was a musical event. His parents sang in a choir, rehearsing Bach’s Oratorio several times a week; Ulf and his sister were accomplished players of several instruments and could sing carols in harmony.

Before I met Ulf’s family, I didn’t know that carols could be sung in harmony, but I was invited to his house on the fourth weekend in Advent for coffee, homemade Christmas biscuits, and an afternoon of music. And that’s when I heard the different voice parts and met Ulf’s grandma for the first time, who I’d imagined would be like mine — old, in other words.

Ulf’s mother was seated at the grand piano. Ulf’s sister was already warming up, and Ulf’s father grinned at me, but then had to come in on the bass line. And Ulf’s grandma was definitely