‘And when we were older, I could always tell which boys you had been with—’
‘Erik Brenna, I have never—!’
He raised his hand. ‘I could always tell which boys you had been with because they each had a small scar on their lower lip. It’s an affectation you have never grown out of, Silje. Even when you kiss, you like to bite: to stake your claim, to mark your territory.
‘But since that time in the playground, in front of my friends, you have never staked your claim on me. And now I find myself thinking, Why is that?’
Silje chewed her own lower lip and shook her head.
‘I think it’s because you don’t care enough about me to own me, Silje. I do not know who you are looking for in a husband, but I am not he.’ Erik jumped to his feet and down from the loft. ‘I will not marry you, Silje Ohnstad,’ he called out. ‘But I hope you find someone who will love you as I do, and I hope that he will give you the contentment that I cannot. But most of all I hope you will not bite him too har—Ow!’ He stumbled back, holding his arm. ‘What in the name of God did you do that for!’
Silje stood with her fists against her hips, her feet planted firmly in the hay. ‘I love you, Erik Brenna. I love you easily as much as you love me! There have been others, but no more. We will belong to each other until everything we know is dust. This is not open to discussion or negotiation.’
Erik rubbed his arm, too stunned to speak.
‘Tomorrow, you will come to the cottage and you will ask my father for my hand in marriage. He will say yes, and then you will ask me. Is that clear?’
He nodded, grinning as though he’d lost his wits.
‘Is there any part of this you need me to repeat?’
He shook his head, grinning still.
‘Are you sure?’
A nod.
‘Good, then we should get dressed. We do not want to be late.’
They used the water pump behind the barn to wash each other, and handfuls of hay to dry themselves. Erik put on his father’s grey suit that he’d cast off in the throes of his passion. Silje put on the smart blue dress she’d taken off, folded neatly and placed on a trestle.
‘I see them,’ said Erik, peering through a gap in the door.
‘We should just put ourselves at the end,’ said Silje.
‘Agreed.’
She wondered if he’d ever stop smiling. She liked to think that he would not.
‘Now.’
They ran from the barn, ducked around the corner of the farrier’s stable and walked quickly to fall in at the rear of the funeral procession, alongside the Fehn family. They slowed their pace to match the sombre gait of the other mourners. Silje dug Erik in the ribs and told him to stop grinning. ‘It is a funeral, Erik! Get a hold of yourself.’
Lisbeth Fehn shook her head. ‘On this day, of all days, the pair of you choose to behave like rutting goats.’
Junges Fehn, walking at his daughter’s side, gave Silje a nervous glance. His wife pounced upon it.
‘And what are you looking at, Junges?’
‘Nothing, my dearest!’
‘Perhaps you would like to walk with the hussy?’ She gave him a shove. ‘Perhaps you’d like to slip away for a few moments. Would you like that?’
‘Hello, Mrs Fehn,’ Silje said glumly, and wondered if she should take Erik and move further on in the procession.
‘Perhaps you’d both like to slip back to our home while I am not there!’
‘Hold your tongue, woman!’ Mr Fehn said loudly.
‘Perhaps you’d like to have her in our bed, then in our kitchen, then in your workshop.’
Silje was mortified. ‘It was just once!’ She looked to Erik. ‘Aren’t you going to say something!’
‘Yes,’ said Erik, and chose that moment to burst. ‘We’re getting married!’
‘Married,’ Lisbeth echoed, her voice suddenly thick with grief.
‘Erik!’ Silje was twice mortified.
Mr Vanderfalk, walking in front of them with his wife and two sons, all wearing their finest clothes with such ease that Silje thought they must attend a funeral every day, turned and said, ‘Married! Congratulations!’
‘Thank you,’ Silje said flatly.
A voice some way ahead of them said, ‘Married? Who is getting married?’
Another voice replied, ‘Silje and young Erik!’
‘Bless my soul!’ yelled a third. ‘I never thought I’d live to see the day! Silje Ohnstad, tamed at last!’
