The Last Boat Home

by Dea Brovig

  Victoria’s eyes close once more. Else decides that the oils are doing their work and, while tropical waves break from the stereo’s speakers, she relaxes into the rhythm of her hands. Then Victoria clears her throat.

  ‘We visited the school yesterday,’ she says. ‘It isn’t at all what the kids are used to. But Lars was excited, showing them around. He had a story for every room.’

  A tiny flare goes off in Else’s chest, like the onset of heartburn. She turns to the counter to add a new drop of sandalwood to her bowl.

  ‘He’s always telling them stories about growing up here,’ says Victoria. ‘You knew each other then. Isn’t that right?’

  Else swirls her bowl. The blobs of oil slip and slither and never merge. ‘A little,’ she says.

  ‘But you were friends, weren’t you? Didn’t your mothers know each other?’

  ‘It’s a small town,’ Else says.

  ‘I’d understood you were good friends.’

  ‘It was smaller then,’ she says.

  Victoria opens her mouth as if to press her further, but her words melt into a sigh as Else resumes the massage. She leans into her arms, her oil-dipped fingers squeezing Victoria’s tan up to her neck. Her thumbs grease the roots at the base of her hairline and Victoria groans.

  ‘I’ll feel better,’ she says, ‘once the house is in order. The kitchen can’t have been painted since it was built. The walls are brown, for goodness’ sake.’

  Her back rises with a yawn and she says no more. Some minutes pass in silence before her breathing begins to thicken. Else keeps her strokes steady over Victoria’s softening muscles and picks details from the recesses of her memory. A high ceiling. An American fridge. Countertops that span from one side of the room to the distant other. A pantry large enough to fit a family is stocked with tins and cooking chocolate, Solo and Cola bottles and foods she has never tasted. The view of the fjord from the window reaches for the horizon. Poor Victoria, she thinks, whose worst problem is the colour of her walls.

  At four o’clock, Else wakes her client and leaves her alone to dress. While she waits, she washes her water glass in the bathroom sink and checks her schedule for the following morning. All day, she has been looking forward to spending a quiet night in with Liv. She has rented a DVD that she knows her granddaughter will like and, when the film is over, they will sit together and gossip until way past Liv’s bedtime.

  Her jacket is on and zipped to her chin when Victoria emerges from the treatment room. She takes her payment and deposits it in the till’s drawer. Else collects the bags of groceries that she stowed in a cupboard earlier before seeing Victoria out. She locks the spa’s door behind them.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ says Victoria. ‘I feel like a new person.’

  Else nods. ‘My pleasure,’ she says and turns into the rain.

  When she arrives home, the house is in a flurry. A thudding music greets her from upstairs, boxing her ears as she hooks her jacket on the coat stand.

  ‘Hallo?’ she calls.

  In the living room, Liv is watching television. Her face pops up from behind the armrest of the sofa. ‘Hi, Mormor,’ she says.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Else asks.

  ‘It’s Mamma,’ says Liv. ‘She’s meeting Mads.’

  Else rolls her eyes before bending to kiss Liv’s forehead. Her granddaughter pats the wet snarl of her hair.

  ‘Did you forget your umbrella?’

  ‘I did,’ Else says. ‘How was the last day of school?’

  Liv shrugs. ‘It’s raining,’ she says.

  Marianne’s shout interrupts them from the second floor. ‘Where’s my necklace?’ Her footsteps thunder down the stairs. ‘Mamma, have you seen my necklace? The one with the shell?’

  ‘Where’s he taking you?’ Else asks.

  ‘To the cinema,’ says Liv.

  ‘Is that how people dress for the cinema these days?’

  Marianne makes a face and darts into the hallway. A cloud of hairspray hangs after her in the air. Else drops onto the sofa next to her granddaughter. She feels as if her body has been dipped in tar.

  ‘I rented High School Musical,’ she says. ‘And I bought bananas and chocolate sauce for ice cream sundaes.’

  ‘Where are the umbrellas?’ calls Marianne. Then, ‘Never mind!’

  She carries one in her fist when she breezes back into the room, her necklace’s pendant strung up above her cleavage.

