Chapter 6: Number 9 and 11

I'm writing this sixth chapter with some reluctance, because it involves myself. Earlier I have told that I lived in number 11, but as you shall see I couldn't very well write the story about number 9 without involving myself, and to tell you the truth, I'm not too proud of my part in that story.

In number 9 lived the younger of our two vicars with his wife. He was a tall, skinny and somber man, and from official records I knew him to be 46 years old. His wife was 8 years younger, and to the eye she was the typical vicar's wife, a demure, slight woman, always dressed in the same type of outfit: A pleated skirt, often in Scottish clan patterns, a white shirt and a cardigan, brownish stockings and sensible, low heeled pumps. Only at a few special occasions had I seen her with a hint of lipstick, but otherwise her face was always without any make-up under her curly, short hairdo, which would have befitted a lady of 60.

Oluf Lindvig was an unusual vicar. He pretty much stuck to himself, held the sermons he was expected to hold and did as little of the public service as he could get away with. But never did he mingle socially. He always thanked 'no' when the odd newlyweds invited him to their party, or a grieving family invited him to join them for the coffee party after a funeral. I had had a few neighbourly talks over the fence with his wife Annie, and she seemed to be a sensible woman, perhaps a little bored, but interesting to talk to. Our relationship changed drastically one late Wednesday evening. My wife had been taken to hospital by the illness, which would kill her a couple of years later, so I was alone at home, not expecting visitors, when my doorbell rang.

It was Annie. "Can I come in for a moment?"

"Sure, be my guest." I guided her into the living room and showed her one of the armchairs. "Do you want a cup of coffee, or maybe a drink?"

"No, thank you. I haven't got much time to talk, and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I should be here at all."

"Oh, dear, then you've better get started."

"You told me a couple of weeks ago that you were trained as a medic in the navy. That's true, isn't it?"

"Yes it is, but that was quite a few years ago, mrs. Lindvig."

"Please call me Annie. Well, some things don't change. My problem is that Oluf fell down the stairs a few minutes ago, and he hit his head badly. He's lying on the floor in there, unconscious and bleeding."

"Oh, but Annie ! You should call an ambulance immediately and have him taken to the emergency ward."

"That's my problem, Anton. I can't do that. To tell you the truth, he's as drunk as they come, and I can't let them find out, that he is an alcoholic. Would you please go with me and see if there is anything you can do to help him? I trust you, not to tell anybody about his condition."

"I'll keep my mouth shut. But if it's that bad, we've better get going. Do you have any medical supplies in there?"

"Sure, we have plenty."

Oluf Lindvig was in a pretty bad state, all right. He was lying at the bottom of the stairs, an ugly gash in the top of his head, a scratch on his forehead, and plenty of blood around him. Plus the unmistakable stench of lots of liquor on his breath. While I checked him for pulse and breathing, Annie brought a bowl of hot water, some rags and towels, and a big emergency box with a wide selection of bandages and all. I knew that type of emergency box, because I had one myself. It was given only to elite drivers by one of the insurance companies. I knew there'd be everything I needed, including 'butterflies' to close the gash, so I wouldn't have to sew him up.

"Phew, Annie, you're right. He's as drunk as they come. I'm sure he won't feel much. I'm going to clean him up a little, then disinfect his wounds with peroxide, and I'll use 'butterflies' to close up the gash on top of his head, and then a band-aid for the scratch in his forehead."

"All right. Do you want me to clean up the wound?"

"No, thank you, I'll clean it. I sure hope, that you know I shouldn't be here at all, Annie. If anything happens, like a bad infection or some permanent damage, I risk a severe sentence for doing unqualified medical service. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Anton, and I am so grateful that you'll help. Of course I'd never tell it was you. Never."

Over the next half hour we did not talk much as I patched up the drunken vicar. When I squeezed in the 'butterflies' there was a small reaction from him, showing me that he was not unconscious any more, only dead drunk. While I did the last bits of patching him up, Annie cleaned the blood off the floor, and finally we dragged him into the guest room and lifted him on to the bed. Although he was skinny he was a heavy man, and I am not sure we could have carried him upstairs to the bedroom.

"I want to stay here for a couple of hours, to check on him now and then. Him being drunk is not the healthiest condition, if he's had a concussion. Would you please make us a pot of coffee to keep us awake? And really I could do with a drink of that whisky he stinks of, if there is any left."

"Coffee and whisky coming up," she said with a smile.

For the next three hours we talked, and talked, and talked, interrupted every ten or fifteen minutes when I went to check Oluf's pulse and general condition. After half an hour Annie lit a few candles and turned off the light. "Can't have people wondering what's going on in the vicarage," she smiled. During these hours she gradually opened up and confided in me. She told the whole story of her sordid marriage to an alcoholic, who refused any kind of treatment, but who somehow managed to mind his job, always staying sober, when he had duties to perform. At home it was quite different. Evening after evening he'd go to his study and gradually drink himself into a stupor, and then sleep it off on his couch, only rarely making it to their bedroom on the first floor, and never with the intention of making love to his wife.

"How can you afford all that alcohol? It's quite expensive, you know."

"That's no problem. Oluf inherited a substantial sum 10 years ago, and I wish he never had. That's when he lost all control. Every two or three weeks he'll drive to Copenhagen early in the morning, while he is still sober, with the trunk filled up with empty bottles, and he returns around noon with boxes of whisky and brandy which he unloads, when the garage door has been closed. The sad thing is I don't really know the reason for his drinking. He refuses to talk about it, and most of his mental power is spent staying sober when he is needed on the job. We hardly ever talk, we haven't made love for 9 years, and thank God we never had children."