‘I have not been tamed!’ Silje shouted. She asked Erik if he could see who’d said that.
The news continued to ripple to the front of the procession, causing the occasional cheer or the sound of muted applause to rise from the congregation.
Silje said, ‘This is not what I had in mind at all.’
Some hundred feet away, the procession concertinaed, followed by a collective gasp. The coffin dipped and someone roared, ‘For the love of God, Jon, keep your end up!’
Jon Ohnstad stepped out of the line and looked back. He gave Erik a grim thumbs-up and disappeared back into the congregation.
‘I do not remember ever being so humiliated,’ said Silje.
‘I do not understand,’ Lisbeth said. ‘How could you do this?’ She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her most precious black dress, which Silje thought made her look like a squat iron kettle.
‘How could you do this to yourself?’
Erik looked confused. ‘I’m afraid I—’
‘Marry her? She does not love you. She doesn’t love anyone save herself. She will be the ruin of you.’ Lisbeth was crying freely. When her mother reached for her, she spurned her. ‘She will only hurt you again and again, don’t you see that?’
‘Find your own man, Lisbeth,’ Silje said, feeling the warm glow of victory, all the sweeter as she’d had no idea a battle was being fought.
‘I can’t,’ Lisbeth cried. ‘You have broken all the others and kept the whole one for yourself.’ She raised a tiny fist and for a moment looked as though she might strike Silje, or Erik, or both. Instead, she sobbed, lowered her hand and walked away from the procession. She turned, walking backwards to gaze at Erik. ‘You never even looked at me. Never. Not once.’ And then she turned again and ran.
Her mother and father broke away to chase after her, calling her name. The aghast villagers could not think where to look: at Silje, at Erik, or at the rapidly departing Fehns.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Bergström, ‘this is turning into quite an eventful funeral I must say.’
‘And why should you look at her,’ Silje squeezed Erik’s arm, ‘when you have me?’
‘For once in your life, Silje,’ he said, ‘try not to take such joy in the suffering of others.’
* * *
Jonas Kleppe was buried in the tiny cemetery to the west of Fólkvangr. The sparse patch of hardened soil, close to a small forest and a mountain ledge, was marked by a circle of stones with no other sign to state its presence or purpose. It contained only thirty-four graves in all: elders of the village; heroes of war; and those whose passing had caused such sorrow that the villagers deemed burial appropriate, instead of the usual cremations that prevented the tiny graveyard from becoming overcrowded. The passing of Jonas Kleppe had caused such sorrow. He was laid to rest next to his daughters who had not survived their own births, and his wife who had thrown herself from the mountain many years before. Though he was not an ordained priest, Magnus Ohnstad presided over the burial. The villagers had decided not to send for a priest from Bergen, as they felt sure Jonas would prefer to have been seen on his way by someone he called a friend. When he was asked, Magnus said he would be honoured, and then wept for most of the night.
The snows fell as Jonas Kleppe was lowered into the ground. Four of the villagers, Silje’s father included, delivered eulogies that told of a private man who had battled with a great sadness for most of his life. Erik squeezed Silje’s hand when she began to sob.
Then Freya s
tood in front of the grave and spoke of the short time she’d spent with Jonas Kleppe, helping him light the lamps that kept Fólkvangr bright at night.
From the back of the congregation encircling the grave, Silje stared in astonishment. Though she was still, and always would be, appallingly thin, Freya’s skin had gained radiance and colour, and her pale blue eyes possessed a new clarity, as though much of her grief had been spirited away. But it was her hair that shocked Silje the most. It had been cut neatly to her shoulders and had been bleached to a dark blonde. Freya spoke confidently and with an eloquence that Silje found spellbinding. She told of the long conversations she’d had with Mr Kleppe as they lit the lamps.
‘He said he could not think of a better way to spend an evening in the mountains.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘He said that in the narrow time between the light and the dark, his family would come and they would walk with us until we reached the end of the village. And there they would kiss him goodnight and walk on into the hills.’
The villagers looked at one another.
Silje whispered, ‘Nonsense.’
Erik told her to be quiet.
