Secret Joy

Part 7

"This is your bedroom," Mor said, opening a door on the top floor of the house, "I've kept it for you since you were born. It was your sister's, when your family lived here. I had hoped your parents would stay... or at least come back, so that we could all live together... but it wasn't to be. But you're here now. Please... make yourself at home." She stood in the doorway and watched as I looked around.

In one corner there was a bed, covered with lots of thick blankets, and, next to it, a wardrobe. In another corner there was a chest of drawers, on top of which sat a small glass bowl full of little black shapes. I wondered if they were the Danish version of potpourri. Mum had kept some dried flowers in a dish on the mantle-piece in London.

I set down my suitcase and went to look at them more closely. I asked, "Mor, what are these?"

"Salt liquorice," she replied, smiling and putting one of the sweets in my hand. "Try one."

Salt liquorice? I held it up for examination, and then tentatively put it in my mouth.

My tongue folded into quarters to escape the taste. My skin turned to ice and my breath caught in my throat. I clawed the vile thing from my tongue and glowered at it as it glistened in my hand.

Mor came to hug me. "I'm sorry," she said, "I thought you might like it. I can't remember a time when I didn't. Perhaps you'd have liked it if..." She trailed off, and I heard her swallow hard, before she continued, "...if you'd grown up here. It's a Skandi thing. An acquired taste."

I nodded, and caught her scent on her sweater. She smelled of almonds, of salt liquorice, of a home I'd never known. Fresh tears came to my eyes as I realised I should smell the same.

As it was, I knew I smelled of Mum's cigarettes and the black coffee she drank. As it was, I knew I smelled of London, not of Copenhagen.

Very quietly, I asked for, "Some time alone. You know, to settle."

"Of course," Mor said, rubbing my back and taking the liquorice away.

As soon as I heard her footsteps fading down the stairs, I collapsed face-first onto my bed and screamed voicelessly into the pillows. Grief tore its way out again and again until my throat was raw.

I should have liked the salt liquorice. I should have learned to like it, here in Denmark, where I should have grown up with Mum and Dad and Emily. And Mor. With my whole family.