Ghosts of the Vikings

by Marsali Taylor

  ‘A Well-Being Choir?’ Kamilla cooed, her voice honey-sweet. ‘How delightful!’

  I had Per on one side of me and Caleb on the other. Per was talking to the unknown between him and Maman, so I complimented Caleb on the performance, and asked how he liked Shetland.

  ‘It’s incredible!’ He was still in that half-high, after-show state, his green eyes lit up. ‘I’ve never been anywhere that there’s so much sea, you know? Everywhere you look.’ He took a gulp of the wine the waitress had just poured him and nodded appreciatively. ‘And I hadn’t expected the islands to be so big. I thought it’d be a half-hour drive from one end to the other, and then it turned out to be a hundred miles, and two ferries. We got off the boat at seven thirty this a.m., and we didn’t arrive here until ten o’clock. And this house is real neat. You’d think that the people who built it had just stepped out for a moment.’

  The waitress came round to take our orders: a choice of cullen skink or mussels. I went for the mussels; nothing would beat the fish soup I’d had in Bergen last summer, where the chef began with a kilo of prawns, fresh from the market, and a quart of cream. Opposite me, Kamilla frowned and spoke urgently to the waitress, who looked surprised, then nodded soothingly. When our bowls arrived, minutes later, she got a green salad. I wondered if she was vegetarian, or just not keen on mussels. For all they were local products, it seemed dangerous to assume everyone would want fish, without at least checking up on allergies.

  Neither Caleb nor Per was having any difficulty. ‘I noticed a number of fish farms and mussel buoys as we drove up,’ Per said to the bigwig on his right. He waved the mussel on the end of his fork. ‘These are excellent quality, a good size.’

  ‘I’m hoping to explore a bit,’ Caleb said. He negotiated another mussel, laid his fork down and wiped his fingers. ‘I gotta hire car for the weekend. I drove about a piece in Unst here today, up to look at the last of Britain, you know, the lighthouse and the stacks – gee, I wouldn’t like to be a keeper there.’

  ‘It’s automated,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘I’m contradicting myself now, I know that, but it’s a kinda pity. It’s a romantic thought, a coupla men alone on that rock. What was that poem, where they disappeared?’

  ‘“Flannan Isle”,’I said promptly. It was one of the ones nearly every sailor knew by heart. I recited the first verse, and he capped it with the second. ‘But,’ I added, ‘it’s usually agreed that the black birds had nothing to do with it. They got washed off by a freak wave.’

  ‘Don’t spoil the story! Where’s your sense of romance?’

  ‘Sailors are practical people.’ I remembered he lived in France, and added quickly, ‘Except for Moitissier.’

  He frowned for a moment, then his brow cleared. ‘Oh, yeah, I saw the movie. He went round the world once then decided he couldn’t take civilisation and headed off to go round again, and left Knox-Johnston to be first man home.’

  I sopped some wine sauce into a piece of bread and nodded, mouth too full to comment. The sauce was delicious.

  ‘So,’ Caleb said, copying me, ‘Where should I go?’

  ‘The west side,’ I said as soon as my mouth was clear, ‘or the north-west. Voes and geos and sea stacks. It’s like a little Scottish Highlands. If it’s scenery you’re after, that is. What’re you interested in, apart from work?’

  ‘History, a bit – my grandfather was one for genealogy. Then I’d like to see the oil terminal, and the near by town – Brae, isn’t it, where you grew up?’

  I nodded.

  Caleb glanced away from me and out of the window, suddenly diffident. ‘I don’t suppose you know of a house called Eastayre?’

  Now I was intrigued, for that was where my school pal, Inga, lived. ‘Eastayre? Yes, it’s just in the middle, looking out over the voe.’

  ‘I googled it, and it seemed to be a new house.’

  ‘Ah, that was the oil. In the seventies and eighties, the council offered ninety per cent grants to anyone whose house was needing serious repairs, for them to build a new one, so old Charlie – that’s the present owner’s father – jumped at the chance.’

  Caleb glanced around again, and leaned in to me. ‘You see, that’s where my family came from, three generations back. My great-grandfather ran off from the croft and headed for the States.’

