‘I expect so,’ Astrid said. Actually, she had no idea if there was even a doctor in Shetland, let alone a hospital. And Mathison was pale and sweating now. She must get some pain killers. Surely they had a first aid kit? Something?
She hurried up out of the cabin just in time to see the men heaving a canvas-wrapped bundle over the side. It stopped her in her tracks.
The men had taken off their hats. They were consigning Nils’ body to the sea. It made her wonder, with a tearing ache, what had happened to Jørgen. She understood now the peril of his journey across these northern waters, where you were a plaything for German planes.
She glanced at the lifeboat and sent up another prayer. It was full of shell-holes.
When the men had finished, she went up to Clausen. ‘Mathison’s in a bad way,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you anything in your supplies that will dull the pain?’
‘Oh, sorry. That was stupid of me,’ he said, as if this was a normal day and a normal request. ‘Of course we have. First Aid kit. It’s in the chart room. I’ll fetch it, I should have thought of it before, it’s just…’ He gestured round at the wrecked wheelhouse and splintered mast and sails. He hurried away, but she saw he was bleeding, from a wound in the back of his arm, where, judging by the holes in his oilskin, a bullet must have passed through.
She looked up at the sky. It was quiet now, just cloud rolling and unfurling in shades of grey. Behind the boat, darker streaks showed rain. A three hundred and sixty degree view of grey swelling water with no land in sight. She clung to the side-rail which was gritty with salt, and scanned all around for any sign of a returning plane, but none came. Not even a bird was in view. The only sound was the tapping of a hammer. One of the crew nailing something back together.
‘Here,’ Clausen passed over a wooden case with a big red cross painted on it.
‘If you come into the cabin, we can fix up your arm,’ she said.
He looked from one arm to the other. ‘Have I been hit?’ He found the injury, and shrugged. ‘Didn’t know. Do your best for Mathison. He’s a good man, and this is his tenth trip, you know.’
Tenth trip. God. She nodded and headed to the cabin, with new respect for Mathison, and Jørgen, and all these men who risked their lives for Resistance men and refugees like them.
Mathison didn’t last the night. Sara was inconsolable. She seemed to think it was her fault, that she hadn’t ‘nursed’ him well enough. The men didn’t bury Mathison at sea, because he was a Shetland man, and they knew he’d want to be buried in his native soil. The seas were heavy again as the battered boat limped in towards Sumburgh Head, in the Shetland Islands, two men fewer. In the darkness Astrid could barely see the land but grabbed Isaak by the arm and they all went up on deck to cheer.
Sara was desperate to get off the boat and onto dry land, but Clausen refused to let them go ashore.
‘No, we’ll heave-to, and put into Lerwick at first light,’ he said.
So Astrid had to be content with another uncomfortable night of damp and salt, and cramp and cold, with the body of Mathison under its stone coloured tarpaulin. Sara soon fell asleep, but she and Isaak talked long into the night, reliving the journey, as if they couldn’t believe all that had befallen them.
‘I can’t believe we’re here, that no-one will fire at us,’ she said. ‘Will you try to make a home in Shetland?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead. It always seemed to be tempting fate to even think of making it all the way here. And the Nazis may still invade England.’
She shuddered. ‘God forbid.’
‘I don’t know what we’ll do next, but in some ways it doesn’t matter as long as Sara and I can be together.’ His eyes hooked hers, and something passed between her and Isaak, a tingling, mixed with an ache of the heart. ‘What about you?’
She was suddenly tongue-tied. She thought of Jørgen, somewhere out there, trying to fetch her back and it was too hard to contemplate what might have happened to him. And yet here was this man, looking at her with such a clear, open gaze that she could not drag her eyes away. ‘Too soon,’ she managed. ‘It’s too soon, I think, to make any firm plans or commitments.’
‘You’re probably right,’ he said. But the light in his eyes dimmed.
She pulled back her sleeve to see her watch, and then remembered anew it was broken. ‘Better sleep. We’ll be able to actually see where we’ve ended up tomorrow. I hope they give a good breakfast. My stomach’s rattling against my ribs.’
