The Last Boat Home Page 6

  ‘There isn’t room for you there,’ says Else.

  ‘Andreas,’ says Lars, ‘take the rope at the prow.’

  Andreas crawls to the speedboat’s prow and crouches with a rope in hand, preparing to jump while Lars manoeuvres them into the slot. He brings the boat in too quickly, then yanks the throttle into reverse and whirls the steering wheel. The seething of the engine attracts an audience on land.

  ‘You’re doing it wrong!’ says Thea.

  ‘There isn’t room for you there,’ says a man on the sailing boat. Petter Skoland is sitting alone in the cockpit, his eyes fixed on the speedboat that is threatening to ram him.

  ‘Petter?’ calls Lars. ‘Is it you? How about a little help?’

  Still watching the prow where Andreas clings to his rope, Petter gets to his feet and dips his upper body under the sailing boat’s guardrail. He reaches out his bare arms and his palms connect with the fibreglass in time to save his hull. His biceps tighten as he leans his weight against the oncoming vessel’s nose and Lars pushes a button on the pilot panel, releasing the anchor with a rumble from the speedboat’s belly.

  ‘You should have dropped the anchor earlier,’ Petter says. ‘Right her up. Right her up, I said!’

  Petter heaves and Andreas throws himself onto land. The onlookers shake their heads and turn away as the speedboat wedges into place.

  Lars directs his son in making the boat fast. When they have knotted the fenders and lifted their provisions ashore, he meets Petter on firm ground.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he says.

  ‘Are you down for the summer?’ asks Petter.

  ‘We’ve moved here. We’ve taken over my parents’ old house.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard,’ Petter says. He nods at Else, then at Marianne. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

  He climbs back onto his sailing boat and Lars leads the way to the centre of the island. With bags in hand, he navigates rock pools and fissures spattered with seagull droppings. Liv, Andreas and Thea wander off from the adults to a group of children in the shallows between this island and the next. A handful wade naked in the water, while others dangle crushed mussels and snail shells at the crabs. Liv peers into a bucket and beckons to Andreas, who stops at her side and peeks over the bucket’s rim.

  Close to the foot of the bonfire pile, Victoria finds an unclaimed patch of rock on which to set out the Tupperware containers that she pulls from an insulated bag. Marianne plucks the lids off smoked salmon, cured meats, scrambled eggs. Lars sees to the drinks, readying the nozzle of Else’s wine box while she passes around cushions from an open rucksack. She hands out paper plates and arranges herself on a boulder slightly apart from the rest of her party.

  Marianne digs into the scrambled egg with a plastic fork.

  ‘Where’s your boyfriend tonight, then?’ asks Lars. ‘I thought you’d be bringing him along.’

  ‘He has a show,’ Marianne says. ‘He’s in Grimstad tonight. He’ll be in Kristiansand this weekend.’

  ‘Does he usually travel so much?’ asks Lars.

  ‘He’s a dancer,’ she says.

  ‘Ah. That explains it, I suppose.’

  The boulder’s stone is cold through Else’s cushion. She fidgets with a tissue in her pocket, tearing it to pieces while her daughter answers Lars’s questions about Mads. She has no appetite. She watches Lars rip the cover from a disposable barbecue and take a lighter from his pocket.

  ‘So is he any good?’ he asks.

  ‘At dancing?’ says Marianne. ‘Mads is great at everything he does.’ She bats lashes as thick as beetles’ legs with mascara. Else rolls her eyes. She prods a slice of ham with her fork.

  ‘Mamma doesn’t like him,’ says Marianne. ‘She hasn’t even met him.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you meet him first?’ asks Lars.

  ‘They’ve just met each other,’ Else says.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘then there’s still hope for the boys of this town.’ He winks at Marianne. ‘Skål,’ he says. She lifts her glass and they drink. Marianne smiles.

  The food is almost gone when the bonfire is lit. After the first burst of incidental flame a slow heat builds at its core, burning blue in places and shrivelling the kindling to ash. The children return from their play, the cuffs of their trousers damp. Else greets Liv with a towel and a lukewarm hotdog.

