THE WISDOM OF ELEANOR CARLISLE

He is tall, his hair and skin dark, and he is more beautiful than ever dreamed a boy could be.

And here ... now, staring at the house where Oliver lives. It is vast, made of grey stone and windows that are stained with colourful pictures, a large wooden door that is twice the height of any human man I can imagine. ... on the marble steps to the estate...

Oliver bursts through the arched doors of the mansion with George and Rupert close behind, calling for help. Navy jackets crusted with sand, large gold circles running down the centre, their white shirts cut low and showing chest hair. 

“My gods,” a woman says, rising to her feet. She is older, her black hair twisted into thick coils wrapped into a bun at the nape of her neck. “Oli, what happened?”

The room is of considerable size, the ceiling decorated with paintings of plump, winged babies, the narrow windows covered with that same painted glass that is seen from outside. The sun shining through it and dancing in vivid swirls of reds and blues, ghosts of colour on our skin. There are other humans there, men and women dressed in black like the older woman was; dark netting shadowing the women’s faces, scraps of white material pressed to bloodshot eyes. They are all staring, aghast.

The walls of the corridor are lined with images of his family, photographs, they’re called. Oliver as a child, always holding his father’s hand, his mother smiling too brightly. Alexander Carlisle, a handsome man with broad shoulders who becomes smaller with each passing year. “I’m tired.”

She, Eleanor, is unceasingly busy, always leaving the house for meetings, every available space in her office piled with papers and files as she talks into something called a “telephone”, rattling off lists of numbers and figures off the top of her head. “Have you taken a look at those reports I sent you, Oliver?” she asks him. “Did you look at the spec for that new ship? Oliver, are you listening to me? Oli?”

But instead of boardroom tables, there are more horse-riding expeditions for her son, more mountains to climb. Cricket on the lawn, birds falling to the earth – thud – as the boys stalk the fields with weapons called guns clasped in their hands.

We left the mansion and he led down the marble steps, but not to the sea. A sharp bend to the right, through a thicket of tangled roses, thorns catching on the ends as we fought our way into this secret garden.

“There’d be a band in the gazebo,” he points at a wooden structure in the corner, tangled weeds creeping around it, “and everyone would dance in the middle of the lawn until the sun rose. There was music and drinking and people kissing, which I thought was disgusting at that age, of course. Little did I know how my opinion would change within a few years.” He sneaks a look. “I wasn’t allowed to stay at the parties for very long. They just rolled me out to charm the guests, then my nanny would come and take me back to the play room. I was the only one of my friends with a live-in nanny, you know. Mother was too busy working. Working, working, working, that’s all she ever cared about.”

Where was Oliver’s father in all this, ... As though he had heard, Oliver continues.

“My father would come if he was feeling well enough,” Oliver says. “Everyone would have been enquiring about him. Where’s Alex? they’d ask, and my mother would promise that he would be there soon. The party couldn’t start until Dad arrived; he was the life and soul of every event. But towards the end … Dad just looked sad all the time. Then he would become bothered, and my mother would be embarrassed, apologizing for his behaviour. My husband isn’t himself these days,” Oliver mimics in a mocking tone. “He wasn’t well; he needed help, and she just…”

She just what? What did Eleanor do?

The drawing room is Eleanor’s favourite place in the house; it is where she spends the most time, besides her office. It is floor to ceiling glass walls overlooking the sea, curtains and chairs in a primrose silk with the outline of roses picked out in cream thread. 

“We were childhood friends, Alex and I,” Eleanor says, standing again. “And he was captivating, even then. Everyone loved him. They tolerated me well enough, although clever girls are never much appreciated.” She is telling all of this. Eleanor cracks her knuckles, just like Oliver, but she does it slowly, each snap deliberate, echoing in this room. “His family were very grand, but had no money left – gambling debts. Well. I needed Alex, and he needed money – and gods know if my family had anything, it was money. And I was in love with him.” She turns, her eyes bright. “It didn’t matter what my father said – that Alex was lazy, that all he cared about was having fun. Well, I wanted to have fun, for once. Fun, I could appreciate. I’ve never cared for beauty. Beauty fades, there’s no loyalty in it. My mother told me it was better to cultivate my wit, my intelligence. If I’d had a daughter, I would have told her the same. I would have made her strong. A woman needs to be strong to survive.”


Karin läser (Karin Reads), by her husband Carl Larsson