Page 17 of The Happiness Blueprint
Mateusz: Sorry, Klara, think I’ve got food poisoning so not coming in today.
Get well soon,I reply.
I feel sorry for Mateusz. He seems incredibly unlucky with food poisoning on Mondays, our busiest day of week.
I try Ram next. Because I dislike telling people what to do, my technique is to simply declare what needs to be done. It resembles talking to oneself; however, I switchIforwe. This usually encourages the other person to replyI can do thatorleave it to me. But I’m finding that this technique doesn’t work as intended on Dad’s employees.
“Weneed to deliver joint mixture to the villa in Södra Sandby,” I hint loudly as Ram walks past me on his way to the parking lot.
“Do you have the address?”
Of course I have the address. My main responsibility is knowing who needs to be where at what time, including material and tools, and this inevitably requires knowing the addresses of all our projects.
“I know the address.”
“Cool. All okay, then. Have a good one, Klara.” He puts his AirPods in and walks off with his ponytail swaying. It’s only then that I realize he has left me with the task. This makes me want to say a bad word, and it’s notscheißeorfiddlesticks.
The balding man on the other end of a pinewood kitchen table speaks in a size 20 font, Copperplate Gothic. This suits him because it’s on the Google list of worst fonts, and it lacks class.
“I have done a fair bit of DIY in my days, just need a professional to take over now. Don’t have the time.” He raises his eyebrows. “I thought, best to get someone in so the wife doesn’t file for divorce soon.” At this he laughs. Having seen divorce firsthand, I disagree that it’s a laughing matter. I stay quiet.
“Follow me and I’ll show you the Haven.”
I am no tiler or carpenter, and my only claim to the trade is being the daughter of one, but what meets my eye in the basement of the 1950s house looks like it is an amateur installation of an electrocution chamber, with electrical cords and suspicious-looking openings in the walls.
“Well, here it is, the start of the spa. Sauna and shower room with a relaxation corner.”
“Wonderful,” I say. This is what I usually say when I enter someone’s home and they show me their humble abode.
“Right, yes. I did all the heavy work, didn’t I? Will be a quick job for you guys to finish up.” The man kicks at an empty pack of nails, and it goes flying a bit farther than I think he intended. “I thought, why don’t I give Bygg-Nilsson a call and see if they can squeeze this in somewhere between projects, eh? It would be grand to have it done by spring. Got a couple of mates coming for the weekend, and they are all looking forward to seeing it.”
“Currently there is a two-month wait for any project start,” I tell him.
“Two months? I’ve practically finished the hard bit here. I just need a professional because I ran out of time.” I can’t imagine the electrocution chamber being finished on our lunch breaks and odd hours. It would perhaps even require complete reinstallations. I say this to the man. He is now talking in font size 24.
“You could try speaking to our office,” I say as I scribble the general-inquiry email address on a piece of paper. “They may be able to help you get in sooner.”
Needless to say,Iam currentlythe office,and the general inquiries end up in my inbox. I exit the house as fast as I can.
An hour later, I’m in Södra Sandby, a small village surrounded by equestrian farms ten minutes’ drive from Lund. An elderly couple are having a new kitchen put in, and Ram and Gunnar are there working, but Dad has requested a video update. It wouldn’t surprise me if it will be used as his entertainment during chemo sessions. “You may want to bring a book,” the nurse had said. Well, I’ll keep him in steady supply of construction clips instead.
As I turn onto the main street—theonlystreet here with any shops—and find parking, I work out my estimated time of arrival at the house and then type into GoogleIs 4 minutes and 57 seconds considered late?
Fast steps, neck bent, icy wind hitting the naked gap between my hat and coat. I always walk on the side with odd numbers because I feel sorry for them, being odd and all. The frozen ground of the front garden creaks as my weight lands on it with each step. On the front door there is a painted horseshoe, which I use to knock.
“Sorry, I’m borderline late,” I announce, taking a moment to compose myself. The hallway is neat, and I wipe my feet thoroughly on the doormat.
The old lady with white fluffy curls introduces herself as Greta. I can’t hide my delight.
“I like your name because the letters also make the wordgreat.” It’s the type of mistake you would do when typing, writegreatinstead ofGretaand autocorrect wouldn’t even correct it. If my name were Greta, I would have accidental positive affirmations on a routine basis.
“And I like your accent. Where is it from?” she replies with a smile.
“I’m from here, actually, just five miles away. But I’ve lived in London for many years, and now I’m stuck in that place where I have an accent when I speak Swedish and an accent when I speak English.” It’s true: when you move abroad, slowly the new country tightens its grip on you until your identity is some gray area in between cultures and languages.
“Well, the accent is charming. I couldn’t believe when I heard we had a girl coming. You don’t look like your dad. Such a nice man.” I get this a lot, both that I look different and that he is a lovely person. I think many customers choose his company because of him. It’s certainly not because of the fantastic website or Mateusz.
I glance over at the small square kitchen table and see that she has prepared a big fika, complete with homemade cinnamon rolls and biscuits. A pot of coffee is placed in the middle, which she is gesturing to.