  ‘I’m off,’ she says.

  ‘What time will you be home?’ asks Else.

  Marianne blows Liv a kiss. ‘Have fun tonight. Don’t wait up for me, Mamma.’

  ‘Don’t forget your jacket!’ Before Else’s sentence is out of her mouth, the front door slams. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I suppose that’s that. Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

  ‘I only have time for a quick one,’ says Liv. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘You are? Where are you going?’

  ‘To Andreas’s house.’

  ‘Who’s Andreas?’

  ‘Andreas Reiersen,’ says Liv. ‘His family just moved down here.’

  ‘But. We’re having a night in,’ Else says. ‘I rented a film.’

  Liv pushes herself off the sofa and raises her arms, showing her palms to Else as if to say the matter is out of her hands.

  ‘But,’ Else says.

  She follows her granddaughter into the kitchen, where Liv holds the kettle under the tap and does not look at her. While the water boils, she finds the mugs on their shelf. She removes a slice from a bag of bread and takes the butter out of the fridge.

  ‘Don’t fill up on bread,’ Else says. ‘I thought we’d order pizza.’

  ‘Mormor,’ says Liv, ‘I’m going over to Andreas’s house.’

  ‘I saw his mother earlier,’ says Else. ‘She didn’t mention a thing about it. You have to ask permission for this sort of thing.’

  ‘I did,’ Liv says. ‘Mamma said it was okay.’

  ‘Well, Mamma was wrong. When did you meet this Andreas, anyway?’

  ‘Last weekend,’ says Liv. ‘He was at the harbour with his dad. He’s really nice, Mormor. He let me try his kayak.’

  The tide of tar is rising over Else’s head. She closes her eyes.

  ‘All right,’ she says. ‘What if Andreas were to come here instead?’

  ‘Not possible,’ says Liv.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’re painting his kitchen, so we have to go to his house.’

  ‘You’re painting his kitchen? But his mother didn’t say …’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ says Liv. ‘She’s so tired after the move.’ She consults the oven clock. ‘All of that packing and unpacking. I have to get ready. Andreas’s dad is picking me up in four minutes.’

  ‘But,’ Else says.

  Liv skips out of the room, the bread slice in hand. Else squints at the mugs on the kitchen counter. How can it be that that boy is already in their lives? And Lars – Lars will be here in four minutes. In spite of herself, she hurries out to the hallway mirror. Two smudges of mascara are all that remain from this morning’s make-up routine. She is dismayed to see how old she looks without it. She tousles her hair and fastens it with a clip that she finds in the basket meant for keys. She licks a finger and rubs at the pockets under her eyes. The doorbell rings.

  ‘Damn,’ she says.

  With a final peek in the mirror, she opens the front door to Lars. His build plugs the doorframe. Behind him, the rain falls in silver tacks against the sky. The boy at his side is a younger version of himself. He stays close to his father and peers past Else into the house.

  ‘Else!’ says Lars. ‘You live here, too? I was expecting Marianne.’

  ‘Marianne’s out,’ Else says.

  ‘And Liv?’

  ‘She’s coming.’

  Lars smiles. ‘Long day?’

  ‘What time should I pick her up?’ Else asks.

  ‘I’m sleeping over,’ says Liv as she trots back down the stai
rs with her bag. She has changed into the denim skirt that Marianne says flatters her legs.

  ‘Enjoy yourself,’ says Lars. ‘You look like you could use a night off. Ready, kids?’ He claps his hands and Liv grabs her jacket from the coat stand.

  ‘Ready,’ she says and charges ahead of Andreas. ‘Bye, Mormor!’

  ‘Be good!’ Else calls.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Lars. ‘I’ll return her as good as new in the morning.’

  Lars runs after the children to the BMW that is parked in the drive and slides into the front seat. The ignition roars and the car reverses into the road. Through the rain-streaked rear window, Else sees Liv sitting shoulder to shoulder with Andreas. She waves and Liv waves back. Then she is gone.