  Now his interest in Shetland made better sense. ‘So you want to redd up kin.’

  He gave me a blank look.

  ‘Get in touch with your Shetland family.’

  He flushed. ‘Gee, I’m not sure about that. It’s a long time ago. They’d never have heard of me.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll know you. Charlie did a family tree, one winter, through an evening class with the Shetland Family History Society.’ I ate my last mussel, mopped my last piece of bread and lay my fork down. ‘That was wonderful. Charlie’s the owner of Eastayre now. He’s a fisherman, married to my best friend from the school, Inga.’

  ‘Do they have children?’

  ‘Three. Vaila and Dawn, who’re heading for their teens, and Peerie Charlie, who’s a three-year-old tearaway.’

  Caleb didn’t reply for a moment, brows drawn together. I turned to Per, and changed to Norwegian.

  ‘I hope Maman and her company have been well-behaved.’

  His head went up; he looked at me blankly, as if he wasn’t sure who I was.

  ‘I’m Eugénie’s daughter, Cass,’ I said helpfully.

  He came to life, as if a switch had been touched, but the lines about his mouth, the tiredness in his blue eyes, showed it was an effort, and I felt mean bothering him with idle chit-chat after a performance. He was darker than you’d expect for a Norwegian, with none of my friend Anders’ dazzling Norse god looks. Per’s face was thin and mobile under his fine, dark-chestnut hair, curved down into a widow’s peak. He looked highly-strung, but I suspected he’d be quick-witted in a crisis. ‘Of course you are. And you are about to go on a Norwegian ship. Eugénie told me all about it, when you got the offer.’

  ‘Sørlandet, from Kristiansand, the smallest of your fleet.’ I smiled. ‘The oldest square-rigged ship still sailing.’

  ‘And you have your own boat, and live aboard. I took a walk earlier on, along the back of the loch.’ He gestured behind us, towards the Loch of Snarravoe. ‘Then I went up the hill behind, and I saw a yacht moored in a sandy bay, shaped like a heart. Was that you?’

  I nodded. ‘A good jumping-off point for Norway, next week.’

  His brows rose. ‘You’re sailing there? She’s what, eight metres, nine?’

  ‘Eight, but she’s a Van de Stadt.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled at the name of Khalida’s builder. ‘Built to go anywhere.’

  The waitress came round to clear our plates. ‘We’ll serve up the lamb, and then your cat can come out. He’s a bit indignant at being shut in.’

  ‘I’ll come and reassure him. Excuse me,’ I said to Per, and slipped into the kitchen. Cat was indeed indignant at being shut out of the warm house; I begged another saucer of lamb scraps from the chef and coaxed him back upstairs. He probably wouldn’t stay there, if there were exciting things going on downstairs, but he’d be out from underfoot for the time it took him to eat the lamb and wash his whiskers afterwards.

  When I got back, my plate of lamb was waiting for me. Proper local lamb, was a treat, sweet and fat-free, with a delicate taste of heather. I helped myself to roast potatoes, carrots and peas, and tuned back in to Per’s conversation with the woman between him and Maman.

  ‘I’d like to know a bit more about the Viking connection here,’ Per said. ‘Adrien was saying that this was the first place the Norsemen settled in Britain, and apparently there has been a recent investigation of this whole island.’

  ‘Completely,’ she assured him. ‘The most thorough survey anywhere. They found over thirty definite Norse dwelling sites, and dug three. One’s on the east, at Hamar, the second is a few miles north of here, at Lund.’ She’d evidently been
listening earlier, for she gestured to me. ‘Where you’re moored, Cass. The third one’s just here, up the hill on the other side of the road. It’s an old site, used in the Bronze Age, as you can tell by the cup marks on a rock, but continuously occupied by Norse settlers from about the ninth to the thirteenth century, when the climate changed, and it became too exposed.’

  ‘I was thinking I’d go up after breakfast tomorrow, and have a look. I would be interested to see it. We’re here all morning, then off on the ferry mid-afternoon for our Lerwick performance in the evening.’

  ‘And how about the treasure?’ Caleb asked. He spoke across Charles and Bryony. ‘Adrien, didn’t you say that one of the hoards had been found not far from here?’

