fact, he could be a right pain in the bum when he wanted to, like for example when somebody woke him up in the middle of a deep sleep. I could tell you some tales about that; like the time we were staying over winter in some rich farmer’s house in Norway, and the steward’s son had just got married. Like I think I told you, everybody but the farmer bunks down in the main hall; which means you get to hear all kinds of noises once the fire’s died down, if you get my meaning - well, possibly you don’t, you being what you are, but I’m sure they didn’t prune off your imagination when they gave you the snip. Anyhow, let’s say the steward’s son and his new wife were very much in love; and the drill is, the rest of you just lie still and try not to listen. You can hum quietly to yourself, or wrap a fur scarf round your head, but aside from a few words of encouragement at the start of the proceedings, it’s very bad manners to pass comments or anything during the actual performance, as you might say
Now Eyvind put up with it the first night, and the second and the third, though he moaned like hell during the day about not getting any sleep, and some people having no consideration for others. Of course, I put it down to your basic jealousy, because the steward’s son was having a good time and Eyvind wasn’t, nor likely to for the foreseeable future. Probably I was right about that; anyhow, on the fourth night I could hear him muttering and clicking his tongue - you can tell how loud he was because he was audible over all that racket going on up the other end of the hall - and I was thinking, here we go again, when suddenly he jumps up and starts yelling, all sorts of nasty things, because he’s got a way with words, no question about that.
Talk about uproar. The steward’s son starts yelling back, the girl’s in floods of tears, great heaving sobs like someone tearing up old rags; then everybody else joins in calling Eyvind names, until the farmer comes busting out in a high old temper. That drags Bjarni into it, because of course we’re his responsibility, and Bjarni’s main concern is that the lot of us aren’t slung out on our ears in the middle of winter, snow drifted up seven foot deep outside and no place to go. So Bjarni stomps over - someone’s lit a lamp by now - and he grabs up somebody’s boot that’s lying there on the floor, and he gives Eyvind the most almighty scat round the head. Eyvind stops moaning very quick and just lies there, and everybody’s gone dead quiet, even the girl; Bjarni puts the boot back where he got it from, heaves a big sigh, nods to the steward’s son and says, ‘Right, carry on.’ Actually, we left that place as soon as there was a break in the weather and headed off to the next farm down the valley, where I’m delighted to say they took us in without too much of a fuss, in return for a dozen sheepskins and three barrels of powdered sulphur. Even so, it was a two days’ trudge through the deep snow to get there, and Eyvind kept the lid on his opinions the rest of that year until well after Yule.
So that’s Eyvind; and you can guess from what I’ve just told you that when I trod on his hand in the middle of the night, he wasn’t just going to grunt and roll over and go back to sleep. ‘Shut up,’ I hissed at him, but he reached out and grabbed my ankle, and said, ‘Kari, what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
Wonderful. Now everybody on the ship’s awake, cussing at me and yelling, shut up, lie down, there’s people trying to sleep here. I muttered something about going to the side for a shit; but that was my chance of getting off the boat gone for the night. See, I was planning on sneaking nice and quiet to the anchor rope, shinning down, swimming to land, scarfing up an armful of firewood and getting back on board before anybody was awake. Sounds like a stupid idea, and I suppose it was. But remember, I’d been on that bloody ship all the
Now Eyvind put up with it the first night, and the second and the third, though he moaned like hell during the day about not getting any sleep, and some people having no consideration for others. Of course, I put it down to your basic jealousy, because the steward’s son was having a good time and Eyvind wasn’t, nor likely to for the foreseeable future. Probably I was right about that; anyhow, on the fourth night I could hear him muttering and clicking his tongue - you can tell how loud he was because he was audible over all that racket going on up the other end of the hall - and I was thinking, here we go again, when suddenly he jumps up and starts yelling, all sorts of nasty things, because he’s got a way with words, no question about that.
Talk about uproar. The steward’s son starts yelling back, the girl’s in floods of tears, great heaving sobs like someone tearing up old rags; then everybody else joins in calling Eyvind names, until the farmer comes busting out in a high old temper. That drags Bjarni into it, because of course we’re his responsibility, and Bjarni’s main concern is that the lot of us aren’t slung out on our ears in the middle of winter, snow drifted up seven foot deep outside and no place to go. So Bjarni stomps over - someone’s lit a lamp by now - and he grabs up somebody’s boot that’s lying there on the floor, and he gives Eyvind the most almighty scat round the head. Eyvind stops moaning very quick and just lies there, and everybody’s gone dead quiet, even the girl; Bjarni puts the boot back where he got it from, heaves a big sigh, nods to the steward’s son and says, ‘Right, carry on.’ Actually, we left that place as soon as there was a break in the weather and headed off to the next farm down the valley, where I’m delighted to say they took us in without too much of a fuss, in return for a dozen sheepskins and three barrels of powdered sulphur. Even so, it was a two days’ trudge through the deep snow to get there, and Eyvind kept the lid on his opinions the rest of that year until well after Yule.
So that’s Eyvind; and you can guess from what I’ve just told you that when I trod on his hand in the middle of the night, he wasn’t just going to grunt and roll over and go back to sleep. ‘Shut up,’ I hissed at him, but he reached out and grabbed my ankle, and said, ‘Kari, what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
Wonderful. Now everybody on the ship’s awake, cussing at me and yelling, shut up, lie down, there’s people trying to sleep here. I muttered something about going to the side for a shit; but that was my chance of getting off the boat gone for the night. See, I was planning on sneaking nice and quiet to the anchor rope, shinning down, swimming to land, scarfing up an armful of firewood and getting back on board before anybody was awake. Sounds like a stupid idea, and I suppose it was. But remember, I’d been on that bloody ship all the
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