‘I could feel them, I think,’ Freya said, ‘or at least, I could feel the joy he felt in seeing them again.’ She sat down, and then stood. ‘That is why he lit the lamps,’ she added, and then sat down again.
The congregation showered Mr Kleppe’s coffin with white orchids before Jon Ohnstad and Grette, the barkeep from The Mottled Goat, turned him over to the soil.
The villagers mingled and discussed Jonas Kleppe with great fondness, though they were surprised how little they knew of him. Freya found herself the centre of attention as she seemed familiar with the deepest minutia of his lonely existence.
‘I should help your father,’ Erik said to Silje. ‘I suspect there is much he wishes to say to me.’
Silje kissed his cheek, and he hurried away, picking up a spare shovel that was leaning against one of the graves.
‘What do you think?’ said Mrs Tufte, having stolen silently upon Silje, as was her wont.
Silje jumped on the spot. ‘That is not polite, Mrs Tufte.’
‘I feel little need to be polite at my age.’
‘And what do I think about what?’
‘Freya, of course. Doesn’t she look much less… Jewish?’
Silje pretended she hadn’t heard. ‘I must speak with her.’ She quickly made her way through the congregation, exchanging polite words of condolence as she went. She saw Magnus talking to a very tall man with dark hair and the look of trouble about him. He wasn’t from the village, and his skin was too smooth for him to be a mountain-dweller. He was listening intently to whatever Magnus was saying, though Silje noticed his eyes sometimes drifted towards Freya.
Trouble indeed.
Freya inclined her head slightly as Silje approached. She excused herself from a small throng of elderly admirers and walked slowly to meet her.
Silje blushed without cause or reason and quickly charted a conversation in her head: Hello Freya; you look well. Your hair! Let me think – lemon juice, vinegar and honey? Well, I know these things because I am clever (we will both laugh). Oh, I’m all right. Busy, as always. How is Mrs Tufte treating you? Well, I’m glad to hear it. Yes, I know she can be a little tiresome. You miss our little chats? As do I! Well, you are always welcome at the cottage whenever you like. Of course you can stay over! Your room is exactly as you left it.’
‘Silje,’ Freya said. ‘I hope you are—’
‘Come home. Please.’
Freya cast her eyes to the earth.
‘Did you not hear me? I miss you.’
‘You are to marry Erik, I hear,’ said Freya, turning to walk away. ‘It is rare you hear such joyous news at a funeral.’
Silje hurried after her. ‘Yes, I am to marry. I think it is time.’
‘I agree.’ Freya stopped, unsure whether to go left or right. ‘I think you will be very happy.’
Silje wondered if there was a reason she did not include Erik in this union of joy. ‘What we did, Freya… what I did… It was unforgivable. And what makes it worse is that I punished you for it. I was wrong to do that. So please – come home.’
‘There is no need. Mrs Tufte treats me very well, and she says that I am much safer in her cottage. She does not have Nazis stopping by every second week.’
‘That is very unkind.’
‘But it is true.’
A gust of wind set the trees rustling less than a few yards to their left. Freya turned and began walking towards them.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find a quiet place where we can be alone,’ Freya said.
‘We can talk here. There is no one close.’
‘I do not want to talk.’ Freya’s face was as cold and set as stone. ‘I want to touch you, and I want you to touch me.’
‘No. I cannot.’
Freya returned to where Silje stood trembling. She placed a hand against her cheek. ‘You are cold.’
‘I am frightened.’
‘What are you frightened of?’
‘Of you. Of me.’ Silje felt as though she wanted to cry; she had done far too much weeping of late. ‘You seem so different.’
‘From a distance, yes.’
‘It is your birthday next week and you did not tell me.’
Freya shrugged and ran a single finger along the neckline of Silje’s dress. ‘I was angry with you.’
‘Then you must have been angry with me for some time.’
She found Silje’s throat with her fingertips.
‘Are you still angry?’
She shook her head, tracing a finger over Silje’s breast. The teat swelled under her touch and Silje inhaled sharply through her nostrils.
