Read Online Before I Burn: A Novel by Gaute Heivoll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gaute Heivoll
Ads: Link
tiny bridge. It turned left, sped up and continued past the disused co-op with the balcony and the flagpole above the road. It raced down the hill past the chapel and the community centre and on to Kilen.
Dag was driving while Ingemann sat beside him clinging onto the handle above the door.
The fire engine was quite new, no more than five years old. It was an International with room for a thousand litres of water in the tank and equipped with a twenty-five-kilo pump at the front. The vehicle held the road well, and Dag drove quickly and efficiently. They met a couple of cars, which slowed down, swerved onto the verge and let them pass. In Kilen the sirens had been heard approaching, and there was a little crowd standing outside Kaddeberg’s waiting to see what was going on. By the shop Dag had to jump on the brakes and sling the fire engine to the left, into the road to Øvland, making the water in the tank slop around and the whole vehicle roll from side to side.
They were the first to arrive at the scene of the fire. Immediately, however, a man came running out of the forest. It was Sjur Lunde, the owner of the land. He had rung the station. While waiting for the fire engine he had been trying to get the blaze under control on his own.
Within a quarter of an hour all the firemen were there. They parked in a line behind the tender. Alfred was there. Jens was there. Arnold. Salve. Knut. Peder. Everyone was there. From a distance the line of vehicles looked like a long train with the red tender as the locomotive pulling the blue, white and brown carriages after it. A relatively limited area was ablaze. There was no wind. And a little lake was close by. The fire was a formality. The pump was lifted down from the vehicle. It took four of them to carry it, but it shot the water out at a decent rate. For a while Ingemann gave a hand, but then the others took over and he stood back and watched. He was getting tiny intermittent stabs in his chest – it felt like his heart – but they went as soon as he quietened down.
Dag was holding the hose when the water came through. The pressure was good and he directed the jet straight at the flames. For a good while he knelt and sprayed the flames while the others stood behind him watching. Then he turned and shouted for someone else to take over. At once one of the men grabbed the hose from his hands, and Dag strolled back to the fire engine and joined his father. Dag’s face was red, and a cut to his hand was bleeding. He was out of breath, yet collected and somehow at peace. He seemed happy.
‘You did a fine job,’ Ingemann said, so low that no one else could hear.
V.
MAY 1978. I slept during the first weeks; later Mamma took me in the pram to and from the school in Lauvslandsmoen. It was no more than a kilometre and I slept on the way.
One fire isn’t a topic of conversation. It is soon forgotten. It passes.
But a second?
It came a mere ten days after the first. It took hold of the Tønnes’ old hay barn, the one at the bottom of the Leipsland ridge, just a few hundred metres from my grandmother’s house. I remember the four cornerstones that remained standing in a perfect square for all of my childhood, but neither my grandmother nor my grandfather nor anyone else told me what had happened there.
The barn was ablaze when the fire engine arrived; all you saw was the building’s framework like an intensely burning cobweb at the centre of the fire. Water was quickly pumped into the hoses, but nothing could be saved. The alarm had gone off too late. It was a controlled burn-out.
Bit by bit, a crowd had gathered and they stood facing the raging flames. The news spread, even though it was the middle of the night. More and more cars stopped along the road. People got out and approached in silence. They were so close they felt the heat on their faces and hardly spoke; all they did was stare. It was quite dark, and the sight was both frightening and almost enticing. After
Dag was driving while Ingemann sat beside him clinging onto the handle above the door.
The fire engine was quite new, no more than five years old. It was an International with room for a thousand litres of water in the tank and equipped with a twenty-five-kilo pump at the front. The vehicle held the road well, and Dag drove quickly and efficiently. They met a couple of cars, which slowed down, swerved onto the verge and let them pass. In Kilen the sirens had been heard approaching, and there was a little crowd standing outside Kaddeberg’s waiting to see what was going on. By the shop Dag had to jump on the brakes and sling the fire engine to the left, into the road to Øvland, making the water in the tank slop around and the whole vehicle roll from side to side.
They were the first to arrive at the scene of the fire. Immediately, however, a man came running out of the forest. It was Sjur Lunde, the owner of the land. He had rung the station. While waiting for the fire engine he had been trying to get the blaze under control on his own.
Within a quarter of an hour all the firemen were there. They parked in a line behind the tender. Alfred was there. Jens was there. Arnold. Salve. Knut. Peder. Everyone was there. From a distance the line of vehicles looked like a long train with the red tender as the locomotive pulling the blue, white and brown carriages after it. A relatively limited area was ablaze. There was no wind. And a little lake was close by. The fire was a formality. The pump was lifted down from the vehicle. It took four of them to carry it, but it shot the water out at a decent rate. For a while Ingemann gave a hand, but then the others took over and he stood back and watched. He was getting tiny intermittent stabs in his chest – it felt like his heart – but they went as soon as he quietened down.
Dag was holding the hose when the water came through. The pressure was good and he directed the jet straight at the flames. For a good while he knelt and sprayed the flames while the others stood behind him watching. Then he turned and shouted for someone else to take over. At once one of the men grabbed the hose from his hands, and Dag strolled back to the fire engine and joined his father. Dag’s face was red, and a cut to his hand was bleeding. He was out of breath, yet collected and somehow at peace. He seemed happy.
‘You did a fine job,’ Ingemann said, so low that no one else could hear.
V.
MAY 1978. I slept during the first weeks; later Mamma took me in the pram to and from the school in Lauvslandsmoen. It was no more than a kilometre and I slept on the way.
One fire isn’t a topic of conversation. It is soon forgotten. It passes.
But a second?
It came a mere ten days after the first. It took hold of the Tønnes’ old hay barn, the one at the bottom of the Leipsland ridge, just a few hundred metres from my grandmother’s house. I remember the four cornerstones that remained standing in a perfect square for all of my childhood, but neither my grandmother nor my grandfather nor anyone else told me what had happened there.
The barn was ablaze when the fire engine arrived; all you saw was the building’s framework like an intensely burning cobweb at the centre of the fire. Water was quickly pumped into the hoses, but nothing could be saved. The alarm had gone off too late. It was a controlled burn-out.
Bit by bit, a crowd had gathered and they stood facing the raging flames. The news spread, even though it was the middle of the night. More and more cars stopped along the road. People got out and approached in silence. They were so close they felt the heat on their faces and hardly spoke; all they did was stare. It was quite dark, and the sight was both frightening and almost enticing. After
Similar Books
