‘Yes,’ said Frau Andersson. ‘The headmistress. The head-distress is a bad person. Everyone here thinks that. She’s not to our taste. She’s not good with the children.’

‘Well,’ I said, and looked at the trees, whose leaves trembled slightly as if they were shivering. ‘Well – not a good lady then? What does she do wrong? Does she shout at the children?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Frau Andersson, and she turned to the Princess, as if this was a matter exclusively for women, ‘she is hard to the children. The headmistress . . . beats the children.’

The Princess gave a start. ‘Doesn’t anyone mind then?’

‘Jaha . . .’ said Frau Andersson. ‘She doesn’t beat them that hard. So the police can’t say anything. She doesn’t hit to make the children sick. But she is unfair, the children are afraid from her.’ She pointed to a castle-like building on a hill behind Mariefred: ‘I prefer to be there than with that woman.’

‘What is that building?’ I asked.

‘That is a mental asylum,’ said Frau Andersson.

‘And so the mental patients are better off than those children?’

‘Yes,’ said Frau Andersson. ‘But I want to see now whether dinner is ready . . . one minute.’ And she went away hurriedly, as though she’d said too much.

We looked at one another. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, it happens,’ I said. ‘Probably some demon of a woman, applying the iron rod.’

‘Peter, play me something on the piano till it’s time for supper!’

We went into the music room of the castle, which the lady had said we could do, and I sat down in front of the little piano and played a few cheerful melodies. I stayed mostly on the black keys; they are easier to hit. I played:

Sometimes I think of you,

but it don’t agree with me . . .

because the next day I feel so tired –

and:

Ah, the hedgehogs at eventide

were off chasing mice,

and I was hanging on your lips –

We sang old folk-songs and American songs, and then a riding-song which we had composed ourselves, and which was completely idiotic from beginning to end, and then supper was ready.

We had got hold of a bottle of whisky. It wasn’t easy, because we didn’t have a Motbok, the little booklet that entitles you to buy spirits in Sweden. But we had got the bottle. And it hadn’t even been that expensive. Blonde and brunette . . . Black and White . . . here’s to you . . .!

We sat at a wooden table in front of the house and looked over at the castle.

Every now and again, we took a sip of whisky.