  ‘Did you catch any crabs?’ she asks.

  ‘Andreas threw them back when we were done,’ says Liv, a proud grin spreading over her cheeks. Else folds an arm around her granddaughter, rubbing at the chill that she guesses must have set under her skin, while Liv sniffs between mouthfuls. Behind them, the fire cracks and snaps and rises. Lars kneels and leans over the remains of the picnic, his finger cocked above the wine box’s spout.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Else says.

  ‘You’ll have some, won’t you?’ He refills Marianne’s cup. ‘Skål.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve had enough,’ says Victoria in a whisper. Then, to the group, ‘Who was that man we met on the sailing boat?’

  ‘Another friend from school,’ says Lars. ‘I heard that Petter got divorced.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Else says.

  ‘And his wife is remarried.’

  ‘She is,’ she says.

  Lars pries the cap off a beer. He helps himself to another once he has passed the wine box around again. The families with younger children begin to pack up their picnics and he unzips the cool bag for another bottle. He staggers to his feet when Victoria announces it is time to go, stretches and stumbles away to find somewhere to piss. By now Liv is sitting with Marianne, who whispers into her ear while Else looks on, her heart filling up. Her girls pick shapes from out of the flames and huddle close and she feels an urgency to join them, to plant herself between them and those who would intrude. Instead she replaces the tops on the Tupperware and packs the containers into plastic bags. Her arms are weighed down when she moves off, leaving Victoria to gather their rubbish.

  The night cools as Else retreats from the bonfire. She waits by the speedboat for the others to catch her up, glad to have some moments to collect her thoughts, to admire the evening without being disturbed. She thinks of her mother then, of how, on this day every year, while she was still able to, she would build a bonfire on the rocks by the pier of the old farmhouse, keeping it burning until long after dark. Beyond the ring of boats that are docked at this island, bonfires fleck the sky up and down the skerry, their reflections streaking the water like setting suns. Else hears a rustle of material from the sailing boat and peers over the guardrail at Petter in the cockpit. He is buttoning his boat jacket. He glances up and blinks at her through his glasses.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  ‘What for?’ he says.

  Else balls a piece of torn tissue paper in her pocket.

  ‘How was the bonfire?’ asks Petter.

  ‘You can see it for yourself.’

  ‘The picnic, then,’ he says.

  Else shrugs. Petter smiles and she peeks over her shoulder, fearing she has given too much away. Marianne and Liv arrive with Victoria, Andreas and Thea. The children search for shells to toss while the adults load the boat. When Lars reappears, he fishes the key from his pocket.

  ‘You’d better give it to me,’ Victoria says.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘The police are bound to be doing spot checks.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of driving.’

  ‘You’re not driving,’ Victoria says.

  With an exaggerated sigh, Lars relinquishes the key. Liv climbs aboard after Andreas and they each choose a side to pull in the fenders. Victoria pushes a button and the anchor retracts before Marianne leaps from land, holding the end of the rope. She stows it away and the boat floats into the skerry. The island’s shouts and laughter dwindle behind them. They have hardly begun their journey when Liv lies down next to Else, stretching across the cushions of the sunbed to place her head in her grandmother’s lap. Else strokes her hai
r and considers the silhouette on the sailing boat. She wonders which way Petter’s face is turned.

  ONLY THREE CARS are parked in a shaded corner of the car park. Else crosses the empty lot together with Liv, who skips up the wheelchair ramp and leans against the door to the nursing home. In a reception area that smells of bleach, a girl dressed in a burgundy scrub suit is visible behind a window. She removes an earphone as Else draws close and the notes from a tinny guitar solo stray into the silent space.

  ‘Knut Tenvik,’ Else says. ‘Don’t worry. We know where we’re going.’

  The girl replaces her earphone and they continue down the hall, past the numbered rooms that house ‘Assisted Living’ residents. It is something quite different from the secure ward where Else’s mother spent her final days. Even now, more than a year since her death, Else feels the guilt that comes with each visit to Tenvik. She should have done more, researched some new medication, but her mother was in a hurry at the last. She seemed to embrace her slip into dementia with a calm that pained Else almost as much as seeing her fade.