  Adrien gestured towards the back of the house. ‘In a field not five hundred metres away.’

  I glanced sideways along the table, but he seemed perfectly at ease, with no signs that he was planning his own treasure hunt. Outside, the half-moon had moved round to bathe the front of the house, the pyramid, the gateposts, the two lines of daffodils, in silver. It would be clear as day out on the headland; I’d need to keep good watch.

  Caleb shook his head. ‘But the Vikings weren’t afraid of anyone. Who would they be hiding their treasure from?’

  Per smiled at that. ‘Each other. All these hoards of silver and coins that have been found in Gotland, for example, were their bank account. You should read the Sagas. There were constant raids – it was their summer pastime, once the crops were planted.’

  ‘To say nothing of strangers visiting,’ I added. ‘Shetland was the first stop on their trading route to the Faroes, to Iceland, to Greenland, to America.’ Once, when all transport had been by water, we’d been the centre of the North Sea world, not just in the Viking days, but in the medieval Hanseatic league, and then again in the days of the Greenland whaling. Now we were a central destination for the sleek, white cruise ships en route from Norway to Iceland, or Scotland to Norway, and on most summer days Lerwick pier was busy with bus tours. Camera-carrying tourists greeted each other in the narrow shopping street, and inspected shop window displays of Fair Isle knitwear, local music CDs, and craft items.

  The waitresses removed the dinner plates, and put a selection of desserts on the sideboard for us to help ourselves: a trifle; a cheesecake; a bowl of fruit salad; and a cheese platter. There was a little bustle as everyone took the opportunity to stretch and move about. Adrien slid quietly out, followed by Vincent Fournier and one of the Belmont trustees: smokers, I presumed, hearing the grinch of the front door opening. Per rose and went around Maman to talk to the trustee on her other side, then moved on past Dad, the Shetland Arts bloke and Kamilla, to Peter. I considered the pudding options, and lost a brief argument with my better nature as to whether cream was allowed in Lent. Fruit salad without cream didn’t seem worth the bother. I watched Caleb helping himself to toffee cheesecake and turned away, reminding myself that my Christian Aid box was a pound better off for every pudding I resisted. The smokers slid back in, in a nicotine-waft of cold air, and helped themselves to bowls and desserts. Once everyone was seated, Bryony rose. She hadn’t taken a pudding either, I’d noticed, though whether it was Lenten conviction or slimming I didn’t presume to guess. Now she began serving the teas and coffees, just as she had upstairs. She knew what everyone took, setting the cup down in front of each person without comment, and only asking the guests about milk and sugar. I went over to ask her for a cup of tea, and took it back to the table.

  Suddenly, there was the jingle of glass smashing. Opposite me, Kamilla’s fair skin was flushed under the powder. She clawed at her throat in a beautifully theatrical gesture, and began to slide sideways off her chair, one hand reaching out for the wall just behind her. Beside her, Peter caught her arm to steady her. Her mouth worked, as if she was trying to swallow, or speak, then she thrust her sequinned clutch bag forward onto the table, eyes fixed on mine. Her lips formed a word I couldn’t read, then she toppled in a heap onto the floor.

  Chapter Eight

  For a moment there was silence, with us all frozen round her like staring waxworks. A long heartbeat, then Maman rose, followed by Bryony and Fournier. Seafood ... I shoved my chair back and came around the table in four swift strides, grabbing for Kamilla’s bag. One trustee was down on his knees beside her, turning her head to open her airways. Good; an ally who knew what he was doing. If she was seriously allergic she’d have an inhaler or an EpiPen. I yanked the flap open and upended the bag on the floor beside her. Yes, here, two clear tubes. I took the first pen out of its tube, broke off the cap and jammed it against Kamilla’s thigh, holding it for ten seconds, then massaging where the needle had been. Kamilla’s lips were blue. I picked up her wrist, and felt her pulse racing. I looked at Dad.

  ‘Dad, we need an ambulance. Don’t bother with 999, get straight on to the Lerwick hospital. 743000.’ He was punching it into his mobile as I spoke. ‘Tell them it’s suspected anaphylactic shock, caused by seafood.’ I turned my head to Peter.‘If there’s a doctor on Unst, we need him here, fast. Do you have a proper number, not NHS 24?’