  Else closes the door. She drifts into the living room and is grateful all at once for Marianne’s music, for the television’s din. She stops in the middle of the floor and stares at the screen until she realises she has been standing there for some time. With a sigh, she wanders into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  Then

  1974

  IT WAS ON a blue-eyed Saturday afternoon in midsummer that Lars first kissed Else outside the toilets of the bus depot. She had woken up that morning wondering if he would. She hoped he would; it had been a while since he had tried his luck and she felt sorry for having turned her head away.

  After breakfast, she caught the ferry to the Longpier and climbed Torggata to the top of the town. The racing had already started when she arrived at the depot. Two mopeds zipped along the car park in the shadow of the empty Kristiansand coach, stirring up clouds of dirt in their wake. Else recognised the yellow paint of Lars’s bike, sleek and shiny next to its rival. She strolled to the mobile kitchen at the edge of the lot, where a group of boys hollered at the racers and stuffed their gums with chewing tobacco.

  ‘Hi, Else,’ called Petter.

  ‘Back for more?’ Rune said.

  Else folded her arms over her chest and nodded at the bikes. ‘Who’s he racing?’

  ‘Right now, it’s Joachim,’ Petter said.

  ‘Who’s winning?’

  ‘Lars,’ he said. He sounded disappointed. ‘I’ll be racing him next.’

  The boys whooped and clapped when Lars crossed the finishing line. He raised a fist in the air before the yellow moped began to speed towards them. Else looked at her shoes. She studied her hands. A crust of dirt under one fingernail demanded her urgent attention.

  Lars skidded to a stop in front of her. ‘Do you want to go for a ride?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Sure you do,’ he said. ‘I’ll go slow this time. I promise I will. So are you coming?’

  Else hesitated, but swung her leg over the seat. She shrieked when Lars twisted the handlebars and the moped shot forward. The wind was fresh on her bare arms and she wrapped them around his waist, tight enough to feel his stomach beat with his breath against her wrists. She buried her face into his neck, aware of her breasts crushed flat against his back. He smelled of cigarettes and of summer.

  Stones clattered in the wheels of the moped as it whizzed around the car park. It circled behind the depot building and lapped the mobile kitchen twice.

  ‘Hold on!’ called Lars and tipped into a turn. He squeezed the brakes and swore as the moped toppled over. Else heard the screech of tripping tyres before her shins scraped the ground. She rolled into a puddle and groaned at the sting in her legs.

  ‘Else?’ said Lars.

  Her eyes pricked at the corners. She sat up and prodded the bloodied skin below one kneecap.

  ‘Are you crying?’ Lars asked.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Are you broken?’

  ‘You promised you’d go slow.’

  ‘Should I call an ambulance?’ Lars helped her to her feet and she dusted off her shorts. The rest of the boys came running.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ asked Petter.

  Else hobbled to the toilets. Once she had closed the door behind her, she turned on the tap and washed the muck and grit from her leg. She cleaned her knee with a wad of the paper that had been left on the cistern in a tidy pile, flushing it away before splashing water on her cheeks. When she opened the door, Lars was sitting on the bottom step. He jumped up and she limped down the stairs.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you?’ she said.

  ‘Just a couple of broken arms and two ruined legs.’

  Lars lifted his hands to her shoulders and pulled her close. While greasy mists from the mobile kitchen settled over them like clingfilm, Else blinked at his grin. His lips gathered in a pucker before gluing shut her mouth. Hard, soft. Wet, rough. Her stomach seethed; bubbles danced along her throat. Between her ears. She was all fizz. It felt like laughing.

  That afternoon, Pastor Seip was coming for dinner and Else had instructions from her mother not to be late. While Lars carried on racing against the other boys, she checked her watch, noting uneasily that she had just missed another ferry. She tried to catch his eye, but he was absorbed by the business of winning. It couldn’t hurt to wait a few minutes more. Else sat on the bench between Petter and Rune and looked on as Lars took his fourth victory of the day. She picked a chip from a paper plate in her lap and a dollop of ketchup dribbled onto her T-shirt.

  When she could no longer avoid it, she got to her feet.

  ‘I’ll walk you down, if you want,’ Petter said.

  Else smiled, but shook her head. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said and started for the road. She had almost reached the end of the lot when Lars’s moped drew up beside her.