  A staircase next to a wall plastered with drawings from the local kindergarten brings Else and Liv to the second floor. In the middle of the corridor a door opens into a common room, where a handful of the home’s residents are gathered at a table playing whist. Tenvik sits in his wheelchair by the window, gazing at the fjord below. His hair has been washed. It springs from his skull in a dandelion clock’s puff of white.

  ‘Hi, Knut,’ says Liv.

  ‘Young lady,’ he says. ‘And there is Else. And Marianne?’

  ‘Mamma’s with her boyfriend,’ says Liv.

  ‘Well, that explains it,’ he says. ‘And what does Else make of that?’

  ‘She doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I’m right here,’ says Else. ‘I can hear you, you know.’

  Liv exchanges a smile with Tenvik before she darts to the kitchen to find an orderly who will make their coffee. While she is gone, Else carries two chairs to Tenvik’s side.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks. ‘Any more trouble with that cough?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Tell me, how’s business?’

  ‘Fine,’ Else says.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘then everything is fine.’ A laugh gives way to a splutter and Tenvik hacks onto his knees. Else waits for the attack to pass.

  ‘Have the doctors said any more?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘When are you going to take me out for lunch? It’s the food here that’s killing me, not the cough. One more meatball and I’ll thank them for having me.’

  Liv returns with a middle-aged woman, who places a thermos of coffee on the window ledge. She lifts cups from her tray, a jug of cream and a plate of biscuits. While Else pours the coffee Liv reaches for a saucer of sugar cubes, tearing the wrapper from one before handing it to Tenvik.

  ‘Here,’ she says and watches, delighted, when he pinches the cube between finger and thumb. He dips a corner into his coffee and the liquid bleeds into the sugar, staining its granules a caramel brown. Tenvik pops the cube into his mouth and sucks.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he says. ‘Have you been to the house?’

  ‘There hasn’t been time,’ Else says.

  ‘You really must sell it. It’s an asset, Else, you can’t just leave it to rot. Stop by the farm while you’re at it, will you? I want a report on how Karsten is treating my cows. Do you remember, young lady,’ Tenvik asks Liv, ‘what fun we used to have on the farm? You liked to drive the tractor, just like your mother used to. How about another sugar cube?’

  Liv awards him with a second cube and he repeats the procedure. Then she stands and wanders to the television set. She flicks through the channels while Else fills Tenvik in on the town’s gossip since her previous visit. The council has approved a proposal for a new supermarket behind the Statoil petrol station. Rimi, she thinks, or perhaps it was Kiwi. Janne Haugen mentioned it, but she can’t remember now. Plans are going ahead for the expansion of the Solbakken pier into a marina. Janne said the work would begin in September. It should be ready before the summer season starts next year.

  ‘What else?’ Tenvik asks.

  ‘That’s more or less it.’

  A frown puckers his lips. He touches Else’s wrist with three crooked fingers. ‘So it isn’t true that Lars Reiersen is back.’

  ‘Oh,’ Else says. ‘He’s been back for a while.’

  ‘Funny,’ says Tenvik. ‘You haven’t mentioned it.’

  ‘They’ve been here for ages,’ says Liv, still watching the TV. ‘We went out on their speedboat for Sankt Hans. We were in the parade. His son’s called Andreas.’

  ‘Is he?’ says Tenvik. ‘And what about his wife?’

  ‘Victoria,’ Liv says. ‘She’s nice. She’s pretty.’

  ‘She’s young,’ Else says. ‘Not much older than Marianne.’ She sips from her cup, angling the porcelain in a way that she hopes will hide her blush. ‘He’s doing something with the shipyard. I haven’t asked what.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll hear soon enough,’ Tenvik says. ‘You know how people like to talk.’ His eyes are clear in spite of his age. They study Else’s face for a beat too long before he throws up his hands and bellows to the room. ‘Who’s going to tell me about Marianne’s new boyfriend?’

  ‘Me!’ says Liv. ‘They’ve been together for ages.’