  Peter nodded. He lifted his phone, checked it, then went outside.

  Kamilla’s face was swelling now. I tilted her head back to open her airway, and felt the puffiness extending to her throat. Our first-aid lecturer’s voice echoed in my head: Twenty per cent of sufferers need a second injection. Don’t hesitate. You’ll do more harm by not giving it.

  I picked up the second EpiPen, and injected her other thigh. ‘Does anyone have an inhaler?’

  ‘I do,’ Caleb said, and ran from the room. I heard his feet pounding up the stairs.

  Dad had got through to the hospital. ‘Possible anapylactic shock. She’s been given both EpiPens, but she’s still having difficulty breathing. No, she’s not conscious.’

  Caleb thudded back down the stairs. A tube was pushed into my hands. I put it to Kamilla’s mouth, skooshed, felt the cold vapour trickle past my fingers, and felt her pulse again. Nothing. I put two fingers to her neck. Still nothing. ‘Dad, I’m going to start CPR. Tell them.’

  I heard him relaying it as I cupped my hands for the first heart compressions, ran my hand down her breastbone to find the place and leant forward. Then he must have been passed on to somebody else, for I heard him begin over again, giving the details. I didn’t know how much good CPR would do, with so little of my breath going into her through that swollen throat, but it had to be better than nothing. My whole world was focused on the swell of her chest under her scarlet dress. Breathe in, hand firm over her mouth, turn my head and see her chest lift as I exhaled. Lifting meant breath was getting through. Thirty chest compressions, two breaths.

  Peter came back in. ‘The doctor’s coming straight away.’

  There wasn’t room for the others to crowd around me; they stood still in their places at the table.The silence of shock had given way to low-voiced murmurs. Bryony was sobbing.

  ‘Can anyone else do CPR?’

  The trustee that had been the first to react nodded. ‘Will I spell you?’

  ‘Three minutes each.’ The whole of Unst was only twelve miles long. If the doctor was in Baltasound, the main town, she could be here in ten minutes. I gave way to the trustee and began giving out instructions. ‘Can you all take your coffee up to the drawing room? A crowd will embarrass her when she wakes.’ My eyes were on my watch. A minute and a half. ‘Dad, could you check the kitchen for another first aider?’ Two minutes. Maman put an arm around Bryony and steered her out, followed by the others. I let the trustee work on: two and a half minutes. Three. I knelt down beside Kamilla again. A steady rhythm was what mattered. I sang inside my head, as I’d been taught. A verse and chorus of ‘We’re all going to the zoo tomorrow’, at a steady pace, made thirty compressions. Its cheerfulness jangled. I was afraid that even if help came now, it would be too late.

  My arms were aching. I nodded to the trustee and let him take over. Kamilla was horribly inert, but we c
ouldn’t give up. Then, during my third spell, there was a bustle at the door, and a middle-aged woman with a medical bag came in. ‘Keep going while I get my kit out. Shellfish reaction?’

  ‘Presumably,’ the trustee said. ‘She had salad for her first course, but only keeled over at the end of the meal. We gave her both EpiPens.’ He glanced at his watch,‘Seventeen minutes ago.’

  ‘Response?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Okay, let me through to her now.’ She looked at me. ‘Relation?’

  ‘My mother’s a member of the opera company.’

  ‘Go up and tell them I’ve arrived. Reassure them we’re doing everything possible. The chopper’s on its way.’

  But I saw in her face that she wasn’t hopeful. I backed to the door, and went upstairs on heavy feet.

  The audience chairs had been taken away, the two sofas returned to their place facing the fire, and a tea tray set on a butler’s table just inside the door. Maman must have taken Bryony away, for it was only the men there. Peter stepped forward as I came in. ‘I’ll run you home, lass.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ I sank down on the couch between Per and Dad. ‘Can you give me five minutes?’ I looked around at them: Peter, standing by the tea-table, Adrien and Caleb on the other couch, Charles by the desk, Fournier in his armchair. ‘The doctor’s here, and the chopper’s on its way.’