He sighed at the abrupt end to the call, carried the tablet back to his room next door and shoved it onto his bedside. Inger’s default setting was to make herself feel good by shining a light on what she saw as the faults of others, but the exchange had left him ruffled and resentful. He’d hoped to get a clearer idea of when she intended to return home to Sweden. His gaze strayed to the windows in this room they used to share and where they’d enjoyed happy times, in the early days of their marriage. The curtains Inger had chosen were of wildly expensive fabric, but he thought the views through them were far more beautiful. One window looked over the lawns and drive to the glittering Sound of Sleat, with a lone fishing boat drawing an arrow on the calm water. Another window showed rippling greensward. Pivoting, through the last two he could see the family garden and the copse beyond. As Alvin had said, there was ‘lots of outside here’.
On a sudden fit of energy, he jogged down the hall to the playroom, bursting in on Josefin helping Alvin build a Duplo tower while Astrid was glued toSpongeBobon the TV.
‘Who wants to come exploring?’ Mats cried, in the manner of one offering a humungous treat.
‘Yeah!’ Alvin bellowed, leaping to his little feet and scattering the Duplo tower as he raced headlong for Mats.
Astrid peeped out of the corner of her eye. ‘I’m watchingSpongeBob.’
Mats swung Alvin up onto his shoulder. ‘OK. You girls stay indoors, and we men will go out—’
‘Coming!’ Astrid declared hurriedly.
Josefin began to climb to her feet, her big smile filling the space between her round cheeks. Mats halted her. ‘You have an hour to yourself, Josefin. I’ll be fine with the kids. After all, you’re missing Christmas with your sister and family this year and deserve extra downtime at least.’
Surprise flickered over her face. ‘If you’re sure.’ She subsided onto the floor and began to gather up Duplo bricks: red, yellow, blue and green.
He hoped he hadn’t offended her. Being a nanny was an odd position. It wasalmostfamily.Attachedto the family. But not family. Josefin had few external ties other than friends in Sweden and an adult son in California, and he almost said, ‘Unless you’d like to come?’ But part of the attraction of his leave of absence was spending more time with his children, so he called, ‘Boots and jackets on,’ swinging Alvin to the floor. ‘Don’t run on the stairs.’ Astrid was already sprinting up the corridor.
‘I faster than Astrid,’ Alvin cried, which, as he was panting in her wake, was demonstrably untrue.
Downstairs in the cloakroom, they began the process of dressing in outdoor clothes, which took at least twice as long as necessary.
‘Don’t want that yacket,’ declared Alvin.
‘It’s ajacket,’ Astrid corrected him. ‘Those aren’t my boots.’
‘Can I have yellow scarf? I lost astrumpe-sock.’
‘That means sock-sock! I don’t like mittens. Where are my gloves?’
‘I don’t need help. I do it MYSELF.’
‘I need a wee. I’ll just take my coat off …’
‘I need a wee, too.’ In an instant, two children were bickering over who’d go first, and coats, boots, scarves and gloves were shed across the cloakroom floor. Mats thought ruefully that Josefin would have asked who needed the toilet before even thinking about outdoor clothes.
Finally, finally, they were suited and booted and in the crisp outdoors under a blue sky scattered with towering clouds. Mats said, ‘Hold my hand down the steps, please.’ And then they were all running across the grass in air so cold and fresh it made him giddy as he breathed the scents of pine needles and the sea. Mats took one of Alvin’s hands and when Astrid grabbed the other, his little red boots barely touched the ground.
Astrid’s giggles floated from her mouth like bubbles of joy. ‘We can run fast, can’t we, Daddy? We can run a long, long way.’
It turned out they could run about a hundred metres before the breathless children wanted to pause to examine worm casts in the lawn and then fling themselves on the grass and wriggle, pretending they were worms themselves. Mats took a philosophical attitude. Children and dirt went together. The washing machine would take care of it.
Surrounded by the giggles of happy children, he looked back at the house, admiring the grey stone that somehow never looked cold, and the turret under its conical hat. Thewind combed the grass from side to side like a giant hand stroking green velvet. Then he turned his face towards the sea, letting his hair blow back. Across the sound, it was hard to tell which dark humps were the mainland and which were clouds. They piled up together on the horizon like a heap of grey, purple and white duvets.
When the children abandoned the worm game and meandered down the sloping grass, he strolled behind. The visitors’ car park was empty today and he was glad. Whenever he’d visited Rothach in the summer, the public had roamed the major part of the grounds while his family kept to their allotted areas in hall and gardens. Rothach Hall being a visitor attraction helped with the costs of an enormous, expensive property but it was great to have the place to themselves.
He remembered that the old donkey and pony Grete had allowed to retire here had been joined by new friends recently. ‘Hey, I have something to show you.’ With Alvin on his shoulders and Astrid skipping beside him, they battled the wind down to near the stone hump-backed bridge over the stream – or ‘burn’, as that was the Scottish name for it.
‘Horsies,’ Alvin squealed from his vantage point on Mats’ shoulders, as the paddock come into view.
Mats grabbed Astrid so she couldn’t blast up to the paddock and frighten the animals. ‘Small horses are called ponies. Three are ponies, and one’s a donkey.’ They drew near enough for him to read the notice on the metal gate. ‘Look, that sign says: “Mary Pony and Clive Donkey”. I remember your cousins Emil and Filip painting it. That’s Clive Donkey, with the funny sticky-up mane, and Mary Pony with grey around her eyes. Farmor told me about the other two ponies. They’re called Haggis and Scotch.’
‘Which is which?’ asked Astrid, gazing from a stocky bronze-coloured pony to a shaggy, friendly-looking one with a body the colour of the froth on hot chocolate but a darker face.
Mats considered. ‘I’d guess the bronze one is Scotch, because it’s roughly the colour of whisky.’
Alvin, who Mats had thought would be out of mischief up on his shoulders, suddenly flung up his arms and shrieked an ear-splitting ‘Yah!’
