Missing

preferably found it very desirable. Beatrice derived her greatest pleasure from arousing admiration and envy.
    Almost all the parents of her fellow pupils were working in her father’s factory. Mr Forsenström was a leading member of the Local Council and his pronouncements weighed heavily. Most of the jobs and much else in Hultaryd depended on his say-so and all the children knew this. On the other hand, they were too young to be serious about the employment market and anyway most of them hoped for more in life than stepping into their parents’ shoes. They didn’t want to spend their lives minding a machine at Forsenström’s Metal Foundry and felt they could get away with a bit of name-calling in the school corridors.
    Not that Mr Forsenström cared one way or the other.
    Managing the successful family firm kept him very busy. He had no time to concern himself with bringing up children and he wasn’t interested anyway. The excellent carpets in the Forsenström mansion showed no trace of a path beaten by him to Sibylla’s room. He left for work in the morning and came back in the evening. He ate at the same dining table, but was often engrossed in thought or checking through accounts and other documents. Sibylla never had a clue about what went on behind his correct façade. She just finished her food properly, leaving the table as soon as she was given permission.
    ‘Very well, Sibylla. You may go to bed now.’
    Sibylla rose and reached for her plate to take it to the kitchen.
    ‘Sibylla, please. Gun-Britt will clear the table later.’
    But at school they always had to tidy up after their meals. It was really hard to remember which rules to follow there and which ones applied at home. She left the plate where it was and went over to her father.

    ‘Good night, Daddy.’ She kissed him quickly on the cheek.
    ‘Good night.’
    Sibylla walked towards the door.
    ‘Sibylla. Haven’t you forgotten something?’
    She turned and looked at her mother.
    ‘Aren’t you coming upstairs to say good night?’
    ‘Really, darling. It’s Wednesday. You know tonight is a Ladies’ Club meeting. When will you learn?’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    Sibylla went to her mother and kissed her too quickly on the cheek. It smelled of powder and day-old perfume.
    ‘If there’s anything you need, ask Gun-Britt.’
    Gun-Britt was the maid. She took over when Mrs Forsenström didn’t have time to cook or clean or help Sibylla with her homework. Goodness gracious, she had to think of her charity work, after all. Without Mrs Forsenström, how would the little children in Biafra fare?
    Sibylla remembered envying these far-away children, who were so scared and upset that nice ladies from the other side of the Earth spent their time worrying about them. When she was six years old, she felt she’d better do something to make herself more interesting: becoming just as scared as these other children seemed a good idea so she decided to sleep one night in the large, dark and spooky attic in their house. She took her pillow, tiptoed up the stairs and went to sleep on a pile of old rugs. Gun-Britt found her there in the morning and had to tell on her to Beatrice, of course. The recriminations took more than an hour and the scene got on Beatrice’s nerves so badly that she had a migraine attack that lasted for several days afterwards. This was Sibylla’s fault, of course.
    There was at least one thing she could thank her mother for. After almost eighteen years in the Forsenström home, she had developed an almost uncanny ability to analyse the mental states of people around her. Sheer instinct for self-preservation had attuned her to respond to the slightest shifts like a living seismograph, always alert to her mother’s every whim and quick to predict likely causes of bad temper. She remained remarkably sensitive to the body language and verbal signals of people around her. This, as it happened, was of great help in the life she’d ended up leading.
    The water in the tub was getting cool. She got out, shaking off drops of water and all these memories too. A beautifully thick, soft dressing-gown was hanging over the heated towel-rail next to the tub, and she wrapped herself in it and went to inspect her room. There was an American soap on the TV. It was accompanied by lots of canned laughter but turned out to be really funny. She settled down to watch it for a while, carefully going through her nail-varnishing routine in the