‘Freya! Silje!’ Erik cried from somewhere near the cemetery circle.
Freya snatched her hand away and they both turned to greet him when he came running over, carrying a shovel over his shoulder. He’d managed to get much of the mud on his suit. She remained rigid as he kissed her cheek.
‘We have seen so little of you since you moved out,’ he said. ‘You look beautiful. Doesn’t she look beautiful, Silje?’
Silje nodded.
‘And what you said about Jonas… wonderful. You almost brought a tear to my eye.’
‘Thank you,’ said Freya. ‘I was just saying how pretty Silje’s dress is.’
Erik planted the shovel. ‘How do you know, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Freya smiled. ‘Like this.’ She reached out and placed a hand on Silje’s shoulder, running it down her arm and then across the line where the dress ended and her flesh began. Silje froze.
‘Oh,’ said Erik without really understanding.
‘You feel the line of the material, how it rests against the skin, how it fits across the joints, under the breasts… What makes a dress pretty is how it is worn. That is why all Silje’s dresses are pretty. Now you try.’
Erik looked unsure. ‘Well, I’m not blind so I think this will be lost to me.’
‘Then close your eyes. Do not be shy of her, Erik. You will be married soon, after all.’
Enough of this, thought Silje. ‘I do not think this is a good—’
Erik closed his eyes and put a muddy hand on Silje’s shoulder. He squeezed it and then moved down to her arm, and squeezed that too. ‘Well, I can’t tell you much about the dress, but I can tell you she is angry.’ He opened his eyes to see Freya was already halfway back to the cemetery, and that Silje was standing with her arms folded, fuming.
‘I do hope,’ she said, ‘that you will not be such an idiot throughout our entire marriage.’
* * *
Two of the Ohnstads were in inappropriately high spirits when the family returned to the cottage later that night. The funeral had ended with food, lemonade for the children, and gallons of ale and mead for the men and women. Jon Ohnstad and his son babbled excitedly about the upcoming wedding.
‘My daug
hter!’ Jon Ohnstad gushed, stumbling across the threshold. ‘My very own daughter will be married!’ He raised his hands to the kitchen ceiling.
‘Do not say it, Father,’ Silje said glumly. ‘Not again.’
‘At last!’
Magnus struggled to pick up the envelope that had been pushed under the door. He swayed dangerously back and forth as he tried to bend down. In the end, he chose to let his knees buckle to bring the floor closer to him. ‘It is addressed to you.’ He waved the letter at Silje.
She snatched it from him, and he fell on his face.
The envelope was so white it glowed in the darkness. It was sealed with the Reichsadler pressed into a circle of black wax. She took a knife from the table and cut into it. Her father staggered over to her and asked who it was from.
‘General Gruetzmacher. He is inviting me to dinner.’
Jon Ohnstad was immediately and miraculously sober. ‘What in the name of God…’ He took the letter from her and read it. ‘Not so much an invitation as a summons. He is sending his staff car for you, tomorrow afternoon.’
Below them, Magnus snored softly.
‘What do you think he wants?’
‘I have no idea,’ Silje replied, ‘but I will need Mother’s other dress.’
Her father nodded. ‘I will get it from the trunk.’
She kissed him on the cheek – a challenge as he was swaying from side to side – and then climbed the stairs to her room. She was at her door when her father called up to her.
‘With the exception of myself and my son,’ he said, ‘no one will love you more than Erik Brenna.’
Silje replied, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Yes, Father.’
Exhaustion claimed her as soon as she closed the door. She squeezed her eyes shut, and to banish thoughts of Freya from her head, turned her mind elsewhere: to the tall man she’d seen speaking to Magnus at the funeral; the man who could not tear his eyes away from Freya.
She thought of Mr Kleppe, and wondered if she could have been kinder to him when he was alive. She had not known about his family; she had never thought to ask. How he must have loved Freya to tell her of such an intimate sorrow.
And Mrs Tufte, Silje thought, who commands her affections in your place.
The Quisling Orchid Page 21