‘Mine too.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘Goodnight Astrid. I hope your face doesn’t hurt too much.’ His voice was soft, and his hand patted her shoulder, and rested there, light as a butterfly.
The touch broke something inside her, a sort of grief she couldn’t explain.
CHAPTER 32
In the morning, the sky was clearer, with a crisp breeze blowing and rays of sunshine spiking through the rushing clouds. They were woken by the movement of the boat, and they all went up on deck to witness the sight of Lerwick coming into view, with its row of stone cottages and smoke already billowing from the chimneys.
‘Look! Look!’ shouted Sara. It brought tears to Astrid’s eyes.
A hand grasped her arm. ‘Thank you,’ Isaak said, close to her ear. ‘We couldn’t have got here without you.’
‘Nor I without you,’ she said, turning. ‘You gave me the reason to come.’
He reached out his arms and she fell into them. They hugged silently for a long while, and she gripped him so tight, it was as if he’d always been a part of her.
‘Me!’ Sara shouted. ‘Let me in to the hug!’
They laughed, and opened their arms. When Astrid looked at Isaak’s face his eyes were glassy too.
Clausen helped them off, and it was marvellous to feel her feet on solid ground after so many weeks of snow and sea. They had to be taken for debriefing, to have their papers checked, and a health check, before anyone could be allowed to go onwards. A woman called Morag did the honours.
‘Astrid Dahl?’ she asked, as if she didn’t believe her.
‘Yes. Is something wrong?’
‘No, nothing.’
But Morag’s slightly chilly stare made Astrid uncomfortable. She chided herself. She was being silly and imagining the hostility. It was the shock of the last few days, and the fact she was safe hadn’t yet registered. Her body hadn’t realised yet that no-one would come after her with a machine gun.
After checking their papers and bags, Morag provided tea and bread and jam, in a big old house that used to be a Catholic Mission. She smiled at Sara and handed her a thick slice of bread and jam.
‘Jam,’ Sara said, gazing at the bread as if it was a hallucination.
Isaak and Sara joined Astrid at a table by the window and the three of them sipped tea. It was so normal, so ordinary. A cup and saucer, a plate. Things they had taken for granted now seemed amazing. ‘Gosh, that’s good,’ Astrid said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for a hot drink in my life.’
Later, Morag came over rattling a set of keys in her hand. ‘I’ll drive you over to the refugee house now,’ Morag said to Isaak in Norwegian. ‘You and Sara will have a room there. It’s where we put families.’ She turned to Sara. ‘Look out for our Shetland ponies on the way, won’t you, and shout if you see one.’
‘Can’t Miss Dahl come with us?’ Sara asked coming and clinging to Astrid’s arm. ‘She’s family.’
‘You’ll see her tomorrow,’ Morag said. Again, that slight hint of disapproval.
Astrid and Isaak hugged and Sara hurried after Morag.
‘Have a nice evening, Astrid,’ Isaak said.
Astrid stared at him a moment. It seemed such a banal statement. Her lips began to twitch. The smile spread to him until he began to laugh. Unable to stop herself, she felt the laughter bubbling up in side, until they were both standing there clutching their sides. ‘A nice evening!’ she echoed, overcome by mirth.
&nbs
p; Morag and Sara reappeared, looking at them both as if they were crazy. There were more gales of laughter, until finally Sara scolded him, ‘Pappa! Stop laughing. Hurry up, we’re going to see the ponies.’
When they’d gone, a man called Harcourt came and showed Astrid the way to the women’s barracks, an old fish factory.
‘Please, can you tell me if there’s any news of Jørgen Nystrøm?’ she asked. ‘We heard his boat was in trouble, and we were picked up by Clausen in the Bergholt instead.’
Harcourt shook his head. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid. They telephoned Milorg from the village. The boat went down in an explosion after a fight with a German warship.’
‘But what about Jørgen?’
‘Still unaccounted for. But don’t hold out too much hope, my dear. I’m afraid we suspect he might have gone down with the boat. We’ll wait a month, see if we get more news.’
