for the day when tufts of seaweed would slither through their rusting joints. Somewhere beneath them her father’s net had caught on the rocks that had been the trawler’s ruin, or else itwafted loose, stretching wide, snatching fish and hauling with it Norges jars tangled in its cords.
The thought of her father’s decanting jars brought a sudden understanding of what no one had said and what her mother must already know. The whole town must know, either from Ole or Tom Ivar or, more likely, from both of them. Her father had been drunk. She wondered what Lars would say. She remembered Solveig telling her mother that Pastor Seip had mentioned them in his sermon.
‘It’s time we headed back,’ Ole said, but he allowed them some minutes more before piloting the Iselin around. The trawler set off the way she had come, tracking the scrape of oil from her motor that silvered the water’s surface.
To Else’s relief, Lars did not mention either her father or the Frøya . On the morning of her return to the Gymnasium, she sat in Paulsen’s classroom through maths and natural sciences and jotted notes while Hjerde read aloud from their New Norwegian textbook. The break brought her outside and across the schoolyard to the caretaker’s shed, where Lars twined his fingers with hers and volunteered a wry smile.
‘Welcome back,’ he said and that was enough. More awkward were Petter’s efforts at commiseration. Standing by the door to the shed with Rune, whose upper lip was fat with chewing tobacco, Petter wrung his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘about what happened. The crash. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Come on,’ said Lars and led Else inside.
It was the start of the month and Lars’s father had given him a rise in pocket money. Each afternoon when school was done, the boys would climb down Elvebakken to Arnholm’s kiosk and choose salt toads, sour bombs and tins of hockey powder. Else waited for them outside, her nose dripping while she scanned the street and ducked her head if any acquaintancesstrolled by. She saw the ferry drift into town and out again and ignored the whisper in her ear that told her it should be taking her home.
Her father had rallied over the weekend, while she and her mother were at church. They had hurried off down Dronning Maud’s gate as soon as Dagny had shaken the minister’s hand and assured him that Johann was almost himself again. When they returned to the farmhouse, her father was gone. Her mother searched for him in every room, in the bathroom and Best Room and finally the cellar, before storming to the old outhouse and the milking barn at the end of the yard. From the dining room window Else watched her approach the boathouse, where her firmness of purpose seemed to falter. She scaled the stairs with an old woman’s deliberation, pausing to knock on the door before pushing her way inside.
Else stamped her feet on the pavement by Arnholm’s shop and reflected on what she thought was a kind of duplicity, when she caught the boat to town and endured lessons and kissed Lars as if everything was as it had been before. She did not know when her father installed himself in the boathouse, only that he was there in the afternoons when she arrived home. Often, her mother was at the bedehus . Apart from Sunday gatherings, there were meetings during the week if they had a visitor – a travelling preacher, a song evangelist, the representative of a mission who passed around photos and crafts made by foreign hands – as well as Friday’s choir practice, and now, she said, she would help organise the Christmas bazaar and Christmas tree party. Else spent the early hours of the evening alone with the radio turned up until her mother shuffled in, when they would work together on the sewing pile and keep wordless watch on the lantern that burned in the boathouse window.
A pink glaze on the horizon narrowed under a dull, swelling darkness. Else checked the time: it was half past
The thought of her father’s decanting jars brought a sudden understanding of what no one had said and what her mother must already know. The whole town must know, either from Ole or Tom Ivar or, more likely, from both of them. Her father had been drunk. She wondered what Lars would say. She remembered Solveig telling her mother that Pastor Seip had mentioned them in his sermon.
‘It’s time we headed back,’ Ole said, but he allowed them some minutes more before piloting the Iselin around. The trawler set off the way she had come, tracking the scrape of oil from her motor that silvered the water’s surface.
To Else’s relief, Lars did not mention either her father or the Frøya . On the morning of her return to the Gymnasium, she sat in Paulsen’s classroom through maths and natural sciences and jotted notes while Hjerde read aloud from their New Norwegian textbook. The break brought her outside and across the schoolyard to the caretaker’s shed, where Lars twined his fingers with hers and volunteered a wry smile.
‘Welcome back,’ he said and that was enough. More awkward were Petter’s efforts at commiseration. Standing by the door to the shed with Rune, whose upper lip was fat with chewing tobacco, Petter wrung his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘about what happened. The crash. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Come on,’ said Lars and led Else inside.
It was the start of the month and Lars’s father had given him a rise in pocket money. Each afternoon when school was done, the boys would climb down Elvebakken to Arnholm’s kiosk and choose salt toads, sour bombs and tins of hockey powder. Else waited for them outside, her nose dripping while she scanned the street and ducked her head if any acquaintancesstrolled by. She saw the ferry drift into town and out again and ignored the whisper in her ear that told her it should be taking her home.
Her father had rallied over the weekend, while she and her mother were at church. They had hurried off down Dronning Maud’s gate as soon as Dagny had shaken the minister’s hand and assured him that Johann was almost himself again. When they returned to the farmhouse, her father was gone. Her mother searched for him in every room, in the bathroom and Best Room and finally the cellar, before storming to the old outhouse and the milking barn at the end of the yard. From the dining room window Else watched her approach the boathouse, where her firmness of purpose seemed to falter. She scaled the stairs with an old woman’s deliberation, pausing to knock on the door before pushing her way inside.
Else stamped her feet on the pavement by Arnholm’s shop and reflected on what she thought was a kind of duplicity, when she caught the boat to town and endured lessons and kissed Lars as if everything was as it had been before. She did not know when her father installed himself in the boathouse, only that he was there in the afternoons when she arrived home. Often, her mother was at the bedehus . Apart from Sunday gatherings, there were meetings during the week if they had a visitor – a travelling preacher, a song evangelist, the representative of a mission who passed around photos and crafts made by foreign hands – as well as Friday’s choir practice, and now, she said, she would help organise the Christmas bazaar and Christmas tree party. Else spent the early hours of the evening alone with the radio turned up until her mother shuffled in, when they would work together on the sewing pile and keep wordless watch on the lantern that burned in the boathouse window.
A pink glaze on the horizon narrowed under a dull, swelling darkness. Else checked the time: it was half past
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