  ‘Everything’s relative,’ Else says.

  Liv points the remote control at the screen, which flashes and blinks out. She pushes herself from the armchair and recounts the details her mother has shared about the Swede. Else finds herself wishing the nursing home would serve something stronger than coffee. She checks her watch and pours herself another cup.

  Once Liv has kissed Tenvik’s sunken cheek, she leads the way home. Else pauses now and then while her granddaughter pulls a wild flower from the roadside. They take a short cut onto Lundgata through the bottom of Terje Bull’s yard, where they keep to the shade under the ash trees’ branches.

  ‘Do Knut’s legs hurt him?’ Liv asks.

  ‘No,’ Else says. ‘He can’t feel them any more.’

  Liv stops to admire a dog rose that droops from its stem over a gatepost.

  ‘Not that one,’ Else says. ‘That’s from somebody’s garden.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him about Lars?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Else asks.

  ‘That he had moved back.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would interest him.’

  Else chews her top lip and points at a tangle of wild strawberry stalks that pokes out of the underbrush. She rummages in her pocket for a clean tissue and balances herself on her haunches next to Liv, who picks the tiny berries and places them on the paper cupped in Else’s palm. The fruits are bruised, or else hard and yellow under the seeds that spot their skin. Else chooses a berry that is ripe enough and, with her tongue, mashes it into a sweet pulp against the roof of her mouth. She winks at Liv, anticipating her protests, the burst of indignation that will give way to laughter. Her granddaughter considers her with a solemn expression that stings her heart.

  ‘I know about you and Lars, you know,’ she says. ‘That he was your boyfriend.’

  ‘Liv,’ Else says.

  ‘Mamma told me,’ she says. ‘When you were younger. Andreas says he and Victoria fight about it sometimes.’

  ‘Liv,’ says Else, ‘what a thing to say.’

  ‘Why not? If it’s true.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Else says.

  ‘But is it true, Mormor? I want you to tell me.’

  Else feels her throat is being scrubbed with steel wool. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she says. She avoids meeting Liv’s eye, though she can sense that her granddaughter wants more from her. She pinches another strawberry from its stem and arranges it with the others, then supports herself with her free hand in the soil.

  ‘Is it true,’ Liv says and her voice is strange and Else hates herself fo
r being the cause of its strangeness. ‘Is it true that my grandfather was in the circus?’

  ‘Yes,’ Else says.

  ‘Did you love him?’ Liv asks.

  Else looks at the fjord. It glistens in the gaps between the houses. The sun is bright. It hurts her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  Her knees are stiff when she stands and carefully folds the corners of the tissue over the berries. ‘I think that’s enough for now. Don’t you?’

  Liv nods and follows her grandmother down the road. She slips a hand that fits exactly into Else’s and presses the fingers and lets them go.

  Then

  1974

  AFTER THREE DAYS of performances, the circus packed up and drove away. Its lorries and wagons and cars with their trailers disappeared without fanfare down the coast road, leaving behind a glimmer of possibility that seemed to Else to dull the colours of what had been there before. She treasured moments of solitude when she was able to return in thought at least to the sawdust at the edge of the ring to watch white horses galloping and tightrope walkers gliding across the sky. Often she would call to mind the circus troupe’s performers and try to imagine the places they came from, far-away countries, towns and cities that bustled and buzzed under a different sun. She felt their departure like a promise revoked, but still remembered them hopefully. In three years, she would finish school. She would not have to stay in this town forever.

  Several weeks passed before Else went back to the paddock. In that time, in the halls and classrooms of the Gymnasium, the students continued to trade stories from the Big Top as if each had seen a different show. As the only one of their friends to have visited the circus twice, Lars took charge of the collective testimony. Those whose parents had disapproved, who had spent the nights of the circus’s stay in mourning for what they were missing, assembled in the yard by the caretaker’s shed, where he recounted the wonders that he had witnessed in the manège. He described a contortionist folding his body into six segments and a strong man lifting a horse with the tip of his thumb until, little by little, his audience disbanded and talk moved onto other things.