The women’s barracks were empty, and when Harcourt had gone, she spent a long time just staring into space. She wasn’t ready yet to think Jørgen was dead. It was complex, her feelings about it. The idea of drowning was all connected with her parents and the thought of another underwater death made all her old grief resurface.
Yet in these last weeks, she’d felt more connected to Isaak than to Jørgen. She’d always thought she needed a hero, someone to admire and look up to. That if she could only be accepted by the people who were popular, she would be popular too. But Isaak wasn’t a hero. He’d accepted her just as she was. But more than that, he and Sara needed her, and she’d responded, and the thought of being without them both made her realise how much they meant to her.
Yet she couldn’t quite let Jørgen go; he was part of her past, part of the Norway she loved. At the same time, Isaak was part of the new Astrid, the woman who could defy the Nazis and walk hundreds of miles to freedom. The strong woman who was able to survive a storm and a battle at sea. At sea! She marvelled at herself.
It was odd to be suddenly so alone after so many weeks, and yet here she was. She went to look out of the window, to find she faced inland, and there was no view of the sea here. But above the hill a kestrel hovered, poised beneath earth and sky.
Two days later, they gathered for the funeral of Mathison, and to hold a Memorial to Nils, the agent they’d buried at sea. Many local people turned out, coat collars turned up against the wind, but it seems Mathison was a well-known crew member, and Nils well-respected by all the rest of the Norwegians who manned the boats for the ‘Shetland Bus’.
The small stone church was packed to overflowing. Astrid caught sight of Isaak and Sara ahead of her and hurried to join them. Sara stood to let her pass and she found herself next to Isaak. He placed a hand on hers as the coffin was brought in, and she squeezed his back in return. She could barely understand the service, for it was all in Scottish, and her limited English couldn’t understand the accent, but the solemnity of the faces gathered in the cold grey church made a deep impression. As Mathison’s body was committed to the ground, a local man lifted his bugle to play the last post, before two of the Norwegian crew members broke into the Norwegian National Anthem.
To hear those words carried on the breeze out to sea made her heart ache with pain for Norway and all those left behind.
Isaak put his arm around her and hugged her.
‘Miss Dahl?’ Sara said. She silently passed her a handkerchief. Once Astrid had blown her nose, Sara said, ‘You can keep it.’
Astrid and Isaak laughed through the tears.
CHAPTER 33
Jørgen was stiff and numb, the bottoms of his trousers frozen into hard creases when he drifted back out of sleep. He and Karl had huddled in each other’s arms for warmth and piled pine branches underneath and over them in an effort to conserve warmth. He hadn’t slept much. Karl was a traitor and he should shoot him, yet Karl hadn’t lifted a finger against him. It made it seem inhumane. And what was he himself fighting against? Nazi inhumanity.
Besides, their situation was pretty bad. When he was simply trying to survive, taking sides seemed irrelevant; it was all he could do to muster the energy to move. He was tired, and running low on resources. His toes were stinging so much with chilblains he could hardly bend them. Or maybe it was frostbite. And if he wanted to get out of Norway alive he knew it would take a superhuman effort.
Maybe some help from Milorg would be a good idea after all. He still remembered the number of the doctor in Radøy. Dr Moen might know what had happened to Astrid and the refugees. But getting to the telephone would be risky. They’d have to travel carefully and wait until dark to call. He was too exhausted to plan another hike.
He prodded Karl’s back to wake him. ‘Bit of light in the sky now if we’re going to get moving.’
Karl slapped him on the shoulder, smiled in silent acknowledgement, and hauled himself to his feet. Inside the forest it was still dark but as they emerged towards the shore a little wan sunlight peeked through the clouds to warm them. In the daylight it was easier to see the terrain.
Jørgen scanned the fjord anxiously for German boats but could see none. No sign of any other boats either. ‘We’ll walk at the edge of the forest,’ he said. ‘Can’t risk going too near that farm.’
Karl didn’t answer him, but set off trudging along the edge of the trees, back again towards the coast, with the forest on their left.