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘The ferry goes in five minutes,’ she said.

  ‘Want another ride first?’

  ‘I can’t. Pastor Seip is coming for dinner.’

  Lars crossed his eyes and a snort of laughter shot up her nose like soda pop.

  ‘See you at church tomorrow, then,’ he said and spun away to rejoin the races.

  Else gritted her teeth against the soreness of her knee and trudged down the hill, easing into a jog at the top of Torggata. She overtook one white timber building after another towards the harbour, where the water winked under the sun. The ferry was already docked at the Longpier. A handful of passengers had finished boarding the boat by the time Else hopped onto its deck and claimed a solitary spot at its stern.

  The captain pushed off from land and steered them up the fjord, away from the Skagerrak and the cluster of islands that protected the port from the sea where, three hundred years earlier, merchant vessels used to offload their cargo. Bursts of salt air scrubbed Else’s face as the curve of the mountain eclipsed the town. She checked her watch and her stomach pinched. She hoped her father would be in a fit state when she got home. At breakfast that morning, his breath had been foul with the onions he chewed to mask the stink of the homebrew. She knew all about the distillery he kept hidden in the boathouse. He had visited it several nights that week.

  The ferry passed from one fjord into the next, sailing by islands scabbed with lichen and reefs that lurked at the surface like aspiring icebergs. In the distance, the Reiersen shipyard swelled. Its cranes pierced the sky as the boat swayed closer, until warehouses and construction sheds separated from the drab blur behind its empty graving dock. The shipyard sprawled on the waterfront, facing the opposite shore where the ferry put in. Else scrambled onto the public pier and across the road, where she had hidden her father’s bicycle behind an oak tree. Her wheels sprayed dirty fans behind her as she set off down the zigzag of the track. Under her breath, she prayed that Pastor Seip would be late.

  When she reached the farmhouse, her ears were buzzing. She left the bike behind the milking barn and ran inside. Her mother was in the kitchen, her apron flapping as she pivoted between the oven and her pots. Beside her, her father belted out instructions.

  ‘That goddamned fish has to come out now!’

  Else moved to the sink to wash her hands.


  ‘You’re late,’ said her mother.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Her father’s eyes were tinged with blood.

  ‘The ferry didn’t come,’ Else said.

  ‘Pastor Seip will be here any minute,’ he said. ‘Go and clean yourself up.’

  After changing into her Sunday dress, Else raced down the stairs and began to wipe the dinner table.

  ‘The potatoes! The potatoes!’

  Her father hooted from the kitchen as she carried through a tablecloth still warm from the clothes line and shook it over the polished wood. The good plates were stacked in a high cabinet. Else climbed onto a chair to retrieve them.

  ‘The butter! It’s burning!’

  A layer of dust had settled on the top dish. She rubbed it off with the hem of her dress and set a place at the head of the table for Pastor Seip. She saw him through the window stepping over the vegetable patch in the yard.

  ‘He’s here,’ she called.

  Her warning sent her parents scurrying into the hallway. They consulted their reflection in the mirror, smoothing stray hairs into place and dabbing foreheads with their shirtsleeves. Her mother opened the door just as the minister’s fist was poised to knock.

  Dinner was, by all accounts, a success. Pastor Seip doused his potatoes in melted butter, which floated on his plate like an oil spill. He polished off the ling he had been served and helped himself to seconds.

  ‘Very nice,’ he muttered afterwards, suppressing a burp behind his knuckles.

  ‘We’ll take coffee and cake in the Best Room,’ Dagny said. She rose from the table and led the way across the hall to the pride of the house.

  It was the first time they had used the Best Room since Dagny had hosted last month’s ladies’ luncheon, although Else had helped her mother dust its corners several times since. Now, sitting opposite Pastor Seip on a low-slung bench, she felt the chill that the room imparted to all special occasions. The pine walls were painted a midnight blue that drained the warmth right out of the air. Lace curtains filtered the sunlight, scattering it over the furniture like shards of glass.

  Pastor Seip’s stomach folded over his thighs as he leaned forward for his coffee cup. Else watched its progress to his lips, thinking how delicate it looked in his long fingers.