Every snap of a twig, cry of a bird or jump of a fish made Jørgen’s heart pound and adrenaline surge through his veins. They saw three patrol boats trawling the edge of the fjord, and had to bolt back under cover. One of the boats stopped a lone guy who was fishing and it looked like they were questioning him. On the ridge opposite, they saw more men, rifles on their shoulders. Heart thumping, he and Karl flattened themselves to the ground until they passed.
As they got nearer habitation, they lay down behind some rocks to look down on the fjord again and the settlement clustered at the shore. An offshore wind had got up, and the water was full of miniature rills. The warship was still there water slapping against its sides, and there were also four German motorbikes that must have been brought in by boat, and two more German patrol boats by the pontoon. There were no civilians to be seen. After the explosion yesterday they were obviously keeping themselves away from the increased number of troops in the town square.
A black Mercedes-Benz was now parked by the harbour — presumably drafted in since the Vidar had gone down. The only road in or out seemed to be up over the mountains and a road block had been set up there manned by the Wehrmacht.
The sight of their helmets aroused an inner hatred that fuelled his anger against these interlopers in his land. ‘We’ll never do it,’ Jørgen said. ‘Too many Germans.’
Karl didn’t look up. His eyes were fixed on the patrol below. Jørgen thought he looked as if he was enjoying himself, his eyes bright with some sort of fervour. ‘There’s the Post Office and general store,’ Karl whispered, pointing his finger at a red-painted clapperboard building. ‘And that fisherman was right. There’s a telephone. I can see the pole and wires behind it.’
‘Let’s hope they haven’t cut the wires.’ Just as Jørgen said that, a woman in a black winter coat and galoshes hurried over from a side-street and stepped inside the Post Office. After a few minutes she emerged again, pushing something into her handbag.
‘It’s open,’ Karl said. ‘Now all we have to do is get inside.’
Though it was daytime, the lights were on inside because of the winter gloom. As it grew darker, the activity in the village seemed to shift to what was obviously a tavern. They watched as many soldiers headed indoors out of the cold. All except four by the roadblock. Jørgen had begun to shiver again and his hands were turning numb now that the meagre warmth had gone out of the day.
They inched their way downhill, mostly on their bellies and backs, hiding behind what cover they could find and stopping every time there was movement in the square. It was a long and painful descent, but finally they propped themselves up behi
nd a turf-roofed barn. They could hear the bleat of goats from inside, but fortunately the animals paid them no attention.
Jørgen took out his pistol and loaded it. Karl did the same. Karl’s was identical to his; standard naval issue from their waterproof pouches, an old Webley No.1 Automatic. He had a momentary flashback to the long pistol with the silencer, the one he’d first seen in the mountain hut. It seemed years ago.
‘We’ll go in together,’ Jørgen said. He didn’t trust Karl an inch.
‘Yes, then one of us can cover while the other’s on the phone.’
‘Who’ll call their people first?’ Jørgen said.
Karl pulled up a hunk of coarse grass and carefully separated two strands. ‘Choose. Short straw calls first.’
Jørgen was unsurprised to find he’d plucked out the short straw. So he was to go first. Silently they nodded to each other. He waited until the men at the road block were walking away from him. ‘Now.’
Karl jumped up and they began to walk briskly towards the Post Office.
Every step hurt his feet. Every step seemed to take forever. His neck sunk into his shoulders as he listened for shouts or shots. He could hear Karl’s breath just behind him.
Nearly there. Desperate to be out of sight, he fumbled as he pulled open the door.
The elderly white-haired woman behind the counter glanced up with a welcoming smile. It died when Karl aimed the gun towards her chest. ‘Lock the door,’ Karl said. If you’re quiet, I won’t shoot. We need to use the telephone.’
She nodded dumbly, her eyes wide behind her spectacles.
‘We won’t hurt you,’ Jørgen said, sorry for her. ‘Just lock the door.’
As if galvanized into motion, she fumbled in her pocket and hurried to the door where she pulled down the blackout blind, took out a key and turned it in the lock.
‘Is there a back door to this place?’ Karl asked, following her.
‘No. That’s the only door. What is it? What’s going on?’
The Lifeline Page 27
